'Mmm. It certainly is. ' Obviously I wasn't going to let on about Henry's taste for feminine attire. It was up to
him
to tell Bea if things got serious.
'Anyway, what did you think of the dreaded Andrew?' she asked me.
'He was a monumental bore. They should use him instead of general anaesthetic in hospitals—thirty seconds and you'd be out. And the way he name-dropped!' I added scornfully. 'It was pathetic! I couldn't believe he'd
really
met all those people. '
'No, I think he has. Channel 37's a small company so he gets included in their corporate events. He goes to the award ceremonies, the parties, the private screenings—that kind of thing— so that makes him feel in the loop. '
'I've always thought Bella had good taste—why's she bothering?'
'Because she's absolutely desperate, that's why. And he's quite attractive, and he takes her to glamorous events and fancy restaurants—plus she's flattered by his attention. '
'Well, I bet she's not the only one who's getting it, ' I pointed out as we chomped on our Margaritas. 'He's clearly got a roving eye. '
'I know, ' Bea agreed, spearing a stray slice of salami. 'I saw it myself. You must have put on a good show by the way, because Bella thinks you really approve. '
'Does she? Oh God. Well we mustn't hurt her feelings, ' I added. 'He may be a nightmare but it's her life. And who knows—it might actually work out. ' At this a look of naked panic swept across Bea's face.
'Work out?' she repeated. She blinked several times, rapidly. 'Oh no, I can't see that happening at
all
. So you really think it might work out do you?'
I shrugged. 'Maybe. '
She shook her head. 'No way. In fact, I haven't the heart to tell her this, ' she went on, 'but I think Bella's barking up the wrong tree. '
I didn't mention to Bea the horribly indiscreet remark that Andrew had made about Serena's husband, but it preyed on my mind. Poor Serena I thought, as she arrived for work on Monday; Rob's going to lose his job. I felt awful being privy to such information, and she's got enough problems as it is. As she hung up her coat I noticed how threadbare it was, and saw that her jumper had a visible mend. And I'm sure she used to have her hair highlighted, but now it's decidedly grey. I resolved to speak to Ricky about getting her a raise…
'So how's everything going?' I asked her genially.
'Oh,
comme ci comme ça
.'
'So, things are okay then, ' I reiterated.
'Oh yes. Not bad. And of course Rome wasn't built in a day, was it?' she said perkily.
'Serena, whatever happened to your hand?' I gasped. 'That bandage!'
'Well, ' she emitted a nervous titter, 'it's just a little… burn. Johnny thought it would be fun to put the stainless steel teapot in the microwave. When I went into the kitchen it was arcing and making this loud buzzing—I thought the machine was going to blow up. So I opened the door and stupidly grabbed it: it was, to put it mildly,
hot
. Still, the chap in Accident and Emergency said it was only second degree. '
'My God. '
'It's really not too bad at all. And of course, boys will be boys, ' she added stoically.
'I'm sorry, Serena. It must really hurt. '
'Well, that's family life for you, and you have to take the rough with the smooth. But at least Rob's job's going well. '
'Really?' I tried not to sound too amazed.
'Yes, ' she confided 'it is. His boss, Andrew, told him he was doing brilliantly. '
'That's… incredible! I mean, that's . great. '
'So one must be thankful for small mercies, ' she concluded with a twitchy smile.
'Yes, ' I agreed. 'One must. '
To save Serena's hand I opened the batch of jiffy bags containing the day's books.
God's Diet
—
The Divinely Simply Way to Lose Weight
. I sighed—these celebrity slimming books are such a bore.
500 Terrific Ideas for Organizing Every thing
!—I couldn't be bothered with that. A
Do-It-Yourself Guide to Personal and Planetary Transformation
by David Icke. Or rather Sicke. And finally,
Baby Care: 101 Essential Tips
. I idly flicked through it.
Tip 5: Do NOT leave your baby on the bus
, it advised brilliantly. Or, indeed, anywhere else. And now I turned to the day's letters with a strangely sinking heart.
Dear Rose, I've got terrible money worries… Dear Rose, I think I'm gay… Dear Rose, I haven't been out of my house for five years… Dear Rose, my husband drinks
…
Doesn't it ever get boring
? I could hear Theo's voice whispering in my ear, like Satan.
