Читать книгу Rescuing Rose - Isabel Wolff - Страница 9

‘This is London FM,’ announced Minty Malone, as I sat in the basement studio on City Road the following Tuesday. ‘Welcome back to Sound Advice, our twice-weekly late-night phone-in with the Post’s agony aunt, Rose Costelloe. Do you have a problem? Then call 0200 222222 and Ask Rose.’

It was five past eleven and we’d already been on air for an hour. We’d heard from Melissa who was wondering whether to become Catholic, and Denise who was going bald and Neil who couldn’t get a girlfriend and James who thought he was gay; then there was Josh, a jockey with mounting debts and Tom who hated his dad, and Sally who was having a nervous breakdown – the usual stuff. On the computer screen in front of me the names of the waiting callers winked and flashed.

‘And on line one,’ said Minty, ‘we have Bob from Dulwich.’

‘Hi Bob,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

‘Well, Rose,’ he began hesitantly, as I scribbled on my pad, ‘I’m quite a, well, yeah, big bloke really…’ Hmm…another fatso with low self-esteem. ‘And I get my leg pulled about it at work.’

‘I see.’

‘Anyway, there’s this girl there who’s a real knockout and I think she likes me as she’s always nice. But my problem is that every time I get up the nerve to ask her out she makes some excuse.’

‘Bob, you say you’re a big bloke – how much do you weigh?’

‘About…’ – I could hear the air being sucked through his teeth – ‘…seventeen stone.’

‘And how tall are you?’

‘Five foot ten.’

‘Then you’re just going to have to lose the lard! Sorry to be brutal, Bob, but it’s true. I know you’d like me to say that this girl will fall in love with your great personality, but I think your great person is going to get in the way, and frankly, I think the only reason she’s being so nice is because she feels sorry for you. Bob, take it from me, no self-respecting woman – let alone a “knockout” – is going to go out with a Sumo-sized bloke. The number for Weight Watchers is…’ I glanced at my handbook, ‘…0845 712 3000 and I want you to ring it first thing. Do you promise me you’ll do that?’ I heard a deep sigh.

‘Yeah, okay Rose. I will.’

‘And Bob I want you to phone in again a month from today and tell everyone that you’ve lost your first stone.’

‘Okay Rose, yeah. You’re right.’

‘Well done Bob,’ said Minty, ‘and now we have Martine, on line three.’

‘Go ahead, Martine,’ I said.

‘Well,’ she began in a trembly voice. ‘The reason I’m ringing is because, well, I’ve just been told I can’t have kids.’ A momentary silence followed: I could almost see the tears in her eyes.

‘Martine how old are you?’

‘Thirty-two.’

‘And have you tried all avenues?’

‘Yes. But I had cancer when I was a teenager, you see, and because of that the doctors can’t help.’

‘Well I’d like to help you Martine, so stay on the line. Is that what you want to talk about – the fact that you’ve had this bad news?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to accept that. The thing is I’d like to adopt but my husband’s not keen.’

‘Does he say why?’

‘It’s because he was adopted, and he had problems so he’s afraid that any kids we adopted would too.’

‘But so might any children that you had naturally. They could fall ill – God forbid – or they could fail at school or drop out. Life’s fraught with difficulties and you can’t not go ahead with something which could make you happy out of fear that it might go wrong.’

‘I know,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘I’ve told my husband that.’

‘And you sound like a lovely person Martine so I’m sure you’d be a really great mum.’ There was a tiny sob. Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I could hear a Niagara of tears start to fall.

‘Well…I think I would,’ she wept, ‘but my husband seems set against adopting, but now I know it’s my only chance.’ I glanced at Minty, who’s three months pregnant. There was compassion all over her face.

‘Martine, do you have a good relationship with your husband?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘In most ways I do.’

‘And when did this issue first come up?’

‘A month ago. We hadn’t really talked about it before, because we thought I might still be okay. But then I got the final results from the hospital which told me that my chances of conceiving are nil.’

