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‘But for a single person it’s fine,’ said Bea helpfully. I winced. Single. Fuck. That was me. ‘Nice garden though!’ exclaimed Bella, changing the subject.
‘And it’s a sweet little street,’ added Bea. ‘It looks a bit scruffy,’ she remarked as we peered out of the landing window. ‘But friendly.’
‘Hope Street,’ I said with a bitter laugh.
‘Well,’ added Bella brightly, ‘we think it’s just…’
‘…lovely!’
‘It’s fine,’ I shrugged. ‘It’ll do.’ I thought with a pang of Ed’s elegant house in Putney with its walled garden and yellow drawing room. Moving into that had been exhausting too, but in a nice way as we’d got engaged just two weeks before. As I’d unpacked my stuff the future had seemed to stretch before us like a ribbon of clear motorway. But we’d hardly set off before we’d crashed and had to be ignominiously towed away. So now here I was, my marriage a write-off, upping sticks yet again.
Some women in my situation might have been tempted to move a little further afield – to Tasmania, say, or Mars, but though I was keen to put some distance between us I reckoned Camberwell was far enough. Plus it would be convenient for work and the area was still relatively cheap. So, a month ago, I dropped into a local estate agents and before I knew it, One Hope Street was mine.
‘It’s vacant for possession,’ said the negotiator with unctuous enthusiasm, ‘and it’s semi-detached.’ Just like me. ‘It’s been empty for a few months,’ she added, ‘but it’s in pretty good shape – all it really needs is a clean.’
When, ten minutes later, I saw the house, I took to it at once. It had this indignant, slightly abandoned air; it exuded disappointment and regret. It was the first in a short terrace of flat fronted houses, and it had a semi-paved garden at the back.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said casually, as though I were spending twenty quid, not four hundred grand. So I inflated my income to the building society and exchanged in ten days flat. But then I’m the impatient type. I married very quickly, for example. I separated quickly as well. And it took me precisely two and a half weeks to buy and move into this house.
‘Can you afford it?’ asked Bella, tucking her short blonde hair behind one ear.
‘No,’ I said simply. ‘I can’t.’
‘Why did you get it then?’ demanded Bea, who can be overbearing.
‘It was an impulse buy.’
‘We’ll help you decorate,’ said Bella as she scissored open a packing case.
‘You can be our first client,’ said Bea.
‘Have you got a name yet?’ I asked.
‘Design at the Double!’ they chorused.
‘Hmm. That’s catchy,’ I said.
The twins have just given up their respective jobs to start an interior design company. Despite a conspicuous lack of experience they seem confident that it’ll work out.
‘All you need’s a few contacts, then it snowballs,’ Bea had said blithely when they first told me about their plans. ‘A nice mention in one of the glossies and we’ll soon be turning them away.’
‘You 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 her job that makes her feel fulfilled.’ Huh?
‘And I guess I am a bit over-zealous on the domestic front,’ I went on uncertainly, ‘and I know that’s been an issue too.’
‘Ed,’ said Mary-Claire soothingly, ‘Rose is acknowledging that at home she’s been a’ – theatrical pause here to signify sadness and regret – ‘control freak,’ she whispered. What?
‘But I do love you Ed,’ I went on, heroically ignoring her, ‘and I think we can work this through.’
‘What Rose is saying, there, Ed,’ ‘explained’ Mary-Claire benignly, ‘is that, basically, you’re through.’
‘I’m not saying that!’ I shouted, getting to my feet. ‘I’m saying we should try again!’ Mary-Claire gave me a look which combined slyness with pity, and Ed and I split up within three weeks.
Looking back, I think I’d been semi-hypnotised by Mary-Claire’s squeaky, sing-songy voice – like Melanie Griffiths on helium – otherwise I’d have been tempted to give her a slap. But for some reason I found it impossible to challenge her bizarre interventions. It was only later on, that I twigged…
Now, as I came downstairs again, I could hear Bella and Bea in the kitchen, arguing about flooring.
‘– hardwood would look good.’
‘– no, natural stone would be better.’
‘– but a maple veneer would look fantastic!’
‘– rubbish! She should go for slate!’
