Read Rescuing Rose for Free Online

his slight jowl, and his face was unshaven and tired. So I pinned it to the kitchen noticeboard and made a mental note to have it enlarged. Then I went into the bathroom to perform the final part of my cathartic rites. Suddenly my mobile rang.
    'It's us, ' said the twins, one on each extension. 'Where are you?'
    'In the bathroom. '
    'You're not taking an overdose are you?' they shrieked.
    'Not at the moment. No. '
    'And you're not slashing your wrists or anything?'
    'Are you crazy—just think of the mess!'
    'Well what are you doing in the bathroom then?' asked Bea suspiciously.
    'I'm doing my
exorcises'
I said.
    I rang off, took my wedding ring out of my pocket, and looked at it one last time. Ed had had it engraved inside with
Forever
—I emitted a mirthless laugh. Then, holding it between thumb and forefinger, like a dainty titbit, I dropped it into the loo. It lay there, glinting gently in the shadeless overhead light. Now I took our engagement photo, ripped it into six pieces, threw them in, then pulled the flush. I watched the cauldron of water swirl and boil then it cleared with a glug, and refilled. Everything had gone—the ring and the photograph—all except for one piece. To my annoyance it was the bit with most of Ed's face on and it was resolutely refusing to go down. It was unnerving, having him bobbing about like that, smiling cheerfully up at me as though nothing were amiss. So I flushed it again and watched the fragment spin wildly but, to my intense annoyance, it kept popping back up. After ten tries, defeated, I fished Ed's still smiling face out with the loo brush, and scraped him into the bin.
    'Now Wash Your Hands, ' I said wearily; then I went downstairs.
    I felt a little, well, yes, flushed from my exertions so I made a cup of tea. And the kettle was just boiling when I heard the loud clatter of the letter box. On the mat was a cream-coloured envelope, marked,
To Our New Neighbour
in a large, round hand. Inside was a floral card, inscribed,
Welcome to Hope Street, from
… Hey! I've got celebrity neighbours!…
Beverley and Trevor McDonald
.
----
Chapter 2

     
    I realise, of course, that my neighbour is very unlikely to be the
real
Trevor McDonald. Why would a famous broadcaster choose to live at the wrong end of Camberwell? No, if Trevor McDonald had chosen SE5 then he'd have one of those vast Georgian numbers on Camberwell Grove. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining about Hope Street, even if it is at the Peckham end. I had to move fast, it met my needs, and it has a kind of unpolished charm. And the mix of cars—Beemers and Volvos nose to bumper with clapped out Datsuns—suggests that the area is 'coming up. ' But I guess my neighbour simply shares the same name, which must be a bit of a bore. Constantly being asked over the phone if he's
the
Trevor McDonald, for example, or receiving the Trevor McDonald's mail, or being introduced as 'Trevor McDonald' at parties and hearing everyone go 'BONG!' But on the other hand it's probably useful for booking tables in restaurants, or getting tickets for Wimbledon. This train of thought diverted me from my thermonuclear fury with Ed as I found my way to the bus stop this morning. And I was standing there feeling perfectly calm, mentally backing a steamroller over Mary-Claire Grey, when suddenly the man standing in front of me did this distressing thing. He took out a pack of Marlboros, peeled off the cellophane, screwed it up, then chucked it down. And as I watched the wrapper skittering about in the gutter I realised that I felt
exactly
like that. I feel as though
I've
been screwed up and discarded. You might find that weird, but after what's happened to me I see rejection in everything.
    So to keep negative thoughts at bay I started doing the crossword, as usual tackling the anagrams first. The skill with these is not in rearranging the letters—that's easy—but in spotting them: you have to know the code. 'Messy' for example, usually