Rescuing Rose

‘Rose,’ Ed began quietly, as he looked at me. ‘I feel that you don’t care about me any more.’

‘What Ed is saying there,’ interrupted Mary-Claire, ‘is that he feels you don’t care about him any more.’

‘I feel,’ he went on painfully, ‘that you’re more concerned about the losers who write to you, than you are about me.’

‘Ed feels you’re more concerned about the losers who write to you Rose, than you are about him.’

‘I feel neglected and frustrated,’ Ed went on sadly.

‘Ed feels neglected and –’

‘Frustrated?’ I snapped. ‘Look, my marriage may be a bit rocky at the moment, but my hearing’s perfectly fine!’

And then, I don’t know, after that, things went from bad to worse. Because when it came to my turn, Mary-Claire seemed not to hear what I’d said.

‘Ed, I’m really sorry we’ve got these problems,’ I began, swallowing hard.

‘Rose admits that there are huge problems,’ Mary-Claire announced, with an expression of exaggerated concern.

‘But I love my new career,’ I went on. ‘I just…love it, and I can’t simply give it up to please you.’

‘What Rose means by that, Ed,’ said Mary-Claire sweetly, ‘is that she doesn’t really want to please you.’ Eh?

‘You see, until I became an agony aunt, I’d never really felt professionally fulfilled.’

‘What Rose is saying there,’ interjected Mary-Claire, ‘is that it’s only her job that makes her feel fulfilled.’ Huh?

‘And I guess I am a bit over-zealous on the domestic front,’ I went on uncertainly, ‘and I know that’s been an issue too.’

‘Ed,’ said Mary-Claire soothingly, ‘Rose is acknowledging that at home she’s been a’ – theatrical pause here to signify sadness and regret – ‘control freak,’ she whispered. What?

‘But I do love you Ed,’ I went on, heroically ignoring her, ‘and I think we can work this through.’

‘What Rose is saying, there, Ed,’ ‘explained’ Mary-Claire benignly, ‘is that, basically, you’re through.’

‘I’m not saying that!’ I shouted, getting to my feet. ‘I’m saying we should try again!’ Mary-Claire gave me a look which combined slyness with pity, and Ed and I split up within three weeks.

Looking back, I think I’d been semi-hypnotised by Mary-Claire’s squeaky, sing-songy voice – like Melanie Griffiths on helium – otherwise I’d have been tempted to give her a slap. But for some reason I found it impossible to challenge her bizarre interventions. It was only later on, that I twigged…

Now, as I came downstairs again, I could hear Bella and Bea in the kitchen, arguing about flooring.

‘– hardwood would look good.’

‘– no, natural stone would be better.’

‘– but a maple veneer would look fantastic!’

‘– rubbish! She should go for slate!’

They should call their business ‘2 Much’ I decided as I went into the sitting room. I unpacked a pair of crystal candlesticks which had been a wedding present from my aunt. Shift It Kwik had wrapped them in some pages from the Daily News, and as I unfurled the yellowing paper I was gripped by a sense of déjà vu. ‘AGONY AUNT IN SPLIT’ announced the page 5 headline in my hand. Rose Costelloe, the Daily Post’s agony aunt, is to divorce, it explained gleefully beneath. Her husband, Human Resources Director, Ed Wright, has cited ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the cause of the split. However, sources close to Miss Costelloe claim that the real reason is Wright’s close friendship with Resolve counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey (pictured left).

‘The bitch!’ I shouted as I stared at my rival.

‘She certainly is!’ yelled the twins.

‘Oh dear,’ said Bella, as she came in and saw me clutching the article. ‘Want a tissue?’ I nodded. ‘Here.’

I pressed the paper hanky to my eyes. ‘She was supposed to be neutral,’ I wailed.

‘You should have had her struck off,’ said Bella.

‘I should have had her bumped off you mean.’

‘But why the hell did you suggest marriage guidance in the first place?’ asked Bea.

‘Because I genuinely thought it might help! Ed had been going on and on about my job, and about how much he hated what I did, and about how he hadn’t married an agony aunt, and how he was finding it all “very hard.” And I’d been sent a book on marriage guidance that day so the subject was in my mind. So, in a spirit of compromise I said, “Let’s get some counselling.” So we did – and that was that.’

As the twins disposed of the offending newspaper article, I agitatedly pinched a stray sheet of bubble wrap.

‘Miss Grey,’ I spat as the plastic bubbles burst with a crack like machine-gun fire.

‘Miss Conduct,’ suggested Bea.

‘Miss Demeanour,’ said Bella.

‘Miss Take,’ I corrected them. ‘I mean there she was,’ I ranted. ‘Smiling at Ed. Looking winsome. Batting her eyelids like a Furby. Sympathising with him at every turn, and twisting everything I said. By the time she’d finished you could have used my statements to take the corks out of pinotage. She knew exactly what she wanted and she went for it, and now thanks to her I’m getting divorced!’

I thought of those embarrassingly abbreviated marriages you read about sometimes in Hello! Kate Winslet and Jim Threapleton three years; Marco-Pierre White and Lisa Butcher – ten weeks. And Drew Barrymore split up with her first husband so fast they didn’t even have time for a honeymoon.

‘You got married too…’

‘Young?’ I interjected sardonically.

‘Er no. Soon, actually,’ said Bea. ‘But we warned you…’ she added shaking her head like a nodding dachshund.

‘Yes,’ I said bitterly, ‘you did.’

‘Marry in haste,’ Bea went on, ‘repent at…’

‘…haste. I’ll be divorced in just over six months!’

But the twins are right. It had happened too fast. But then when you’re older, you just know. I mean I’m thirty-six…ish. Well, thirty-eight actually. Oh all right, all right – thirty-nine: and I’d never believed in instant attraction, but Ed had proved me wrong. We met at a Christmas drinks party given by my next door neighbours in Meteor Street. I was making tiny talk by the Twiglets with this pleasant tree surgeon when I suddenly spotted Ed. He shone out of the crowd like a beacon, and he had clearly noticed me; because he came strolling over, introduced himself, and that was that. I was concussed with passion. I was bowled over. I was gob-smacked, bouleversée. I felt my jaw go slack with desire, and I probably drooled. Ed’s incredibly distinguished-looking; elegant, a young forty-one, with strong cheekbones and an aquiline nose. You can fall in love with a profile, I realised then, and I fell in love with his. As for the chemistry – there was enough erotic static crackling between us to blow the lights on the Blackpool tower. He told me he was Head of Human Resources at Paramutual Insurance and that he’d just bought a house near Putney Bridge. And I was waiting for some gimlet-eyed glamour puss to zoom up and lay a ferociously proprietorial hand on his arm, when he added casually, ‘I live there alone.’

If I believed in God – which, by the way, I don’t – I would have got down on my knees there and then and thanked Him, but instead said a silent Hurrah! Ed and I talked and flirted for another hour or so, then he offered to take me home.

‘But I only live next door,’ I protested with a laugh.

‘You told me that,’ he smiled. ‘But I’m not having a gorgeous woman like you wandering the streets of Clapham – I shall see you safely back.’