The Betrayed (18 page)

‘Rosie Mullins,’ she said.
Please don’t let it be –

‘Rosie? Eddie.’

Shit!
‘Look, Eddie, it’s not a good time, can you call back?’

‘It’s on.’

‘What is?’

‘That favour you owe me. I’m counting on you.’

‘I don’t owe you any favours, Eddie!’ Rosie snapped, but immediately lowered her voice, as she remembered the guests in the other room. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not going to do it. I’m not in
your
world any more, you know that.’

There was a long pause before Eddie spoke again. ‘Johnny’s been ringing you, why’ve you not been at home? He called every night last week…
every night
. He wants to talk to you.’

‘That’s not my problem.’

‘You’re his wife. You remember that? Or are now too big a star? You haven’t got time for your family no more?’

‘I’ve just been busy, that’s all,’ said Rosie, exasperated. ‘Johnny and I are separated now, you know that. So I don’t have to answer his calls, and I don’t have to do any dirty little favours for you either. So stop ringing me, all right? Stop pestering me, or I’ll…’

‘Or you’ll do what, Rosie Mullins?’

‘Nothing. Just leave me alone,’ Rosie hissed, and tuned the phone off.

She took a deep breath, filled up the coffee pot and milk jug, picked up the tray, and went through to where her guests were waiting.

‘So,’ she said, ‘who’s for coffee?’

twenty

T
he following Friday, Andrew had agreed to treat Ruby and a couple of her friends to a cinema trip and dinner at Pizza Hut.

‘Oh God, that’s brave of him,’ said Stevie. Rosie, making the most of having the house to herself, had decided to make a long-overdue call to her best friend.

‘You should’ve seen the girls getting ready earlier, all done up to the nines. Their skirts were so short, they looked more like belts! How Andrew puts up with all the giggling and squealing, I’ll never know. He’s a bleedin’ saint if you ask me!’

‘I imagine he misses having a family around; I expect he loves it,’ said Stevie. ‘So you weren’t tempted to go with them?’

‘You must be joking! I can’t remember the last time I had a quiet night to myself.’

Sure enough, later that night, driving back from the restaurant, Andrew’s car was full of screaming girls singing along to Beyoncé’s ‘Single Ladies’, which was blaring from the CD player. Andrew laughed, joining in with chorus, and tapping along to the beat with his fingers on the steering wheel.

Eventually, they pulled up outside a posh mews in Chelsea, and Lucy, the last of Ruby’s friends to be dropped off, got out and said goodbye. Now alone in the stationary car, Andrew turned down the music and asked, ‘Had a good time, Ruby?’

Ruby nodded and continued humming along to the music.

‘You are such a pretty girl… so photogenic. I can see you going a long way in modelling. I’ll make sure it happens for you, I promise.’ Andrew placed a hand gently on Ruby’s bare knee and smiled. Ruby stopped humming.

Ruby stared up at Andrew and, due to a mixture of shock and embarrassment, found she couldn’t break eye contact. Andrew’s eyes were as dark as night, and were full of something that Ruby couldn’t understand. He leaned over and pressed his pursed lips to hers.

Before Ruby could say a word or gather her thoughts, he had started the car, turned up the music, and they were driving through the quiet streets again, heading for home. Andrew was chatting and singing along as if nothing had happened. Ruby stared straight ahead, confused. Had she just imagined that? Or had she just been kissed? By a man. A man… and Mum’s boyfriend. Had she got it wrong… read too much into it? After all, it was just a kiss. But on the lips?

All the way home, Ruby did her best to banish the thought to the back of her mind, deciding that it – ‘the kiss’ – wasn’t meant to be anything other than a friendly gesture by a loving father-figure.

twenty-one

D
uring the editing of
My Fair Lady
, it had emerged that the cast would have to overdub some of their scenes, so Rosie was called to spend two more days in Bristol.

Although she didn’t like the idea of leaving Ruby overnight, it was the perfect opportunity to get to know Andrew’s 40-acre farm in Chew Valley, which was less than half-an-hour’s drive from the studio.

