Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

make it sound unfeasibly easy,’ I’d said.

      ‘But the market for it is huge. All those rich people,’ said Bella happily, ‘with big houses and horrible taste.’

      ‘We’ll get you things at cost,’ Bella offered as she unpacked some dinner plates. ‘I think you should definitely get a new bathroom suite…’

      ‘With a glass basin,’ said Bea.

      ‘And a jacuzzi,’ Bella added.

      ‘And a hand-built kitchen of course.’

      ‘Yes, Poggenpohl,’ suggested Bella enthusiastically.

      ‘No, Smallbone of Devizes,’ said Bea.

      ‘Poggenpohl.’

      ‘No, Smallbone.’

      ‘You always contradict me.’

      ‘No I don’t!’

      ‘Look, I won’t be getting any of that fancy stuff,’ I interjected wearily. ‘I’m not going to have the cash.’

      As the twins argued about the relative merits of expensive kitchens I opened boxes in the sitting room. Heart pounding, I gingerly unpacked the wedding photo I’d flung at Ed in my dream. We were standing on the steps of the Chelsea town hall in a blissful, confettied blur. Don’t think me conceited, but we looked bloody good together. Ed’s six foot three – a bit taller than me – with fine, dark hair which curls at the nape. He’s got these warm, melting brown eyes, while mine are green and my hair’s Titian red.

      ‘You’re my perfect red Rose,’ Ed had joked at the start – though he was soon moaning about my thorns. But it was so wonderful to begin with I reflected dismally as I put the photo, face down, in a drawer. Ours had been not so much a whirlwind romance as a tornado, but it had already blown itself out. I surveyed the trail of marital debris it had left in its wake. There were dozens of wedding presents, most – unlike our abbreviated marriage – still under guarantee. We’d decided to split them by simply keeping those from our respective friends; which meant that Ed got the Hawaiian barbecue while Rudolf came with me. Ed didn’t mind: he’d never really taken to Rudy who was given to us by the twins. We named him Rudolf Valentino because he’s so silent: he’s never uttered a word. mynah birds are meant to be garrulous but ours has the conversational skills of a corpse.

      ‘Speak to us, Rudy,’ I heard Bella say.

      ‘Yes, say something,’ added Bea. I heard them trying to tempt him into speech with whistles and clicks but he remained defiantly purse-beaked.

      ‘Look, Rudy, we paid good money for you,’ said Bella. ‘Two hundred smackers to be precise.’

      ‘It was three hundred,’ Bea corrected her.

      ‘No it wasn’t. It was two.’

      ‘It was three, Bella: I remember distinctly.’

      ‘Well you’ve remembered it wrong – it was two!’

      I wearily opened the box labelled ‘STUDY’ because I’d soon have to get back to work. Lying on top was a copy of my new book – this is embarrassing – Secrets of Marriage Success. As I say, I do things very fast, and I wrote it in less than three months. By unfortunate coincidence it was published on the day that Ed and I broke up. Given the distressingly public nature of our split the reviews were less than kind. ‘Reading Rose Costelloe’s book is like going to a bankrupt for financial advice,’ was just one of the many sniggery remarks. ‘Whatever next?’ sneered another, ‘Ann Widdecombe on Secrets of Fashion Success?’

      I’d wanted my publishers to pull it, but by then it had gone too far. Now I put it in the drawer with my wedding photo, then took my computer and some files upstairs. In the study next to my bedroom I opened a large box marked ‘Letters/Answered’, and took out the one on top.

      Dear Rose, I read. I wonder if you can help me – my marriage has gone terribly wrong. But it all started well and I was bowled over by my wife who’s beautiful, vivacious, and fun. She was a successful freelance journalist when we met; but, out of the blue, she got a job as an agony aunt and suddenly my life became hell. The fact is I hardly see her – answering the letters takes up all of her time; and when I do see her all she talks about is her readers’ problems and, frankly, it gets me down. I’ve asked her to give it up – or at least tone it down – but she won’t. Should I file for divorce?

      Clipped to the back was my reply.

      Dear Pissed-Off of Putney, Thank you for writing to me. I’d like to help you if I possibly can. Firstly, although I feel certain that your wife loves you, it’s obvious that she adores her career as well. And speaking from experience I know that writing an agony column is a hugely fulfilling thing to do. It’s hard to describe the thrill you get from knowing that you’ve given someone in need great advice. So my suggestion, P-O – if I may call you that – is not to do anything rash. You haven’t been married long, so just keep talking and I’m sure that, in time, things will improve. Then, on an impulse, which I would later greatly regret, I added: Maybe marriage guidance might help…

      It didn’t. Far from it – I should have known. Ed suggested we went to Resolve – commonly known as ‘Dissolve’ – but I couldn’t stand our counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey. From the second I laid eyes on her she irritated the hell out of me, with her babyish face, and dodgy highlights and ski-jump nose and tiny feet. I have been hoist with my own petard, I thought dismally, as we sat awkwardly in her consulting room. But by that stage Ed and I were arguing a lot so I believed that counselling might help. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Miss Grey inspired any confidence, but the idiotic little woman simply did not. She was thirty-five(ish), divorced, and a former social worker she told us in this fey, squeaky voice.

      ‘What I shall do,’ she began, smiling winsomely, ‘is simply to listen to you both. I shall then reinterpret – or, to give it its technical name, reframe – what you both say. Got that?’ Catatonic with embarrassment, and already hating her, I nodded, like an obedient kid. ‘Okay, Ed,’ she said. ‘You first,’ and she actually clapped her podgy little hands as though this were nursery school.

      ‘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