Lovestruck (20 page)

Rosie stormed out of the house and across the Green, the silver gift bag containing her present to Bella – a cashmere cardi that had cost about the same as a Bentley – swinging by her side. As she walked to Patrizia’s, she was fuming to herself.

‘Bloody bastard, why can’t I do the job? He gets to have all the fun. I
miss
Tapper-Green.’

‘Are you OK?’ asked a voice behind her.

Rosie jumped. ‘Oh, Caroline! Hi. Um, just … practising a little speech I might make at – er – at Jake’s first night.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Caroline stared at her curiously. ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You look upset.’

To her horror and fury, Rosie started to cry. ‘Jake and I have just had the most horrible row,’ she choked out. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. We don’t seem to talk to each other any more and he’s become so hard. He won’t negotiate anything. He’s earning the money, so it all has to be how he says.’

Caroline nudged her towards a bench on the Green. ‘Hey, hey,’ she soothed. ‘Sit down. Hey, it’s OK. Men, eh? Christ, they’re so annoying. I should know.’

Oh shit, she’d forgetten she was talking to Caroline,
divorcee extraordinaire. Sure enough, she was off. ‘Johann was exactly the same. He thought because he earned the money, he controlled everything I did – my friends, what I wore, what I watched at the cinema. It was crazy. I used to be an independent woman, then I marry a man I love and, just because he’s rich, he thinks he’s also God.’

Rosie sniffled. ‘Jake’s not that bad, but he’s just so, so. …’

Caroline squeezed her hand. ‘Hey, hey. It’s tough. I know. But you have friends, Rosie. You really do.’

‘I …’ Rosie was about to start blubbing again, saying she didn’t, that Parvaneh was on the other side of town and always too busy to take her calls, and Sandrine was far away in Hebden and Nanna was sick and Christy, who was normally the first person she’d have turned to, was now unavailable because she only cared about her husband’s career.

She tried to calm herself, as Caroline said, ‘You know we’re here for you. We were talking about you the other day, saying we wondered why we didn’t see more of you.’

‘But I never see you!’ Rosie gulped, trying to bury all the unkind thoughts she’d nursed. ‘You’re never there. I mean, you’re never at Wendy’s.’

‘Well, we’re busy women. What with our charities and all that. But we’re always around for a friend. In the Village, in the cafés, hanging out in the shops, having lunch together. Hey, I’ll text you next time we’re having coffee. We’d love you to join us more.’

‘Thank
you,’ Rosie sniffled.

‘Great.’ Caroline stood, and clicked her fingers as if she were Mary Poppins. ‘Come on, or we’ll be late.’

Indeed, Patrizia – rather than a servant – was standing at the door of the Conifers, tapping at her Georg Jensen watch. ‘Guys, hurry up. I was about to send out a search party.’

They hurried into the room, where all the usual crowd, plus a few unfamiliar faces, were waiting. The maids were busy circulating, holding out trays with slices of pink and blue cake.

‘Choose a colour,’ Patrizia urged. ‘Hold it up at the gender reveal.’

‘What’s that?’ Rosie asked.

‘Gender reveal,’ smiled Bella, who was sitting back on the uncomfortable white sofa, still-tiny bump prominently displayed, surrounded by pastel-coloured gift bags attached to silver heart-shaped helium balloons. ‘I had my scan, but I asked the nurse to put the sex in an envelope and we’re just about to open it and find out.’

‘Oh. Right. Does your husband know?’

‘Uh-uh. He likes a surprise, so all you ladies are sworn to secrecy.’

‘Are we ready?’ Patrizia was jumping up and down in excitement. ‘Shall we see the colours? Who wants Bella to have a boy?’

‘Me!’ yelled several guests. Gingerly Rosie raised her blue card. This wouldn’t turn out well.

‘And
a girl?’ Another larger group whooped and waved their pink tickets.

Bella held up a silver envelope. ‘Shall I?’

‘Yeeeah!’

She tore it open, her expression like Sue Perkins about to announce the
Bake-Off
winner. Her face fell. ‘Oh!’ Then, like a losing actor on Oscar night, she rapidly altered her expression to one of manic joy. ‘I mean, yes! How fantastic. A boy.’

‘Aaah,’ cooed team pink in disappointment.

