Читать книгу Rescuing Rose - Isabel Wolff - Страница 10

The letters I get! Listen to this!

Dear Rose, I am on probation for arson, but my probation officer has changed and I’m starting to get itchy fingers again. I’d really like to set fire to something so I’m getting in lots of matches and petrol – please help!

Good God! I don’t like to go behind my readers’ backs – confidentiality is absolutely sacred – but sometimes it’s something I have to do. So I’ve just phoned up the woman’s social services and someone’s going to go round to see her right now. And how about this one – in green ink of course.

Dear Rose, I have messages from Martians coming through my bedroom radiators. But that’s not my main problem. The main problem is the volume which keeps me awake at night. I’ve asked them to keep it down, but they just won’t. How can I stop them disturbing my sleep in this way?

Dear Phyllis, I wrote, Thank you for your letter. How very annoying for you having noisy Martians in your radiators. But did you know that doctors have a very clever way of dealing with this problem these days, and I do suggest that you go and see your G.P. straight away. With best wishes, Rose.

Then here was a letter, sixty pages long, written on graph paper and signed, ‘King George’. The next three were from people with flatmate problems – all the usual stuff: He slobs in front of the TV all night…she never does the washing up…he’s always late with the rent…she has her friends round all the time…As I composed my replies I thought about my own flatmate, Theo. Despite my initial – and wholly justified – anxieties I’ve scarcely seen him – we’re like those proverbial ships that pass in the night. Sometimes I hear him pacing above me in the early hours because, since my split with Ed, I haven’t been sleeping well. Theo does go out sometimes in the evenings but, strangely, only when it’s dry – not when it’s wet. It’s all a bit peculiar really, especially with that strange remark of his about the lights. I mean, he seems too wholesome to be a Jeffrey Dahmer, but then still waters and all that…

I dealt with the flatmate problems, enclosing my leaflet on Happy Cohabitation, then I opened what turned out to be one of my very rare letters back. It was from Colin Twisk, that Lonely Young Man.

Dear Rose, he’d written. Thank you very much for your very, very kind letter. I carry it about with me all the time. And whenever I’m feeling low I get it out and read it again. Knowing that a famous – and very attractive – person like you thinks I’m good-looking makes me feel so much better about myself. I’m doing everything you advised me and – guess what? – I think I may have now found my Special Lady Friend! With deep affection, Colin Twisk. xxxx.

Ah, I thought, isn’t that nice? That’s what makes my job so worthwhile. The knowledge that I’ve been able to help alleviate someone’s distress and pain. I put Colin’s letter in my ‘Grateful’ file – that’s just my little joke – then suddenly a cry went up. Ricky, who had been away for two days, had evidently just returned.

‘Who the fuck wrote this fucking headline?’ he shouted at Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. As he jabbed his finger at the offending page, my heart sank. Jason was about to get what’s known in the trade as a ‘bollocking’. ‘“SOMETHING WENT WRONG IN JET CRASH EXPERTS SAY”?’ Ricky shouted. ‘It’s shite! And as for this – “PROSTITUTES APPEAL TO POPE!” Total shite! “STOLEN PAINTING FOUND BY TREE”? – that is effing shite as well!’ This was true. Now he went over to the features editor, Linda, while Serena and I exchanged nervous looks.

‘The features are shite too,’ Ricky shouted. “Why Not Include Your Children When Baking?” Crap! “Unusual Applications for Everyday Household Objects – Try polishing your furniture with old tights and conditioning your hair with last week’s whipped cream”? It’s all shite,’ he repeated truculently. ‘It’s a pile of poo! It is complete and utter ca-ca. No wonder our circulation’s going down the khazi – what this paper needs is R.’

‘R?’ said Linda miserably. We looked at each other.

‘R,’ Ricky repeated slowly. ‘As in the R factor.’ Ah. ‘As in aaaaaaaahhhhh!’

‘Aaahh…’ we all said.