Dealing with the same old issues all the time
… Of course it's not boring I told myself sharply, I was just a bit low today, that was all. It was because of the burglary—and Rudy— I was terribly worried: I had a lot on my plate. As I picked up the next pile of letters I forced myself to buck up. They were all from people who were getting divorced, their cries of lamentation and resentment blending into one huge matri
moan
ial whine.
I've got access problems… and he won't meet his obligations… plus my mother's taken his side, and now the children won't speak to me, but what's even worse… my wife ran off with our au pair
… Boo hoo hoo, I thought wearily; it was as though my shoulders were wet with their tears. But I knew why I was feeling so uncharacteristically negative—because I was about to start proceedings too. It's hard giving advice to people on something very painful when you're actually going through it yourself. I've got my solicitor, Frances, lined up; Ed will get the petition next week.
Frances pointed out that because I shared costs in Putney for nine months I'm entitled to seek recompense. But I feel it's undignified to ask for a settlement, and it would only drag things out. I may be hard up, but I don't want to prolong the agony with any argy bargy about cash—I just want a quick, clean break. This time last year, I reflected bitterly, I was putting the finishing touches to my wedding plans: a mere twelve months on and I'm about to request my decree nisi. I suddenly remembered that the first anniversary is the 'paper' one—or rather 'papers' one in our case. Now I realised how reckless it had been to get married on Valentine's Day: we had given a hostage to fortune and recrimination had replaced romance.
I turned wearily to the next letter.
Dear Rose
, I read, in writing that was becoming all too familiar,
I just want you to know that even though you haven't replied to any of my eleven recent letters, you're still my Number One agony aunt and a very Special Lady. Your advice is so brilliant, and I love listening to your phone-ins! Do you know you've really changed my life! With love from your totally devoted fan, Colin Twisk
. There were six crosses and then, at the bottom of the page:
PS. Why don't we meet up some time…
?
I looked at that sentence with a combination of alarm and distaste, then I lifted my head and looked out of the window at the sheet of rainwashed February sky. It's him, I thought. It is. It's Colin Twisk. He's my silent caller. He's become obsessed. He's hung up on me, I thought wryly. And now I remembered, with a sinking sensation, what Katie Bridge had said. She'd said that Colin might well be 'dangerous' and that she wasn't 'taking the risk'. So I asked Serena to find all his previous letters, then I put them in a special file: because if he doesn't stop harassing me, or if he gets nasty, I might need them as evidence— God forbid. But he's clearly become fixated: 'I especially love listening to your phone-ins'. Well he certainly seems to like the sound of my voice. Sometimes I come home and find that he's even dialled my answerphone and left some heavy breathing on that. But how did he get my number in the first place—and what if he finds out my home address? The Jehovah's Witnesses got my details from the electoral roll; if they could do that, then so could he.
To cheer myself up, I read Trevor's latest column—
A Dog's Life
—which comes out every Monday in the Post's Features section. It's been going really well, but Linda's asked Bev to make the tone a little more personal—confessional even—and so she has.
'An eventful week this one, ' Trev had written:
On Tuesday we heard that yours truly has got through to round two of the Dogs of Distinction Award, so sighs of relief all round. Despite this Bev's been a bit down in the chops, but I know the reason why. The poor girl's fallen in love. She won't tell me who the object of her affection is—but she's got all the classic signs. She's listless, she's not eating, she doesn't sleep well, and she snaps at the slightest thing. For instance, on Thursday, right, I was buying some pop sox for her in M and S and she completely lost it. 'No, Trev!' she yelled. 'I distinctly said I wanted navy, not black!' She even pointed to the shopping list to prove it: the whole shop was watching—I nearly died! It really bummed out my karma I can tell you: well, I felt my professionalism had been impugned. So I trotted back to Hosiery and got the right ones, but I was not a happy pup. And I wanted to say, hang on a mo, Bev, just chill out will you, and tell me what's going on. You share, and I'll care— but the silly girl won't 'fess up. I keep putting my head on her lap and looking at her with as much fetching beseechingness as a dog can muster—always monitoring the slobber thing of course—but she just won't spill the choccy drops. Maybe she thinks I'm going to blab about it to all my mates down the park—as if! I'd never bark about Bev's private affairs—but she's resolutely keeping schtum. We met one or two nice blokes at New Year, so it could be one of them, but Bev simply won't say. But I don't think it's on. I mean, I told her about that nice little chocolate lab I had the hots for didn't I? But I can't force her to tell. All I know is we went shopping yesterday, and she bought someone a Valentine card. She thought I didn't see—I made like I was engrossed in the soft toys, right—but my eyes swivelled to the back of my head. And I saw her pick out a large card with LOVE ME! in huge red glittery letters and I thought mmmmm… wonder who that's for then?…
'Trevor's column is brilliant, ' I said to Linda. 'I love the cliff-hanger ending. '
'Yes, he writes really well. We get tons of positive feedback from the readers and the ratings have really risen—that was a
great
contact, Rose. By the way, don't forget to record your updated Helplines, will you: we've got to get them up and running by the end of the week. ' I winced—well it's
so
embarrassing—but anything to keep Ricky off my back. So I went into the interviewing room I use for this purpose with my five new three-minute scripts.
