Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rosie packed her mauve wheelie suitcase with T-shirts and leggings and a sweatshirt, balled-up trainer socks …
she remembered the part about climbing a hill and wondered about outdoor gear.
The pocket rain poncho might not cut it when it came to the mountains of the north.
Her only warm coat was the knee-length red wool, which might prove hazardous on a steep slope.
She sat down on the bed and googled What clothes do you need for hill walking.
Rosie had only ever done such a thing – hiked – once, on a school outward bound course in the Peak District in the height of summer.
That trip, and a visit to the Edinburgh Festival, were her only previous sorties to the North, so her ideas about Lancashire, Cumbria and Yorkshire were based largely on Coronation Street and gritty police dramas that usually opened with the discovery of a body on a bleak moor overlooking a town with many chimneys.
The word ‘protection’ featured often in Rosie’s search result – from ‘fast-changing, often treacherous’ weather conditions.
Waterproof trousers were recommended, as were a thermal vest, woolly hat, thick gloves and ‘sturdy’ walking boots, none of which she possessed.
But her Doc Martens were quite sturdy? And they wouldn’t be going up high high, only smallish-hill high.
Even so, the internet was clear on this, and sternly so.
Be Prepared. It seemed an entire new kit was required for this place of fells and lakes.
But Rosie had neither the time nor funds to source these ‘essentials’, so she’d have to hope the Vybe team would loan her gear for the outdoor shoots.
Maybe that fuchsia pink sleeveless vest, she thought, perking up.
As Rosie added her bag of toiletries to the suitcase, her phone rang, and Mum flashed up on the screen, with its scream emoji.
Rosie froze, wondering whether to reject the call.
Her finger hovered over the red circle. She hadn’t yet shared news of the break-up with her parents, nor had she updated them on the book situation, and having spent the past hour thinking ahead to the weekend was reluctant to send her thoughts back there again.
Mum would be hugely disappointed by recent developments, as a lawyer-boyfriend and a book deal both carried top-notch bragging rights.
Meanwhile, Rosie’s lovely dad would be sorry her relationship hadn’t worked out, but would understand the reasons, and would be devastated about the book because he knew how much it meant to her.
She shouldn’t put this off. Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the bed and stabbed at the screen, quickly, as if it were red hot.
‘Mum! How’s things?’
Tiresome, apparently. And that was mostly to do with traffic jams caused by the roadworks on the bypass, meaning it was taking forever to get to her two days a week volunteering at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau.
Plus Dad’s back was playing up again – he was upstairs having a lie down – and trying to get an appointment at the doctor’s was nigh on impossible, even if you rang at 8am.
‘I was holding on for twenty minutes, then I couldn’t get him an appointment for three weeks!’
This was how life worked in their house.
If Dad (a history academic) needed a doctor’s appointment, Mum (volunteer worker and pillar of the community) rang up to make it.
She was as close to a trad wife as it got in modern-day Britain.
Dad cooked (occasionally) and would run the Dyson round, but Mum ironed his shirts, dusted; he mowed the lawns, filled the cars with petrol.
‘How’s Reuben?’ her mother asked, when she’d exhausted this week’s litany of complaints and irritations.
Rosie swallowed. ‘Um … well, I’m afraid, the fact is, we’ve split up.’ She braced for impact.
‘You’ve what? Oh no, Rosalynd, surely not? What on earth happened? Is this just a tiff?’
Rosie briefly explained how difficult things had become, and why; how her publishing dream had crashed and burned, and Reuben’s response to that.
‘Well, I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said Mum, after a pause. ‘As you know, I like Reuben very much. But I expect he’ll come back, if that’s really all it was about.’
Excuse me?
‘All? Mum–’
‘It’s obviously terribly disappointing, but he’s a busy and important man – you can’t expect him to be as invested in your book as you are … were. And to be fair, writing books is only a hobby; it’s not your job. You can’t–’
‘Mum–’
‘It sounds to me as if you haven’t been paying him enough attention. You have to work at these things, you know.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I’m sorry you don’t seem to understand either, Mum.’
She sensed her mother sitting up straighter. ‘But I rather think I do.’
Rosie didn’t respond. She’d suddenly remembered the zoo gardener’s cheerful grin, along with the suspicion that had followed – that perhaps, all this time, she’d been subconsciously choosing men for all the wrong reasons.
‘Is the book definitely not happening, then?’ said Mum, breaking the silence.
‘Definitely not. The boat with the World War II books on it has apparently already sailed.’
‘Well, that’s an awful shame – my friends were all so excited to read it. My book club had it pencilled in! And I hate to think how your father’s going to react.’
Rosie hated that thought too. Her book had been inspired by his mother’s wartime experience, which had made it all the more special to him.
Tears sprung into her eyes as it hit her all over again.
‘Will you tell him for me, Mum? I don’t think I could do that without crying, and that’d only make him feel worse.