‘Fantastic,’ Patrizia said hastily. ‘A little playmate for your Ben. And my twins.’ She coughed. ‘So now, moving on – time for the urn.’

A maid appeared bearing a huge Grecian urn. Bella leaned back on the cushions, her face a study in disappointment. Rosie remembered how guiltily flat she’d felt when she’d discovered she was having a second boy, horrible and spoiled to be gutted but still gutted she’d never be able to indulge in her dream of reading
Ballet Shoes
aloud to her daughter, that she’d never be able to go crazy on the party-dress front, that the toilet seat would remain up for the rest of her days.

She sat down beside her. ‘Two boys is the best thing,’ she said. ‘You’ll feel like a goddess, the only woman in your domain. And boys are just so … squidgy somehow. So soft. They adore their mummies.’

Bella smiled ruefully. ‘I know. Thank you.’

‘Pick out a piece of paper, ladies!’ Patrizia called out. ‘You’ll see a number. You’re going to write a letter to
the baby, for him to read when he reaches that age.’ She turned to Elise, who was standing by the door, virtually jogging on the spot in her impatience to leave. ‘Els, you’re not going? It’s so early.’

‘I have to get up at five to catch a flight to Glasgow,’ Elise explained.

‘Just hang on a bit longer! You have to write the letter. It’s to Bella’s unborn child.’ Patrizia grabbed Elise’s arm and pulled her into a chair. ‘Bring Elise some paper, please, Romy. She needs to get writing.’

Reluctantly Elise accepted a Montblanc ballpoint from a jar. Rosie had picked ‘twelve’ from the urn. She stared at that number. She barely knew Bella. She had no idea what advice to offer a twelve-year-old boy. The only one she’d ever known, and then only barely, was Barron. ‘If you want to be a girl, think carefully. It’s a big step to take.’ Yes, that would go down well. She accepted a pen and a piece of thick, creamy Smythson writing paper and, kneeling on the hard wood floor, so she could lean on the driftwood coffee table, tried to work out what to say.

This was like your worst exam nightmare ever. Everyone else seemed to be writing busily. One woman even stuck her hand up. ‘Can I have more paper, please?’

‘
I hope you’re enjoying school
,’ Rosie tried. ‘
Remember, exam results aren’t everything
.’

‘Excuse me,’ said a woman kneeling beside her. ‘Sorry to bother you, but you’re Jake Perry’s wife, aren’t you? Patrizia pointed you out.’

‘I
… ah …’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Caroline dabbing her eyes, clearly deeply moved by her words to the unborn child. What? Rosie would have given anything for a peek.

‘I’m Laura Regan, I’m currently head of PTA at King’s Mount.’

‘Oh, lovely!’

‘I have a little one in year three and my second boy – I’ve five, I know, crazy isn’t it? – is going to be starting reception in September with … Tobias, is it?’

‘Toby, just Toby.’

‘Super. Toby. Anyway, I wanted to touch base because I wondered if we might possibly beg a little favour of you, which is to help with the getting-to-know-you tea party. It’s in a couple of weeks. You’ll no doubt have the date in your diary but so many people will be off on their summer hols and it would be tremendous if you would be able to lend a hand.’

‘Right. Well. I should be able to, I’ll have to check my diary, I …’ Then she remembered. ‘Oh, I may be back at work by then!’

Laura brushed this aside. ‘Mrs Benzecry, the reception teacher, always attends the picnic and she
always
takes notes of which parents have helped out.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll just have to check, but—’

‘Oh, you are marvellous. And another thing, Rosie. We – that’s the committee and I – well, obviously we know who your husband is …’ Laura giggled girlishly.

‘Ye … e … s.’

‘Well,
he is so marvellous and we all adore him, so I had a couple of requests. First, do you think he might be so kind as to ask Ellie Lewis to autograph some box sets for our raffle at the autumn fair? I know it’s not for ages, but I believe Ellie – am I allowed to call her Ellie? I feel like I know her. Have you met her? – won’t be in town for that much longer. And, second, do you think your husband would open the autumn fair?’

‘I can ask,’ Rosie said cautiously.

‘Would you? The school look so kindly on children who participate in these ways, I find they often are chosen for leading parts in school plays. Anyway, Rosie, you’re going to love King’s Mount. It’s a fabulous school, so much more relaxed than Gadney’s. They’re all four-by-fours there. We’re far more chilled – and we’re not all City bods. There’s quite a few arty parents, the kinds who if they had a few spare quid would spend it on an old master, not a yacht, do you know what I mean?’