Brook Farm was Andrew’s rural idyll – his retreat from the hustle and bustle of London, and ‘a cherished slice of sanity’, as he so eloquently put it – and had been in his family for five generations. He had told Rosie all about it, and she was longing to see it for herself. It was, he had explained, a former cider farm, originally dating from the 16th Century. It had a tree-lined driveway, bread oven, and even a priest’s hole.

Andrew insisted that she stayed there, and gave Rosie an ancient front-door key that was so enormous it wouldn’t fit into any pocket or bag.

‘At least I won’t lose it!’ she’d said.

He suggested that she took Aunt Madge and Dibble with her, to make the most of her time away from London. ‘It’s completely doggie friendly,’ he insisted. ‘Dibble will be able to run free, no lead needed.’

‘Ha! I don’t know about that,’ laughed Rosie, ‘Aunt Madge is very protective of her precious Dibble.’

‘That’s in London. Wait until they get out into the countryside – it’s decent, clean, and safe.’

When Rosie had asked Aunt Madge to accompany her to the farm, she’d replied with a flat ‘no’. But, on reflection, and Rosie insisting that the country air would do her good and how the trip might broaden her horizons – not that Aunt Madge considered that her horizons needed broadening – she reluctantly agreed.

‘But what about Ruby?’ she asked. ‘Ruby always stays with me when you’re away. Who’s going to look after her?’

‘It’s all taken care of. Andrew’s not busy at the moment and he’s got plenty of time to keep an eye on her. It’s sweet, actually, he’s organised a hairdresser, make-up artists and lighting engineers to come to the house for a photo shoot. Our little Ruby-two-shoes is going to be Britain’s next top model. The new Kate Moss, apparently.’

Aunt Madge laughed. ‘Don’t
you
start! She hasn’t stopped talking about it for weeks… I don’t know, rabbiting on and on about Kate Moss and Heidi Plum.’

Rosie smiled. Aunt Madge was always getting her words in a twist. Once, when she was going on holiday abroad for the first time in her life, she had proudly announced that she was ‘off to Dormobile’. Better known as Benidorm.

‘All right, Rosie dear. Me and Dibble will come and keep you company. But,’ she added, ‘I want you to promise that I can collect my lottery tickets on the way, and be back Saturday in time for my programme.’

‘I promise.’

Aunt Madge was a stickler for routine. The two things in her life that shared pole position in her list of priorities were Dibble and
Strictly Come Dancing
– normally just referred to as ‘my programme’. Every Saturday night it was the same routine: homemade shepherd’s pie followed by a slice of Walls Viennetta for tea, then she would settle down for an hour of sequined frocks and foxtrot. She especially loved watching Len Goodman, one of the show’s judges. He was the virile new kid on the block, and was so popular that, Rosie suspected, he was even ranked higher than her old favourite, Brucie, who Madge had been a fan of since he hosted
The Generation Game
. The highlight of Aunt Madge’s Saturday night was when Len scored ‘seven’.

‘Aunt Madge!’ Rosie exclaimed, when she came to pick her up and saw the three bulging cases that she had packed. ‘We’re not going to the Outer Hebrides! It’s just outside Bristol – quite civilised, you know. Plenty of culture and history.’

‘Culture and history, my arse,’ she said, hauling the first case into the back of the black Range Rover that Andrew had lent them. ‘Where I come from “outside Bristol” means you’ve got one of your boobs hanging out.’

They both roared with laughter.

‘You’re incorrigible,’ said Rosie, helping her with her luggage. ‘You can take the girl out of the East End, but you will never take the East End out of the girl.’

Before long, Rosie, Aunt Madge and Dibble were speeding along the M4 heading towards Bristol.

‘You comfortable?’ Rosie asked, glancing over her shoulder at Aunt Madge, who was perched in the back with her beloved dog on her lap.

‘Don’t you worry about us. Keep your eyes on the road, will you? We don’t want to crash his lordship’s new motor, now, do we? And don’t forget to stop at the next service station so Dibble can stretch her legs and have a wee. I need to get my lottery tickets, too.’

