Chapter Thirty-Two
Connor poured himself a second large scotch and tried the number again. Like the last seven attempts it rang for a while and then went to voicemail.
‘Shit!’ he yelled, as he threw the phone down.
He was sure he had Rosie’s address somewhere on a piece of paper, but everything had been moved around and he’d spent the last half an hour searching for it.
He had specifically arranged with Bonnie that the press releases would go out Friday, so he could speak to Rosie on Thursday night once all the legal stuff was tied up.
She should have heard it from him so he could have explained that Patrick needed to let out the flat to cover his own mortgage, and he needed regular employment again.
He wasn’t qualified to do many jobs, and after what happened last year, the offers had dried up.
He’d been applying for openings and making enquiries, but so far it had all come to nothing.
This job with Bonnie was only for a few months, possibly until the end of the summer, and then he would have returned to the UK with what his grandad would have called decent prospects.
He knew it would be hard for Rosie, but he would have made sure they spoke every day.
How could his plans have backfired so badly?
Bonnie was right: he would have been a moron to turn down that offer, although ironically it was Stefania that finally swayed his decision.
He could chalk it all up as a load of drunken threats, but she could still ruin his reputation and his chance of a relationship with Rosie.
Therefore, he had accepted Bonnie’s offer on the condition that a legal letter was sent to Stefania preventing defamation of character and also from making any approach to Rosie.
The previous day he had made a personal statement and completed the necessary legal documents at the solicitors’ office, then he’d met with Bonnie for press interviews and promotional photos.
He was probably grimacing, but he didn’t care.
He’d had to admit that although he didn’t have any romantic feelings for Bonnie, it was wonderful to be part of the team again and be so well looked after.
Bonnie’s team had already booked the flights and sorted out the travel paperwork and logistics; all he had to do was turn up at Heathrow airport next Wednesday.
That gave him a week to organise his packing, speak to Patrick and hand back the keys, and most importantly to speak to Rosie.
Everything seemed to be happening at a fast pace and with the utmost efficiency, but it had all been going according to plan up until today.
With hindsight, he should obviously have told Rosie straight away about the job offer, but he’d put it off until the last possible moment, not wanting to upset her.
Now his plan had backfired spectacularly.
He picked up his phone and tried the number again.
This time it didn’t even ring before going to voicemail.
She was blocking his number. He couldn’t just sit here and do nothing; he would go and speak to Dorothy.
She had driven him over to Rosie’s flat two and half months ago, maybe she remembered the name of the road.
Disappointingly, Dorothy wasn’t in. Nor when he popped down for a second time half an hour later, or the five times after that. He knocked vigorously on the door until his knuckles hurt. In the morning he would try something else. He wasn’t going to give up.
*
The following morning, Connor woke early, and immediately the misery of the previous day returned. Unable to face breakfast, he showered and made himself a coffee, which he took out into the garden. He used to bring Rosie her morning cup of tea out here every Saturday.
Rosie’s bulbs were now all flowering and there were bright spots of colour everywhere. He looked at the little greenhouse with its trays of seeds all in neat rows. She would surely come back to look after those?
Everything he looked at reminded him of conversations with Rosie:
…I wondered whether you’d be happy with me putting a small tool store in the garden?
I expected you to object.
He removed the key from underneath the painted flowerpot and unlocked the tool store. Inside her garden equipment was neatly arranged, and on the little shelf sat her wind-up radio.
…while you’re standing there doing your objecting, you can wind up my radio. You need to keep going for at least a minute…
Connor picked it up and started winding it.
It gave him something positive to do. After a couple of minutes, he switched it on.
Rosie always had it tuned to Radio Classics, but the hauntingly beautiful music caused such a painful longing in him that he snapped it off again and retreated inside. He had things to get done.
The taxi dropped him at the edge of the Pedestrian Zone shortly after nine o’clock.
From there it was a short walk to Pennewicks and he shoved the revolving doors impatiently and hurried up to the ladieswear department.
Rosie wasn’t at her usual spot, but he loitered for a while in case she had gone to help a customer.
Eventually a sale assistant approached him.
‘Can I help you, sir? Are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘Yes, um, no. Actually, I’m looking for Rosie. Is she in today?’
The sales assistant gave him an enquiring look. ‘Sorry, she’s off sick today. Can I help you with something?’
Connor mumbled his apologies and hurried out. If she wasn’t at work, and she wasn’t answering the phone, how was he going to get hold of her?
The following day he returned, and although he spoke to different people, the answer was the same. She was still on sick leave. He also caught up with Dorothy, but she apologised and said she couldn’t remember Rosie’s address either, which only added to his miserable mood.