‘What we want,’ he said, slamming his right fist into his left palm, ‘is Triumph Over Tragedy, Amazing Mums, Kids of Courage. And animals!’ he added animatedly. ‘I want more animals. The readers like them and so do I. So get me Spanish donkeys, Linda, get me orphaned koalas, get me baby seals…’

‘It’s the wrong time of year.’

‘I don’t give a flying fuck!’ he shouted. ‘Get me baby seals. And while you’re at it get me puppies with pacemakers and kittens with hearing aids too. And if I don’t see some fucking heart-warming animal stories in this paper within a week, Linda, you’re for the fucking chop.’

‘Well, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning!’ Serena remarked briskly as Ricky stomped back to his office. ‘Still, we all have our problems. Oh yes, we all have our crosses to bear,’ she added with a tight little smile. I looked at her as she turned on the shredder.

‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

‘Oh nothing we can’t deal with,’ she replied serenely. ‘It’s just that Rob crashed the car last night.’

‘Oh dear. I hope he wasn’t hurt.’

‘Not really. Just a large bump on his head. But unfortunately the garage door’s a write-off – he demolished it.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Still, these things are sent to try us, aren’t they?’ she said perkily. I smiled blankly and nodded my head. As Serena fed the old letters into the shredder – we keep them six months – I glanced at Linda, who was ashen-faced. I’d had an idea. Trevor and Beverley. That would make a good, heart-warming animal feature. Linda agreed.

‘It sounds brilliant,’ she said gratefully after I’d told her. ‘We could do a big spread with lots of photos. Will you ring her for me right now?’

Beverley was in – well she usually is in, poor kid – and she sounded quite keen.

‘Are you sure you and Trevor wouldn’t mind?’ I asked her. ‘It would probably mean having to talk about your accident, so I wouldn’t like you to say yes if you didn’t feel comfortable about it.’

‘No, we’d be happy to do it,’ she replied. ‘And it would be great publicity for Helping Paw.’

Having given Linda Bev’s number I now tackled my huge pile of post. The run up to Christmas is an incredibly busy time of year for agony aunts. In fact there were so many letters to answer that I didn’t leave work until eight. When I got in I felt pretty tired, but even so I decided to give the kitchen a thorough clean. I wiped down all the cupboard fronts – and the worktops, not forgetting to empty the toaster crumb tray of course; then I went into the hall and polished the telephone table. When I’d finished I noticed that the spindles on the banisters were looking disgusting. Being white, every speck of dust shows. As I rubbed away at them with the Astonish, I heard Theo’s door open. He was on his mobile phone.

‘Are you up for it?’ I heard him say as he came downstairs. ‘Right then. I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t start without me!’ he added with a laugh. ‘Oh, hello Rose,’ he said pleasantly as he put his phone in his pocket. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ His eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘What the heck are you doing?’ What the heck was I doing?

‘What the heck does it look like?’

‘Er, cleaning the banister spindles.’

‘Correct.’

‘Oh,’ he said. He looked dumbfounded for some reason. ‘I’m just on my way out. Well, er, have a nice evening,’ he added uncertainly. ‘See you.’

‘See you,’ I replied. As he left, carefully locking the front door behind him, I wondered about that remark. ‘Are you up for it?’ Hmm…that could only mean one thing. He’d obviously got someone. Well, that’s fine, I said to myself broad-mindedly – as long as he conducts his romantic affairs elsewhere. There’ll be no hanky-panky under my roof I decided firmly as I went into the kitchen and found a pack of instant soup. ‘Country-Style Leek and Asparagus’ said the box. Disgusting but it would have to do. I loathe cooking – I’ve never learned – and I don’t bother with food that much anyway so I simply buy things that are quick. Pot Noodles for instance – yes, I know, I know – bought pies, that kind of thing.

