Rescuing Rose (5 page)

I heaved a sigh of relief then went inside for Stage Two of my ritual. I took a piece of string and tied knots in it, one for each happy memory of my time with Ed. The first knot was for when we met, the second was for New Year's Eve; as I tied the third I thought of our engagement party; I tied the fourth for our wedding day. As I tied the fifth I remembered how happy I had felt when I moved into his house. Then I lit the end of the string and watched a neat yellow flame take hold. It climbed slowly but steadily, leaving a glowing tail of embers and a thin coil of smoke. Thirty seconds later and my memories were just a thread of ash which I washed down the sink. Finally, I riffled through a wallet of snaps and found a photo of Ed. He's usually extremely photogenic, but in this one he looked like shit. The camera must have gone off by mistake, because it was looking straight up his nose. He was scowling at something, it exaggerated his slight jowl, and his face was unshaven and tired. So I pinned it to the kitchen noticeboard and made a mental note to have it enlarged. Then I went into the bathroom to perform the final part of my cathartic rites. Suddenly my mobile rang.

'It's us, ' said the twins, one on each extension. 'Where are you?'

'In the bathroom. '

'You're not taking an overdose are you?' they shrieked.

'Not at the moment. No. '

'And you're not slashing your wrists or anything?'

'Are you crazy—just think of the mess!'

'Well what are you doing in the bathroom then?' asked Bea suspiciously.

'I'm doing my
exorcises'
I said.

I rang off, took my wedding ring out of my pocket, and looked at it one last time. Ed had had it engraved inside with
Forever
—I emitted a mirthless laugh. Then, holding it between thumb and forefinger, like a dainty titbit, I dropped it into the loo. It lay there, glinting gently in the shadeless overhead light. Now I took our engagement photo, ripped it into six pieces, threw them in, then pulled the flush. I watched the cauldron of water swirl and boil then it cleared with a glug, and refilled. Everything had gone—the ring and the photograph—all except for one piece. To my annoyance it was the bit with most of Ed's face on and it was resolutely refusing to go down. It was unnerving, having him bobbing about like that, smiling cheerfully up at me as though nothing were amiss. So I flushed it again and watched the fragment spin wildly but, to my intense annoyance, it kept popping back up. After ten tries, defeated, I fished Ed's still smiling face out with the loo brush, and scraped him into the bin.

'Now Wash Your Hands, ' I said wearily; then I went downstairs.

I felt a little, well, yes, flushed from my exertions so I made a cup of tea. And the kettle was just boiling when I heard the loud clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a cream-coloured envelope, marked,
To Our New Neighbour
in a large, round hand. Inside was a floral card, inscribed,
Welcome to Hope Street, from
… Hey! I've got celebrity neighbours!…
Beverley and Trevor McDonald
.

I realise, of course, that my neighbour is very unlikely to be the
real
Trevor McDonald. Why would a famous broadcaster choose to live at the wrong end of Camberwell? No, if Trevor McDonald had chosen SE5 then he'd have one of those vast Georgian numbers on Camberwell Grove. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about Hope Street, even if it is at the Peckham end. I had to move fast, it met my needs, and it has a kind of unpolished charm. And the mix of cars—Beemers and Volvos nose to bumper with clapped out Datsuns—suggests that the area is 'coming up. ' But I guess my neighbour simply shares the same name, which must be a bit of a bore. Constantly being asked over the phone if he's
the
Trevor McDonald, for example, or receiving the Trevor McDonald's mail, or being introduced as 'Trevor McDonald' at parties and hearing everyone go 'BONG!' But on the other hand it's probably useful for booking tables in restaurants, or getting tickets for Wimbledon. This train of thought diverted me from my thermonuclear fury with Ed as I found my way to the bus stop this morning. And I was standing there feeling perfectly calm, mentally backing a steamroller over Mary-Claire Grey, when suddenly the man standing in front of me did this distressing thing. He took out a pack of Marlboros, peeled off the cellophane, screwed it up, then chucked it down. And as I watched the wrapper skittering about in the gutter I realised that I felt
exactly
like that. I feel as though
I've
been screwed up and discarded. You might find that weird, but after what's happened to me I see rejection in everything.

So to keep negative thoughts at bay I started doing the crossword, as usual tackling the anagrams first. The skill with these is not in rearranging the letters—that's easy—but in spotting them: you have to know the code. 'Messy' for example, usually indicates an anagram, as do 'disorder', and 'disarray. 'Mixed up' is a good anagram clue as well; as is 'confused' and also 'upset'.

Doing anagrams makes me feel oddly happy: I often anagrammatise words in my head, just for fun. Perhaps because I was an only child I've always been able to amuse myself. I particularly enjoy it when I can make both ends of the anagram work. 'Angered' and 'Enraged' for example; 'slanderous' and 'done as slur'; 'discover' and 'divorces' is a good one, as is 'tantrums' and 'must rant'. 'Marital', rather appropriately, turns to 'martial'; 'male' very neatly becomes 'lame', and 'masculine'—I like this—becomes 'calumnies', and 'Rose', well, that's obvious. 'Sore'.

At least my journey to work was going to be easy I noted as the bus trundled up Camberwell New Road. The
Daily Post
is bang opposite Tate Britain, in a brown smoked glass block overlooking the Thames. This is the home of Amalgamated Newspapers which also publishes
Celeb
!, and the
Sunday Post
.

