‘So we’re agreed? We won’t mention any of this distressing news to Freya? I don’t think it’s wise to burden her with such sorrow the night before her wedding. There’s no telling how she will react.’
Rosie had quashed her immediate response that the news would scarcely indent her sister’s golden-hued, elephant-hide skin. Freya was unlikely to be too upset at the news of their Aunt Bernice’s death as she had met their mother’s elder sister only once since their mother’s funeral; Freya had expected Bernice to fall under her charms with a flick of her long platinum curls and a flash of her baby-blue eyes and sweet smile. But Bernice could not be won over so cheaply and she had chosen to favour the older, more serious of her sister’s children, much to Freya’s disgust. Bernice had been the only person Rosie knew who saw through Freya’s masquerade of innocence personified and who refused to indulge her every whim.
‘Okay, Dad. We’ll tell her after the wedding,’ Rosie had sighed.
Why hadn’t she been protected from the painful news of losing her aunt – the only person who had been there for her when her relationship with Carlos had ended in tears, lots of them, last summer? She had thought he was her soul mate until he’d found love, affection and the time commitment he wanted in the arms of a sweet Italian girl introduced to him by his mother, who was keen to spend some time with her grandchildren before it was too late. The experience had sworn her off relationships until Giles.
As she wiped away her tears with the back of her hand and gulped in a lungful of calming breath, those heart-singeing words of the English lawyer looped around Rosie’s mind like a scratched record. To add to the turmoil of the day, a list of unanswered questions formed. Had Bernice died peacefully in her chair next to her ancient Aga? Had she had time to put her affairs in order? Say a final farewell to her friends? Despite not having married or had children, her aunt’s life had been peopled by a myriad of friends, neighbours and acquaintances. At least she had had the forethought to make a will.
It had stopped raining. The silence drew Rosie’s concentration back to the painful present. And she hadn’t thought it could get worse than the loss of her beloved aunt. What a fool she’d been.
As she crawled along in traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge, the April evening sunshine glanced through the forest of vertiginous buildings and towering cranes of the Lower Manhattan skyline to her left, each yearning for pole position on the crowded horizon. But the iconic landmarks didn’t register on her radar as pain engulfed the crevices of her mind and tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. As if Freya didn’t have everything already, she had to go one step further and take the only thing Rosie had that she didn’t.
Beneath the bridge, ferries and other leisure craft laden with weekenders inched along the East River, trailing cappuccino-like froth in their wake until they melted into the distance. Joggers darted by, plugged into their own world, ignorant of Rosie’s crumbling around her. Mothers and nannies with shining silver prams paraded proudly in the late afternoon sunshine, their precious cargo delivering another painful jolt to her heart.
She cleared the bridge. To her right, the network of shaded narrow streets teemed with workers and tourists alike; their gutters strewn not with leaves but with the detritus of human consumption – fast food cartons, aluminium drinks cans and that day’s printed news. Street signs swung in the mounting breeze, their rhythmic squeaks swallowed on the wind. Flags fluttered against a crystal sharp, turquoise canvas and the waft of ground coffee beans and freshly-baked bagels caused Rosie’s empty stomach to growl.
She steered a course for her apartment on the Upper West Side, dodging the throng of street artists, souvenir hawkers and food cart vendors spilling onto the road. As she screeched to a halt to avoid a collision with a speeding yellow cab, she realised that once again she craved the sensible advice and no-nonsense wisdom provided by her Aunt Bernice. She recalled the sojourn the previous summer when she had provided her individual balm to Rosie’s aching heart as she recovered from the rejection of Carlos. But sadly, her aunt’s sage advice was no longer available.
As she searched for the illusive Manhattan parking slot, a coil of remorse spread its tentacles through her anguish when she recalled the breach of her promise to pay her aunt a return visit. She had been unable to take time off from her punishing work schedule at Christmas and then she’d had the wedding of the century to arrange. Now she would never see her aunt’s kindly face, so reminiscent of her beloved mother’s, again.
But she could have the next best thing. She yearned for the chance to distance herself from recent events, for the gift of perspective. However, the opportunity was so tinged with sadness that she knew it could never be a repeat of her previous, soul-enhancing visit to her Aunt Bernice’s attractive cottage in Devon. Nor would the visit be coupled with her aunt’s astute observations on the machinations of the human psyche and the comfort of the role reversal, absolving Rosie from her caring obsession as substitute parent to Freya. Their mother’s absence had been felt most keenly today as the first of her daughters took their walk down the aisle.
She had always seen her aunt’s home, Thornleigh Lodge, as a refuge, a place she could run to whenever times were tough and threatened to strangle the life out of her. It was somewhere she could go to hide, to lick her wounds, to be loved in her own right with no strings attached. In a way, her escape to the UK, albeit for her beloved aunt’s funeral, would be a welcome respite.
Yes, it was exactly what she needed. But more than that, it was her responsibility to ensure that a member of the family attended the ceremony of thanksgiving and celebration of Bernice’s life. How could she have contemplated not going? What had her life become if she could not spare the time to fly to the UK and be at her funeral? And anyway, she really needed to get out of the country. To escape the inevitable tantrums (Freya’s), questions, (Lauren’s) and disbelief (her father’s). Giles no longer deserved her consideration.
This was her real life Bridget Jones moment and she intended to grab it!
In the first bit of luck that day – maybe even that year – she spotted a yellow BMW coupé pull away from the kerb only twenty yards from her apartment and she managed to wedge her car into it. Parallel parking had never been her forte. She traipsed back down the tree-lined street to her home’s familiar limestone and red-brick façade, blistered in places by the harsh breath of the Manhattan winters – yet, in Rosie’s opinion, the scarring only added to its beauty. Bruised clouds marched across the sky, tinted with the crimson and violet halo of dusk, bathing the rich amber brickwork in a kaleidoscope of colours. Rosie adored the unique character of their neighbourhood: the green splodges of the community gardens and roof terraces, the local, multi-cultural coffee shops and delis, and its proximity to Riverside Park and Central Park.
Feeling as though she had sustained a blow to her head, she trudged up the stone steps and pushed open the heavy oak entrance door leading into the foyer. As she clacked her way to the staircase up to her fourth floor apartment, she realised how much she loved the sound of her stilettos on the black-and-white tiled floor. The added height also gave her confidence a welcome boost; the vertiginous heels ensured she held her head high, shoulders erect and her back ram-rod straight – a stance with which she could usually face the world. It hadn’t worked its particular brand of magic that day though.
As she stabbed her key into the door, she paused to run her eyes over her ridiculous outfit. A sudden wave of anger grabbed her and her face flooded with heat. It was time for Rosie Hamilton to stand on her own two feet and take responsibility for fulfilling her destiny, whatever the director of fates had in store for her.
She dumped her Burberry bag on the counter in the galley kitchen and removed her prized Louboutins, massaging her ankle where the leather had dug into the skin. She extracted their dust-bag from the drawer in her sideboard