‘Then give your husband a little more time. He needs to think about it – and men like to come round to things in their own way. So my advice is don’t panic, and don’t put any pressure on him as that could easily backfire. But I do think you should both talk to someone at NORCAP, the National Organisation for Counselling Adoptees and Parents: their number is – I flicked through my handbook – 01865 875000. Will you call them, Martine?’

‘Yes,’ she sniffed. ‘Okay.’

‘The line may be busy because this is National Adoption Week, but leave your number and they’ll ring you back. And Martine, I don’t mind telling you that I was adopted and I was absolutely fine. I’ve never had any problems, I had a really great childhood, and I’m sure that your kids will too.’

‘Oh thanks Rose,’ she whispered. ‘I do hope so.’ And I was just going to go to the next caller, when I heard her say, ‘but I think the reason why my husband feels so negative about adoption is because he’s never traced his real mum.’

‘Oh…’

‘He still seems so angry with her for giving him up – it’s like a festering wound. He rarely talks about it, but I think that’s what’s really bothering him and the issue of our adopting has brought it all up.’

‘I see, well, look…thanks for calling in Martine and I, er…wish you the very best of luck. And now we go to Pam on line five. What’s your problem, Pam?’

‘Well, my problem is that I’m in my thirties, I’m single and as a freelance graphic designer, I work from home.’

‘Ye-es.’

‘But recently I’ve got to know my postman quite well…’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And I really fancy him.’

‘I see.’

‘I even get up early to make sure I catch a glimpse of him.’

‘That must be tiring.’

‘Oh it is. I’ve also taken to sending myself parcels so that he has to knock on the door. I’m totally smitten,’ she added.

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘He’s married – at least I think he is. He wears a ring on his left hand, put it that way.’

‘Yup. He’s married,’ I said.

‘But he’s absolutely gorgeous, Rose; I’ve never felt this way before. What should I do?’

‘Well, honey, I think you should get real. I’m sure this macho mailman is very dashing but my advice is to stamp him “Return to Sender” and try and get out a bit more. And now Kathy on line three. What’s the problem Kathy?’

‘The problem, Rose, is that my husband has left me!’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Well I don’t know why you’re sorry, as it was you who told him to!’

‘What?’

‘A couple of weeks ago my husband wrote to you at the Daily Post and you told him to get divorced.’

‘I’m sorry, but I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘You told him to leave me. He hid the letter, but I found it. It was you. His name’s John.’ Oh God, now I remembered – it was the adulterous husband-basher. ‘I mean, who the hell are you Rose, to tell other people how to live their lives?’

‘I don’t. People simply run their problems by me; I listen, and I give them advice.’

‘Well you give them crap advice! I mean, what the hell are you doing telling men to leave their wives you, you…marriage breaker!’ I looked at Minty, she was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

‘Kathy,’ I said, feeling my heart rate rev, ‘I did not tell your husband to leave. And from what I remember of his letter I think he’d already decided what he wanted to do.’

‘But you helped him make up his mind. He’s a spineless sort of bloke so if you hadn’t written to him, putting it in black and white like that, then he would never have had the guts.’

‘I’m not at all sure that that’s true. And in any case if he’s really as “spineless” as you say, then why do you want to stay married to him?’

‘Because he’s my husband – that’s why! But now he’s left me because of you – you, you…baggage!’ By now my face was aflame.

‘Kathy, if you speak to him like you’re speaking to me I’m amazed he didn’t leave you years ago!’

‘You’re a wicked, wicked woman!’ she retorted.

‘And now on line three we have Fran,’ Minty interjected as she made slashing gestures across her throat to the producer, Wesley, on the other side of the glass. ‘Hello Fran.’

‘Hello Minty.’

‘You are a fucking marriage breaker Rose Costelloe…’ Why didn’t Wesley just get rid of her? ‘…and you’re going to be SORRY for this!’ Oh! Minty’s face registered alarm at the threat but I just rolled my eyes and shrugged.

‘Hello Fran,’ I said with a large sip of hospitality Frascati. ‘And what’s your problem?’

‘Well,’ she croaked, ‘I’ve been dumped.’

‘When?’

‘Six months ago.’

‘That’s quite a while.’

‘I know. But I just…can’t get over it.’

‘And how long were you with him?’

