Читать книгу Rescuing Rose - Isabel Wolff - Страница 11

I stood there transfixed with pity, not knowing quite what to do. If I’d known Beverley better I’d have phoned her up, or made some excuse to go round. But I didn’t feel I could intrude, not least because whenever we’ve met she’s presented such a strong, cheerful face. If she knew I’d heard her crying she might well have been mortified. And then I’d felt awful in case doing the Daily Post feature had made her feel worse. Seeing it in black and white like that, with everyone reading about ‘Tragic Bev’ and her accident, and about her boyfriend leaving, and about what an outstanding sportswoman she’d been. Perhaps she’d regretted being interviewed. Perhaps that’s why she was in tears. That thought made me very depressed, but as it turned out, I was quite wrong; because the next afternoon she phoned me to say that Ricky had liked the piece so much he’d offered her a regular slot.

‘He called me this morning to tell me, Rose – on a Sunday! He wants me to write a weekly column – he thinks it’ll lift the Post’s circulation.’

‘It probably will.’

‘But I’m terrified, Rose, I’m not a journalist.’

‘So what? You’re very articulate. You’ll do it well.’

‘But he wants me to write it in Trevor’s voice.’ Ah. Now that could be hard to pull off. ‘Will you read the trial pieces before I submit them and tell me what you think?’

‘Sure.’

So the following Thursday evening we went down to the Bunch of Grapes at the end of the street and Bev showed me her two sample columns. I’d worried that the tone might be a bit twee or sentimental, but it wasn’t at all. Far from it. It was endearingly blokey. I thought they were great.

Bev’s pretty ropey in the mornings, but I’m quite chirpy, I read. I give her a lick to wake her up, maybe a bit of a cuddle, then root about under the bed to find her slippers, drag them out with a minimum of slobber, and we’re away.

‘This is brilliant,’ I giggled. ‘Ricky will love it.’

Bev goes down for breakfast in the stair lift, then I have a tiny snooze while she has her cup of tea. But I’m on red alert. I can be snoring my brains out but the second I hear her move, I’m up.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I said, ‘you’re a natural.’

‘But that’s just how he’d speak, isn’t it Trev?’

It wasn’t always like this, I read on. Ooh, no, to begin with it was dire. It was, ‘Trevor do this, and Trevor do that,’ and I’m like, ‘Sorry? What did your last slave die of?’ Drove me nuts. But then I felt a bit guilty because maybe I could have been a bit more helpful, but bless her, Bev’s a forgiving little soul and we’re mad about each other now.

‘If it comes off I’m going to give the fee to Helping Paw,’ Beverley added as we drank our Becks. ‘I got quite a big insurance payout after the accident so I don’t need the cash. And it’ll be a great opportunity to publicise the charity, speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’ll come to our first big fund-raiser – it’s just before Christmas?’

‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said.

‘It’s a ball. Fancy dress,’ she added. Fancy dress? Oh shit! ‘But it’s not ordinary fancy dress,’ she explained as she slipped Trevor a pork scratching. ‘It’s in a marquee at the Courtauld, everyone comes as a work of art, and the best costume gets a prize. Fancy another pint?’

‘Wouldn’t say no to a half.’

‘Okay, Trev, our shout.’ She wheeled her chair to the bar, Trevor barked for service, then she passed him her purse. He stood up on his hind legs then placed it on the counter while the barman took the cash. Then Beverley carried each drink in turn back to our table, whilst Trevor collected her change.

‘I bet he drinks Carling Black Label,’ said the barman with a guffaw.

‘Nah, he’s teetotal,’ Bev replied.

So thanks to Beverley, Ricky’s happier so there’ve been no ‘bollockings’ for a while. But my workload’s piling up what with pre-Christmas depression; well I’m feeling pretty gloomy myself. I spent last year’s in a blissful romantic blur; I’ll spend this one alone and semi-divorced.

‘Christmas…suicidal,’ said Serena perkily as she logged the letters yesterday. ‘Christmas, just can’t cope. Christmas, want to kill myself,’ she went on briskly. ‘Christmas, I wish I was dead…’

‘Okay Serena, I get the picture.’

‘Mind you, I think Christmas is going to be pre-tty grim for us this year,’ she went on serenely as she tucked her hair behind one ear. I looked at her when she said that and realised that she’s suddenly going rather grey. ‘I mean, it’s such an expensive time,’ she said with a shudder. Well, yes, but she and her husband both work. ‘And you see Rob’s been a bit traumatised since his little accident