Chapter Thirty-Four
When Rosie went to find herself some breakfast the following morning, she discovered that the list she had made yesterday had been printed out in a large font and pinned to the kitchen noticeboard.
She studied it as she ate a piece of toast. What did she want her future to look like?
Plodding along the same path in the same flat day after day with only a Pennewicks retirement pension to look forward to at the end of it was not what she had envisioned, but was changing your life really that easy?
Did you simply make a list and tick off items one by one, or was it a way of deluding herself into thinking her problems had gone away? There was only one way to find out.
After she got ready, she pulled out her laptop. While she waited for it to wake up, she called her mother.
‘Darling, I’ve been so worried about you. Simon said you’re staying at Emma’s house. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ She stopped. That was the old Rosie sneaking back. ‘No, I’m not actually. I can’t stay at the flat any longer, would you mind if I moved back home for a while?’
Despite the fact that she would be moving with her sewing machine, sewing table and all her worldly goods, she could tell her mum was thrilled to have her daughter back and promised to make space for all her things.
The garden equipment would have to stay at Mickleborough Gardens, Rosie decided.
It could only serve as a permanent and painful reminder of happier times and she had enough of those already, but one day she might go over and fetch her hedgehog family and put them in her mum’s garden.
Connor had never commented on those. They were uncontaminated.
She spent the rest of the morning phoning round estate agents and made an arrangement for three firms to come over and value the flat the following Saturday.
She supposed she ought to be feeling sad, like something was coming to an end, but it had never really felt like her place, even before James died.
She had set her heart on a cute little two-up, two-down cottage with a heart-shaped door knocker, but James had overruled her with a shopping list of objections.
His plan had been to buy somewhere small so they could save and move up the property ladder, even though personally, Rosie thought the flat was a little too small.
Now she was planning to sell up and move back home.
How was this progress?, she thought miserably.
Rosie pressed her fingers to her scalp. ‘Go away, old Rosie!’ she said in a commanding voice.
The measurement of progress was subjective, she decided.
James’ idea of progress was getting promoted, and buying a house.
All his actions were measured against that yardstick, although as it turned out he didn’t have that much saved, and Rosie suspected she knew where the money might have gone.
Connor’s actions were measured against the yardstick of fame and fortune.
But the new Rosie didn’t have to choose either of those.
What was important now was not to compare her progress against anyone else’s.
That, as far as she was concerned, was just a recipe for making you more miserable.
Leaving work felt like a much bigger step.
She had worked at Pennewicks for eighteen years and was virtually part of the furniture.
She knew all the regular customers and loved helping people, but there were only so many times you could sell a dress to someone when you knew it didn’t suit them at all, or give a refund to someone whom you were pretty sure only bought the article to wear for one night.
When she walked in the following morning, she wondered if she looked different. She certainly felt different, but that was due in part to the knowledge that she was carrying an envelope in her bag containing the letter announcing her formal intention to leave.
After a brief appointment with the Human Resources manager, Rosie informed her supervisor Mrs Callow of her decision, citing the need for a change.
She was on one month’s notice, but allowing for all the holiday she was owed, she’d be leaving in two weeks.
Everyone said how sorry they would be to see her go, and nodded sympathetically.
They said comforting things like ‘we know the last year has been hard for you’ as though no further reason was required.
Rosie proffered none, and only her friend and colleague Jasmine came close to guessing the real reason.
She had rushed up to Rosie as soon as all the fuss had died down and informed her that Connor Forbes had been in asking for her the previous week.
‘He said he knew you!’ she squealed. ‘I can’t believe it! Did you meet online or something? Did he ever ask you out?’
‘Yes, once,’ replied Rosie, fighting off memories of Malbury Hall and that one night of bliss. She forced a bright smile on her face. ‘But we were just friends for a while.’ And then he stole my heart while I wasn’t looking, she added silently.
At lunchtime she sent Emma a text to say she had started on step two of her Magna Carta, and then popped up to see Simon to ask if he would help her move a few things out of the flat.
Emma was wonderful at being supportive and enthusiastic, but Rosie didn’t want to reminisce over things as they packed up her life.
Simon was, as ever, more than happy to help and they arranged to meet at her place on Sunday.
Rosie was glad she’d been able to support him after his relationship had ended, and she recalled many Sunday afternoons standing at the side of the rugby pitch and cheering him on.
Granted that was a few years ago now, but it made her feel marginally less guilty about asking for his help again.