Page 5 of Rescuing Rosie
‘Oh my fucking god,’ blurted Rosie, before she could stop herself. ‘TheTempt Mewoman?’
Amara chuckled. ‘Is there another Madison Tyler?’
Madison had recently reached the final of Britain’s current reality TV obsession. Although she didn’t win, she’d proved so watchable, in the same way you can’t look away from a car crash, that she’d become a mega-influencer on Instagram. Her following had streaked past a million, while the actual winner was already all but forgotten.
Madison was a contradiction, in that almost everything about her appearance was ‘enhanced’, while her personality was unfiltered-authentic. Her hair, skin, eyebrows, lashes, nose, cheeks, lips, teeth, neck, boobs, waist, bottom – all of it – had been extended, injected, sculpted or lifted until it was Instagram-perfect, from any angle. Especially from behind.
Madison hadn’t held back when it came to sharing her views on the otherTempt Meparticipants, and the viewing public had been appalled and delighted. While her stated ambition was to be a TV presenter, producers were too nervous to give her a go, so for now she was back to modelling, and making a fortune endorsing everything from nutritional supplements to sunglasses to pet food.
‘She’ll be sharing the wellness retreat experience with her followers,’ said Amara, ‘and we’ll send Jono for the professional photos. You can Instagram it for the mag too. Maybe do a live feed or two.’
Rosie closed her eyes for a moment. ‘You mean I have to spend the weekend live-streaming Madison Tyler’s ridiculous bottom?’
A smile pulled at Amara’s lips. ‘That arse is going to look epic in Vybe’s teeniest, tightest workout shorts. But the article’s just as important as the social media stuff. It’ll be a puff piece, obviously, promoting the clothes and the venue, but I’d quite like people to actually read it so I wantfunnybut not snarky. Get some classic Madison quotes. Have fun with the whole London girl up north thing. Maybe the two of you climb a big hill, eat Cumberland sausages.’ She tittered.
‘Seriously? Madison Tyler up a hill eating a sausage?’
‘Seriously. Vybe wants her in their outdoor apparel, as well the yoga and gym gear. But nobody’s mentioned that part to Madison yet – it’s just a health spa photoshoot as far as she’s concerned, so …’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘Madison out of her comfort zone oop north,’ finished Rosie.
Amara nodded. ‘Should be gold. I’m sending you because I know you’ll write an amusing story, but you won’t be unkind.’ She passed over a folder. ‘Here’s the stuff on the retreat and the clothing brand; Lucy will email you the travel details. You’re on the train tomorrow, weekend at the spa, then you should take a few days off. We’ve booked you in for the rest of the week; it’s comped. Just say nice things about them.’
As Rosie let herself into her flat, her eyes went to Reuben’s running shoes, still on the mat by the door. He’d no doubt want to collect his stuff sometime soon. It’d be best if he came round this weekend, while she was away. Her day had ended a lot more positively than it had begun, but she wasn’t yet ready to face him.
She’d had a major setback in her life, and his response had been,Get over it. Her lunchtime ponderings, following that resurfaced memory on the bridge, had strengthened her resolve: in the unlikely event of a change of heart on his part, there would be no second chance. She’d tell him to post his key through the letterbox.
As she unlaced her boots, Rosie deliberately turned her thoughts to the weekend, registering a bubble of excitement at writing something new and a little different. And the thought of heading north to the land of Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter was appealing, even if it meant being Madison Tyler’s handler. Dealing with social media influencers was part and parcel of Rosie’s job – the wellness industry and Instagram were hand in glove. Influencers were generally an annoying breed, but Madison was on another level.Holistic Healthwas all about doing things the natural way, and there was nothing much natural about Madison. But did that matter, if her posts got half a million likes?
Rosie kicked aside Rueben’s running shoes with more force than was necessary and placed her boots in their vacated spot on the mat. ‘I’m taking you with me,’ she said, admiring them. She hung up her jacket and looked down at her skirt and blouse. ‘But it’s the charity shop for you.’
Chapter Three
Rosie packed her mauve wheelie suitcase with T-shirts and leggings and a sweatshirt, balled-up trainer socks … she remembered the part about climbing a hill and wondered about outdoor gear. The pocket rain poncho might not cut it when it came to the mountains of the north. Her only warm coat was the knee-length red wool, which might prove hazardous on a steep slope.
She sat down on the bed and googledWhat clothes do you need for hill walking.Rosie had only ever done such a thing –hiked– once, on a school outward bound course in the Peak District in the height of summer. That trip, and a visit to the Edinburgh Festival, were her only previous sorties to the North, so her ideas about Lancashire, Cumbria and Yorkshire were based largely onCoronation Streetand gritty police dramas that usually opened with the discovery of a body on a bleak moor overlooking a town with many chimneys.
The word ‘protection’ featured often in Rosie’s search result – from ‘fast-changing, often treacherous’ weather conditions. Waterproof trousers were recommended, as were a thermal vest, woolly hat, thick gloves and ‘sturdy’ walking boots, none ofwhich she possessed. But her Doc Martens were quite sturdy? And they wouldn’t be going uphighhigh, only smallish-hill high.
Even so, the internet was clear on this, and sternly so. Be Prepared. It seemed an entire new kit was required for this place of fells and lakes. But Rosie had neither the time nor funds to source these ‘essentials’, so she’d have to hope the Vybe team would loan her gear for the outdoor shoots. Maybe that fuchsia pink sleeveless vest, she thought, perking up.
As Rosie added her bag of toiletries to the suitcase, her phone rang, andMumflashed up on the screen, with its scream emoji. Rosie froze, wondering whether to reject the call. Her finger hovered over the red circle. She hadn’t yet shared news of the break-up with her parents, nor had she updated them on the book situation, and having spent the past hour thinking ahead to the weekend was reluctant to send her thoughts back there again.
Mum would be hugely disappointed by recent developments, as a lawyer-boyfriend and a book deal both carried top-notch bragging rights. Meanwhile, Rosie’s lovely dad would be sorry her relationship hadn’t worked out, but would understand the reasons, and would be devastated about the book because he knew how much it meant to her.
She shouldn’t put this off. Taking a deep breath, she sat down on the bed and stabbed at the screen, quickly, as if it were red hot.
‘Mum! How’s things?’
Tiresome, apparently. And that was mostly to do with traffic jams caused by the roadworks on the bypass, meaning it was taking forever to get to her two days a week volunteering at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. Plus Dad’s back was playing up again – he was upstairs having a lie down – and trying to get an appointment at the doctor’s was nigh on impossible, even if you rang at 8am.
‘I was holding on for twenty minutes, then I couldn’t get him an appointment for three weeks!’
This was how life worked in their house. If Dad (a history academic) needed a doctor’s appointment, Mum (volunteer worker and pillar of the community) rang up to make it. She was as close to a trad wife as it got in modern-day Britain. Dad cooked (occasionally) and would run the Dyson round, but Mum ironed his shirts, dusted; he mowed the lawns, filled the cars with petrol.
‘How’s Reuben?’ her mother asked, when she’d exhausted this week’s litany of complaints and irritations.
Rosie swallowed. ‘Um … well, I’m afraid, the fact is, we’ve split up.’ She braced for impact.
