Rescuing Rose
The fourth sparkling novel from the bestselling author of THE TRIALS OF TIFFANY TROTT, THE MAKING OF MINTY MALONE and OUT OF THE BLUE has Rose, a prickly agony aunt, fall for the charms of Theo, accountant by day, astronomer by night. who soon has her starry-eyed. But the starcross’d lovers have many obstacles to overcome on the path of true love.Agony aunt Rose has more than a few thorns digging in her side at present. Her seven-month marriage is in tatters, the bills are mounting up at an alarming rate and to top it off, she's being plagued by a stalker who seems to know rather a lot about the mysterious circumstances of her birth. It's usually Rose who dishes out the advice, but now she must rely on her wacky friends to come up with some solutions.They suggest she advertise for a lodger and at first, geeky accountant Theo seems the perfect choice for the now resolutely single Rose. However, she becomes intrigued by her new housemate's fascination with astronomy and he soon has her starry-eyed. But the path of true love never did run smooth, and the starcross'd lovers face stiff opposition in many forms, including the increasingly deranged stalker who is intent on getting Rose's attention by fair means or foul…
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Rescuing Rose
Isabel Wolff
For Eleana Haworth, agony aunt
and
Matthew Wolff, agony uncle
with love
Why did not somebody teach me the constellations and make me at home in the starry heavens which are always overhead and which I don’t know to this day?
Thomas Carlyle
Table of Contents
Fear and bewilderment mingled in Ed’s soft brown eyes as we faced each other in the garden. I stared at him, vibrant with indignation, then slowly drew back my right arm.
‘Take that!’ I shouted as a Wedgwood Kutani Crane seven-inch tea plate went whizzing past his left ear and smashed into the garden wall. ‘And that!’ I yelled as he raised his hands to fend off first the matching saucer, then the cup. ‘You can have these too!’ I spat as I frisbeed three dinner plates in his direction. ‘And this!’ I bawled as the accompanying soup tureen flew through the air.
‘Rose!’ Ed shouted, dodging bits of projectile china. ‘Rose, stop this nonsense!’
‘No!’
‘What on earth do you hope to achieve?’
‘Emotional satisfaction,’ I spat. Ed successfully deflected the gravy boat and a couple of pudding bowls. I lobbed the milk jug at him and it shattered into shrapnel as it hit the path.
‘For God’s sake Rose – this stuff’s bloody expensive!’
‘Yes!’ I said gaily. ‘I know!’ I picked up our wedding photo in its silver frame and flung that at him, hard. He ducked, and it hit the tree behind him, the glass splintering into shining shards. I stood there, breathless with exertion and raised adrenaline as he picked up the dented frame. In that picture we looked radiantly happy. It had been taken just seven months before.
‘It’s no-one’s fault,’ he said. ‘These things happen.’
‘Don’t give me that crap!’ I yelled.
‘But I was so unhappy Rose. I was miserable. I couldn’t cope with coming second to your career.’
‘But my career matters to me,’ I said as I slashed the matrimonial duvet with my biggest Sabatier. ‘Anyway it’s not just a career, it’s a vocation. They need me, those people out there.’
‘But I needed you too,’ he whined as a cloud of goose-down swirled through the air. ‘I didn’t see why I had to compete with all those losers!’
‘Ed!’ I said, ‘that’s low!’
‘Desperate of Dagenham!’
‘Stop it!’
‘Betrayed of Barnsley.’
‘Don’t be mean!’
‘Agoraphobic of Aberystwyth.’
‘That’s so nasty.’
‘There was never any room for me!’
As I gazed at Ed, the knife dropped to my side and I caught my breath, once again, at his looks. He was so utterly, ridiculously good-looking. The handsomest man I’d ever met. Sometimes he looked a little like Gregory Peck. Who was it he reminded me of now? Of course. Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, all happy and covered in snow. Except it wasn’t snow on Ed’s shoulders but white feathers, and life wasn’t wonderful at all.
‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he whispered as he spat out two tiny plumes. ‘It’s over. We’ve got to move on.’
‘Don’t you love me then?’ I asked, tentatively, my heart banging like a Kodo drum.
‘I did love you Rose,’ he said regretfully. ‘I really did. But…no, I don’t think I love you any more.’
‘You don’t love me?’ I echoed dismally. ‘Oh. Oh, I see. Well you have now hurt my feelings Ed. You have really got to me. I am now very angry.’ I rummaged in my arsenal and found a Le Creuset frying pan. ‘And suppressed anger is bad for one’s health, so you’ll just have to take your punishment like a man.’
As I picked up the pan with both hands, horror registered on Ed’s handsome face.
‘Please Rose. Don’t be silly.’
‘I’m perfectly serious,’ I said.
‘You’ve had your little game.’
‘It isn’t over. At least not yet.’
‘You’re not really going to hit me with that, are you?’ he pleaded as I advanced across the feather-strewn lawn. ‘Please Rose,’ he wheezed. ‘Don’t.’ And now, as I moved towards him, smashed china crunching underfoot, his voice began to rise from its normal light tenor, to contralto, until it was a kind of odd, soprano whine. ‘Please Rose,’ he whimpered. ‘Not with that. You could really hurt me, you know.’
‘Good!’
‘Rose, don’t. Stop it!’ he wailed, as he tried to protect himself with his hands. ‘Rose. ROSE!’ he screamed, as I lifted the pan aloft and prepared to bring it down, hard, on his head. ‘Rose!’ And now, from somewhere, I could hear banging, and shouting. ‘ROSE!’ Ed shrieked. ‘ROSE! ROSE!’
Suddenly I was sitting bolt upright in bed, heart pounding, eyes staring, my mouth as dry as dust. I was no longer in Ed’s garden in Putney, but in my new house in Camberwell.
‘ROSE!!’ I heard. ‘OPEN UP!!’
I staggered down the unfamiliar stairs, still shocked by the dream which churned in my brain like a thunder cloud.
