more relaxed, I visualised my funeral which would be a very sad but dignified affair. On my coffin would be a huge spray of white lilies—no, not lilies,
roses
of course, like my name, obviously—red ones to match my hair. The twins would be chief mourners: I was confident they'd do it well. Now, as I waited at a traffic light, I imagined them in black, tears streaming down their lovely faces, clutching each other's hands. There'd be a huge photo of me leaning against the altar, and probably, what—a hundred people or so? More if some of my readers came. A
lot
more. That might bump it up to at least, ooh, three or four hundred—maybe even five. I could hear them all reminiscing about me in respectful, hushed tones as the organ played.
'—Can't believe it! So tragic!'
'—She was so beautiful and kind. '
'—That gorgeous figure of hers. '
'—She could wear
anything
!
'—Even slim-fitting trousers. '
'—Yes—and her advice was
great
!
I imagined Ed, arriving late, looking distraught. Mary-Claire had tried to prevent him from going, but he'd thrust her to one side.
'No!' he'd screamed. 'Nothing will stop me! And by the way, Mary-Claire—you're dumped!' And because the church was so full—I liked Trev's black ribbon in his collar, nice touch—Ed had had to stand at the back. Now, no longer able to control himself, he was incontinent with grief. And as he wept openly and loudly, heads were turning, my friends (and readers) torn between contempt for his treatment of me during my life, and pity for his distress at my death.
'It's all my fault!' he was blubbing as they sung 'Abide With Me'. 'If I hadn't betrayed her this would
never
have happened. I'll always blame myself!' Gratified by this confession, I now saw everyone at my grave, Ed still blubbing like a baby as he threw in the final clod.
'—God look at him—he's gone to pieces!'
'—He'll never get over it. '
'—He didn't deserve her. '
'—He didn't appreciate her. '
'—C'mon on, Ed, it's time to go. '
Now I imagined everyone leaving, and the south London cemetery lonely and dark; and I realised that the only reason I was there was because I'd let that weirdo, Theo Sheen, into my house. I was feeling pretty appalled by now and thinking that yes, I'd taken a huge and
very
stupid risk and for what—a bit of cash?—when suddenly my mobile rang.
'Rose?' I heard as I slipped in my earpiece.
'Yes?'
'It's Theo here. ' Aaarrrggh! 'I just wondered if you'll be coming back tonight?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'I wasn't sure what to do about the front door, that's all. '
'What about it?'
'Should I put the chain on?' Oh. 'I know that Camberwell can be a bit dodgy on the burglary front. So I just wanted to know whether I should put the chain on when I go to bed, that's all. '
'No, ' I said, exhaling with relief. 'Don't bother. I'll be back by twelve. '
'Right then, ' he said cheerfully. 'Anyway, have a nice evening. Bye. '
I heaved a sigh of relief as I rang off, but then Suspicion raised its ugly head again. And I thought maybe, reading between the lines here, he's just trying to find out whether or not I have a bloke. Yes… the enquiry about the security chain is just a front. A red herring. Maybe he
is
a homicidal weirdo after all…
PARP! PARP!!
PARP
!!!
'All
right
!' I yelled into my mirror as I moved off the green light. I pulled myself together and banished Theo from my mind as I negotiated the fume-filled roads. I skirted Brixton then drove towards Clapham, passing my old flat in Meteor Street. As I spotted a sign for Putney I felt my pulse begin to race. It was ten to seven—over an hour until I had to meet Henry, so I still had plenty of time. To calm my nerves I turned on the radio and found myself listening to a phone-in on LBC. I recognised the voice: it was Lana McCord, the new agony aunt on
Moil
magazine.
'We're discussing relationship breakdown, ' she said. 'And now we have Betsey on line five. Betsey, you're a divorcee I
roses
of course, like my name, obviously—red ones to match my hair. The twins would be chief mourners: I was confident they'd do it well. Now, as I waited at a traffic light, I imagined them in black, tears streaming down their lovely faces, clutching each other's hands. There'd be a huge photo of me leaning against the altar, and probably, what—a hundred people or so? More if some of my readers came. A
lot
more. That might bump it up to at least, ooh, three or four hundred—maybe even five. I could hear them all reminiscing about me in respectful, hushed tones as the organ played.
'—Can't believe it! So tragic!'
'—She was so beautiful and kind. '
'—That gorgeous figure of hers. '
'—She could wear
anything
!
'—Even slim-fitting trousers. '
'—Yes—and her advice was
great
!
I imagined Ed, arriving late, looking distraught. Mary-Claire had tried to prevent him from going, but he'd thrust her to one side.
'No!' he'd screamed. 'Nothing will stop me! And by the way, Mary-Claire—you're dumped!' And because the church was so full—I liked Trev's black ribbon in his collar, nice touch—Ed had had to stand at the back. Now, no longer able to control himself, he was incontinent with grief. And as he wept openly and loudly, heads were turning, my friends (and readers) torn between contempt for his treatment of me during my life, and pity for his distress at my death.
'It's all my fault!' he was blubbing as they sung 'Abide With Me'. 'If I hadn't betrayed her this would
never
have happened. I'll always blame myself!' Gratified by this confession, I now saw everyone at my grave, Ed still blubbing like a baby as he threw in the final clod.
'—God look at him—he's gone to pieces!'
'—He'll never get over it. '
'—He didn't deserve her. '
'—He didn't appreciate her. '
'—C'mon on, Ed, it's time to go. '
Now I imagined everyone leaving, and the south London cemetery lonely and dark; and I realised that the only reason I was there was because I'd let that weirdo, Theo Sheen, into my house. I was feeling pretty appalled by now and thinking that yes, I'd taken a huge and
very
stupid risk and for what—a bit of cash?—when suddenly my mobile rang.
'Rose?' I heard as I slipped in my earpiece.
'Yes?'
'It's Theo here. ' Aaarrrggh! 'I just wondered if you'll be coming back tonight?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'I wasn't sure what to do about the front door, that's all. '
'What about it?'
'Should I put the chain on?' Oh. 'I know that Camberwell can be a bit dodgy on the burglary front. So I just wanted to know whether I should put the chain on when I go to bed, that's all. '
'No, ' I said, exhaling with relief. 'Don't bother. I'll be back by twelve. '
'Right then, ' he said cheerfully. 'Anyway, have a nice evening. Bye. '
I heaved a sigh of relief as I rang off, but then Suspicion raised its ugly head again. And I thought maybe, reading between the lines here, he's just trying to find out whether or not I have a bloke. Yes… the enquiry about the security chain is just a front. A red herring. Maybe he
is
a homicidal weirdo after all…
PARP! PARP!!
PARP
!!!
'All
right
!' I yelled into my mirror as I moved off the green light. I pulled myself together and banished Theo from my mind as I negotiated the fume-filled roads. I skirted Brixton then drove towards Clapham, passing my old flat in Meteor Street. As I spotted a sign for Putney I felt my pulse begin to race. It was ten to seven—over an hour until I had to meet Henry, so I still had plenty of time. To calm my nerves I turned on the radio and found myself listening to a phone-in on LBC. I recognised the voice: it was Lana McCord, the new agony aunt on
Moil
magazine.
'We're discussing relationship breakdown, ' she said. 'And now we have Betsey on line five. Betsey, you're a divorcee I
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