I knew he was only saying it to hurt me, but it worked.
He slammed his fist down on the white table next to him. “Jesus. What’s the matter with you? Are you some sort of emotional cripple? Hmmm? Is that what you are?”
“That’s such a cliché. That’s not fair.”
He was staring at me, with that wild look in his eye. “Is that what you are? Hmmm?”
He was coiled energy across the room. I sat down near the door, glanced at where my bag was.
“Answer me. I am telling you to answer me. Are you an emotional cripple or are you not?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just the way I am. I need love, I need reassurance. This is what I need.”
Bang. The fist again. “This is what you need? This is what you need? Am I hearing this? Am I responsible for what you need now?”
Another push now. “Julian and Janey got married.”
“Oh, so that’s it, is it? We have to do what Julian and Janey did. We have to be Julian and Janey. Well, maybe Julian feels differently about Janey. Maybe Julian wanted to be with Janey in the first place. Maybe Julian wanted to marry Janey.”
“And you don’t want to marry me?”
He looked at me incredulously. “No, Rosie. No. I do not want to marry you. What on earth gives you the idea that I would want to marry you?”
“And you never wanted to sleep with me in the first place. You never wanted me. I’ve just forced you into it all. How does that make me feel?”
Bang. Crash. His script hit the floor and splayed across the polished wood.
“I can’t stand any more of this. I’ve had enough!” he yelled.
Right. He’d said it, I was out. I picked up my coat and bag, moved towards the door. Damn. It was all happening too fast. I could see him starting to panic. He was softening now, coming towards me.
“It’s horrible to think that I’ve been with you on sufferance, Oliver. I’m sorry. I just loved you too much. You’re much too good for me. I don’t want to be a burden to you.” Feeble, weak. Perfect. He paused for a moment, the trace of a smirk began on his face. Had to get out now. Quick quick. Turning to the door. Opening it. “I’m sorry to have taken up your time,” I said sorrowfully.
Then I shut it and ran. Down the stairs. Reached the hallway. Heard him yelling, “Rosie, for fuck’s sake.”
I opened the door, closed it, ran, got to the end of the street, glanced round, saw him running after me, saw a taxi, hailed it, got in.
“Camden Town, please.”
Shirley’s place. Not home. Not for a few days now.
CHAPTER
Eleven
Why do you want to do this?”
Mrs. Edwina Roper, head of personnel for SUSTAIN UK, gazed at me coolly from behind large, tastefully glamorous spectacles.
“I want to help.”
“You realize there are lots of ways of helping without rushing out to Africa. You could help us with fund-raising, or with publicity.”
“I want to do something meaningful with my life.”
“I think you will find that relief work in Africa is not as straightforwardly meaningful as you imagine. What is wrong with your life now?”
I looked out of the window, where the rain was teeming down on Vauxhall. There was a row of grisly shops opposite: a newsagent, a secondhand bathroom-fittings outlet. A bath with no taps and a toilet with no seat were leaning on the wall below the window.
“There’s nothing that I like about it. There’s no point to it.”
“It puts rather a lot of pressure on the poor of Africa to give a point to Rosie Richardson’s life.”
“I thought you would be grateful,” I said, sheepishly.
“I know. But this is not about gratitude. You are asking me for a job—a very interesting job.”
“I know you’ve got a job that needs filling in Safila. I want to do it. I’d be good at it.”
“What makes you think you’d be good at it?”
“Because I would, I’ve got a degree in agriculture.”
“Agriculture is one thing you won’t be called upon to do in Safila.”
“I know. But I know about water and, er, drainage.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“I’m good at organizing . . . land, and I’m good with people and I’ve got lots of energy and I really, really want to do it. Why does anybody want to do it?”
She looked down at my CV. “I think you would be of more use to us here in a voluntary capacity.”
“But that’s not what I want to do. If you don’t want me, I’ll go to another agency and somebody will take me. I know everyone needs staff at the moment. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like.”
She got up and leaned against the front of the desk. “I think anyone who sets too much store by what Africa will do for them risks becoming a liability in the field. Have you recently ended a relationship, Rosie?”
I was completely flabbergasted. How did she know?
“Well, yes,” I said. “But that’s not why I want to do this. It’s the other way round. I broke it off because I wanted to change my life, and do something worth doing.”
“Are you sure you ended the relationship?” she said knowingly, leaning forward.
I couldn’t believe this. Could Oliver, possibly, conceivably have got to her?
“Do you know Oliver Marchant?”
She went and sat back down at her chair, and leaned her chin on both her hands, smiling in a motherly way.
“No. But I have been in this job for a very long time.”
I said nothing.
“If you really want to do this, you should take some time before you decide. The job in Safila has been filled, temporarily at least. SUSTAIN runs a course in disaster relief near Basingstoke. It’s a six-month course. If you want to do it, I’ll be happy to recommend you.”
I sloped back to my flat, dejected, to find messages on the answerphone from everyone under the sun: Julian Alman, Bill Bonham, even ghastly Vicky Spankie, saying they’d heard Oliver had ditched me, and asking if I was all right. Clearly, Oliver had gone round regaling everyone with his story. Fine, I thought. I didn’t mind being humiliated if it meant peace.