‘This is Radio Four!’ yelled Rudy as I emptied the greenish powder into a saucepan. ‘Scilly Light Automatic. Five or six. Rising. Occasionally good.’ Oh no. I’ve been leaving Radio Four on for him during the day and he’s started regurgitating selected bits. ‘Viking North Utsire. Steady. German Bight. Showers. Decreasing. Good.’ However, unlike the radio, I can’t turn Rudy off. ‘And welcome to Gardener’s Question Time!’ he announced warmly.

‘You start singing the theme tune from The Archers and you’re in big trouble,’ I said as I opened the fridge in search of some grapes to keep him quiet. Normally there’s not much in it. A heel of cheese maybe, two or three bottles of wine, half a loaf and Rudy’s fruit. But today the fridge overflowed. In the chiller were tiny vine-ripened plum tomatoes, three fat courgettes, and a glossy aubergine; on the shelf above a roll of French butter and a wedge of unctuous Brie. There were two free-range skinless chicken breasts, a tray of tiger prawns, and some slices of rosy pink ham. Theo was clearly a bon vivant.

As I stirred my monosodium glutamate, I wondered who he was meeting – ‘Are you up for it?’ – and what she was like. Or maybe…yes. Maybe she wasn’t a she, maybe she was a he. Theo had told me he wouldn’t be having women over – ‘that won’t be a problem’ he’d said: and he’d laughed, and grimaced slightly, as though the suggestion was not only ludicrous, but somehow slightly distasteful. Maybe he was gay. Now I wondered why this hadn’t occurred to me before. After all, there was plenty of evidence that he might be. For example, he’d been living with this ‘friend’ of his, Mark, before, and then there’d been that gauche comment of his about my hair. He was obviously totally inept with women – he clearly hadn’t a clue. And he was quite well dressed and toned-looking, plus he had suspiciously refined tastes in fresh produce. I mean, I really don’t think a straight man – especially a Yorkshireman – would be seen dead buying miniature vine-ripened plum tomatoes, or, for that matter, free-range skinless chicken breasts. Yes, he probably was gay. What a waste, I thought idly. Oh well…

As the soup began to simmer I suddenly realised that I’d found out next to nothing about Theo. So far we’d avoided contact – treading warily around each other like animals forced to share the same cage.

Now I thought about Ed again – but then he’s always on my mind – with a dreadful, knotting sensation inside. Then I suddenly remembered: the shoebox…Oh God. It was still under Theo’s bed. Heart pounding, I rushed upstairs, pushed on his door, and got down on my hands and knees. There it still was, undisturbed. Phew. The chances of Theo finding it were slim but I wasn’t taking the risk. So I fished it out, but as I straightened up I turned round and suddenly stopped. For, positioned by the window, on a shiny tripod, was an old brass telescope. Hmm. So that, presumably, is what had been in the mysterious-looking black case. I listened at the door for a moment to make sure he hadn’t come back; then I went up to it, removed the lens cap and peered through the end. Although the thing was clearly antique the magnification was very strong. To my surprise I found myself looking right into the backs of the houses opposite. There was a woman lying on her bed: her legs were bare and I could even make out the pink nail polish on her toes. I swung the telescope to the left and saw a small boy watching TV. In the next house along I could see a human form moving behind frosted bathroom glass. So that’s why Theo said he liked the room’s aspect so much – he was a peeping Tom! His ad had said he’d wanted ‘privacy’ – other people’s privacy it appeared!