‘Almost two years. He left me for our optician,’ she added plaintively. ‘I never saw it coming.’ Minty was struggling not to laugh. ‘I feel so depressed,’ she sniffed. ‘Every evening I sit at home feeling bitter: I just can’t…forget.’

‘Fran,’ I said, ‘this is easy to say, and hard to do, but you’ve got to try and move on.’

‘But I can’t because it’s made me feel…worthless. I blame myself.’

‘Fran, why do you blame yourself?’ There was a stunned silence.

‘I don’t know really – I just do.’

‘Fran,’ I said firmly, ‘please don’t. If you must blame anyone, then in these situations it’s much more healthy to blame others. First of all blame your ex – that’s a given – then blame the other woman of course. You may also wish to blame the government, Fate, bad karma or dodgy feng shui. If all else fails, blame global warming – but please don’t blame yourself, okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said with a reluctant giggle.

‘Can I come in here?’ said Minty. ‘Fran, I had a terrible break-up three years ago. I was actually jilted – on my wedding day.’

‘No!’ said Fran, appalled.

‘Yes. But do you know, it was the best thing that ever happened to me, because I met someone so much nicer, and I just know that you will too.’

‘Well, I hope so,’ she sniffed. ‘I’ve been so unhappy.’

‘Fran,’ I said, ‘that won’t last. Heartbreak is a curable condition. And remember that your ex is only your ex because he’s wrong for you otherwise you’d still be together, right? But it’s not easy getting over someone,’ I went on, thinking of Ed with a vicious stab. ‘So you need a strategy to help you recover. Now were there things about him you didn’t like?’

‘Oh yeah!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads!’

‘Good. Then make a list of them, and when you’ve done it, ring your friends and read it to them, then ask them if you’ve left anything out. Get them to add their own negative comments, and ask your family as well. Then ask your next-door neighbours – on both sides – plus the people in the corner shop, then post the list up in a prominent place. Secondly, get off your bum! Get down to the gym, like I did, and take up kick-boxing or Tae-Bo. Kick the shit out of your instructor, Fran – believe me it’ll lift your mood. Because it’s only when you’re feeling happy and confident again, that the right man will come along.’

‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘Yes. You’re right. Do you think I should contact some of my exes?’ she added. ‘One or two of them were quite keen.’

‘Should you contact your exes?’ I repeated slowly. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Do not.’

‘Oh. Why?’

‘Because one of the Ten Commandments of the Dumped Woman is, “Thou Shalt Not Phone Up Thy Old Boyfriends”.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because they might have had a sex change, or they might be in jail, or bald, or dead. Worst of all, you might find they’re now happily married with two adorable kids! So no, don’t have anything to do with your old boyfriends, Fran – put all your energy into finding someone new!’

‘And on that positive note I’m afraid we must leave it there,’ said Minty as the hand on the studio clock juddered towards the twelve. ‘Thanks to everyone who’s called in, and do please join Rose and me again on Tuesday night for our regular phone-in – Sound Advice.’

As I pushed wearily on the heavy studio door I saw Wesley waving at me.

‘I’ve got a call for you, Rose.’

‘As long as it’s not that mad woman,’ I whispered, making frantic circling gestures by my head. Wesley clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.

‘No it’s not her. It’s a bloke.’

‘Hello?’ I said tentatively, nervously wondering if it was Ed.

‘Is that Rose?’

It wasn’t Ed.

‘It’s Henry here.’ Henry? Oh, Henry! My ex but three! ‘Heard your dulcet tones on the radio…brought back some very pleasant times…just come back from the Gulf…yes still in H.M.’s Armed Forces…got a desk job at the M.o.D…absolutely love to see you…how about dinner next week?’

Well why not? I thought, as I put the phone down with a grin. True, Henry had never really lit my fire. He was the human equivalent of a lava lamp – very attractive but not that bright. But on the other hand he’s harmless, generous, extremely good-natured and after what I’ve been through I fancy a date. I mean, where’s the harm in having dinner tête-à-tête with an old flame? And yes, I know what I said to that caller, but the point is that I’m sure Henry’s been to some very interesting places in the last three years, plus I’m keen to find out what he has to say about the role of women in the armed forces, not to mention the proposed European Rapid Reaction Defence Force and its likely effect on Britain’s relationship with NATO. So I fixed to see him the following Friday, November the tenth, which was also the night Theo was due to move in.