'Hello, ' I said warmly into the premium numbers recording line, 'I'm Rose Costelloe of the
Daily Post
. Thank you for calling my helpline on How To Spice Up Your Sex Life. Now, has the sparkle gone out of your love-making?… perhaps the most exciting thing that happens in your bed is losing the TV remote… first admit that it's a problem… don't blame your partner… make an effort… relax… massage… intimacy… soft music… feathers and silk… Please write to me in strict confidence if you've any other problems, goodbye. Hello, I'm Rose Costelloe of the
Daily Post
. Thank you for calling my helpline on Sexual Fetishes. Now, this is
nothing
to worry about… '
I emerged an hour later, with a deep sense of distaste. I mean, I really
don't
think it's my job to tell people what to do with rubber masks, whips and high heels: and my unease was compounded by the fact that I could imagine Colin listening to them, breathing heavily… The thought of it made me feel sick.
'POST!!!' The adolescent-looking mail-boy passed me in the corridor with the second delivery.
'Ooh, anything for me by any chance?' I said ironically as I looked at his trolley. I knew there'd be ten letters at least.
'Yes, Miss Costelloe, just this. ' He handed me a solitary cream vellum envelope marked '
Private
and
Confidential
.
To be opened by addressee ONLY
. ' Suddenly I detected the distinctive aroma of Ricky's b. o. and he loomed into view. He smiled warmly at me—he was clearly in a good mood about the circulation rise—so I decided to strike while the iron was hot.
'Ricky, could I have a quick word with you please?'
'Yeah, 'course you can, Rose. So what can I do for you?' he said benignly as we went into his vast office. On the walls were industry awards he'd won, and framed front pages with a selection of his greatest headlines. There was the Moonie mass marriage ceremony headlined 'CLUB WED!' and a legendary one about the notorious rock star, Ozzy Gallagher, who'd been snapped punching an autograph hunter. 'SHIT HITS FAN!' it announced. There were also photos of the many neglected animals Ricky had rescued through his readers' campaigns. There was an abused Spanish donkey, now in a sanctuary in Devon, and two seal pups he'd airlifted off the Canadian ice. There was a baby chimp, which he'd saved from a Bosnian zoo, and three kangaroos he'd redeemed from a cull.
'What lovely photos, ' I said.
'Oh yes, Rose. They are. ' Suddenly he stood up, went up to the wall and took down a photo of a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. Its vast tummy scraped the ground and its eyes were obscured by thick rolls of fat. 'This is Audrey, ' he explained quietly. 'She's my particular favourite. '
'Was she named after Audrey Hepburn?' I asked politely.
He shook his head. 'No. She's just Audrey. That's her name. She was bought when she was a tiny piglet, but became a problem when she grew too big. Her owners tried to sell her, but no-one wanted her because she ate so much. So they decided that there was only one thing for it and that they'd have to… ' his voice cracked. This was evidently difficult for him. 'Can you
imagine
, Rose?' he went on, his chin visibly puckering. 'This poor little thing was destined for the frying pan? Can you imagine, Rose?' he added, his voice faltering now, 'the horror of eating your own pet pig?' I suddenly realised that I was absolutely starving. I'd missed lunch. 'Can you imagine, Rose?' Ricky repeated, his eyes glistening.