Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

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,