Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

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.’

       Chapter Five

      The letters I get! Listen to this!

       Dear Rose, I am on probation for arson, but my probation officer has changed and I’m starting to get itchy fingers again. I’d really like to set fire to something so I’m getting in lots of matches and petrol – please help!

      Good God! I don’t like to go behind my readers’ backs – confidentiality is absolutely sacred – but sometimes it’s something I have to do. So I’ve just phoned up the woman’s social services and someone’s going to go round to see her right now. And how about this one – in green ink of course.

       Dear Rose, I have messages from Martians coming through my bedroom radiators. But that’s not my main problem. The main problem is the volume which keeps me awake at night. I’ve asked them to keep it down, but they just won’t. How can I stop them disturbing my sleep in this way?

      Dear Phyllis, I wrote, Thank you for your letter. How very annoying for you having noisy Martians in your radiators. But did you know that doctors have a very clever way of dealing with this problem these days, and I do suggest that you go and see your G.P. straight away. With best wishes, Rose.

      Then here was a letter, sixty pages long, written on graph paper and signed, ‘King George’. The next three were from people with flatmate problems – all the usual stuff: He slobs in front of the TV all night…she never does the washing up…he’s always late with the rent…she has her friends round all the time…As I composed my replies I thought about my own flatmate, Theo. Despite my initial – and wholly justified – anxieties I’ve scarcely seen him – we’re like those proverbial ships that pass in the night. Sometimes I hear him pacing above me in the early hours because, since my split with Ed, I haven’t been sleeping well. Theo does go out sometimes in the evenings but, strangely, only when it’s dry – not when it’s wet. It’s all a bit peculiar really, especially with that strange remark of his about the lights. I mean, he seems too wholesome to be a Jeffrey Dahmer, but then still waters and all that…

      I dealt with the flatmate problems, enclosing my leaflet on Happy Cohabitation, then I opened what turned out to be one of my very rare letters back. It was from Colin Twisk, that Lonely Young Man.

      Dear Rose, he’d written. Thank you very much for your very, very kind letter. I carry it about with me all the time. And whenever I’m feeling low I get it out and read it again. Knowing that a famous – and very attractive – person like you thinks I’m good-looking makes me feel so much better about myself. I’m doing everything you advised me and – guess what? – I think I may have now found my Special Lady Friend! With deep affection, Colin Twisk. xxxx.

      Ah, I thought, isn’t that nice? That’s what makes my job so worthwhile. The knowledge that I’ve been able to help alleviate someone’s distress and pain. I put Colin’s letter in my ‘Grateful’ file – that’s just my little joke – then suddenly a cry went up. Ricky, who had been away for two days, had evidently just returned.

      ‘Who the fuck wrote this fucking headline?’ he shouted at Jason Brown, our Chief Sub. As he jabbed his finger at the offending page, my heart sank. Jason was about to get what’s known in the trade as a ‘bollocking’. ‘“SOMETHING WENT WRONG IN JET CRASH EXPERTS SAY”?’ Ricky shouted. ‘It’s shite! And as for this – “PROSTITUTES APPEAL TO POPE!” Total shite! “STOLEN PAINTING FOUND BY TREE”? – that is effing shite as well!’ This was true. Now he went over to the features editor, Linda, while Serena and I exchanged nervous looks.

      ‘The features are shite too,’ Ricky shouted. “Why Not Include Your Children When Baking?” Crap! “Unusual Applications for Everyday Household Objects – Try polishing your furniture with old tights and conditioning your hair with last week’s whipped cream”? It’s all shite,’ he repeated truculently. ‘It’s a pile of poo! It is complete and utter ca-ca. No wonder our circulation’s going down the khazi – what this paper needs is R.’

      ‘R?’ said Linda miserably. We looked at each other.

      ‘R,’ Ricky repeated slowly. ‘As in the R factor.’ Ah. ‘As in aaaaaaaahhhhh!’

      ‘Aaahh…’ we all said.

      ‘What we want,’ he said, slamming his right fist into his left palm, ‘is Triumph Over Tragedy, Amazing Mums, Kids of Courage. And animals!’ he added animatedly. ‘I want more animals. The readers like them and so do I. So get me Spanish donkeys, Linda, get me orphaned koalas, get me baby seals…’

      ‘It’s the wrong time of year.’

      ‘I don’t give a flying fuck!’ he shouted. ‘Get me baby seals. And while you’re at it get me puppies with pacemakers and kittens with hearing aids too. And if I don’t see some fucking heart-warming animal stories in this paper within a week, Linda, you’re for the fucking chop.’

      ‘Well, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning!’ Serena remarked briskly as Ricky stomped back to his office. ‘Still, we all have our problems. Oh yes, we all have our crosses to bear,’ she added with a tight little smile. I looked at her as she turned on the shredder.

      ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

      ‘Oh nothing we can’t deal with,’ she replied serenely. ‘It’s just that Rob crashed the car last night.’

      ‘Oh dear. I hope he wasn’t hurt.’

      ‘Not really. Just a large bump on his head. But unfortunately the garage door’s a write-off – he demolished it.’

      ‘Oh no!’

      ‘Still, these things are sent to try us, aren’t they?’ she said perkily. I smiled blankly and nodded my head. As Serena fed the old letters into the shredder – we keep them six months – I glanced at Linda, who was ashen-faced. I’d had an idea. Trevor and Beverley. That would make a good, heart-warming animal feature. Linda agreed.

      ‘It sounds brilliant,’ she said gratefully after I’d told her. ‘We could do a big spread with lots of photos. Will you ring her for me right now?’

      Beverley was in – well she usually is in, poor kid – and she sounded quite keen.

      ‘Are you sure you and Trevor wouldn’t mind?’ I asked her. ‘It would probably mean having to talk about your accident, so I wouldn’t like you to say yes if you didn’t feel comfortable about it.’

      ‘No, we’d be happy to do it,’ she replied. ‘And it would be great publicity for Helping Paw.’

      Having given Linda Bev’s number I now tackled my huge pile of post. The run up to Christmas is an incredibly busy time of year for agony aunts. In fact there were so many letters to answer that I didn’t leave work until eight. When I got in I felt pretty tired, but