Chapter Thirty-Three
Rosie woke up crying as she had done every day for the last week.
It was like losing James all over again, except that then, she had been grieving for a past life and for a person that suddenly only existed in her memories and in photos.
Now she mourned her future, which felt dreary and empty.
She cried for her garden which would soon belong to someone else, for her new friends who would probably forget her, and most of all for the man to whom she had given her heart, and who had tossed it aside in his pursuit of fame and fortune in another country.
Emma had been wonderful. She had insisted that Rosie stay with her for at least a week, and had driven Rosie back to her flat the next day in order to collect some clothes and pack up any items from the fridge that might go off.
She hadn’t tried telling Rosie to cheer up, or encouraged her to keep busy, or pestered her with lots of questions.
Instead, Emma had just let her be by herself, and when required had supplied boxes of tissues and copious amounts of chocolate and wine.
Simon had popped round a couple of times too, simply to say hello and sit with her. He had informed her boss that she was still unable to come back to work and been deliberately vague about the reasons for her continued absence.
Although he detested Connor, Simon confessed he had been following him on social media sites ever since Rosie first started renting his garden, and had now seen confirmation from Connor himself, as if it were needed, that he was leaving with Bonnie.
Yesterday he had volunteered to go round and beat him to a pulp, which had brought a smile to her face.
To her knowledge, Simon hadn’t had a fight with anyone since he was in primary school, but it was gallant of him to offer.
She sat up in bed and wiped her face. Maybe next time she’d say yes.
A knock on the door was followed seconds later by Emma, carrying a cup of tea. She sat down on the side of the bed.
‘I’m off to work, hon.’ She stroked Rosie’s hair. ‘But I’ll see if I can finish early and then I’m taking you out for something to eat.’
Rosie opened her mouth to protest but felt Emma’s fingers pressed against it. ‘You’re going to say no, so don’t.’ Emma hugged her. ‘I’ll see you later, okay?’
She knew why Emma was doing this. It was to somehow make the day go quicker; to distract her from the fact that somewhere around four o’clock this afternoon, a plane was taking off with Connor on it.
He had tried to call her so many times last week that in the end she’d blocked his number and let the charge on her phone run down completely.
She couldn’t take any more pain. Feeling like she’d been a passing entertainment was bad enough, but hearing his excuses would break her heart.
She hadn’t meant to fall in love with Connor Forbes, but it had happened all the same.
Now she had to find a way to carry on without him.
Emma was true to her word and arrived back just after three o’clock. ‘Grab your coat, it’s still chilly outside.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘My treat. No spoilers.’
Emma was in full-on bossy best friend mode as she bundled Rosie into the car and drove her over towards Kings Hampton, a leafy, affluent town north-east of Haxford.
The Old Priory stood at the edge of the town in its own grounds and was now part conference centre, part tea rooms, part hotel, although its name gave a clue to its origins.
The tea rooms were situated at the back of the building overlooking the gardens, although the wide French doors were kept firmly closed against the chilly March breezes.
Instead of a cafe full of tables and chairs, the wood panelled room was full of paintings in the classical style, cosy armchairs and comfy looking two-seater Chesterfields arranged in small groups.
At the end of the room, a blazing log fire spat and crackled.
They were led to a sofa which afforded a view over an expanse of lawn dominated by an ancient looking cedar tree.
Within minutes, a girl had brought over a pot of tea, and two vintage plates, followed by a three-tier plate stand laden with all manner of sandwiches, cakes and delicate pastry concoctions.
Emma passed Rosie a plate. ‘Right then, you go first, and don’t tell me you’re not hungry.’
Rosie didn’t think she was all that peckish despite not having eaten anything all day, but the dainty finger sandwiches did look very tempting, and she bit into a roast beef one.
‘That’s right,’ said Emma encouragingly. ‘You need to keep your strength up for when the strip-o-gram arrives.’
Rosie dropped the sandwich and stared at her.