Theo had told me he’d be arriving at around half past six. And I was just trying to tame my hair at ten to when the doorbell rang. I opened my bedroom window, to check it wasn’t the Jehovah’s Witnesses again and as I did so a late firework suddenly exploded with a mighty BOOOOOMMMMM!!! spangling the night with stars. ‘Ooooohhh,’ I heard myself breathe, like a child, then I looked below. Standing there, looking up, was Theo with so much baggage my tiny garden resembled an airport carousel.

‘You’re early,’ I said accusingly as I opened the door.

‘Yes, er, sorry,’ he said.

‘And you’ve got a lot of stuff.’

‘I…know. But don’t worry, it’ll all go in my room. Most of it’s books,’ he explained. As I watched him trundling up and down the stairs with it all I noticed one very odd-looking, long black case. What on earth was in it I wondered – a musical instrument? God forbid. And now I wished I’d asked if he was going to be tooting away on a clarinet half the night or blasting me out with a trombone; and I shivered with apprehension at the thought that I was letting this total stranger into my house. But I needed the cash I reminded myself firmly, and his references had been fine. His boss at Compu-Force had assured me that far from being a convicted axe-murderer, Theo was a ‘nice, reliable chap. He’s had a hard time recently,’ he’d added enigmatically: I’d wondered, but hadn’t enquired. All I needed to know was that he wouldn’t kill me, bore me, evangelise me, steal from me, hold orgies or write rubber cheques…

‘I’m just on my way out,’ I said, as I grabbed my bag and handed him his set of keys. ‘I’ve got to be in Fulham by eight.’

‘But it’s only six-fifteen.’

‘I…know,’ 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? – when suddenly my mobile rang. ‘Rose?’ I heard as I slipped in my earpiece. ‘Yes?’ ‘It’s Theo here.’ Aaarrrggh! ‘I just wondered if you’ll be coming back tonight?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I wasn’t sure what to do about the front door, that’s all.’

‘What about it?’

‘Should I put the chain on?’ Oh. ‘I know that Camberwell can be a bit dodgy on the burglary front. So I just wanted to know whether I should put the chain on when I go to bed, that’s all.’

‘No,’ I said, exhaling with relief. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll be back by twelve.’

‘Right then,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Anyway, have a nice evening. Bye.’

I heaved a sigh of relief as I rang off, but then Suspicion raised its ugly head again. And I thought maybe, reading between the lines here, he’s just trying to find out whether or not I have a bloke. Yes…the enquiry about the security chain is just a front. A red herring. Maybe he is a homicidal weirdo after all…

PARP! PARP!! PARP!!!

‘All right!’ I yelled into my mirror as I moved off the green light. I pulled myself together and banished Theo from my mind as I negotiated the fume-filled roads. I skirted Brixton then drove towards Clapham, passing my old flat in Meteor Street. As I spotted a sign for Putney I felt my pulse begin to race. It was ten to seven – over an hour until I had to meet Henry, so I still had plenty of time. To calm my nerves I turned on the radio and found myself listening to a phone-in on LBC. I recognised the voice: it was Lana McCord, the new agony aunt on Moi! magazine.

‘We’re discussing relationship breakdown,’ she said. ‘And now we have Betsey on line five. Betsey, you’re a divorcée I understand.’

‘Yes, but I’d rather be a widow!’ she spat. ‘Bereavement would be preferable to betrayal.’ I know how she feels. ‘I’m so angry,’ she went on tearfully. She’d clearly been drinking. ‘I gave him the best years of my life.’

‘Betsey,’ said Lana gently. ‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-one.’

‘Then you’ve still got a lot of life left. So why spend it being bitter?’ she went on. Exactly! ‘Do you enjoy your negative thoughts?’ Quite. ‘Do they contribute to your happiness?’ Of course not. ‘Do they move you forward in any way?’ Good point!