The only person I called back was Julian. Of course, he instantly tried to transfer me and cut me off. He called me back. “Sorry, just, er, got cut off.”
“I rang to thank you for your message. That was really nice of you.”
“Oh, I, er, well, Janey and I, you know. Are you all right?”
“I’m really fine. It might all seem a bit strange to you, but I’m going to be much better off without Oliver.”
“Ah, well. Hmm. Yes. I can see that.”
“Did you have a good honeymoon?”
“Um. Well, I . . . you know, I think, relationships are quite difficult, um, aren’t they?”
Oh dear.
“You’re telling me. Listen, don’t worry about me. And send my love to Janey.”
“Yes, but we just wanted to say, you know, we’re very sorry and if there’s anything we can do we’re always here for you.”
“Thank you. I’m going away for a bit. So keep well, and see you soon, I expect.”
“Yes. Where are you going?”
I nearly said Basingstoke, then realized it didn’t quite have the required air of mystery.
“Just away. But I’ll be in touch. Love to Janey.”
*
“Ver’ sorry to hear this. Ver’ sorry. Sher’?”
“Thank you.”
Sir William was pottering around trying to deal with the decanter and pull on his beard all at the same time. “Bin thinkin’. Bin thinkin’. Maybe gel like you needs a bit more . . . to get the old teeth into.”
“I think I do need a complete change at the moment.”
“Well, I blame this pill.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Pill, contraception. Catastrophe. Chap doesn’t recognize responsibility anymore. Doesn’t know a good thing when it’s s
tarin’ ’im in the face.”
I gulped. Could Oliver possibly have told him the story as well? Was there no escape from his influence? Sir William handed me the sherry.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said, “but I’ve enjoyed working for you very much. I appreciate the break you gave me. And I’m sorry to have to leave.”
“Wondered about movin’ you to another bit of the corporation, what about that. Up to Scotland. Ver’ good time of year for grouse. Introduce you to some splendid fellows up there. Shootin’ types. No nonsense.”
“You’re very kind, but I’ve already made my plans. I want to go and work in Africa.”
“Yes, heard a bit about that. Roper’s wife was on about it.” So Edwina Roper knew Sir William. Nothing was private anymore, apparently. “Ver’, ver’ worthwhile thing to do. Have to say. Wish could go off there m’self and do m’bit. Too many ruddy commitments.”
He looked into the distance for a moment and I tried to imagine Sir William chucking it all in to go and live in the bush.
“Still, don’t want to rush into these things, y’know.”
“I’m not rushing into it.”
“Mind made up, eh? Like to see resolve in a gel. Well, all right, all right. When do you want to go?”
“As soon as you can release me. I think I’m supposed to do a month’s notice.”
“No, no no. Bugger that. You bugger off when you want to. Off you go, off you go now. Ver’ good. Press on.”
*
A week to the minute after I had walked out of Oliver’s flat the trouble began. The doorbell rang on the Saturday night at six-forty-five. I knew it was him.
“Hello?”
“Hi, plumpkin. It’s me.”
“I’ll come down.” I didn’t want him in the flat.
He was standing on the doorstep in the dark-blue overcoat. Very white shirt, no tie. Beautiful, beautiful Oliver. He took me in his arms, and the familiar warmth and scent nearly undid everything.
“Go and get your coat.”
“No, Oliver.”
His face crumpled like a little boy’s. He looked so hurt, so defenseless. Oh, Oliver. Oliver, whom I had thought I loved so much.
I went to fetch my coat.
“Where are we going?” I said as I climbed into the car.
“You’ll see.”
We were driving through Hyde Park in the rain, in a slow stream of traffic listening to the moan of the windshield wipers. Oliver was completely silent now. One side of his mouth was twitching. He put his hand on the horn and held it there in spite of the V signs from the car in front and I realized only then what a risk I was taking. We turned right at the lights, passed the ugly red brick buildings which bordered on the park. Then we turned into the Albert Hall car park. At least this was a public place.
“Are we going to a concert?”
“I said, you’ll see.”
In we went, through the glass porch into the dingy circular corridor where concertgoers were hanging around aimlessly, into the lift, up the stairs and along the deep red corridor to . . . the Elgar Room. A uniformed attendant greeted Oliver and swung open the dark wooden door into a burst of light. The room was golden and all-a-glitter, but completely empty. The door closed behind us. I suddenly wanted to scream with terror.
“This was where we first met, wasn’t it?” He was calm, dangerously controlled.
“Yes.”
I hoped the attendant was still outside the door. I had a vision of the man being bribed to dispose of my body. Wheeling me out impassively in a canapé trolley.
Oliver took my hand. I decided to stay calm, keep him calm, go along with whatever it was. He led me, trembling, across the red carpet and up the gilt ornamental staircase. There was a table in the center of the room, draped with a red cloth with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket and two glasses.
He led me to the table. Then dropped dramatically to his knee, whipping a little box out of his pocket, flicking up the lid to reveal an enormous diamond.
“Will you marry me?” he said. . . .
*
“Rosie, I am asking you to marry me.”
