Rosie swallowed the golf ball-sized lump that had risen in her throat. ‘You’re bloody amazing, you are,’ she said. ‘I love you. It means the world to me that you dropped everything to come over here tonight.’
‘It was nothing,’ Niamh said, smiling. ‘Don’t mention it. Honestly, the cab fare was worth it just for another sighting of Nameless Neighbour, who – let the record show – actuallyspoke to youthis evening.’ Rosie rolled her eyes, instructing herself not to blush or wonder what A. Thomas might look like in that wetsuit.
A short while later, as she brushed her teeth, she caught her own reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Her skin was blotchy and her eyes were swollen – the lids angrily pink and puffed up, like she was experiencing some severe allergic reaction.
Perhaps she was; maybe her body was literally rejecting the idea of being single again after all this time. The green of her irises clashed violently with their bloodshot surroundings, and her lips were ghostly pale.I look like a reanimated corpse, she thought –like a creature from one of James’s video games. How was that for irony?
And if she was single, that made James her ex-boyfriend. It sounded strange – like it couldn’t be real. The only ex Rosie had ever had before was Liam Brody, a boy she’d dated for eight months at sixth form. That she now needed to count James alongside him – consign them to the same sparsely populated category in her romantic history – was both unbelievable and unmistakably clear.
She collapsed into bed, willing sleep to come for her. There were the usual household chores to do tomorrow, not to mention the small matter of beginning the search for a new flatmate.
At least, she reasoned, the spare room was empty – a deliberately blank canvas that someone could move into immediately. She suppressed the thought that she’d hoped to soon brighten it with wall art, picture books and soft toys. The room would have to become something else now, Rosie told herself – and so would she.
Chapter 7
‘Easy, Roly,’ Michael warned as his sister reached to pluck another crispy roast potato from the serving dish, ‘that’ll go straight to your hips.’ He used Rosie’s hated childhood nickname in full and gleeful awareness that she’d be needled by it.
Beneath her mother’s dining table, she balled her hands into fists so tight that her nails bit into her palms. Sunday lunch at Mum and Dad’s house was a monthly custom so sacrosanct that it rarely occurred to her to swerve it. Today, Rosie had reasoned that while feigning illness might earn her a temporary reprieve from facing her family, it could also arouse suspicion. The last thing she needed was to spend the day fending off enquiries as to whether she was pregnant. Defiantly, Rosie forked a tiny spud with edges so crispy they looked crystallised, then popped it into her mouth. It tasted like heaven, but she couldn’t quite manage to enjoy it – and she didn’t miss the despairing look that crossed her mother’s face as she chewed. Julie had downed eating tools some time ago, ever conscious of the threat all foods posed to her obsessively maintained, ultra-petite frame.
‘What time are you expecting James back?’ she asked, her gaze still trained on the cutlery in her daughter’s hands – seemingly willing her to put it down and stop eating.
Not for the first time that afternoon, Rosie asked herself why she’d decided to lie about James’s whereabouts. Perhaps she lacked the savagery needed to obliterate her family’s strong affection for him – the killer instinct that would see her lay bare his selfishness and cowardice, then dare them to try and absolve him.
Yet it wasn’t quite that simple. Deep down, Rosie didn’t trust her parents and brother to be unequivocally on her side. They’d pity her loss, rather than reassure her she could move on and survive without James. Even worse, they might deflect blame for the break-up onto her. Rosie still remembered the precise order and tone of Julie’s words when she’d told her that Liam – away at university in Plymouth – had finished with her over the phone. ‘It’s a shame, darling, but I have to admit I saw this coming. We’re your family, so we have to love you – but you’re never going to be everyone’s cup of tea. He’s probably found some skinny girl who likes all those water sports he’s into.’
Buried beneath Rosie’s lack of faith in her parents lay an uncomfortable truth she was trying to ignore. Despite how hurt and angry she was, she didn’t want to assassinate James’s character so comprehensively that it was beyond saving. If she trash-talked him today, she’d have some serious explaining to do if they got back together in a fortnight’s time – and a part of her still wondered whether James might think better of leaving and ask if he could come home again. It was the same part that couldn’t swear she’d reject him if he did.
‘Earth to Rosie …?’ Julie said, laughing. ‘I asked you what time James would be home tonight.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I’ve no idea,’ Rosie said, shrugging. It struck her that this was the first fully honest thing she’d said since arriving at her parents’ 1970s-built semi several hours ago.
‘What is it he’s doing again?’ Colin asked, helping himself to another slice of roast beef.
‘Sorting out some IT crisis at work,’ Rosie told him.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘he’s a good lad, isn’t he? The sort you can trust in these situations. Hope he’s being paid overtime on a Sunday, mind.’
Shame at her own dishonesty and indignation at the phrase ‘good lad’ mingled hot in Rosie’s chest.
‘I suppose you don’t have to deal with insurance emergencies at the weekend,’ Colin went on. ‘They’d be above your pay grade, ha ha.’
Rosie cringed again and forced a smile. ‘Definitely.’
She knew that her dad didn’t intend to make her feel small or disparage her job. It would simply never occur to him that she might want a role with the sort of responsibilities James had – fictional though today’s work crisis was.
Colin’s disinterest in Rosie’s career prospects came from the same place as her parents’ bewilderment that she’d stayed on at school for A-levels and applied to university. They hadn’t discouraged her, as such, but they’d been more than happy for her to shelve the idea of getting a degree – not least because the prospect of borrowing thousands of pounds for the privilege of studying felt extraordinary to them.
‘Great roasties, Mum,’ Michael said, as he bit messily into the last one, not bothering to ask anyone else if they’d like it first.
Rosie glanced at him across the table. He was as tall and wiry as ever, though he had the greyish, dull complexion of someone whose acquaintance with vegetables was casual at best.
‘Ahh, thanks, love,’ Julie said, smiling at him.
Rosie, who had been entirely responsible for cooking what she had to admit werestellarroast potatoes, gaped at her mother’s audacity. Julie winked at her daughter surreptitiously – a gesture that Rosie guessed was supposed to imply gratitude.
Typically, Sunday lunch prep was dumped on Rosie the moment she arrived at her parents’ house, while Colin and Michael were free to watch whatever football match was on TV or slope off to the pub. It wasn’t unusual for Julie to disappear entirely, too, feigning some vital errand that couldn’t wait until after the roast was ready.
Today it had been the ‘urgent’ delivery of the latest TrueYOU catalogue to a neighbour. Rosie’s mother had recently begun capitalising on her reputation as a local glamourpuss by selling makeup and skincare products that promised to render the wearer ‘empowered, enlivened and irresistible – at any age!’. Julie’s success at hawking lipsticks, moisturisers and anti-ageing serums to the more mature women in their neighbourhood – not to mention encouraging them to join her ‘team’ of vendors – came as no surprise to Rosie. However, it was also clear that while TrueYOU believers styled themselves ‘network marketers’, the set-up was worryingly reminiscent of a pyramid scheme.
