But still Rose’s heart felt heavy. Was it her fault? Did she invite her own pain? Was she destined always to love those who could not or would not love her back: Greg, the father who had never wanted her; Amber, the aunt she had believed loved her but who had not really done so; John, who might be her half-brother; and most of all Josh?
They were having dinner at the Savoy–a proper grown-up dinner in a traditional hotel, served by proper waiters, not a modern sixties meal in a cramped King’s Road restaurant where the air was filled with the smell of cannabis rather than the aroma of good food, and where everyone was too high to care about whether they ate anything or not; where everyone knew everyone else and belonged to a large private club with its own language in which one-to-one privacy, like celibacy, was ju
st a joke; where pretty girls moved from man to man and lap to lap, and peace and love were all that mattered.
At first everything went well. Josh had arrived early and was waiting for her, embracing her with an affectionate hug, and then holding her at arm’s length whilst he admired her new outfit, a simple acid-yellow sheath dress ornamented with one large, beautifully detailed, multi-coloured silk flower.
‘One of Janey’s?’ he asked knowingly.
A little guiltily Rose admitted, ‘No, it’s actually one of Ossie Clark’s. I was at his studio the other day and whilst I was there I saw this dress and couldn’t resist it.’
‘Good for you,’ Josh laughed. ‘I’m all for not resisting temptation. Speaking of which…’
He had to break off from what he was saying whilst they were being shown to their table, and their conversation couldn’t resume properly until they’d chosen from the menu and ordered their wine.
Josh might have grown his hair a bit longer but in essence he still looked the same as when Rose had first met him. He still favoured Savile Row suits rather than dressing in the peacock fashions now favoured by the rock group fraternity and their followers, even if his shirts had become more sharply tailored and were made of floral fabric.
When he offered her a cigarette she accepted, simply for the rush of pleasure it gave her to have him lean closer to her to light it for her.
‘Don’t worry, it’s a straight Benson and Hedges,’ he told her with a teasing grin, but Rose didn’t laugh.
Her grandmother, Blanche, had been unsparing in her description of the depths to which Rose’s father had descended before his death, during which he had become addicted to both drink and drugs. This had led to Rose refusing so much as a drag on a passed-round reefer, despite the contemptuous teasing this sometimes caused.
Her business came in the main from the swinging sixties fashion and pop heroes and their hangers-on; most of whom at the very least smoked dope, and a good proportion of whom were now openly boasting about being acid heads and had become converts to and advocates for LSD.
Josh was the only other person in the King’s Road crowd Rose knew who didn’t touch drugs.
‘I believe that you can’t so much as touch a door handle in some parts of Chelsea these days in case someone has rigged it with LSD,’ she told him ruefully.
‘I’ve heard the same,’ Josh agreed. ‘I had a young model in the other day who told me that she’d tripped for three days and that it was like going to the moon and looking down on the whole world.’ He shook his head. ‘When you’ve been brought up down the East End and you value your sanity, you don’t go anywhere near any stuff that plays games inside your head. I’ve seen the wrecks it leaves behind dying in the gutter.’
Their first course had arrived–avocado, which they both loved–but Rose noticed that Josh was barely touching his. In fact she noticed he was looking distinctly on edge, and she wondered why.
‘I’ve got some great news for you.’
‘You’re opening another salon?’ Rose guessed, but he shook his head.
‘Nope, it’s something much better than that. I’ve asked Patsy to marry me and she’s said yes.’
There was a horrible vacuum inside Rose’s body, as though the ability to feel anything had been sucked out of her by the ferocity of her shock.
She should have guessed that this would happen, and if she hadn’t then it was her own fault for being an ostrich and hiding herself away from what had been inevitable from the first time Josh had raved to her about his new girlfriend.
The vacuum was rapidly filling with the most intense, unbearable pain.
‘Well. Congratulations.’ Her lips felt stiff, the words unwieldy. Did her voice sound as strained as her smile felt? What did it matter if it did? Josh was hardly likely to notice in his elated state. He was beaming from ear to ear, and looking so happy that Rose badly wanted to crawl into a corner where she could give in to her own misery. Here it was again, her old enemy–self-pity.
Of course he had fallen in love with tall, blonde Patsy, who was typical of the type of girl he went for, and she was a fool for ever thinking that one day he would look at her with that besotted adoration in his eyes that she could see in them now.
‘I would have told you before but, well, everything’s happened so quickly. It was only when she said that she was thinking of moving back to New York that I realised that I didn’t want to lose her. And guess what? I brought her here to propose.’
Fresh pain seared Rose. This was their place–their special place–it always had been.
‘To be honest I was scared silly that she’d turn me down. I mean, why should a gorgeous girl like her take on someone like me?’
Because you are good-looking, sexy, kind, fun, and successful, the answer to every girl’s prayer, Rose thought, but of course she couldn’t say that. She knew him well enough to know how quickly he would pounce on even the smallest hint that she was accusing Patsy–who in Rose’s opinion had a very keen eye for an opportunity that would benefit her, and who was as emotionally as cold as a fish unless it suited her to appear otherwise–of not being good enough for him.
But then again there was the possibility that she could simply be misjudging Patsy because she was so very jealous.