‘I just can’t deal with this blow to my self-esteem,’ croaked Betsey.

‘What positive steps have you taken?’ asked Lana McCord.

‘Well, I went out with someone, on the rebound, but that didn’t work.’ Surprise surprise! ‘I’ve seen one or two old boyfriends.’ Hopeless! What a twit! ‘But I loved my husband and I just can’t get him out of my mind. What really gets me is the thought of him with her,’ she went on, in a drink-sodden drawl. ‘The thought of them having – uh-uh – you know, just makes me feel ill.’

‘So why torment yourself with that unpleasant thought?’ Bullseye!

‘Because I can’t stop myself from doing it – that’s why. I do these awful things,’ she confided with a wet sniff as I drove down Putney High Street.

‘What sort of things?’ said Lana.

‘I ring him then I hang up.’ Sad! ‘I drive past his flat as well.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Lana with a sigh. And now, my heart beating like a tom-tom, I drove slowly down Chelverton Road.

‘In fact I’ve driven past it so often I’ve worn a groove in the tarmac – but I just can’t help it,’ she wailed.

You are one very sad bunny, Betsey, I thought to myself as I turned left into Blenheim Road. Seventeen, twenty-five, thirty-one – mustn’t let him spot me: then there it was. number thirty-seven. Ed’s navy company Beemer was parked outside. Blackness filled my chest as I pulled into a space opposite and a little to the right, away from the tangerine glare of the lamp. Then I switched off my lights, turned up my collar, and sunk down into my seat. The downstairs curtains were drawn but a wedge of light shone through a chink at the top. Ed was at home. My husband. He was on the other side of that wall. And now I wondered with a crashing sensation in the pit of my stomach, if she was there as well. Perhaps she was standing at the Aga, cooking supper. I imagined sneaking up behind her and bashing her over the head, then chopping her into tiny pieces, mixing her with Kitty-Bics and feeding her to next door’s cat. I was interrupted from this pleasant reverie by a light going on in Ed’s room.

‘Your behaviour is very destructive,’ I heard Lana say. Yes it is, I thought. ‘Not only are you not trying to recover from this, you seem determined to pour acid in the wound.’ True. ‘I mean, why do you want to torture yourself? Why?’

‘Why?’ I whispered as Ed’s face suddenly loomed up at the window.

‘Yes. Tell me. Why?’

‘I don’t know,’ I wept, as he threw wide his arms and shut the curtains. ‘Oh God, oh God, I don’t know.’

Actually, I do know. You see, what I was doing was quite different from what that sad woman on the phone-in was doing. She was obsessing about her husband – poor thing – whereas I was actively trying to get over mine by laying a ghost. Because I thought that if I could just sit outside his house, and feel absolutely nothing, then that would help me move on. So I did. Okay, I cried at first, but then I dried my eyes and I sat there for – ooh, not that long, maybe half an hour or so – just watching as though I were a twitcher and the house some exotic bird.

‘I can do this,’ I told myself. ‘Yes, Ed’s there, and I’m still married to him, and yes, I was besotted with him, but the fact is I’m in control.’ Remembering some tips from the Breathe Away Your Stress book I shut my eyes and inhaled through my nose. As I exhaled, counting slowly to ten, I could feel my heart rate slow, and my eyes were still closed when I heard the throaty chug of an approaching cab. And I expected to hear it go past me, but instead I heard the squeal of its brakes. I opened my eyes. It had stopped right outside Ed’s house, and now the door was clicking open like the wing of a shiny black beetle, and Mary-Claire Grey stepped out. She paid the driver, then tottered up to Ed’s front door, her stilettos clacking up the path like sniper fire. And I was waiting, stomach churning, for her to lift her hand to the brass bell and ring it, when instead she opened her bag, took out a bunch of keys then proceeded to unlock the door. The bitch! She was letting herself into Ed’s house – my marital home – for all the world as though she lived there! Which she quite clearly did.

