Rosamund scoffed at how ridiculous she would have found those words just a few days earlier.
‘So what do you think?’ asked her father softly.
Rosamund did not like to admit she was wrong, but a voice in the back of her head was telling her how selfish she was being, and that Grandma and Grandad’s arrival might even be fortuitous.
She puffed out her cheeks, aware that the deal had been done. Aware that it was possibly the best thing for her, but still racked with a sense of uncertainty about the future.
‘When are they moving in?’
‘Your mother mentioned next week.’
‘Next week!’ Her immediate reaction was to laugh.
‘I can give you the money for a deposit and a couple of months’ rent.’
‘Dad, I’m twenty-five next month. I’m not taking any more handouts from you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve taken enough. I’m sure I can up my shifts at the café.’ She waitressed at weekends to earn herself some pin money.
‘Come here. Come round to me.’
She laughed and stayed in her seat.
‘I’m comfy, and my feet are tired.’
‘Get round here, Rosamund Bailey. You’re twenty-four. You’re not old enough to have tired feet and still young enough to give your old dad a hug.’
She went round to his side of the table and Samuel put a paternal arm around her waist.
‘Do you know what the secret to being happy is?’
She gave a shrug.
‘Acceptance.’
‘You mean I have to expect less?’ she said sharply.
‘I think you’re happy at the DAG, Ros, but I don’t think you are content. You won’t be content until you accept that in life there will be some things, some people, some situations that you just can’t change.’
She nodded politely, although privately she didn’t agree with him.
Her father might be content with his clarinet and his tomato plants, but Rosamund Bailey still wanted to change the world.
Chapter Eight
‘You’re just in here,’ said Sam as they reached the top floor of her house in Primrose Hill.
Lugging her two suitcases and her big leather satchel, Ros followed her up the stairs and into the room that was to be her temporary home.
‘Sam, this place is amazing,’ she said dropping her cases in disbelief, not quite believing that her friend had described this as the box room. It was a magnificent space, thought Rosamund, calculating how many times bigger than the DAG office it was. Occupying the entire width of the house, it was flooded with lazy early-evening light, and when she got closer to the window, she could even see Regent’s Park in the distance.
‘Well, you get more for your money in Primrose Hill,’ said Sam, throwing a clean towel on the bed. ‘It was either a shoebox in Knightsbridge or a whole house in a spot that sounds like a beautiful country village. Besides, there’s lots of interesting people around here. Musicians, artists, writers . . . I should introduce you to Sylvia Plath who lives round the corner. American, frightfully bright. Almost as clever as you.’
‘Sam, this is so kind of you,’ said Ros, still thrilled that her friend had made the generous offer of lodgings when she had heard about Ros’s expulsion from home. ‘I’ve managed to get more shifts at the café, so I can pay you in a fortnight. In the meantime, grab a couple of glasses and help me unpack. I have wine,’ she grinned pulling a bottle of red out of her satchel and handing it over.
Sam hesitated and put the bottle on the bedside table.