Rescuing Rose Read Free

'
    '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 Rudolph 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 Rudolph 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