‘Uh …’ Rosie said faintly.

‘So I’ll put you down for the picnic!’ Laura said, as Patrizia clapped her hands.

‘Papers in now, ladies! Oh, Bella, where are you going? C’mon, be a sport. We’re going to play guess the size of the bump now.’

Rosie looked around for a glass of blue champagne. It was going to be a long night.

For the next couple of weeks, Rosie hardly saw her husband, as rehearsing intensified, and that was just as well as everything about Jake made her fume. When they were in the same room as each other, they seemed to do nothing but squabble.

She’d thought things would improve after she’d reluctantly called Tapper-Green and told them the job wasn’t going to be possible, because she just couldn’t see how to make the logistics work, but instead she felt even angrier, unable to let go. She was filled with resentment towards Jake for simply refusing to understand this or to discuss any future compromise. When she tried to talk to him, he blanked her. He could only focus on the play. Normally at this stage a big West End production would be previewing, and members of the public could buy tickets cheaply so the director could try out various approaches on them. But this time things were being done differently. So great was the buzz surrounding Ellie’s debut on the London stage that no one was allowed an advance peek.

‘It’s a nightmare,’ Jake would groan, looking at his morning email from Simon listing all the changes he wanted them to incorporate that afternoon. ‘It’s bloody
impossible to sit through it, with Ellie forgetting all her lines and then cracking up giggling, like she doesn’t even care.’

‘She’s just nervous,’ Rosie said, soothing him. ‘She’ll pull it together on the night.’

‘She’d better or the ship’s sinking with her.’

Rosie couldn’t really find it within herself to care. She was busy with the house – David Allen Robertson hadn’t taken the news he was temporarily to down tools at all well and kept ringing up asking when he could start again. Every weekend she drove the boys to Bristol for a day to visit Nanna, while Jake stayed at home ‘resting’. After her initial panic about the Parkinson’s diagnosis, Rosie had calmed down. There was plenty of comforting information out there about how the condition could be staved off for years with the right drugs and Nanna seemed absolutely fine, much better than she’d been for ages now she’d started taking the prescribed pills. So there was hope. There always had to be hope.

Nanna was coming to London for a press night this week – the official opening – and Rosie was far more excited about her visit than about her husband’s performance. The plan was that she’d stay on for a couple of days and Rosie was going to treat her like a queen, taking her out for lovely meals and a shopping trip.

‘So I’m all sorted for Thursday,’ Nanna had told her. ‘Train ticket booked. I got Maureen to help me do it online.’

Rosie
sighed. ‘I told you not to catch the train. I’ll send a car and driver.’

Nanna snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Train is fine. Just a taxi to pick me up at Paddington, that’s more than enough luxury for me.’

The week sped by and before they knew it the big day had arrived. It was nearly ten in the morning and Jake was lying on the bed groaning. ‘I am going to vomit in a minute. I can’t take this.’

It wasn’t attractive to see your husband snivelling and whimpering at the prospect of some harsh words from a handful of middle-aged critics. Weren’t husbands only supposed to be frightened of leopards in trees and woolly mammoths?

‘Poor you,’ she said unconvincingly, laying a soothing hand on his brow.

But Jake pushed it away. ‘The reviews are going to crucify us.’

‘Don’t read them then. Ellie says she never does.’

‘That’s because Ellie
can’t read
,’ he snapped. ‘Or barely. I could try not to read them, but word’ll get back to me anyway. Mum’ll tell me, or Twitter, or Facebook. So I’ll have to man up.’

‘Why don’t I make you a boiled egg and soldiers?’ Rosie said. ‘To soothe your stomach.’

‘I can’t eat eggs at the moment. They’re not on my nutritional plan, remember?’

The aggrieved way he said this meant an end to all sympathy. ‘OK, I’ll just let you get on with it then,’ she
said as calmly as she could. She had plenty to do around the house. Rupert and Yolande were attending the premiere, natch, and would be staying the night afterwards, so she would put fresh flowers and some magazines in the second-best spare room. The best magazines and the best room, with its view over the garden, were reserved for Nanna.