I just knew that there was something odd about that boy and I was absolutely right! That’s why he spent so much time in his room and why I heard him pacing the floor late at night. Snooping on people is the pits I thought crossly as I decided to take a good look round his room. It was a complete and utter shambles – I had to fight the urge to tidy it up. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes, piles of old newspapers, rolled up posters and boxes of books. On the desk was a laptop computer surrounded by a mess of paperwork. His writing was appalling but on one pad I could just make out the words, ‘heavenly body,’ and there was a pair of binoculars – well! So he clearly wasn’t gay, he was a bit of a saddo I reflected crossly, or maybe he was a Lonely Young Man. But what a disgusting invasion of privacy I reflected indignantly as I inspected the rest of his room. On the mantelpiece were some strange-looking bits of rock, and, in a silver frame, a black and white photo of an attractive blonde of about thirty-five. She was laughing, her left hand clapped to her chest as though she’d just heard the most wonderful joke. Now I glanced at the bed. A maroon duvet was pulled loosely over it, but from underneath – oh God, not another one – protruded a square of floral silk. I lifted up the quilt. Under the pillow was a short silk nightie with a Janet Reger label. Well, well, well! And I was just thinking about leaving my Am I A Transvestite? leaflet lying casually about when I heard the telephone ring. I quickly replaced the nightie, swung the telescope back into position, then grabbed the shoebox and ran downstairs.

‘Hello,’ I said breathlessly. There was nothing at the other end. ‘Hello?’ I said again. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of heavy breathing. Goose bumps raised themselves up on my arms. ‘Hello?’ I repeated, more sharply now. ‘Hello, who is this please?’ I suddenly remembered the silent call I’d had the night Theo had first come round. Now all I could hear was deliberate, slow, heavy breathing. I shuddered – oh God, this was vile. Tempting though it was to let loose with a stream of unbridled abuse I decided just to put the phone down.

‘I think I’m getting nuisance phone calls,’ I said to Henry as we walked around the Windsmoor concession in Debenhams the following Saturday. ‘How about this?’ I held up a stretch lace, high-necked blouse. He cocked his head to one side.

‘I’d prefer a scoop neckline,’ he said.

‘Not advisable – you’ve got a hairy chest.’ I showed him a red crushed velvet jacket – size twenty. ‘This take your fancy?’ He shook his head.

‘So what happens with these calls?’ he asked as I riffled through a rack of large frocks. ‘Do they speak to you?’

‘No they don’t. All I hear is heavy breathing.’

‘Oh, nasty. So what do you do?’

‘I do what I advise my readers to do. I don’t speak to them, or try and engage them in conversation, and I don’t blow a whistle down the phone. I simply wait a few seconds, say absolutely nothing, then quietly put down the phone. They want you to react Henry – that’s why they do it; so it’s much better to spoil their fun. Eventually the tiny-minded wankers realise that they’re wasting their time and they stop.’

‘How many calls have there been so far?’

‘I’ve had four in the last two weeks. It’s not that many but it’s unnerving and it makes me feel jumpy about answering the phone. How about this?’ I held up a blue floral skirt the size of a windbreak. He pulled a face.

‘Too chintzy. Well if it carries on then complain.’

‘I probably will, but to be honest I’m so busy and it all takes time. No, not that bubble-gum pink Henry, it’s much too “Barbie” – try this fuchsia. But no shoulder pads, okay?’

‘Okay. And do you press 1471 afterwards?’

‘Of course, but it always says that the number’s been withheld.’

‘Hmm,’ he murmured, ‘that’s significant.’

‘I know it is. It’s beginning to bother me,’ I added as we passed through Separates on our way to Eveningwear to the sound of synthesised ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘But until they say something malicious or threatening it’s rather hard to complain.’

‘Perhaps it’s Ed?’ Henry suggested as he surreptitiously fingered a taffeta ball gown.

‘I doubt it. It’s not his style. In any case he doesn’t even have my new number – we’ve been on total non-speakers since our split.’

‘I still think you should check.’

‘But how? I can hardly ring him up and say, “Hi Ed, this is Rose. I was just wondering if you’ve been making nuisance phone calls to me lately.” Anyway, I know it’s not him.’

‘Have you fallen out with anyone lately?’ Henry asked.

‘Not that I can think of, although…I did have a bit of a run in with a mad woman on my phone-in the other week.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I heard her. I must say she sounded a bit of a brute.’

‘And she’s convinced I advised her husband to leave her; she said I’d be “sorry,” so maybe it’s her. Though God knows how she got my number.’

‘That’s the trouble with what you do,’ Henry said as he held a pink feather boa under his stubbled chin, ‘you get some weird people contacting you.’

