Happy New Year, ' I said to Serena when I went into work two days later.
'I hope it is happy, ' she replied. 'The signs are not exactly—' she began briskly, then stopped herself.
'Are you okay, Serena?' I said, narrowing my eyes.
'Oh yes, ' she said chirpily. 'I'm
fine
. Except that we had a flood on Boxing Day. The washing machine blew up. I'd put it on the delicates cycle and then we'd gone over to Rob's mother's for lunch. When we got back the house looked like the Serpentine; the carpets were
ruined
. Still nil desperandum, ' she added twitchily.
'But surely you're insured?'
'Well, we
were.
. . but unfortunately we hadn't got round to renewing our accidental damage cover what with things being a little bit tight. But never mind, ' she added with platitudinous perkiness, 'mustn't complain. I mean, worse things happen at sea don't they?' She really was the Doyenne of Denial. 'The show must go on and all that, ' she added with a heroic, but tense little smile. 'No, really, Rose, I'm fine. I'm ab-so-
lute
-ly fine. Unlike our poor readers, ' she said patting the vast pile of mail.
'So what have we got today?' I sighed.
'Christmas quarrels, money worries, acne, bedwetting, internet infidelity and—this… ' Grimacing slightly, she handed me a tiny plastic bag in which, by peering closely, I could just distinguish two or three black… things. Although they appeared to be organic I hadn't a clue what they were.
'What the hell are these?' I asked, pulling a face. 'Spiders?' She shook her head. 'Ants?'
'No?'
'Woodlice?'
'Uh uh. '
'Fleas?'
'Nope. '
'Ticks?'
'Getting warm. '
'Well what does the letter say?'
Serena blushed, then cleared her throat. 'Dear Rose, I found these in my pubic hair this morning and I wondered… '
'WHAT????' I wanted to hurl. 'GOD!!!! How revolting!' I exclaimed. 'Is it a hoax?'
'No. It's perfectly serious. They've given an address. '
'Then please write back pointing out that I run a problem page not a diagnostic service for STDs. That's the most repulsive letter I've ever had, ' I added crossly—'How utterly vile. ' Although at the same time I was also aware that it would be an absolute cracker of a story at the agony aunts' lunch next week. Those dos can get very competitive. Oh yes, that one would be a winner all right. I vaguely wondered about taking the evidence with me to confound any sceptics but decided it was simply too gross. As Serena disposed of it, I glanced at the pile of new books.
Understanding Obesity
—very appealing.
You Want Me To Do What
? Oh, nice. And, oh… this one looked quite interesting—
Older Women Younger Men, New Options For Love and Romance
. Hmm… I thought as I switched on the computer. Might give that one a plug.
My Outlook Express icon revolved several times like a tiny comet, then delivered my e-mails with a quiet 'pop'. I quickly whizzed through them one by one.
When we're in bed my husband accidentally calls me 'Gary' for some reason… I've fallen in love with my boss… I have a very low sperm count (12 million)… My mother-in-law's run off with my dad.
There was an e-mail from the fat young man who'd called my radio show telling me that he'd lost his first stone; another from the parents of the little girl who'd had the heart and lung transplant, telling me she was doing well. Then I opened the last message which, to my dismay, was headed,
Watch Out
!!! It was from 'you'llbesorry@ hotmail.com'—clearly a fictitious address.
Dear Ms Costelloe
, I read,
As I am now unable to get through to you on your poxy phone-in I decided to contact you this way to tell you that I hope you had a really horrible Christmas and to wish you a miserable New Year. K. Jenkins (Mrs)
.
'Have you made any New Year resolutions, Rose?' I heard Serena ask.
'Yes, ' I replied. 'I have. Not to let vile people intimidate me. ' I showed her the message, then told her about all the silent phone calls to my house.
'Some people!' Serena exclaimed with stock indignation. 'I mean, really—what a nerve! And how often do they call?'
'It seems to be random. I can get silent calls three days running, then nothing for a week and a half. I didn't have any over Christmas for example, but then I had another one late last night. '
'And do you really think it's this Kathy woman?'
