Rescuing Rose Read Online Free PDF Page B

already?' he asked quietly. I nodded. 'Are you really sure?' I nodded again. 'Are you quite,
quite
sure?' he persisted. 'Because there'll be serious consequences. '
    'Yes, ' I lied. 'I am. '
    'Right, ' he said faintly. He shrugged. 'Right. Okay… if that's what you want. Well then, ' he said bleakly, 'I guess that's… it. ' He inhaled through his nose, gave me a grim little smile then walked away. But as he reached for the door handle I said, 'Can I ask you something, Ed?'
    'Of course. '
    'I'd just like to know why you asked me to marry you?'
    'I didn't, Rose. You asked me. '
     
    Christ—I'd forgotten. How embarrassing! I could have sworn it was the other way round. I certainly don't have any memories of getting down on bended knee. All I recall is whizzing round the London Eye, drunk as a monkey, and finding myself engaged by the time we got down. But if, as Ed ungallantly claims,
I
was the one who popped the question, then it's right that I should also be the one proposing divorce.
    I was thinking about all this as I emptied the last few packing cases and cleaned the house after the twins had gone. The interior isn't bad—just a bit dusty, that's all. Off-white walls, limed wooden kitchen units, cream silk curtains (included in the price) and a perfectly respectable oatmeal Berber carpet everywhere. The house is the colour of string. It looks etiolated. Drained. Like me. I quite like it, I thought as I scrubbed and swabbed—too much colour would get me down. I decided I'd redecorate it later; I could live with this for a while.
    And now, bearing in mind what the twins had said, I prepared to expunge the memories of Ed. I'd given this very careful thought. I went to the Spar round the corner and bought a packet of party balloons. When I got back I laid them out flat, then wrote 'ED WRIGHT' in black biro on each one. Then I inflated them, watching his name grow and expand on the rubber skin. Ears aching from the effort I watched the balloons bobbing up and down on the sitting room floor. They looked incongruously, almost insultingly, festive as they bounced against each other in the breeze. Then I found my sewing box, took my largest needle and stabbed them, one by one. BANG! went Ed's name, as it was reduced to rubbery shreds. CRACK! exploded the next. POP! went the third as I detonated it, feeling the smile spread across my face. I derived enormous and, yes, childish satisfaction from this—it gave me a malicious thrill. Ed was full of hot air—his vows meant nothing—so this was what he deserved. I burst nine—one for each month I knew him, then took the last one, which was yellow, outside. By now the wind had picked up, and I stood in the middle of the lawn for a moment, then let the balloon go. A sudden gust snatched it and lifted it over the garden fence, before it floated up and away. I could still make out Ed's name as it rose higher and higher, bobbing and jerking in the stiff breeze. By now it was just a yellow blob against the sky, then a smudge, then a speck, and then gone.
    I heaved a sigh of relief then went inside for Stage Two of my ritual. I took a piece of string and tied knots in it, one for each happy memory of my time with Ed. The first knot was for when we met, the second was for New Year's Eve; as I tied the third I thought of our engagement party; I tied the fourth for our wedding day. As I tied the fifth I remembered how happy I had felt when I moved into his house. Then I lit the end of the string and watched a neat yellow flame take hold. It climbed slowly but steadily, leaving a glowing tail of embers and a thin coil of smoke. Thirty seconds later and my memories were just a thread of ash which I washed down the sink. Finally, I riffled through a wallet of snaps and found a photo of Ed. He's usually extremely photogenic, but in this one he looked like shit. The camera must have gone off by mistake, because it was looking straight up his nose. He was scowling at something, it exaggerated