But as she thought it, her phone rang.

‘Nanna, I’m just getting your room ready. I’ve got all the gossip mags for you.
OK! Hello! Heat
. Are you about to leave for the station?’

‘Lover –’ Nanna sounded far away – ‘I’ve got bad news. I can’t make it.’

Rosie felt like she was leaning over the edge of the Niagara Falls. ‘What’s happened?’ she managed.

‘I had a bit of a turn in the night. Went all wobbly, totally lost control. The doctors want to admit me for a day or two. I told them I have to go to London, but they say it’s out of the question.’

Normally Nanna’s tone would have been defiant, suggesting that these bloody doctors didn’t know what they were talking about. But now she sounded defeated.

‘I’ll come and see you.’

‘If you do, I’ll never speak to you again, I mean it. I want you to go to that first night and be there for your husband and call me in the morning and tell me all about it.’

‘But …’

‘No buts now. I’m disappointed too, you know. Tell
Ellie Lewis from me she’s a goddess. I’m going now and I’m turning off my phone, because otherwise I know you’ll be pestering me forever and I want you to be thinking about Jake’s big night.’

The rest of the afternoon was a daze. The hair and make-up lady Rosalba had booked for Rosie had turned up at four and made her look glamorous (and mercifully didn’t find any nits). A couple of months ago, she’d have been bubbling over with excitement; now she just felt queasy, as if she were watching herself from a great height.

‘Not that old thing again, Mummy!’ yelled George, after she zipped herself into the gold dress.

Rosie laughed for the first time since the phone call. ‘Who do you think you are? Suri Cruise?’

‘I like it, Mummy,’ Toby smiled.

‘I think you’re perfect!’ George said. Rosie smiled. Motherhood was so flattering sometimes, when the children weren’t wiping their hands on her skirt or coughing directly into her eyes. She kissed them both on the head. ‘Now be good for Dizzy,’ she said, then wobbled her way out of the front door and down the steps to the waiting car.

Traffic was heavy, and the driver wasn’t chatty. Rosie said a little secret prayer to whoever was up there to make the play go well that night. If it was a success maybe Jake’s tetchiness would finally abate and she’d get her old jolly husband back. If it was a flop – well, it wouldn’t be. It had sold out on Ellie’s name alone for
the entire run, so that was the definition of a non-flop, whatever the reviews might say. But Jake would be inconsolable. The thought of the amount of hand-holding and ‘there, there-ing’ he’d expect made her feel indescribably weary.

They arrived at the theatre in a little alleyway behind St Martin’s Lane with just minutes to spare. It was like the premiere all over again, but in a more confined space, with the barriers, the shouting, the photographers, the assorted passers-by and autograph hunters.

This time, Rosie didn’t linger on the red carpet, but hurried straight to the door.

‘I’m on the guest list,’ she told a young woman in eight-inch heels with a clipboard. How could she bear the discomfort, Rosie thought – another indicator of imminent HRT and a new passion for the Country Casuals catalogue. ‘Rosie Prest.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t see you.’

‘I’m Jake Perry’s wife.’

‘Why didn’t you say? Go on in!’

In the foyer she immediately spotted Yolande in floor-length turquoise, fanning herself with her programme, looking around avidly to spot the celebs. Beside her, Rupert was in a slim-fitting pinstripe suit, clearly purchased for the occasion, hands in pockets, looking shy. Behind them, Becki in a black-and-white dress that Rosie had spotted in the Phase Eight in the Village, and Dave in a grey suit. Rosie was touched he’d made an effort; Dave hated suits.

‘Rosie!’
cried Yolande, reeking of Coco Mademoiselle. ‘How are our lovely boys?’

‘
Great
, thank you.’

‘Bless them. What did they eat for their supper?’

Cheese on toast for George. A lump of cheese for Toby
.
One carrot each.
‘A little bit of calves’ liver with some green beans and mash,’ Rosie said, smiling.

‘Oh good Lord.’ Yolande’s hands flew to her bosom. ‘How wonderful.’

‘Best to give them two different kinds of veg,’ said Becki firmly. ‘But still, well done, Rosie. Definite progress. We were all beginning to despair, weren’t we, Mum?’