‘I know. Now I think you’d look lovely in this,’ I went on as I pulled out a black bias-cut silk satin dress. ‘Ooh, and it’s got thirty per cent off!’

‘Really?’ he said.

‘Yeah, shall we give it a whirl?’ He nodded enthusiastically and we headed off to the fitting room.

‘That’s not your size Madam,’ said the sales assistant peremptorily, ‘it’s a twenty, I’d say you’re a ten.’

‘But I like things nice and loose. My husband will be coming into the cubicle with me,’ I added briskly, ‘as he always likes to see what I buy.’

We pulled the curtain shut and Henry quickly undressed. Then he strapped on a pair of silicone-jelly breasts he’d got from Transformation, and struggled into the dress. As I did up the zip he looked at his reflection and sighed with happiness.

‘Oh yes!’ he said, turning this way and that, ‘it’s just so…me.’ He looked like a gorilla in a ball gown. That hairy back! ‘What accessories should I wear?’

‘A velvet scarf maybe, or some pearls. Or better still, a choker, to cover your Adam’s apple. And you’ll need some black tights, sixty denier at least unless you’re prepared to shave.’

‘Can’t I have fishnets?’

‘No, Henry. Too tarty.’

‘Really?’ He looked disappointed.

‘Yes, really. Your mother would be horrified.’

‘That’s true.’

He bought a sparkly handbag and then we went down to cosmetics on the ground floor.

‘Were the Beaumont Society helpful?’ I enquired sotto voce as we perused the make-up.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they were great. They told me how to avoid being “read” when I go out.’

‘You’re not planning to wear this stuff in public are you?’ I whispered.

‘Not at work, no; I might get the hem caught in my tank. But, who knows,’ he breathed, ‘when I’m on leave, if I’m feeling daring, I might.’

‘But you’re six foot one Henry!’

‘So are you!’

‘But I’m feminine.’

‘Well you’re not the only one!’

‘Now, your skin-tone is fair,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I think you’ll need this Leichner extra-thick foundation to hide the five o’clock shadow and of course translucent powder – pressed or loose? Coral lipstick, rather than red, would suit you for that English Rose look, and eye-liner should be navy not black. We’d better get you a good pair of tweezers too while we’re here and something to minimise those pores.’

‘Christ, you’re right,’ he said, as he peered, horrified, into an adjacent mirror. ‘They’re the size of a grapefruit’s. And I need a wig and some scent.’

‘I think you should go for something really feminine, like Ô de Lancôme or Femme.’

We emerged from the store two hours later with six large carrier bags, Henry beaming from ear to ear.

‘You’ll look ravishing in that lot,’ I said as he hailed a cab. ‘Really gorgeous.’

‘Gosh thanks, Rose. You’re a real sport.’

‘My pleasure,’ I said, as he gave me a hug, and it was. As I walked down Oxford Street in the milling crowds I realised that I’d loved going shopping with Henry whereas with Ed it was always a trial. Not because he didn’t like doing it but because he’d always try and beat people down. If something cost eighty quid he’d knock them down to sixty; if it was fifteen he’d try and get it for ten. ‘What’s the best price you can give me?’ he’d ask while I’d blush and look the other way. He once bargained ninety pounds off a fridge-freezer.

‘Why do you bother?’ I’d said.

‘Because it’s fun, that’s why. It gives me this adrenaline rush.’