I got the lift to the tenth floor, swiped my security tag (for keeping out nutters), then prepared for the fray. I passed the News Desk, the Picture Desk and the back bench where the sub-editors sit. I smiled at our gossip columnist Norris Hamster and our new features editor, Linda Leigh-Trapp; I said good morning to 'Psychic Cynthia' our astrologer, and to Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. Then right at the end of the huge news-room, by the window, I reached my 'pod' with its cupboard and files. I know quite a few agony aunts—we have lunch sometimes—and we all claim to be marginalized at work. Our (mostly male) bosses seem to view us askance; we're like the white witch who lives down the lane. But I don't feel slighted at being sidelined like this, not least because it's relatively quiet. There's always such a
noise
at the
Post
. The day starts calmly enough, but by eleven o'clock as the stories firm up, the background babble builds. There are people arguing, shouting and laughing; the incessant chatter of TV screens; computers are humming, printers spewing, and there's the polyphonic trill of mobile phones. But being seated about two miles from everyone else I don't usually notice the din.

'Hi, Serena, ' I said brightly to my assistant. 'How are you?'

'Well… '—I braced myself—'… can't complain. And at least, ' she added, with a glance outside, 'the weathers nice for the time of year. ' Serena, let me tell you, inhabits Cliche City: she could win the Palme d'Or for her platitudes. She's one of these people who are perennially perky; in fact she's so chirpy I suspect she's insane. Especially as she invariably has some dreadful domestic crisis going on. She's late thirties and mousy with three kids and a dull husband called Rob (anagram, 'Bor').

'How was your weekend?' I enquired as I sat at my desk.

'Oh it was lovely, ' she replied with a smile. 'Except that Jonny got his head stuck behind the radiator. '

'Oh dear. '

'He was there for three hours. '

'Gosh. '

'He'd been looking for Frodo, his white mouse, but then, somehow, his head got jammed. We tried olive oil and butter, even that low-cholesterol Flora, but it just wouldn't budge. In the end we dialled 999 and the fire brigade got him out. '

'What about the mouse?'

'Well, sadly, after all the palaver was over, we discovered he'd been eaten by the cat. '

'Oh. ' I felt unaccountably crestfallen.

'Still, it could have been worse. All's well that end's well, ' she concluded breezily. Not for Frodo. 'And how was
your
weekend, Rose?'

'It was fine, ' I replied with a tight little smile. 'You know, settling in. New house. '

'Onwards and upwards, ' she said encouragingly.

'Mmmm. '

'No use crying over spilt milk. '

'Quite. '

'I mean, life's not a… ' Oh
God
…

'Bowl of cherries?' I interrupted. She looked slightly nonplussed.

'No. Dress rehearsal I was going to say'

'Okay, Serena, ' I said mentally awarding her a Bafta for banality, 'let's get down to work. '

I stared, with anticipatory pleasure, at the envelopes in my overflowing in-tray. There were brown ones and white ones, airmail and Basildon Bond. There were typed ones and handwritten ones, some strewn with flowers and hearts: I fancied I could hear the voices inside, crying out for my help.

My practised eye had already identified from the writing the likely dilemmas within. Here were the large, childish loops of repression, and the backwards slope of the chronically depressed. There the green-inked scorings of schizophrenia and the cramped hand of the introvert. While Serena logged and dated each letter for reference, I sorted out my huge index file. In this I keep all the information sheets which I send out with my replies. I've got over a hundred leaflets covering every human problem under the sun, from Abandonment to Zoophilia, via (and this is just a selection) Acne, Blushing, Body Hair, Confidence, Death, Debt, Insomnia, Jealousy, Nasty Neighbours, Nipples, Pregnancy (both wanted and unwanted), Race Relations, Snoring and Stress. Seeing the problems neatly ranged in strict alphabetical order like this gives me a satisfied glow. Having tidied the drawer—Smoking had somehow strayed into Smacking—I opened the day's jiffy bags. Serena always has these X-rayed in the post-room because occasionally we get sent vile things; used condoms for example—disgusting—or lacy knickers, or porn. Usually, however, the bags simply contain self-help books of which I get loads. They're sent to me by publishing P.R.s all desperate for a plug. I rarely oblige but can't blame them for trying—I have three million readers after all.
How to Start a Conversation and Make Friends
announced the first one.
Helping People Cope With Crime, How to be a Happy Homosexual
, and
Breathe Away Your Stress
. I put them in the cupboard, arranging them neatly by height, then felt ready to face the day's post. In my column I answer letters on any issue 'Moral, Medical or Miscellaneous', but I knew more or less what I'd find. At this time of year it's failed holiday romances, dreadful second honeymoons, and disappointing exam results.

Dear Rose
, I read, as I switched on my computer,
I am 19 and have just failed my GCSE's again… Dear Rose, last month I went to Ibiza and met this wonderful man… Dear Rose, I've just come back from a purgatorial cruise with my wife
… Then there are the hardy perennials like low self-esteem and of course, Am I Gay? And I get so many letters from cross-dressers I can never meet a man without checking his feet for high heels. Then there are the weird sexual problems—this looks like one—I'm never judgemental, of course. Oh Christ that is so disgusting!!
Dear Rose
, I read, appalled.
I'm a farmer, I've been married nearly twenty years, and to put it bluntly, I'm a bit bored in the sack. I'd like to 'experiment' a bit, shall we say, but my wife won't oblige and this is causing a rift. She says it's just 'not on' and that we should leave Grunty alone. Could you give me some guidance please
?