Rescuing Rose (53 page)

'I thought you wanted to have a baby, ' he pointed out calmly.

'No. I don't. Not with you. Not now. '

'Don't leave me, Rose, ' he said suddenly. He looked stricken. 'Please. Don't. We've got this chance to start over. We could be happy again—the way we were when we first met. '

'No. It's not true. I've done my bit for you, Ed, and I'm staying in Hope Street. That's my real home—my little house in Hope Street—not your poncey great Putney Palace. That's partly why you wanted me back, isn't it? Because you thought if you could only get me to sell up and move back in with you, your house would be so much more affordable. That's what those little calculations of yours were really about. Well I'm not interested in living with you again, Ed. I don't want to. Not ever. But you can call the hospital—now. ' He stared at me.

'Do it, ' I said quietly. 'While I'm here. Phone them. ' Ed looked out of the window at the City skyline then turned back to me.

'You think you're such a great person, don't you, Rose?' he said calmly. 'Kind-hearted Rose, the ever-popular agony aunt, always helping people with her great advice. Sorting out their problems. '

'No, I don't think that. I've know I've got loads of faults, but at least I don't think I've ever been mean. But it's your defining characteristic, Ed. You can't give—except to yourself. '

'And you can?'

I looked at him, shocked. 'Yes. I can give, actually. And I do. I give to my readers. I want to help them. That's giving. '

'Oh really, Rose, don't flatter yourself. You give to them to be loved and admired. You give to them because you want them to thank you and think what a wonderful person you are. You don't give to them free of charge. In return you want acknowledgement and recognition. Don't you? My God, you even have a "Grateful" file!' I stared at him, shocked. 'Haven't you?' My face burned. 'I saw it. When you moved out. '

'Well, that's just… irony. It's a… joke. '

'That's crap. You
do
want people to be grateful to you, and to need you—because you've felt so inadequate all your life, because your own mother didn't want you. You never talked about her to me, but do you think I didn't work that one out?'

'Stop turning this onto
me
!' I snapped. 'This conversation is about
you
. And I'm not "advising" you, Ed, I'm
telling
you that you're going to help Jon and that's all there is to it. Phone that number now. '

'You can't make me, ' he said calmly.

'No. I don't suppose I can. But I'm quite happy to write to your managing director if you don't do it. '

'Oh yes. Saying what?'

'Saying that you'll need to take a few days off work to go into hospital in an attempt to save your brother's life. There's no way you'll be able to refuse to do it after that. '

'But I've only just come back to work. '

'I don't care. I'll write to him—no I won't, I'll phone him— if I hear that you haven't contacted Jon's hospital by six o'clock tonight. ' I picked up my bag and opened it. 'I've said everything I came to say. Here are your house-keys. ' I put them on his desk. 'I'm off. '

'Yes, off you go, ' he said. 'Back to Camberwell. Back to your little toyboy astronomer with his great big telescope. '

'Oh don't be pathetic!'

'Well you're obviously in love with him. Or perhaps you're just star-struck. But I'm sure he'd give you a nice big bang!'

I stared at Ed. 'I'll ask my solicitor to press on with the divorce, ' I said quietly. 'You'll have to manage on your own now. Goodbye. '

'That's it, ' I said to myself, as I got the lift down to reception. 'That really is it. Finally. No going back. It's over. ' My knees trembled and I thought I might cry reactive tears, but my disgust with him kept them at bay.

'His own brother, ' I repeated wonderingly. 'His own brother. ' What an impoverished soul. As the automatic doors opened and I stepped out I felt a sudden rush of freedom. I wanted to throw back my head and shout. It was as though I'd been liberated— no more agonising, and weighing up, and to-ing and fro-ing; the decision had been made. I was free. And in that moment I realised that I'd known, deep down, that I could never go back to Ed, but now I understood why. I knew he'd get nasty of course—hence all that crap he threw at me about why I'm an agony aunt. I became an agony aunt because I
genuinely
want to help people and because I'm good at it. Suddenly my mobile phone rang. It was Theo.

'Hi!' I said, as I unlocked the car door. My heart expanded. I was so glad to hear his voice.

'Rose, I've got something to tell you. ' His tone of voice was serious. My heart sank, and then suddenly soared—his flat had fallen through! He'd been gazumped. Someone had beaten him to it. He wouldn't be leaving me yet.

'Yes. What is it?' I said.

'Well I'm at home, and the second post's just arrived. I've had a reply to your ad. '

I got in the car and headed straight back. As I sped down Bishopsgate I called Bev and asked her to cover.

'All right, but don't be too long. What shall I say if anyone asks where you are?'

'Tell them I'm at a conference. '

'On what?'

'On, er, oh I don't know—Positive Parenting. '

'So where are you really?'