‘She’s moved in,’ I breathed, outraged, as the door closed behind her. ‘She’s known him three months and she’s already moved in.’ Ignoring the small voice telling me that I had moved in with Ed after only one month, I started the car and pulled out of the space, hands trembling like winter leaves. I was so distressed I almost pranged the car in front, then with a sickening, tightening sensation around my sternum, I drove away. Dizzy now with a blend of misery, panic and nausea I sped off to meet Henry at Ghillie’s on the New Kings Road.

‘Rose!’ he exclaimed, as I was shown to his table at the back. Still feeling sick and wobbly I allowed myself to be enveloped in one of Henry’s familiar, bone-crushing hugs. ‘It’s great to see you again,’ he said planting a trademark fat kiss on my cheek. ‘You’re a major media star these days!’ I began to feel better.

‘And you’re a Major – full stop!’

‘About bloody time!’ he laughed. ‘But then I always was a late developer,’ he added with a good-natured smile.

Now, as I had my one glass of champagne, my stress levels plummeted from their Himalayan heights and began to stroll calmly around at Base Camp. So what if Mary-Claire was living with Ed? It didn’t make any difference to me. In fact it’ll make it easier for me to get over him I thought, knowing that he’s moved on so fast. I’m not bothered about Ed, I said to myself. Ed’s over. The credits on our marriage have rolled. As things turned out, it wasn’t the major motion picture it was meant to be – it was only a short.

As Henry chatted away to me I gazed at his handsome face. His sandy hair was retreating a little, but he looked much the same as before. The lids above the forget-me-not-blue eyes were a tiny bit crinklier and there were two parallel lines etched on his brow. He’d put on a little weight since I’d last seen him, and there was an incipient jowl beneath his square jaw. But he looked so attractively manly in his sports jacket, smart cords and polished brogues.

Henry and I had met at a barbecue in Fulham five years before. We were involved for a while, but it didn’t go anywhere – well, he was always away. Which, funnily enough, was exactly the same problem I’d had with my previous boyfriend, Tom. He was a pilot with British Airways flying the Australian route; we’d had a few nice stopovers here and there but otherwise things didn’t really take off. Anyway, Henry was posted to Cyprus for a year, then Belize, then Gibraltar, so our affair soon fizzled out. But we’d remained in touch intermittently and I’d retained a soft spot for him the size of a swamp. It was two years since I’d last seen him and as we ate we reminisced about old times.

‘Do you remember the fun we had re-enacting famous battles with your old Action Men?’ I asked fondly.

‘With you doing the explosions!’

‘Playing Warships in bed.’

‘You always beat me.’

‘Making Lego tanks.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Watching reruns of Colditz.’

‘And The World At War.’

‘We had fun didn’t we?’

‘Ra-ther.’

He told me about the NATO manoeuvres he’d been on, the Balkan skirmishes – ‘Fabulous stuff!’ His stint with the UN Peacekeeping force in Bosnia – ‘bloody hairy!’; a recent tour of duty in the Gulf. Then I told him about my marital battles, and about Mary-Claire Grey; he squeezed my hand.

‘She’s moved in with him,’ I said dismally, feeling the shock of it all over again. ‘I’ve just found out. I can’t believe it, Henry. He’s only known her three months.’

‘That’s tough.’

‘Still, I guess it’ll make me a better agony aunt,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘You know, been there – suffered that. And what about you?’ I asked as the waiter brought my lemon sole.

‘Well,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork. ‘I’m newly single too. I got dumped by my latest girlfriend.’ My ears pricked up. That was clearly why he’d wanted to see me.

‘I’m sorry,’ I lied.

‘Well, Venetia’s a super girl – but it didn’t work out.’

‘Wouldn’t she make the explosion noises?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘It wasn’t that. It was just that’ – he sighed, then pushed a piece of steak round his plate.

‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ I said quietly.

‘No, really, Rose, I do. I do want to tell you,’ he repeated sadly as I sipped my water.

‘So what happened?’

‘Well,’ he went on, awkwardly, ‘it was just that there was…’ he exhaled painfully then drew the air through his teeth, ‘…another woman.’ Oh. Now that didn’t sound like Henry at all – he’s never been a ladies’ man.

‘And Venetia found out?’