But I knew that that was a lie. The real reason was because Ed’s family were incredibly hard-up and there was never any cash. His dad had been foreman at a builder’s yard, but he’d died from asbestosis when Ed was eight. Ed’s mother didn’t get the government compensation for ten years and there was often barely enough to eat. That kind of start in life leaves an indelible mark, so I knew where Ed was coming from. But the fact that he was one of five children was one of the things that drew me to him; although, well, it’s rather sad really, because he hardly ever sees them these days. Only his mother and one sister, Ruth, came to our wedding; as for the others, they’ve drifted apart. For example, Ed hasn’t seen his youngest brother, Jon, for six years; they fell out badly, over money, I think. Nevertheless, Jon still sent us a lovely alabaster lamp for our wedding, even though Ed hadn’t invited him. It made me feel terribly sad. Anyway, I liked Ed’s mother, and the thought of her looking after all those children, on her own, and working full-time fills me with total awe. Whereas some stupid women well, it’s too pathetic, they can’t even cope with one…

Now, as I sat on the number thirty-six a woman came and sat in front of me with her little girl who was about two and a half, maybe three. The bus was full so the child sat on her lap, encircled by her arms like a hoop. And as I looked at them I felt the old, old pang and thought, my mother never held me like that…

I always try and distract myself at bad moments, so I got out my Daily Post. There was the photo of Bev and Trev on the masthead and inside a big, two page spread. It was headed ‘LABRACADABRA!’ and there were pictures of them at home, ‘Clever Trevor’ – dressed in his red Helping Paw coat – drawing the curtains and bringing in the milk. There was a shot of him getting the washing out of the machine and passing ‘Tragic Bev’ the pegs while she hung up the clothes. There they were in Sainsbury’s, at the check-out, with Trevor handing over Bev’s purse. Finally there was a shot of them both at the cashpoint, Trev getting out the money with his teeth. ‘Trevor’s much more than my canine carer,’ Bev was quoted as saying, ‘he’s saved my life.’

I realised now, how modest Beverley had been in describing herself to me as a ‘PE teacher’. She’d been so much more than that. Yes, she’d taught games at a girls’ school, the article explained, but she’d also been an outstanding sportswoman in her own right. As an eighteen-year-old she’d been county tennis champion, and in her mid-twenties, as a middle distance runner, she’d won silver in the Commonwealth games. After retiring from the track she’d taken up women’s hockey and had played for the national side. She’d been selected to play for England at the Sydney Olympics but her injury had shattered that dream. Her accident had left her ‘suicidal’ and ‘devastated’ until Trevor transformed her life. ‘He’s my hero,’ she said. ‘We adore each other. Without him I just couldn’t go on.’ It was touching stuff and at the bottom was the number for Helping Paw.

When I got home Theo was in the kitchen, cooking. I could hear him singing to himself. Repelled by the thought of him spying on my neighbours dressed in a floral nightie, I decided to give him a wide berth. And I was just taking off my coat when I glanced at the half-moon telephone table and saw a pile of unopened post. There were my first utilities bills, a cashmere brochure and an Oxfam Christmas catalogue. Underneath, in a white plastic cover, was some magazine or other, it looked like Newsweek or Time. I turned it over and saw that it wasn’t either of those: it was Astronomy Now magazine. Oh.

‘Hello Rose,’ Theo called out suddenly.

‘Oh. Hi!’ Astronomy Now? But that didn’t explain the Janet Reger nightie did it?

‘Had a good day?’ he enquired politely as I went into the kitchen.

‘Er, yes. I’ve been shopping with a…friend. You’ve got some post, you know.’

He wiped his hands, ripped the cover off the magazine, glanced at it, then put it down. Star Clusters in Close-Up! announced the headline and beneath, Magellanic Clouds and Nebulae!

‘Astronomy Now? I said with studied casualness. ‘I’ve never seen that before. May I look at it?’

‘Course you can. I get Sky and Telescope too.’

‘So you’re interested in…astronomy then?’ I said feebly as I glanced at an article about the Leonid meteor showers.

‘It’s my passion,’ he replied as he got out a knife. ‘I’ve been mad on it since I was a boy, I –’ Suddenly his mobile rang. Or rather it didn’t ring; it played ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?’ He took the call, but it was clearly an awkward conversation for his throat become blotched and red.