They should call their business ‘2 Much’ I decided as I went into the sitting room. I unpacked a pair of crystal candlesticks which had been a wedding present from my aunt. Shift It Kwik had wrapped them in some pages from the Daily News, and as I unfurled the yellowing paper I was gripped by a sense of déjà vu. ‘AGONY AUNT IN SPLIT’ announced the page 5 headline in my hand. Rose Costelloe, the Daily Post’s agony aunt, is to divorce, it explained gleefully beneath. Her husband, Human Resources Director, Ed Wright, has cited ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the cause of the split. However, sources close to Miss Costelloe claim that the real reason is Wright’s close friendship with Resolve counsellor, Mary-Claire Grey (pictured left).
‘The bitch!’ I shouted as I stared at my rival.
‘She certainly is!’ yelled the twins.
‘Oh dear,’ said Bella, as she came in and saw me clutching the article. ‘Want a tissue?’ I nodded. ‘Here.’
I pressed the paper hanky to my eyes. ‘She was supposed to be neutral,’ I wailed.
‘You should have had her struck off,’ said Bella.
‘I should have had her bumped off you mean.’
‘But why the hell did you suggest marriage guidance in the first place?’ asked Bea.
‘Because I genuinely thought it might help! Ed had been going on and on about my job, and about how much he hated what I did, and about how he hadn’t married an agony aunt, and how he was finding it all “very hard.” And I’d been sent a book on marriage guidance that day so the subject was in my mind. So, in a spirit of compromise I said, “Let’s get some counselling.” So we did – and that was that.’
As the twins disposed of the offending newspaper article, I agitatedly pinched a stray sheet of bubble wrap.
‘Miss Grey,’ I spat as the plastic bubbles burst with a crack like machine-gun fire.
‘Miss Conduct,’ suggested Bea.
‘Miss Demeanour,’ said Bella.
‘Miss Take,’ I corrected them. ‘I mean there she was,’ I ranted. ‘Smiling at Ed. Looking winsome. Batting her eyelids like a Furby. Sympathising with him at every turn, and twisting everything I said. By the time she’d finished you could have used my statements to take the corks out of pinotage. She knew exactly what she wanted and she went for it, and now thanks to her I’m getting divorced!’
I thought of those embarrassingly abbreviated marriages you read about sometimes in Hello! Kate Winslet and Jim Threapleton three years; Marco-Pierre White and Lisa Butcher – ten weeks. And Drew Barrymore split up with her first husband so fast they didn’t even have time for a honeymoon.
‘You got married too…’
‘Young?’ I interjected sardonically.
‘Er no. Soon, actually,’ said Bea. ‘But we warned you…’ she added shaking her head like a nodding dachshund.
‘Yes,’ I said bitterly, ‘you did.’
‘Marry in haste,’ Bea went on, ‘repent at…’
‘…haste. I’ll be divorced in just over six months!’
But the twins are right. It had happened too fast. But then when you’re older, you just know. I mean I’m thirty-six…ish. Well, thirty-eight actually. Oh all right, all right – thirty-nine: and I’d never believed in instant attraction, but Ed had proved me wrong. We met at a Christmas drinks party given by my next door neighbours in Meteor Street. I was making tiny talk by the Twiglets with this pleasant tree surgeon when I suddenly spotted Ed. He shone out of the crowd like a beacon, and he had clearly noticed me; because he came strolling over, introduced himself, and that was that. I was concussed with passion. I was bowled over. I was gob-smacked, bouleversée. I felt my jaw go slack with desire, and I probably drooled. Ed’s incredibly distinguished-looking; elegant, a young forty-one, with strong cheekbones and an aquiline nose. You can fall in love with a profile, I realised then, and I fell in love with his. As for the chemistry – there was enough erotic static crackling between us to blow the lights on the Blackpool tower. He told me he was Head of Human Resources at Paramutual Insurance and that he’d just bought a house near Putney Bridge. And I was waiting for some gimlet-eyed glamour puss to zoom up and lay a ferociously proprietorial hand on his arm, when he added casually, ‘I live there alone.’
If I believed in God – which, by the way, I don’t – I would have got down on my knees there and then and thanked Him, but instead said a silent Hurrah! Ed and I talked and flirted for another hour or so, then he offered to take me home.
‘But I only live next door,’ I protested with a laugh.
‘You told me that,’ he smiled. ‘But I’m not having a gorgeous woman like you wandering the streets of Clapham – I shall see you safely back.’
