Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ I said, irritated by his rather forthright and frankly impertinent intervention, ‘but I, um, always allow myself lots of time.’

      ‘Well, enjoy yourself,’ he said affably. Then he suddenly added, ‘you look very nice.’

      ‘Do I?’ I said wonderingly. It was ages since anyone had said that to me.

      ‘Yes. Especially your hair. It’s really, erm…’ he began rotating both index fingers next to his head by way of illustration.

      ‘Curly?’ I suggested.

      ‘Mad.’

      ‘Oh. Well…thanks very much.’

      ‘I mean, the way it sort of jumps out of your head.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘I meant it nicely,’ he explained.

      ‘Glad to hear it.’ I was so frosty, I could see my own breath. ‘Now,’ I said, handing him five pages of typed A4, ‘this is a little list of dos and don’ts about the house, just in case you’ve forgotten what I told you last week.’

      ‘Thanks,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Do I get a gold star for good behaviour?’ he added with a grin.

      ‘No,’ I said icily. ‘You don’t.’ But I was tempted to tell him that he was well on his way to picking up his first black mark. ‘Anyway, make yourself at home,’ I added grudgingly as I picked up my bag.

      ‘Thanks very much. I’ll…try.’

      ‘And if you’re not sure about anything, just call me on my mobile…here,’ I gave him my card. As I slung on my caramel suede jacket and stepped outside, Theo followed me out to pick up more things. KER-ACKKKK!! Another rocket exploded above us – BOOM! RACK-ATACK!!! BOOOOOOOM!!! Each detonation illuminated the short terrace for an instant then the houses were plunged into a Stygian dark.

      ‘The street lighting’s useless,’ I warned him as I fished out my car keys, ‘so be careful.’

      ‘Yes, I’ve noticed. It’s really bad.’

      ‘In fact I intend to complain to the council about it,’ I said vehemently.

      ‘Oh no!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please don’t. Well, have a good evening,’ he added pleasantly, then he picked up a box and went inside.

      As I turned the ignition on my old Polo I stared at Theo’s retreating back and pondered that bizarre exchange. Why didn’t he want me to get the council to do something about the shoddy street lights? How weird…I wondered whether I hadn’t made a dreadful error of judgement as I released the brake and set off. ‘Do I get a gold star for good behaviour?’ I ask you! What a nerve. And that rude remark of his about my hair. My hair has been described in many ways – ‘pre-Raphaelite’ mainly, but also ‘tumbling,’ ‘lustrously curly,’ ‘corkscrewing,’ even ‘frizzy,’ but never has it earned the epithet, ‘mad’. I mean, really! How gauche can you get! And that sinister-looking black case – what the hell was in it? Maybe it wasn’t a musical instrument, maybe it was a Samurai sword? And now, as I waited at a red light, I had a sudden vision of myself being found dead in bed dripping blood like a colander – I’d probably be front page news. ‘AGONY AUNT DEAD IN BED!’; ‘HORROR OF AGONY AUNT!’; no – ‘AGONY OF AGONY AUNT!’ was better or ‘DEATH OF AN AGONY AUNT!’; ‘AGONY AUNT SLAIN!’ was good if a tad melodramatic, or maybe, ‘HORROR IN SE5!’ The Daily Post, of course, would go to town. R. Soul, grateful for such a big story, would probably do the honours with the headline himself. He was good at those. It was, after all, Ricky who had penned the legendary, ‘HEADLESS BODY FOUND IN TOPLESS BAR!’

      As the car moved forward again I worried in case my murder didn’t make the front page: my split with Ed only made page five. I idly wondered whether it would be on national TV – it probably would. I’d get, say, two minutes on News at Ten and at least, ooh, a minute on Radio Four? As I drove down Kennington Road I pondered whether I’d be obituarised in the national press. They’d no doubt print my byline photo – it’s quite flattering actually – but what would the piece say? They’d probably get some other agony aunt to write it – oh God! – not Citronella Pratt! Not her – please, please not her – I could imagine what she’d write. ‘Rose Costelloe showed some promise as an agony aunt,’ damning me with faint praise. ‘How very sad and tragic that we will now never know whether that promise could have been fulfilled.’ I made a mental note to phone all the Obits editors first thing and tell them to ring the twins if I croaked.

      Then, feeling more relaxed, I visualised my funeral which would be a very sad but dignified affair. On my coffin would be a huge spray of white lilies – no, not lilies, roses of course, like my name, obviously – red ones to match my hair. The twins would be chief mourners: I was confident they’d do it well. Now, as I waited at a traffic light, I imagined them in black, tears streaming down their lovely faces, clutching each other’s hands. There’d be a huge photo of me leaning against the altar, and probably, what – a hundred people or so? More if some of my readers came. A lot more. That might bump it up to at least, ooh, three or four hundred – maybe even five. I could hear them all reminiscing about me in respectful, hushed tones as the organ played.

      ‘– Can’t believe it! So tragic!’

      ‘– She was so beautiful and kind.’

      ‘– That gorgeous figure of hers.’

      ‘– She could wear anything.’

      ‘– Even slim-fitting trousers.’

      ‘– Yes – and her advice was great.’

      I imagined Ed, arriving late, looking distraught. Mary-Claire had tried to prevent him from going, but he’d thrust her to one side.

      ‘No!’ he’d screamed. ‘Nothing will stop me! And by the way, Mary-Claire – you’re dumped!’ And because the church was so full – I liked Trev’s black ribbon in his collar, nice touch – Ed had had to stand at the back. Now, no longer able to control himself, he was incontinent with grief. And as he wept openly and loudly, heads were turning, my friends (and readers) torn between contempt for his treatment of me during my life, and pity for his distress at my death.

      ‘It’s all my fault!’ he was blubbing as they sang ‘Abide With Me’. ‘If I hadn’t betrayed her this would never have happened. I’ll always blame myself!’ Gratified by this confession, I now saw everyone at my grave, Ed still blubbing like a baby as he threw in the final clod.

      ‘– God look at him – he’s gone to pieces!’

      ‘– He’ll never get over it.’

      ‘– He didn’t deserve her.’

      ‘– He didn’t appreciate her.’

      ‘– C’mon on Ed, it’s time to go.’

      Now I imagined everyone leaving, and the south London cemetery lonely and dark; and I realised that the only reason I was there was because I’d let that weirdo, Theo Sheen, into my house. I was feeling pretty appalled by now and thinking that yes, I’d taken a huge and very stupid risk and for what – a bit of cash? СКАЧАТЬ