‘Hi. Yes. I’m okay,’ he said slightly tersely. ‘Yes. Fine. That’d be grand. Whatever you want. Yes. Yes. I’ll drop the keys off at your office on Monday. No, I don’t want to come to the house. Sorry about that,’ he said with fake brightness as he put his phone back in his pocket, ‘where were we?’

‘Astronomy.’

‘Oh yes. It’s my…passion,’ he said as he sliced a courgette with a trembling hand.

‘So do you have your own telescope then?’ I enquired innocently.

‘Yes. It’s in my room. You can have a look at it if you like.’

‘Ooh, no, no, no, I wouldn’t do that. I mean, I wouldn’t go in your room.’

‘That’s okay. I don’t mind if you do – I’ve nothing to hide. It’s a three-inch refracting telescope rather than one of the more modern reflectors, but the optics are really good. It has a magnification of 150,’ he added proudly as he got out a frying pan. ‘It belonged to my granddad – he used to run the Leeds observatory – it’s old but it’s excellent.’ He opened the fridge and took out a beer. ‘I feel like a drink. How about you?’

I felt guilty about having mistrusted him so I nodded. ‘Thanks. That’d be nice. So where do you do your…star-watching?’ I asked as he got down two glasses.

‘The best place is Norfolk – I used to go there with my grandparents. You can do it in London, but you have to choose your spot carefully because the sky-glow’s so bad.’

‘Sky-glow?’

‘The light pollution. That awful tangerine glare. I’m involved with the Campaign for Dark Skies,’ he went on as he poured out my beer. ‘We ask local councils to install star-friendly street lighting which throws the light down, where it’s needed, not up. It’s tragic that people living in cities don’t get to see the night sky – they miss so much. I mean just look up,’ he said suddenly. He switched off the light, plunging us into darkness, and I peered up through the conservatory roof. Through the glass I could see five, no…eight stars twinkling dimly against the inky night and a sliver of silvery moon. ‘City folk miss so much,’ he repeated as I craned my neck. ‘How often do they see the Milky Way and the Pleiades, Orion’s belt, or the Plough? You don’t even need a telescope to be an amateur astronomer. You can see so much just with your eyes.’

‘So that’s why you didn’t want me to complain about the street lamps?’ I suggested.

‘Yes, that’s right.’ And that explained why Theo went out when it was dry and clear, not when it was wet. ‘Actually this area’s not too bad for observation,’ he continued as he turned on the light and the stars vanished, ‘which is why I like living here. That little park at the end of the road is quite good for example.’

‘Holland Gardens?’

‘Yes. I’ve taken my ’scope there a couple of times. There are no tall buildings around it so you get a big piece of sky, and I’ve a filter which cuts out the glare. And my friend Mark has a large garden so sometimes I go round there. I ring him and say “Are you up for it?”’ he added. ‘That’s what we amateur astronomers say. It’s our little in-joke. Are you up for it?’ He shook his head and laughed. So he wasn’t the Milky Bar kid after all – he was the Milky Way kid.

‘What a…fascinating hobby,’ I said with a relieved smile.

‘It’s more than that. I’ve been writing a book. I’m doing the final edits at the moment – the page proofs have just come back.’

‘A book? What’s it called?’

‘Heavenly Bodies –’ Ah. ‘– A Popular Guide to the Stars and Planets. It’s coming out in May. But I’m under terrible pressure timewise which is why I needed to live somewhere quiet.’

‘And where did you live before?’ I asked as he sliced the aubergine.

‘I told you, with this friend of mine, Mark.’

‘But you said that that was temporary; that he was helping you out – so where did you live before that?’

‘I lived in Dulwich…’ The knife stopped in mid-air and he repeated, quietly, ‘I lived in Dulwich. With my wife.’

‘Oh,’ I murmured, trying not to look astounded. ‘You, er, didn’t say you were married. You look so young.’

‘I’m not. I’m twenty-nine. I was married for five years. But I didn’t tell you because…well,’ he stopped. ‘Because it’s too painful and to be honest it’s not relevant.’ Now I remembered his boss’s odd remark, when I’d phoned for a reference, about Theo having had ‘a hard time’.