'Yes. I think it probably is. She's obviously desperately childish, and extremely unpleasant. '
'
Although'
said Serena, as I pressed the 'Delete' button, 'if she's always been so aggressive on your radio show, why would she keep quiet when calling your house?' I looked at Serena. She was a genius. Of
course
—it didn't add up. And now, as I went down to the canteen for a
cappuccino
, I remembered something else. That the first silent phone call had been the night Theo came round—several days
before
Kathy first rang my radio phone-in. As I sat staring out of the plate glass window across the Thames I tried to work it out. It wasn't Kathy. No. It wasn't. It was someone else—but
who
? Were they male or female? I didn't even know that much as they never spoke. And was their attitude towards me nakedly hostile, or were they an obsessive creep… ?
Ah
.
I suddenly thought of Colin Twisk, the lonely young man. He'd sent me several more very peculiar missives lately including that kiss-covered Christmas card. I hadn't responded to any of them, so maybe he felt rebuffed. But on the other hand, I thought, it could be absolutely
anyone
. Three million people read the problem page, and another half million listen to
Sound Advice
. If even 0. 0001 per cent of that lot were loonies—a generous estimate—then that's already several individuals. But what really got to me was the thought that they'd somehow found out my number at home. And now I wondered if they intended simply to intimidate me at a distance, or whether they were planning to raise the stakes? What if they found out where I lived and actually came to the house? That thought fuelled my paranoia so I decided to keep on with the kick-boxing class— God forbid that it should ever come in handy, but one of these days, it might.
'KICK it and BLOCK it and KICK it and
PUNCH
it!' shouted Stormin' Norman the following night. 'KICK it and BLOCK it and power!
Powe
!! POWER!!'
Sweat pouring off my face I slammed my leather-gloved fists into the punch-bag again and again.
'KICK it and BLOCK it and KICK it and
PUNCH
it! Use your fists—now your feet! Power!
Power
!! POWER!!!'
I collapsed, wheezing like an asthmatic shih tzu as the shattering techno-beat finally stopped.
'Wow, Rose, you are one
angry
lady tonight!' Norman observed almost admiringly. 'It's awesome. '
'Thanks, ' I panted as I reached for my towel.
'I wouldn't pick a fight with you, girl—you'd kick my ass to Timbuktu. ' I wiped the sweat off my forehead and smiled. 'So who's the punch-bag?' he added with a laugh as I poured a bottle of Evian down my throat.
'What?'
'Who's the punch-bag?' I wiped my mouth.
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I've been teaching this for five years and I ain't never seen a woman kick as hard as you. You lash out like it's really
personal
, Rose. '
'Do I?' I said quietly.
'Yes, babe, you sure as hell do. It's as though you really
mean
it. '
'Oh. '
'So who is it you're hitting girl?'
I stared at him blankly. 'To be honest, I'm not quite sure. '
'I'm not quite… sure, ' I said to Ricky carefully a few days later. I was trying hard not to lose my rag.
'Well, think about it, ' he said as he put his feet up on his vast desk. 'I keep saying we need more sex in the paper, and a photo-story would do the job. ' A photo-story? One of those vulgar strips with semi-naked girls and moronic young men with speech bubbles coming out of their mouths! I could see it now.
Get us another beer will you, Tracy?
No, Kev, from now on you can get your own beer…
The wife's working late, Sharon. Fancy a drink?
Hmmm. Wouldn't say no…
A photo-story? How awful. I recoiled from the idea like a salted slug.
'The readers would love it, ' Ricky went on expansively. You mean
you'd
love it you sleaze-bag, I thought.
'With respect, Ricky, ' I ventured as he placed his hands behind his head, revealing two dark patches the size of France, 'I feel that a photo-story would only cheapen the page, reflecting badly on the paper as a whole. After all, the
Daily Post
is a quality tabloid, ' I reminded him sweetly, aware of the acrid smell of his sweat.
'Quality tabloid?' he reiterated mockingly. 'Bollocks! It's a populist rag. '
'But a photo-story would also mean I'd have less space to answer the readers' letters, ' I pointed out, 'and I feel my first duty is to them. '
'Crapola!' he proclaimed loudly. 'Your first duty is to me. I'm your editor, so you do what I say. Your contract's up for review quite soon, isn't it?' he added with casual menace. My God he was low.
