Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

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      She shook her head and, for the first time in an hour, her smile slipped.

      ‘I was a PE teacher,’ she said.

      So that solves the mystery of the hockey sticks I thought as I unlocked my front door a few minutes later. I felt simultaneously drained and inspired by my encounter with Bev though I was horrified to see I’d picked up some of Trevor’s hairs. I carefully removed every single one with a brush, and then tweezers, as I listened to my answerphone.

      ‘Hi! I saw your ad, my name’s Susan…Hi, I’m a pharmacist and my name’s Tom…Hello, this is Jenny and I’m a single mum…’ I’d only been out for an hour and I’d already had three replies. Over the weekend I had twelve more, of whom I arranged to see five.

      First was a lugubrious looking engineer called Steve. He inspected the whole house, opening all my kitchen cupboards – bloody cheek! – as though he were buying it, not renting a room. Then came Phil who sounded promising but who spent half the time staring at my legs. Then there was an actor called Quentin who was jolly, but he couldn’t stand birds and he smoked. After him came Annie, who was twenty-three, and who found everything ‘reely nice.’ The house was ‘reely nice,’ the room was ‘reely nice,’ and she worked in marketing and that was ‘reely nice’ too. After five minutes of this I wanted to stab her but instead smiled and said I’d ‘let her know.’

      ‘That would be reely nice.’ As I waved her off I realised that the anagram of Annie is ‘inane.’ Then there was Scott who was Born Again and who wanted to hold prayer meetings on Monday nights, and finally there was a student at the Camberwell Art School who wanted to bring her two cats. Disappointed with the respondents I went to the local gym I’ve just joined for a kick-boxing class.

      ‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it! And BLOCK it!,’ shouted our instructor, ‘Stormin’ Norman’. ‘KICK it! And PUNCH it! And KICK it – and KICK it!! C’mon girls!’ As I pounded the punchbag in the mirrored studio I imagined that it was Ed. And now I visualised myself breaking down his front door with a single blow of my foot, and booting Mary-Claire Grey to Battersea. Were it not for that manipulative little Madam, Ed and I would still be married and I would not now be contemplating having to share my house with some stranger whom I’d probably hate.

      ‘You’re real good, Rose!’ said Norman appreciatively when the class came to an end. I wiped the sweat out of eyes with my wristband. ‘Done it before?’

      ‘Just a couple of times.’

      ‘Well, take it from me, girl – you’ve got a kick that could break a bank door.’

      Glowing from this compliment I showered and changed and was just leaving the club when I stopped in front of the noticeboard, my eye suddenly drawn to a hand-written card:

       WANTED: Single room in house-share in SE5 for

       very quiet, studious male. Up to £400 p.c.m.

       Privacy essential. Please ring Theo on 07711 522106.

      I scribbled down the number, phoned it, and arranged that Theo would come round at seven the following night. At five to the bell rang and I opened the door. To my surprise there were two well-dressed young men standing there. Theo had clearly decided to bring a friend.

      ‘Good evening Madam,’ said one of the men politely, holding out a pamphlet. ‘Have you heard the Good News?’ I gave them a frigid stare. I don’t mind being canvassed for my political views or being asked to buy dusters from homeless men. I have no objections to kids with sponsorship forms or fund-raisers rattling their cans. I’ll submit to the interrogations of market researchers, and I’m a good sport about ‘Trick or Treat’. But I absolutely hate finding Jehovah’s Witnesses on the doorstep – it can really ruin my day.

      ‘Have you heard the Good News?’ the man repeated.

      ‘Sorry, I’m a Buddhist,’ I lied.

      ‘But we would like you to be filled with the knowledge of Jehovah’s glory.’

      ‘Thanks but no thanks. Goodbye.’

      ‘But it will only take five minutes of your time.’

      ‘No it won’t.’ I shut the door. Ten seconds later, the bell rang again.

      ‘May we come back another time and share God’s glorious Kingdom with you?’

      ‘No,’ I said. ‘You may not.’ I was tempted to explain that I’d had enough religion rammed down my throat to convert half the world’s godless but decided to bite my tongue. ‘Goodbye,’ I said pointedly, then closed the door and was halfway down the hall when…ddrrrnnngggg!! For crying out loud!

      ‘Look, I said “no,” so will you kindly piss off!’ I hissed through the crack. ‘Oh.’ Standing there was an anxious-looking young man of about twenty-five. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said sliding back the chain. ‘I thought you were the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Can’t stand them.’

      ‘No, I’m…Theo.’

      ‘Of course.’ He was about five foot eleven, with blond hair cut close to the head; a strong, straight nose, and blue eyes which were half obscured by a pair of steel-rimmed glasses. He looked like the Milky Bar kid. He seemed a bit shy as he stepped inside but was at least quite tidily dressed; and as he extended his hand I noticed with satisfaction that his nails were neat and clean. As I showed him round I noticed his slight northern accent, although I couldn’t quite place it. He explained that he was an accountant working for a small computer firm in Soho and that he needed somewhere straight away.

      ‘Where are you living now?’ I asked him as I showed him the sitting room.

      ‘Just off Camberwell Grove. With a friend. He’s been very kind and he’s got a big flat but I feel I should find my own place. This is grand,’ he said politely as we went upstairs. Grand? Hardly. ‘Have you lived here long?’

      ‘Just a month.’ He liked the room, which is large, with striped lemon wallpaper, sloping eves, Dad’s old cupboard and a small double bed.

      ‘It’s grand,’ he said again, nodding affably. And I realised that it was simply his word for ‘nice’. ‘I like the aspect,’ he added as he stood looking out of the window.

      ‘Are you from Manchester?’ I enquired with polite inquisitiveness.

      ‘Nope, other side of the Pennines – Leeds.’

      As we went downstairs I decided that he was pleasant and polite and terribly boring and would probably do perfectly well.

      ‘So are you interested?’ I asked him as I made him a cup of coffee.

      ‘Well…yes,’ he said, glancing at Rudy, who was mercifully asleep.

      ‘In that case let’s cut to the chase. I am a very, very busy person,’ I explained, ‘and I’m looking for a quiet life. If you move in I guarantee that I will leave you alone and not bother you in any way providing that you don’t bother me – okay?’

      He nodded nervously.

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