'I'm in the City—I've just been to see Ed. But something very urgent's come up at home and I've got to get back. '

Theo said that he hadn't opened the letter: I wondered what it would say. 'Dear Box number 2152, I read your ad in the
Chatham News
and I would like to confess that it was I who left you in that supermarket car park forty years ago. I'm terribly sorry about this and I know you must think badly of me, but… ' But
what
? What excuse could she possibly have? 'But I was thirteen and didn't know I was pregnant/I was married and having an affair/I was forty and I already had six kids and I just couldn't feed any more. '

I'd speculated so often as to who my mother might be and now I was about to find out. My body burned with adrenaline: I felt dizzy, breathless and sick. Every time I had to stop at a light I'd thump the wheel with the heel of my hand. If the car in front dawdled for so much as a fraction of a split nanosecond, I'd hoot. I was in an agony of anticipation—and also of deep, deep dread. Because all my adult life I'd snubbed my past, but now my past was coming looking for me.

I'd often thought about my parallel life—the one I would have had with my mother if she hadn't abandoned me—and I'd wondered what that life would have been like. She could have been anyone so the possibilities were endless. She could have been poor or rich, British or foreign, fat or slim, bright or dim—I was about to replace decades of fantasies and imaginings with the truth. But the truth might not be that palatable. In fact it might well be vile. What if she'd been a prostitute, for example? Or what if I'd been born as the result of a rape? My mother could easily have been an alcoholic, or a drug addict. On the other hand she could have been a deb. And what about
him'
? My father? I was about to discover who he was too. I'd assumed he was a good-looking rotter, a good ten years older, but perhaps he was the same age. Maybe they were infatuated teenagers, like Romeo and Juliet, and their parents didn't get on. His folks didn't think she was good enough—bloody cheek!—and they'd forced him to give her up. And so she'd gone bananas and dumped me in a shopping trolley one sunny day.

I was also, probably, about to learn my true date of birth. Maybe it wasn't June the first. Maybe it was June the eighth, or June the twelfth, or maybe I'd been born in May. I had no history and no identity, other than the one I'd been given, and now I was about to find out.

I might discover too whether I had any siblings. In one way I hoped that I did, but at the same time I hoped that I didn't— because it would crucify me to think that she'd had more children and kept
them
, having abandoned
me
. And where had my mother lived after she'd ditched me, and what had she done after that? She might have stayed in the area—we could have passed in the street—or maybe she'd moved up to town. Perhaps, driven by guilt, she'd worked obsessively hard and become a top businesswoman, or a scientist or a judge. Now, as I turned into Hope Street, all these possibilities jostled for space in my mind, rudely shoving and barging each other as they struggled to make themselves heard.

'—Your mother went to art school and became a painter. '

'—No, she went to RADA and became a star. '

'—She became a primary school teacher actually'

'—She was a pianist!'

'—Get real—she was a drunken slut!'

'—No, no, no, she became an obstetrician. '

'—Bollocks! She worked for the Beeb!'

I parked the car and ran into the house. In the hall were Theo's boxes, packed and taped shut ready for the next day. I felt my heart contract.

'Theo!' I said breathlessly. I picked my way past his large suitcase and into the kitchen. I looked at him, and smiled.

'Hello, Rose, ' he said gently. 'Are you ready?' I nodded. Then he handed the letter to me. Holding my breath, as though about to dive into a river, I ripped open the large brown envelope stamped
Private and Confidential
and pulled out a small cream one. It was addressed to the box number in neat blue biro capitals, but the feel of it made my heart sink. For I'd thought it would feel thick to the touch, containing, as I'd expected it to, several pages of explanation, apology and a detailed family history—instead it was disappointingly thin. It felt like the letter you receive when you know you haven't got the job. I handed it back to Theo.

'You open it, ' I said.

'No, it's yours. You should do it. '

'I want you to. Please, Theo. You started this after all. '

He pursed his lips. 'Well… all right. ' He drew his thumb along the flap and pulled out a single sheet of white vellum, written just on one side. He scanned it, nodded slowly, raised an eyebrow, then handed it to me. The address was twelve Cross Street, Chatham, Kent.

Dear Advertiser, I read you notice in the Chatham News with interest. But before I make any enquiries I would like to know two things. Is the name of the baby girl referred to in the advert by any chance 'Rose'? And does this person have any distinguishing marks? It was signed Marjorie Wilson (Mrs). There was no phone number, just the address.

'Do you think she's my mother?' I asked Theo. He looked at it again.

'No. If she were she wouldn't need to ask you your name. Your mother knows what your name is, and where she left you and on what day of what year. I also think from the trembly handwriting that this woman's too old. I guess she simply knows your mother—or used to know her. ' My heart did a bungee jump. She knew my mother. This letter was from a woman
who knew my mother
! 'You'd better write back to her straight away'

'And should I offer to meet her?'

'Not yet. Just tell her that your name is Rose and see what else she has to say' I nodded, then went to my desk.

Dear Mrs Wilson
, I wrote. My hand shook with nervousness.
Thank you very much for your recent letter. Yes, the relevant name is Rose, which is my name, and I do have one distinguishing mark
—
a birthmark in the shape of India at the top of my left leg. If you have any information whatsoever about my natural mother, whom I am trying to trace, then would you please phone me, a.'s. a. p. , on either of the above numbers and I'll call you straight back. Thank you so much for responding, and I look forward to hearing from you soon
. I signed myself'Rose Wright' to protect my identity, just in case she ever reads the
Post
. Well, I am still Rose Wright, I reasoned as I stamped it. Or rather Rose Wrong: Rose very, very Wrong to have thought I could go back to Ed. We were light years apart.