‘Why did you…’ I began, with a sip of beer. ‘No, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.’

‘Why did we split up?’ I nodded. ‘Because I disappointed my wife.’

‘Really? Er…how?’

‘She felt I was letting her down. She’s a solicitor at Prenderville White in the City,’ he explained. ‘She’s very driven and successful, and she expected me to be the same. She wanted me to put everything into my accountancy career to match her success, but I couldn’t. I did all the exams but by then I’d become far more interested in astronomy than in spreadsheets. So I left Price Waterhouse and took an undemanding book-keeping job so that I’d have more time to write. Fi said I was being self-indulgent and that I should knuckle down to my career. She kept on and on and on about it, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back. So five months ago she said she wanted out.’ Poor bloke. There were tears in his eyes. ‘That was her actually, just now, on the phone,’ he explained, his voice quivering. ‘I’d forgotten to give her my keys. To be honest, I find it painful even talking to her. I mean, I can see why she felt as she did. I can understand why we broke up. But understanding is different from feeling isn’t it?’ I nodded. It certainly is. ‘I’m still deeply attached to her. In fact,’ he added, with another swig of beer, ‘I do this silly thing. I –’ he lowered the bottle, ‘promise you won’t laugh?’

‘I promise.’

‘I sleep with one of her old nighties.’ Ah ha, I thought. So it wasn’t my Cross-Dressing leaflet he needed but Relationship Breakdown instead. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added with that lop-sided smile of his. ‘You hardly know me and here I am, showing you my emotional underpants.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said, and I didn’t – people often tell me personal things. ‘Anyway, that’s my sad tale,’ he concluded with a grim smile. Then he suddenly said, ‘How about you?’

‘How about me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh. You mean, my story?’ He nodded. ‘Well…do I have to?’ I added slightly irritably. ‘Yes,’ he said rather bluntly. ‘Fair’s fair.’ That was true enough, so I quickly gave him the bare bones.

‘So that’s why you’ve only been here a short time?’ he said as he poured in more olive oil.

‘Yes. I needed to make a clean break.’

‘But why do you think your husband had the affair?’ he asked as he got out a wooden spoon.

‘Because he felt like it I suppose.’

‘But there’s usually a reason,’ he said as an aroma of Mediterranean vegetables filled the air. ‘I mean people don’t just have an affair for nothing, do they?’ he added.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ I said.

‘You’re a fucking nightmare!’ yelled Rudy in Ed’s voice. ‘This marriage was a mistake!’ Shit.

‘That silly bird,’ I laughed as I pulled down the cover. ‘He probably got that from the afternoon play. Anyway, I’m sorry you’ve had so much unhappiness,’ I said.

‘Well, ditto, but life has to go on. That’s why I like cooking,’ he added. ‘It’s relaxing – it helps me unwind.’

‘So you like astronomy and gastronomy,’ I pointed out, and for the first time that evening, he smiled. ‘What are you making?’ I added.

‘Ratatouille – would you like some?’

‘Oh, no thanks.’

‘I’ve put some of my cook books on the shelf,’ he added, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Of course not,’ I said, ‘except…’ I went over to them and began shuffling them about…Jane Grigson…Sophie Grigson…Ainsley Harriot…there. Alastair Little…that was better: Delia Smith…Rick Stein.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ he asked.

‘I’m just tidying them up.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I like books to be in alphabetical order – and CDs – it’s better. Don’t you ever do that?’

‘Er, no.’

And I was about to point out the benefits of having a properly alphabetised system when I heard the clatter of the letter box. On the mat was yet another flyer from the Tip Top Tandoori House and two from Pizza Hut. I picked them up, and went to throw them in the waste paper basket by the hall table when a sound from next door made me stop. It was muffled at first, but becoming louder now. I stood there, rooted to the spot. For it was the sound of suppressed, but anguished weeping. My heart expanded. Poor Bev.