Rescuing Rose. Isabel Wolff

is apart.’

      ‘Well, yes – we will be. Just for a while.’

      ‘No, it’s the anagram of separation,’ I explained.

      ‘Oh,’ he sighed. ‘I see. But I think we should just have a breather…take a month off.’

      ‘So that you can shag that midget again?’

      ‘I haven’t shagged her – and she is a not a midget!’

      ‘Yes you have – and she is!’

      ‘I have…not…slept with Mary-Claire,’ he insisted.

      ‘I have a diploma in Advanced Body Language! I know.’

      ‘Well, I…’

      ‘Don’t bother to deny it, Ed.’

      He clenched his jaw, as he does when he’s cornered, and a small blue vein jumped by his left eye. ‘It’s just…’ he sighed, ‘that I was feeling neglected and she –’

      ‘Paid you attention I suppose?’

      ‘Yes!’ he said defiantly. ‘She did. She talked to me, Rose. She communicated with me. Whereas you only communicate with strangers. That’s why I wrote you that letter,’ he added. ‘It’s the only way I could get a response! You’re…neurotic, Rose,’ he snapped, no longer contrite now, but angry. ‘Sometimes I think you need help.’

      At that I put my J Cloth down and gave him a contemptuous stare. ‘That is ridiculous,’ I said quietly. ‘Help is what I provide.’

      ‘Look Rose,’ he said exasperatedly, running his left hand through his hair, ‘our marriage is not going well. We rushed into it because, being older, we thought we knew what we were doing – but we were wrong. And I found you so vibrant and so attractive, Rose – I still do. But I’m finding it hard to live with you, so for the time being let’s give each other some space.’

      ‘You want more space?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Space.’

      ‘Well you can have all the space in the universe,’ I said calmly, ‘because I’m going to file for divorce.’

      ‘Oh,’ he said. I’d shocked him. I think I’d shocked myself. But I knew exactly what ‘let’s give each other space’ really meant, and I was going to be the one to quit first.

      ‘We’ll discuss it tomorrow,’ he added wearily.

      ‘No,’ I said, ‘there’s no need.’ I’d been chewing so hard on my lower lip that I could taste the metallic tang of blood.

      ‘You want to call it a day already?’ he asked quietly. I nodded. ‘Are you really sure?’ I nodded again. ‘Are you quite, quite sure?’ he persisted. ‘Because there’ll be serious consequences.’

      ‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘I am.’

      ‘Right,’ he said faintly. He shrugged. ‘Right. Okay…if that’s what you want. Well then,’ he said bleakly, ‘I guess that’s…it.’ He inhaled through his nose, gave me a grim little smile then walked away. But as he reached for the door handle I said, ‘Can I ask you something Ed?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘I’d just like to know why you asked me to marry you?’

      ‘I didn’t, Rose. You asked me.’

      Christ – I’d forgotten. How embarrassing! I could have sworn it was the other way round. I certainly don’t have any memories of getting down on bended knee. All I recall is whizzing round the London Eye, drunk as a monkey, and finding myself engaged by the time we got down. But if, as Ed ungallantly claims, I was the one who popped the question, then it’s right that I should also be the one proposing divorce.

      I was thinking about all this as I emptied the last few packing cases and cleaned the house after the twins had gone. The interior isn’t bad – just a bit dusty, that’s all. Off-white walls, limed wooden kitchen units, cream silk curtains (included in the price) and a perfectly respectable oatmeal Berber carpet everywhere. The house is the colour of string. It looks etiolated. Drained. Like me. I quite like it, I thought as I scrubbed and swabbed – too much colour would get me down. I decided I’d redecorate it later; I could live with this for a while.

      And now, bearing in mind what the twins had said, I prepared to expunge the memories of Ed. I’d given this very careful thought. I went to the Spar round the corner and bought a packet of party balloons. When I got back I laid them out flat, then wrote ‘ED WRIGHT’ in black biro on each one. Then I inflated them, watching his name grow and expand on the rubber skin. Ears aching from the effort I watched the balloons bobbing up and down on the sitting room floor. They looked incongruously, almost insultingly, festive as they bounced against each other in the breeze. Then I found my sewing box, took my largest needle and stabbed them, one by one. BANG! went Ed’s name, as it was reduced to rubbery shreds. CRACK! exploded the next. POP! went the third as I detonated it, feeling the smile spread across my face. I derived enormous and, yes, childish satisfaction from this – it gave me a malicious thrill. Ed was full of hot air – his vows meant nothing – so this was what he deserved. I burst nine – one for each month I knew him, then took the last one, which was yellow, outside. By now the wind had picked up, and I stood in the middle of the lawn for a moment, then let the balloon go. A sudden gust snatched it and lifted it over the garden fence, before it floated up and away. I could still make out Ed’s name as it rose higher and higher, bobbing and jerking in the stiff breeze. By now it was just a yellow blob against the sky, then a smudge, then a speck, and then gone.

      I heaved a sigh of relief then went inside for Stage Two of my ritual. I took a piece of string and tied knots in it, one for each happy memory of my time with Ed. The first knot was for when we met, the second was for New Year’s Eve; as I tied the third I thought of our engagement party; I tied the fourth for our wedding day. As I tied the fifth I remembered how happy I had felt when I moved into his house. Then I lit the end of the string and watched a neat yellow flame take hold. It climbed slowly but steadily, leaving a glowing tail of embers and a thin coil of smoke. Thirty seconds later and my memories were just a thread of ash which I washed down the sink. Finally, I riffled through a wallet of snaps and found a photo of Ed. He’s usually extremely photogenic, but in this one he looked like shit. The camera must have gone off by mistake, because it was looking straight up his nose. He was scowling at something, it exaggerated his slight jowl, and his face was unshaven and tired. So I pinned it to the kitchen noticeboard and made a mental note to have it enlarged. Then I went into the bathroom to perform the final part of my cathartic rites. Suddenly my mobile rang.

      ‘It’s us,’ said the twins, one on each extension. ‘Where are you?’

      ‘In the bathroom.’

      ‘You’re not taking an overdose are you?’ they shrieked.

      ‘Not at the moment. No.’

      ‘And you’re not slashing your wrists or anything?’

      ‘Are you crazy – just think of the mess!’

      ‘Well what are you doing in the bathroom then?’ asked Bea suspiciously.

      ‘I’m doing my exorcises,’ I said.

      I rang off, took my wedding ring out of my pocket, and looked at it one last time. Ed had had it engraved inside with Forever – I emitted a mirthless laugh. Then, holding it between thumb and forefinger, like a dainty titbit, I dropped it into the loo. It lay there, glinting gently in the shadeless overhead light. Now I took our engagement photo, ripped it into six pieces, threw them in, then pulled the flush. I watched the cauldron of water swirl and boil then it cleared with a glug, and refilled. Everything had gone – the ring and the photograph – all except for one piece. To my annoyance it was the bit with most of Ed’s face on and it was resolutely refusing to go down. It was unnerving, having him bobbing