‘Hey, hey!’ Christy was approaching briskly, with slim black trousered legs and a drapey red top, looking only slightly agitated. ‘Rosie! Yolande! Becki! Dave! Rupert!’ Christy was always brilliant at remembering people’s names. ‘Excited for our boy tonight?’

‘More excited at the Disney rumours online,’ said Yolande.

‘Rumours, schmumours.’ Christy diluted this dismissal with a broad wink. She was nervous, Rosie could tell. God, maybe the play really was as bad as Jake had been saying. ‘All will be clear very soon.’

Before Rosie could ask exactly what that meant, a piercing bell rang.

‘Well, shall we?’ Christy asked.

Three hours later, the six of them stood crammed into Jake’s dressing room with its stench of greasepaint and
musty costumes, waiting for him to return from the post-show debrief. Everyone looked worried. Voices were hushed. Smiles were strained. None of them dared admit it, but they all knew they’d just endured the theatrical equivalent of dog’s vomit.

Now Rosie understood why Jake had been so stressed these past few weeks. His performance had been
fine
. Not his best, but passable. The rest of the cast, however, were dire – and Ellie’s was the worst by a long way. Her expression was glazed throughout, as if she’d been hypnotized. She’d forgotten half her lines and needed nearly continuous prompting. Rosie’s face had blazed every time she stepped on to the stage. She hadn’t been so embarrassed since the time Belinda Crighton had caught her crooning ‘Blue’ by Joni Mitchell while making soulful expressions into the mirror in the school toilets.

‘Lovely flowers,’ Yolande said nervously. ‘Really. So kind. And all these cards. Aren’t people wonderful, eh, Rupert?’

Before Rupert could concoct a response, the door opened and there stood Jake in a sage-green dressing gown, his face, ashen under his heavy make-up.

‘It was shit, wasn’t it?’

‘
You
were fantastic,’ Rosie said firmly.

‘It was brilliant.’ Yolande’s tone took no prisoners.

‘I didn’t love it, I have to be honest,’ said Dave, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘But you were OK. I didn’t get a lot of it. Why did they all have to sit in the
Big Brother
chair and … ?’

‘I’m not sure the director had fully thought it through,’ said Becki.

Christy pushed into the room, a huge smile on her face.

‘Brilliant, Jake! Absolutely spot on. I don’t know how you do it.’ She patted him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a star. You really are. Shall we all go and celebrate?’

There was a second’s pause, then Rupert, catching Christy’s eye, took her cue and exclaimed: ‘Absolutely. And well done, my boy.’

In silence, broken only by Dave continuing to ask puzzled questions about the
Big Brother
theme, they walked the short distance up the road to the Hospital Club, where the after-party was taking place. Outside a line of photographers waited.

‘Hey, Jake, why do you think Ellie forgot all her lines?’

‘Jake, is your career dead in the water?’

Jake smiled and waved, and Rosie tried to look as if she couldn’t hear them.

‘These people are horrible,’ Yolande wailed. ‘Can’t the police do something?’

‘They have a right to free speech,’ Dave pointed out.

Inside, everyone headed straight to the bar as if it was the
Titanic
’s last lifeboat.

‘None of the Disney people have come,’ Christy muttered in Rosie’s ear. ‘Can’t say I blame them. Did you see that bit when … Oh shit, your husband’s coming.’

As
Jake approached, Christy started bowing and scraping in an ‘I’m-not-worthy’ gesture. ‘The star of the night!’ she exclaimed.

Rosie glanced at her in irritation. She was so two-faced. Didn’t she get tired of the perpetual fawning?

‘Have the Disney people all left?’ he asked. ‘Because before the reviews come in I need to get utterly shitfaced.’

‘Hey, Jake,’ said one of the bartenders.

‘Hi,’ Jake replied in that embarrassed way he’d adopted when strangers addressed him.

‘Jake, it’s me! Nick!’

‘Nick?’

‘Nick Jacobus! From drama school.’

‘Nick!’ Jake held out his hand. ‘Hey, man! Great to see you! It’s been ages. So. How are you doing?’

A tiny pause. ‘Well, I’m a bartender, so could be better.’

‘Oh. Right. Hey, but didn’t you do that BBC drama with Romola Garai? That was amazing. Such a witty script. You were brilliant, really sinister.’

‘Yes, but it was eight years ago. Nothing since. Hey, but what about you? Congratulations, man. Everyone’s so jealous.’