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Authors: Rosemary Friedman
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them.
I invited her back, diffidently, out of politeness. I warned my aunt that she came of film people and was a little unconventional . I underestimated Rosita. When she’d gone my aunt was positively bubbling over and demanding to know why I hadn’t introduced her to my charming friend before.
The bus journeys and those two visits, and of course the brief times we chatted to each other at school, was the extent of our friendship. Since we had left school, I for my physiotherapist training through which I ultimately met Mitchell, and Rosita for the great wide world that was lying at her feet, I had seen her only once. I had been dining with Mitchell in a basement restaurant, which was enjoying a wave of popularity at the time. It was our wedding anniversary, fourth I think, and we were dancing, happy with each other, on a minute, crowded floor. Suddenly a voice screamed: ‘Darling!’
Drowsy with champagne, I looked up idly to see who it was that was being hailed. On the edge of the floor, attached by two fingers to a man whose antics on the racecourse and elsewhere frequently filled several columns of several newspapers, was Rosita. And she was looking at me.
We pushed our way over to her and when I introduced Mitchell, Rosita kissed both of us, Mitchell not objecting in the slightest.
‘Helen, darling, how exciting!’ Rosita exclaimed, her eyes bright. But I couldn’t quite see what it was that she found so exciting.
We stood talking for just a moment and then her boyfriend – she never did marry that one, whose type we were not at all – pulled her away and Rosita blew kisses at us as they weaved towards their table. Afterwards the bandleader, shaking his maracas, looked at us with different eyes and I swear we had better attention from our waiter. Our claim to fame was manifest . We knew Rosita.
The incident, though leaving me quite unmoved, had obviously seared itself into Mitchell’s memory. He leaned forward, waiting eagerly to hear what was in the letter from Rosita.
There was no address or date.
‘Helen, darling,’ I read aloud. ‘White sand and blue sky as far as the eye can see, you’d think that nothing else existed …’
‘Wait a second,’ Mitchell said, ‘there were no foreign stamps.’
I looked at the envelope again. It had been posted in Streatham. I continued to read.
‘… and that everyone in the whole world was lying in the sun. I came today from Tangier and it’s not so. Helen I must see you. At Bellotti’s on the thirty-first at one? Have you changed? I visualise you in your green coat going back and forth on the number 12 to eternity. I’ll try not to be late. Yours as ever, Rosita.’
‘The thirty-first,’ Mitchell said, ‘that’s tomorrow.’
‘She might have meant last month. She could hardly have been lying on the white sands in Streatham.’
‘Last month had only thirty days. Shall you go?’
I read a certain urgency into the phrase: ‘Helen, I must see you.’ ‘I’ll take a chance,’ I said.
Quite apart from the fact that the letter had obviously been written in one place and posted in another, there were several things that puzzled me. How did Rosita know my married name and where I lived? As far as I knew, we had no mutual acquaintance and she could not possibly have followed my career as I had hers in the newspapers. How did she know whether or not I could keep the appointment when there was no indication of where I could contact her?
And, most odd of all, what did she mean by her reference to Tangier? Rosita had never had a social conscience.
The rest of the day I spent in speculation. What could she want? Had she perhaps fallen on hard times and needed help from an old schoolfriend? Bellotti’s hardly suggested financial difficulties. Might she have come to realise the folly of her roaming and unstable life and want from me the recipe for a settled existence in suburbia? Was she in some sort of personal trouble, ill maybe, and needing
I invited her back, diffidently, out of politeness. I warned my aunt that she came of film people and was a little unconventional . I underestimated Rosita. When she’d gone my aunt was positively bubbling over and demanding to know why I hadn’t introduced her to my charming friend before.
The bus journeys and those two visits, and of course the brief times we chatted to each other at school, was the extent of our friendship. Since we had left school, I for my physiotherapist training through which I ultimately met Mitchell, and Rosita for the great wide world that was lying at her feet, I had seen her only once. I had been dining with Mitchell in a basement restaurant, which was enjoying a wave of popularity at the time. It was our wedding anniversary, fourth I think, and we were dancing, happy with each other, on a minute, crowded floor. Suddenly a voice screamed: ‘Darling!’
Drowsy with champagne, I looked up idly to see who it was that was being hailed. On the edge of the floor, attached by two fingers to a man whose antics on the racecourse and elsewhere frequently filled several columns of several newspapers, was Rosita. And she was looking at me.
We pushed our way over to her and when I introduced Mitchell, Rosita kissed both of us, Mitchell not objecting in the slightest.
‘Helen, darling, how exciting!’ Rosita exclaimed, her eyes bright. But I couldn’t quite see what it was that she found so exciting.
We stood talking for just a moment and then her boyfriend – she never did marry that one, whose type we were not at all – pulled her away and Rosita blew kisses at us as they weaved towards their table. Afterwards the bandleader, shaking his maracas, looked at us with different eyes and I swear we had better attention from our waiter. Our claim to fame was manifest . We knew Rosita.
The incident, though leaving me quite unmoved, had obviously seared itself into Mitchell’s memory. He leaned forward, waiting eagerly to hear what was in the letter from Rosita.
There was no address or date.
‘Helen, darling,’ I read aloud. ‘White sand and blue sky as far as the eye can see, you’d think that nothing else existed …’
‘Wait a second,’ Mitchell said, ‘there were no foreign stamps.’
I looked at the envelope again. It had been posted in Streatham. I continued to read.
‘… and that everyone in the whole world was lying in the sun. I came today from Tangier and it’s not so. Helen I must see you. At Bellotti’s on the thirty-first at one? Have you changed? I visualise you in your green coat going back and forth on the number 12 to eternity. I’ll try not to be late. Yours as ever, Rosita.’
‘The thirty-first,’ Mitchell said, ‘that’s tomorrow.’
‘She might have meant last month. She could hardly have been lying on the white sands in Streatham.’
‘Last month had only thirty days. Shall you go?’
I read a certain urgency into the phrase: ‘Helen, I must see you.’ ‘I’ll take a chance,’ I said.
Quite apart from the fact that the letter had obviously been written in one place and posted in another, there were several things that puzzled me. How did Rosita know my married name and where I lived? As far as I knew, we had no mutual acquaintance and she could not possibly have followed my career as I had hers in the newspapers. How did she know whether or not I could keep the appointment when there was no indication of where I could contact her?
And, most odd of all, what did she mean by her reference to Tangier? Rosita had never had a social conscience.
The rest of the day I spent in speculation. What could she want? Had she perhaps fallen on hard times and needed help from an old schoolfriend? Bellotti’s hardly suggested financial difficulties. Might she have come to realise the folly of her roaming and unstable life and want from me the recipe for a settled existence in suburbia? Was she in some sort of personal trouble, ill maybe, and needing
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