Rosie looked at her in the rear view mirror. Aunt Madge had such a warm, kind face – its feathered lines were her souvenir from a long, hard life. They really didn’t make them like her any more, Rosie thought. She came from a different era, when women were made of steel and grit. Dibble caught Rosie looking and gave a little growl. God, thought Rosie, she
adores
that crazy dog. She knew that Aunt Madge had even opened a savings account at the bank, so her beloved pet would be cared for in the event of anything happening. Rosie suspected that Dibble was the one thing keeping Aunt Madge alive, her reason for getting up in the morning.

They stopped at the next service station, where Dibble did her business and Aunt Madge bought her lottery tickets. Inside, near the Burger King, Rosie noticed a man who could well have been ‘Harris’ – the suspected policeman that had been following her – but he ducked out of sight before she could get a good look at him. As they prepared to leave Rosie looked around, trying to spot his car, but there was no sign of him. If it was ‘Harris’, then he was being a lot more cautious since their encounter on the train to Bristol. Rosie started the engine and, as they drove down the slip road back to the motorway, the sat-nav announced,‘
Turn left
.’

‘Honestly,’ said Aunt Madge, shaking her head, ‘where does she think we’re going to go? Still, it’s bloody clever. The things they can do nowadays. Who’d have thought a posh woman would be telling you where to go!’

‘
Continue straight ahead
,’ came the voice again, once Rosie had turned back into the middle lane.

Madge shook her head again. ‘How does she know where we are?’

‘Not long now,’ said Rosie, smiling to herself.

As they drove, Rosie thought back to earlier in the day when she left Andrew and Ruby at the house. Ruby was trying so hard to be all grown-up. Although she was nearly13, she really thought that she was an adult. Still, thought Rosie, this was a good step for her – it was the first time she’d been left with anyone other than Aunt Madge. Anyway, after raising his two step-daughters, Andrew would know exactly how to cope with a giggling teenager with mood swings.

When she had said goodbye, Ruby had actually physically pushed her mum away when she had gone to hug her.

‘Just go, Mum. I’m not a baby.’

‘Don’t worry, ‘Andrew had said, ‘she’ll be fine. After her special shoot, we’re having pizza, and Lucy is staying for a sleepover. So don’t worry.’

She wasn’t. Andrew was so good with Ruby, and she loved him to pieces. Thinking about it, Rosie remembered that she hardly ever spoke about her Johnny any more. These days it was always ‘Andrew this’ and ‘Andrew that’. Rosie could understand why. The fathers of Ruby’s school friends were all top lawyers, or high-flyers in some kind of international business. With Andrew in her life, Ruby could avoid those awkward conversations about her dad who was doing 18 years in prison for drug dealing. Her family life now fitted the respectable model that was expected by her private school.

‘
Turn left at the next junction
,’ ordered the sat-nav.

‘There she goes again!’ Aunt Madge squealed.

‘Finally!’ said Rosie as they turned into Brook Farm, relieved that she wouldn’t have to listen to Aunt Madge’s thoughts on the sat-nav for a while… until the drive home, anyway.

They drove up the half-mile, tree-lined gravel drive, and eventually arrived at the house. Parking the car by the border of the large front lawn, they got out and shook off the stiffness of the drive.

‘’Ave a look at that!’ Aunt Madge gasped, taking in the pretty, raised-brick borders, mature trees, and York-stone terraces with steps up to the heavy, medieval front door. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Rosie had to agree. It was really something.

‘Are you sure she can’t get out?’ Aunt Madge said, watching Dibble scurrying over the lawn towards some ducks.

‘Andrew said it’s completely doggie-proof.’

Aunt Madge set out after Dibble and caught her just as she was threatening to leap into a pond after the ducks. As she made her way back to the car, holding Dibble tight, she noticed a timber-framed potting shed and greenhouse, sheltered by a high flint wall adorned with grapevines and ivy.

As Rosie took her bag, green wellies, and new Barbour jacket from the boot, a radiant smile spread across her face. For the past year or two Rosie had been finding life in London more and more difficult. She had frequent headaches and, in recent months, had also discovered the flipside of being famous. She’d be ‘spotted’ numerous times while on the street and, worst of all, she had even been trailed by a member of the paparazzi for a few days. She had realised a very primal human instinct – they she didn’t like being preyed upon. Andrew had been right: a few days in the country was just what she needed.