*
He tried to keep busy; he had things to buy for his extended trip, including adapters for his electrical equipment, new shoes, and a couple of new white shirts, but it didn’t fill the void inside him, nor assuage the guilt.
Most of Saturday was spent packing up the things he wasn’t going to take to America, and talking to grandad on the phone.
Connor spent Sunday with Patrick as he had matters to discuss.
They agreed he should leave his keys and the spares with Dorothy, and Patrick promised to arrange storage for his packing boxes.
Lisa seemed almost disappointed that he was leaving the country.
‘Who’s going to keep us entertained now then?
’ she asked over dinner. Brendan was overjoyed to see his funny uncle again, and Connor and Patrick took him to the park to run off his surplus energy.
After forty minutes of running around, the tired toddler flung himself at Connor, wanting to be picked up.
‘Oof, you’re getting bigger every day, little man!
Don’t grow too quick while I’m away, will you? ’
‘I don’t want you to leave,’ Brendan wailed, as he grabbed handfuls of Connor’s sweatshirt.
Connor ruffled his hair affectionately. ‘I promise I’ll bring you back a present from America.’
It reminded Connor that he ought to say goodbye to his neighbours, but particularly Jacob.
He would miss that little boy, and he’d make sure to bring back something from America for both him and his sister.
No date had been fixed for his return yet, as it would depend on the success of the series to a large extent, but it would be several months at least.
By Monday, Connor was becoming increasingly desperate to find Rosie, and he returned to Pennewicks.
This time he spoke to Rosie’s supervisor and was informed in no uncertain terms that he was not to keep coming back day after day, and that security would be notified if he continued to do so.
He felt like he was back at school being told off for some misdemeanour – no wonder Rosie didn’t like her that much.
As he was walking out, one of the young sales girls hurried over. ‘You’re Connor Forbes, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he answered warily. ‘I’m a friend of Rosie’s. I need to give her an urgent message, do you know how I can get in touch?’
‘No. But you could try Simon.’
For the first time, Connor felt a flicker of hope. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘Menswear.’ She giggled. ‘I wish I had my phone on me. My friend’s going to be properly jealous. She works in the haberdashery shop. They only have old customers in there.’
Connor sprinted up the stairs two at a time. The menswear department was relatively quiet compared to the bustle of ladieswear, and he quickly spotted one of the sales assistants.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for Simon. Could you point me in the right direction?’
The man pointed. ‘Over there. Behind the till.’
There were two people standing in the queue and Connor joined it. Thankfully it moved quicker than the ones at the Post Office, and he didn’t have long to wait.
Connor checked the name badge; he had the right person. He proffered a friendly smile. ‘Hi, I’m Connor, I’m a friend of Rosie Steadman. I was told you might know how I can get in touch with her.’
The man stared back at him with a cold expression.
‘I know who you are,’ he said in a distinctly unfriendly voice.
Simon beckoned another sales assistant to take over the till, and then took Connor aside.
‘Unless you’re here to look at the merchandise, please leave the store, sir, otherwise I shall be forced to call security. ’
This was the second person to threaten him with that this morning, and Connor’s patience was rapidly eroding. ‘Look, I’m not causing a security issue, I’m simply asking you to give her a message. Surely you can do that?’
Simon’s customer service demeanour fell away completely, and his voice took on a harsh undertone. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage? Just bugger off to America and leave her alone.’
He turned away without waiting for a response, but Connor grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I know she’s upset. I wouldn’t hurt her for the world, especially after what her husband did. Please tell her I want to talk.’
Simon threw his hand off. ‘She doesn’t want to see you.’
They glared at each other like a pair of competing male stags about to lock antlers over the same doe. ‘Please tell her I want to talk,’ Connor repeated slowly.
Connor left the store in a furious mood.
He marched all the way back to the flat, but it didn’t lessen his frustration.
He could only hope that Simon would pass on the message and that Rosie might come back to her garden.
In the meantime that left him with only one option.
He didn’t own any writing paper either – all his communications were via his phone – so he went downstairs to see Dorothy and ask if she had anything he could use.
‘Yes of course, dear, come in for a second.’ Dorothy opened up the flap of an old-fashioned writing bureau and retrieved a pad of thick, pale blue paper. ‘It’s a dying art these days. I think it’s a crying shame youngsters don’t write more letters, so, good for you for setting an example.’
Right now he didn’t feel like he was much of an example to anyone.
However, it would be churlish to admit he was doing this out of sheer necessity and that he’d tried every other option first. Having promised to return the paper pad to her, he found a pen and then sat down at the little table by the window.
Connor had never been a great one for letter writing, but now he willed the right words onto the paper as he began to write.