’ She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears.
‘Look, I’m going away tomorrow, to the Lakes, for an assignment …
’ She opened her eyes again, and the tears ran down her cheeks.
‘I’ll ring him … from there … I can’t …’ She blew out a breath and swiped at her cheeks.
‘I’m quite upset, Mum. I really need some time … ’
‘And you and Reuben–’
‘It’s over, yes. He’s gone. I know you liked him, but I think it’s probably for the best – he wasn’t there for me, not properly …
’ Rosie didn’t have the strength to further explain how her mother’s prospective perfect son-in-law had let her down.
She ended the call, then pulled a handful of tissues from the box on her bedside table, lay down and cried some more.
Ah well, at least she’d broken the news.
Her mother would now be telling Dad, and the thought of how that would make her soft-hearted father feel only made her cry harder.
She wished he was here, to give her a hug and some reassuring words.
She reminded herself of how, at the start of it all, when she’d received rejection after rejection, he’d quoted Churchill (didn’t all dads?): ‘Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.’
Now, her reserves of enthusiasm – for writing, for life – were almost on empty.
But … she blew her nose. Get it together, Rosie.
She’d attempt to fan the tiny spark of positivity that remained.
That third thing she’d feared when she’d been summoned to Amara’s office, which had turned out instead to be the chance to write something with potential to move her journalist career forward, even if her novelist dreams were dead in the water.
Rosie sat up again and texted her mum: Good to chat. It’s been a horrible couple of weeks but don’t worry, I’ll be fine. Tell Dad I’ll be in touch soon. XX
A little later, as Rosie finished packing her case, her father texted: I’m so very sorry to hear about the book, but as Churchill said, “Never give up!!” I’m sure someone else will want to publish your wonderful words.
Also I’m sorry about Reuben, but if I can speak honestly now, I never thought he was right for you (but don’t tell Mum!) Love, Dad XX
‘Any refreshments?’ asked the man wheeling a trolley down the aisle as the train sped its way north.
Pulled from her meandering thoughts, Rosie slid her laptop across the table to make room. The couple sitting opposite had left the train at Crewe, and now she had all four seats to herself.
After reading up on Madison Tyler and casting her eye over the material about the wellness weekend, Rosie had spent the journey gazing out of the window.
Soothed by the smooth swoosh of the high-speed train, her mind became untethered from its low-key angst and wandered off in random directions as London’s urban sprawl gave way to farmland, rolling hills, winding country lanes, waterways with old humpback bridges, villages with pretty cottages and ancient church spires.
I wonder who lives there?
Who’s that person walking their dog across that field?
What are they thinking about?
The Midlands towns of Northampton … Rugby … Stafford … passed in a blur.
At first it wasn’t so different to her native Surrey, but now, two hours or so on, as they reached the old mill towns of Lancashire the land opened up, and in the distance to the east rose purple hills. The Pennines?
Here, the clouds were lower, greyer. The trees were still mostly bare, and the fields winter-brown. Evidently spring hadn’t yet sprung in Lancashire. Drops of rain began hitting the windows, tracking horizontal. It was starting to feel properly grim.
‘Sorry!’ said Rosie, turning her attention to the man with the trolley. ‘I was miles away. How much is a cup of tea?’ She went to take her purse from her bag.
‘Och no, put that away,’ he said. His accent was Scottish. ‘Snacks and drinks are complimentary.’
‘Oh my god – free snacks?’ Rosie was very much enjoying the first-class experience, courtesy of Vybe Activewear. She’d already resolved to write nice things about their wonderful clothes. Good job she was a genuine fan, bearing in mind her incorruptible journalistic principles.
‘Yes indeed.’ He set down a white plastic tray, on which were a pot of tea, cup and saucer, milk, sugar, a twin-pack of biscuits, and a plate with a scone, a dish of jam, and one of cream. ‘The complementary scone says your groovy tartan pants are to die for,’ he added, with a cute smile.
Rosie giggled. Oh. He was gorgeous!
‘Are you heading to Scotland?’ he asked, nodding at her yellow-and-black-check trousers.
It was the first time she’d worn them in months, as Reuben hadn’t been a fan.
He’d never come right out and criticised her taste in clothes; it had always been more …
oblique. He’d sweep a look from head to toe and ask, ‘Is that what you’re wearing? ’
At first, he’d professed to love her ‘originality’. But as time went on, his enthusiasm for her eclectic style had waned, and he’d attempted to mould her look into one more appropriate for the girlfriend of a lawyer with his eye on a partnership.
‘No, I’m going to the Lakes,’ Rosie replied. She may have batted her eyelids. ‘But it’s all North, right?’
The man dramatically sucked in a breath. ‘Darling, the trousers are fabulous, but just wear them as a fashion statement, not as a cultural nod. Now enjoy your tea, and do press the wee knob if you want a top-up!’