'Tell you what, Ricky' I said reasonably. 'I'm willing to compromise. Let's put the photo-story idea on hold for a while, but I'm prepared to spice up the helplines a bit. And of course that would also bring in more cash for the paper as they're charged at a pound a minute. ' Ricky leaned back in his reclining chair again and contemplated the ceiling. Then he suddenly brightened as he seemed to glimpse the possibilities of the situation.
'Yeah—that might be good. We could have, Hot Sex, Fantastic Sex, Three in a Bed Sex, Swinging Sex. '
'Sex after having a baby' I added helpfully.
'Sex when you're pregnant, ' he leered.
'Sexual Fantasies, ' I added with a smile. 'Sexual Fetishes. '
'Yeah, 'he repeated happily. 'I like the sound of that. But we'll review the photo-story idea in six months. '
'Great. Well, that's settled then, ' I said breezily. 'Ooh must dash. I've got a lunch. '
That man is sex-obsessed I thought crossly as I shot downstairs in the lift. Whatever next for the
Post
I thought rolling my eyes—a page three girl? But I'd bought myself six months I reflected as I left the building, and with any luck, if the circulation didn't rise, Ricky might have been kicked out by then. Spicing up the helplines was one thing, but I wasn't having a photo-strip on my page. The agony column is not a forum for cheap entertainment—it's a public service, like the number twelve bus. After all, I'm not just an advice columnist, I reflected as I hailed a cab. I'm a Samaritan, a social worker, a grief therapist, a marriage guidance counsellor, a Citizens' Advice Bureau and sometimes almost a priest.
The agony aunts' lunch was being held at Joe Allen's in Covent Garden. I was slightly dreading it—some of those women are 50 egotistical!—but on the other hand it's fun to swap notes. There'd be at least ten of us, maybe more. What was the collective noun for agony aunts I wondered as we drove over Lambeth Bridge. A 'misery' maybe, or a 'worry, '; a 'dismay' was pretty good too. A 'distress' of agony aunts, possibly or, no—even better—an 'angst'. As we drove up the Strand I idly wondered who'd be there. Lana McCord at
Moil
magazine probably and that nice Katie Bridge at the
Globe
. I've got a lot of time for Mary Kreizler at the
Sunday Star
, and of course Dr Kay Stoddart at
Chick
magazine. I prayed that Citronella Pratt wouldn't be there, but she was at the last one, so she probably would. She'd made it clear on that occasion that she loathed me, but then she'd badly wanted my job. She'd lost her awful social affairs column at the
Semaphore
and was desperate for a new string. Serena told me that Edith Smugg had only been dead two hours before Citronella had phoned up, sliming away. She'd even come in for an interview, but Linda had been distinctly unimpressed. But Citronella's hide is made of Teflon and the constant rebuttals just don't stick. She has a kind of notoriety which is due in part to her poisonous opinions, and also to the fact that three years ago her husband famously ran off with a man. So on the back of that she got picked up by
Get
! magazine; but her 'advice' is dire. In fact it's not really advice, so much as naked pity—in short, malicious crap. Because having total strangers confide their unhappiness gives Citronella a psychological lift. She's obviously a miserable woman, so she gets off on others' pain. Whereas I'm an agony aunt for the simple reason that I just love helping people in need. My motives are wholly altruistic; I want to comfort and advise, that's all.
The cab pulled up in Exeter Street and oh God—there she was! Coming down the street, with that stompy walk of hers, bottom out, dumpy inelegance incarnate in one of her sacklike frocks; her thin sandy hair lifting in the wind. I discreetly turned my back to her as I paid the cab driver so that I wouldn't have to smile. I followed her into the restaurant at a safe distance, and found that our table downstairs was already full. There were twelve agony aunts all enthusiastically air-kissing despite the fact that at least half of them don't get on. The ones on the magazines would much rather be on newspapers, and the ones on the newspapers are very hard pressed.
To my irritation I found I'd been placed opposite Citronella. I managed to arrange my features into a pleasant smile although my polite salutation was not returned. So instead I briefly chatted to June Snort from the
Daily News
: our papers might be deadly rivals but I always try to be civil to her. As we all perused the menu, the atmosphere was polite, respectful and restrained.
'—Does anyone happen to know if the incest crisis-line is still running?'
'—Have you read that marvellous new book on stress?'
'—Did you hear that the National Council for Confidence Building has been closed down?'