I was standing at one end of the table with my head down. The voice was calm still, level. “I am asking you to marry me.”
Silence. I could sense him twitching.
“I have asked you a question. Will you marry me?”
“We’ve just been through all this. You can’t undo what you said last week. You said you didn’t want me. It hasn’t worked between us. I’ve made my plans now. I’m going away.”
“I am asking you to marry me.”
“You know how stormy it’s been for us both. Relationships shouldn’t be like that. I’ve had enough and so have you. We’ll both be better off on our own.”
He was gripping the other end of the table very, very tightly so that the red cloth was bunching up in his grip and the ice bucket was starting to slide towards him.
“Can you hear me, Oliver? Don’t you understand what I’m saying?”
“I have asked you a civilized question and I expect a civilized answer. WILL—YOU—MARRY—ME?”
“No.”
One of the glasses fell over as the tablecloth slid.
“Oliver, please, don’t do this. Come on, let’s go. We can talk somewhere else.”
“I am waiting for an answer. WILL YOU MARRY ME?”
“No.”
The other glass fell over now. The ice bucket was nearly in front of him. I looked up at the softly twinkling chandeliers.
“Rosie, I AM ASKING YOU TO MARRY ME.”
“Oh, shut up, you silly old fool, just shut up,” I said, and ran for it again.
*
Back home I had to disconnect the buzzer with a screwdriver. His car stayed outside the house for an hour. Then the phone rang. The car was still there. Maybe it was Shirley. I picked up the receiver.
“I love you.”
“You love me.”
“I love you.”
“Are you sure? You’re sure it’s not adoration? Or falling for me but not in love with me, or a love affair where you don’t actually love me? Or hurt pride?”
He slammed the phone down. It rang again immediately. I reached down under the table and pulled the little plug out of its socket. Then there was silence.
The car stayed outside all night. It was still there when I got up at 4:00 A.M. It was still there when I was brushing my teeth in the morning. I called Shirley and asked if I could come and stay again. I started packing a bag. At ten o’clock there was a battering on the door of my flat. Someone had let him in. I grabbed the bag, went out on the balcony, climbed over, knocked on the next-door French window and Simon, the thin bespectacled engineer who lived in the next-door flat, appeared looking very surprised. The knocking was still going on.
“Would you be very sweet and let me come out through your flat?”
An idiotic gleam came into his eye. “Aha. Are you having another of your Stormy Rows?”
“Come on. This is serious. Let me out.”
“What’s going on?” He was leaning over the balcony, trying to look into my living room. The knocking was still going on.
“Be quiet there, will you? Some of us are trying to sleep,” shouted Simon, smirking. The knocking stopped.
I shot through his room, out of the door, down the stairs, out, round the corner, another corner, into another taxi. I was getting very fit from all this running, and very broke.
*
I went in to work deliberately late on Monday morning, but I knew I was safe from Oliver there. He wouldn’t make himself look foolish in public. I cleared my desk, went home, packed, unhooked the answerphone and headed for my parents’ home in Devon. It turned out that the disaster relief course had already started, but I persuaded them to take me on a few weeks late and moved to Basingstoke. Letters from Oliver began to appear in my college pigeonhole. They were alternately attacking and loving. They explained about the we
akness of my character, how I had made him feel trapped, pressured, because I loved him too much. How I was superficial, silly, looked at the world through rose-tinted spectacles. How I had ruined his life with my unwanted presence. How it had been my fault for not being stronger. Then there were the others extolling my virtues, telling me of all the things I had awoken in him, begging me to come back. I did nothing. Eventually he stopped.
The relief was overwhelming at first. It was wonderful to be quiet and alone, to get on with my work. But, still, I was very sad because I had lost my belief in love and in myself. The fact that I had eventually swung the seesaw with Oliver didn’t help. What was the point of love if it was a game of see-who-cares-less, if it was such a ridiculous carry-on? What was the point of me, if I allowed my whole life to center on it, then mucked it up?
At times I got relief by turning Oliver into a monster in my head. Maybe there are just some men like that in the world, I thought. Men who have to be in charge, who have to punish those who awaken feelings in them which they cannot control. Men who will lure you with tenderness till you believe that you are safe, then slap you down. Men whom it is impossible for anyone to love without losing their dignity. Men who have to damage those who love them most. But, then, I had fallen in love with one, so what did that make me?
I decided to toughen up. I threw myself into the disaster relief course, poring over the books in the evenings. I kept in touch with Safila and with Edwina Roper at SUSTAIN. Miriam, who was the administrator at Safila, wrote to tell me the temporary assistant was leaving in August and promised to push for me to replace him. My tutor sent SUSTAIN a glowing reference. In June a letter arrived from them offering me the job. I let out my flat, said my good-byes, and left for Nambula.
CHAPTER
Twelve
What’ve we been working for all these years, if they’re just going to starve to death again?” said Debbie.
It was the day after I’d been to see André in Sidra. We were sitting round the table in the cabana, having coffee after supper. We had worked too late. It was getting on for midnight, and we were all frayed around the edges. We had nearly four hundred new arrivals now. They were starting to come from different regions of Kefti, all talking about locusts, and crop losses.