‘Yes. But it’s slightly complicated actually,’ he said, his face aflame. ‘In fact Rose, do you mind, if I…well, if I pick your brains a bit? You see I’ve got this, um…well…problem, actually.’ My heart sagged like a sinking soufflé. That’s why he’d wanted to see me again – he just wanted to ask my advice.

‘I don’t want you to think I asked you out under false pretences,’ he said with a guilty smile, ‘but it’s just that I know I can trust you. I know that you won’t judge. And I was feeling so dreadfully low the other night, and I couldn’t sleep, so I switched on the radio and, to my amazement, there you were. And you were giving such good advice to all those people, so I decided that I’d ask you for some too.’ I looked at his open but anxious face, and my indignation melted like the dew.

‘Don’t worry Henry,’ I murmured. ‘Of course I’ll help you. Just tell me what it’s about.’

‘Well,’ he tried again, with a profound sigh, ‘the other woman. You see…the other woman, as it were…’ he cleared his throat. ‘This other woman…’

‘Yes?’

He glanced anxiously to left and right to check we couldn’t be overheard. ‘Well,’ he whispered, running a nervous finger round his collar, ‘the other woman…is…erm…me.’

‘Sorry?’

Henry had flushed bright red, his face radiating a heat that could have melted Emmenthal. Now he discreetly pulled aside his speckled blue silk tie and undid a button on his striped shirt. Then he parted the fabric to reveal a square inch of black filigree lace. I stared at it in stupefaction. Henry? Never. Henry? No way! Henry? Not on your life! On the other hand, I suddenly remembered, cross-dressing is not uncommon amongst men in the forces, something which has always struck me as strange. The thought of all these big, macho, military types dolled up in frocks and high heels.

‘When did this…start?’ I enquired with professional curiosity, trying not to show I was shocked.

‘About a year ago,’ he replied. ‘I’d always been fascinated by women’s clothes,’ he admitted in a whisper. ‘In fact, when I was a boy, I used to “borrow” Mum’s petticoats. I suppressed it of course but then, as I got older, I got this unbearable…urge. I found I couldn’t get dressed without putting on a pair of lacy pants first. But then Venetia caught me going through her knicker drawer and went crazy: she said I must be gay, but I’m not.’

‘Of course you’re not gay,’ I said. ‘Ninety-five per cent of cross-dressers are totally straight and in fact most are married with kids.’

‘I know I’m definitely attracted to women,’ Henry went on, ‘always have been, but there are times when I simply want to be one. I can’t explain why. This strange compulsion grips me and I know I’ve just got to go and put on a dress. But it freaked Venetia out and she walked.’

‘Well some women are very understanding about it,’ I said. ‘It’s a common…’ – I avoided saying, ‘problem’ – ‘…thing. You wouldn’t believe how many letters I get about it,’ I added casually.

‘Well I thought you’d have come across it before. You won’t tell anyone,’ he whispered.

‘No, I won’t.’

‘And you see, there’s no-one else I felt I could ask.’ I looked at Henry’s honest face, then dropped my gaze to his large, paw-like hand and tried to imagine Rouge Noir on the nails. Then I tried to visualise a string of pearls around his thick, sinewy neck. I opened my bag, took out a piece of paper and began scribbling on it.

‘What you want is the Beaumont Society – it’s a transvestites’ support group. I give the phone number out so often I know it off by heart. If you ring them, someone there will send you an information pack and you don’t have to give your real name. There’s also Transformation, a specialist place at Euston who’ll teach you how to stuff your bra, pad your bum, wear high heels – that sort of thing.’

‘But it’s the shopping,’ he said with a groan. ‘I mean, where can I get size eleven sling-backs? And what about make-up? I haven’t a clue. I can’t ask my mum or my sister as they’d go crazy.’

‘Well, if you like, I’ll come with you. We can go to a department store and pretend the things are for me. I’m as tall as you so it wouldn’t be unfeasible.’

‘Would you really do that for me?’

I gave him a smile. ‘Yes. Of course I would.’

Henry’s swimming pool blue eyes shimmered with speechless tears. ‘Thanks Rose,’ he breathed. ‘You’re a brick.’