‘Oh, Rosie, what do you take me for? This isn’t a 1990s hen party, and I wouldn’t do that to my best friend, would I?
Anyway, this doesn’t look like the sort of place they’d allow a strip-o-gram.
’ She nudged Rosie gently. ‘Had you fooled for a minute though, didn’t I?
Come on, eat up. I don’t think this is the sort of place that does doggy bags either. ’
For someone who didn’t think they were very hungry, Rosie managed several sandwiches and plenty of the miniature cakes. By the time she glanced at her watch it was well past five. Connor was gone.
Emma wagged a disapproving finger. ‘I saw that sneaky look, Rosie Steadman.’ She put her arm around her friend. ‘Do you know what my mum would say? When you feel like you’ve reached the bottom, it’s safe to let go, because you can’t fall any further. Then you find a way to get back up again.’
Rosie sighed. ‘I always liked your mum. Mine would say something like, “why don’t you help me tidy the shed” or “let’s take the dog for a nice long walk”.
But I’m not like my mum. I can’t bury myself in menial tasks and pretend everything’s fine, because I’ve tried it and it doesn’t work.
That might be how she copes with life, but no amount of shed tidying or dog walking is going to make me feel any different. ’
‘So tell me what will make you feel better, and you’re not allowed to say sex with Connor Forbes.’
Even the sound of his name was painful, but Rosie knew that was to be expected; grieving for someone was a long, arduous and personal road.
After her dad died, her mum had thrown herself into endless rounds of tasks, necessary or invented.
That was how you coped with trauma according to Katharine Devereux.
Rosie had rushed back home, sacrificing her college ambitions for the stronger need for familiarity and security.
When James died, Rosie had simply replicated the same coping mechanism.
This time the routines of work had been her salvation.
She had volunteered to cover weekend shifts so she didn’t have to be in the flat on her own, and sealed in the boundaries of her world so she didn’t stray too far and inadvertently fall off the edge.
But wasn’t that just treading water? It didn’t make her feel any better, it just gradually dulled the pain little by little.
‘Okay, I can see the wheels going round, which is good,’ said Emma. ‘Any ideas yet? What about gardening?’
Rosie shook her head.
‘No,’ agreed Emma. ‘Too many painful memories. What about your dressmaking? Didn’t you do a couple of dresses for someone awhile back?’
‘Yes, but that’s not a career.’
‘Stop being sensible for once. You know what, he’s done it all the wrong way, but Connor has given you a clean slate to create whatever you like and do whatever you want.
’ She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a pocket notebook and a pen.
‘Here. This is your clean slate and tomorrow is day one of the new Rosie Steadman. You can choose every detail of your new life so write down what you want it to look like.’
Emma was right. This was a new start for her.
There was no James to tell her what to do, no Connor leading her heart astray.
What did she want this new life to look like?
Right now she wasn’t sure, but maybe she could start with what she didn’t want.
She thought for a moment and then started writing:
1. Move out of the flat. It is not where I chose to live.
2. Stop working at Pennewicks.
3. Do something more creative.
4. Learn a new skill.
She pushed the paper pad back to Emma. ‘Will that do for starters?’
‘I’m proud of you, Rosie. I know you don’t like lots of sympathy and all that gushy stuff, but I’m going to say this anyway.
You’ve coped with a lot in the last couple of years.
You lost your baby, you lost your husband, you’ve had your heart broken again.
Life has been crap, and you have every right to feel like a victim.
But this is a new start for you and this’—she picked up the pad of paper—‘is your Magna Carta.’
Emma ordered two glasses of Prosecco in order, she said, to make it official.
‘This afternoon we are saying goodbye to the old Rosie.’ She raised her glass.
‘And tomorrow we will say hello to the new Rosie, who is full of creative ideas and will do brilliant things. And if any man so much as thinks about being mean to her, he’ll have to answer to me and my very pointy hairdressing scissors. ’