Page 113 of Paper Roses

I take another sip from the bottle. “Not really.”

I hear the rustle of his clothes as he turns to me. “What does that mean?”

The whisky blazes a track into my stomach, which I blame for my following words. “I was thinking of leaving Mick before he died.”

“What?”

I wince. “Keep your voice down.”

“You were thinking of leaving him? Why? Had you fallen out of love with him?” He pauses. “Did he do something?”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“Because much as I loved Mick, he was a vast proponent of doing now and paying for it later.”

To my surprise, I chuckle. “God, he really was.” I shake my head, still smiling. “He did everything with my full knowledge. Mick might have been naughty, but he was never a liar.”

There’s a moment of silence. “So why leave him, then, if you weren’t in the dark? And I presume we’re talking men?” He hesitates. “Either that or bank robbery. I wouldn’t have put anything past him.”

I laugh. “Neither would I. God, he lived life so well. Better than anyone I’ve ever met. Almost as if he knew.” I hesitate, but the whisky has my tongue, and for some reason, it’s easy to talk about this now. It no longer carries the pain or guilt that has edged my memories for so long. “He had other men, but I knew about that.” I lick my lips and admit the truth finally. “I think he’d have got bored of marriage, eventually. He always wanted more.”

“But he’d never have got tired ofyou,” he says firmly. I turn to look at him, and he nods. “He loved you so much, Jed. He’d never have been finished with you. Even if the marriage was over, he’d have wanted you in his life.”

“But I was done at the time,” I say slowly. I take another sip. “I felt old. I couldn’t live at his pace.”

“A twenty-something on acid would have struggled.”

I shake my head, smiling. “Maybe I wouldn’t have gone through with it in the end. Maybe we’d have worked things out. I’ll never know because the accident happened, and I’ve felt guilty ever since for even thinking about it.” His eyes are full of concern, and I hand him the bottle. “But I’ve had time to think about it over the last six weeks, and I know that even if I had left him, we would still have been friends. He never held a grudge.” I laugh. “He couldn’t stay angry for more than ten minutes, and then he’d be bored and want to have a chat. We would never have left each other’s lives.” I sigh. “I did love him very much.”

“Of course you did. I liked him immensely.” He takes a sip of the bottle and hands it back to me. “So, is that why you’re still seeing Artie?”

I stiffen. “What do you mean?”

“Are you staying friends with him now he’s moved on?”

My hand tightens on the bottle, and I know he’s noticed. Not much gets past Adam. “Yes, of course,” I say thickly. “Why else? I would like to be in… in his life,” I finish roughly.

“Of course,” he says, his voice cheerful. “I’m glad you’re not feeling guilty about anything. There’s no need for that.” He looks determinedly at the rain.

“I think… I think I’m ready to move on from Mick,” I say with difficulty, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike or a laughing ghost with sparkling eyes to appear. But nothing happens, and the rain continues to fall.

“I think you already have.”

I stare at him, and because he’s being so infuriating, I shove him off his chair. The fact that he lands in a puddle only improves the moment.

The flat is empty and dark when I get home, and I quickly light lamps and start a fire. It crackles cheerily as I move into the bedroom and grab my overnight bag. It’s constantly on the chair in the room, waiting for me to go to Germany.

I grab a change of clothes, my toiletries and laptop, and pack quickly, my movements efficient, as it’s something I’ve done so often. My chest tightens with anticipation. The only time I feel truly alive now is when I’m about to see him again.

His fingerprints are all over my life. I can’t hear something funny without wanting to share it with him, and somehow, things aren’t as amusing without him. I turn around a hundred times a day to tell him something, and I ache for him in my bed at night, longing to feel his skin against mine and inhale the scent of his hair.

My new PA is efficient and nice, but he isn’t Artie. This is undoubtedly the reason why I’ve kept his employment temporary. Nobody can fill Artie’s space.

The rest of the office misses him, too. Artie simply announced he was taking up a job offer that was too good to turn down, and we were doing long-distance for a while. We didn’t say anything about a split. I refuse to address it until it’s a definite certainty, and when my thoughts intrude with the idea of breaking things off for good, they steal my breath with pain.

I take the paper flower from the bedside table and carefully put it into a small cardboard box. I bring one to Artie every week, obviously telling him with flowers what I can’t say with words. He hasn’t realised I’ve been conveying affection and yearning, probably because he’s failed to realise he’d married a Victorian gentlewoman. Today’s flower is a red rose, and it’s a bit of a mystery to me, as I’d intended to make a daffodil.

Ready for my eight o’clock flight in the morning, I wander back into the lounge. I contemplate ordering a takeaway, but, as usual, I’m not hungry. Tiredness heavy on my bones, I settle down on the sofa and switch the TV on. I don’t pay any attention to the screen, though. Instead, I look around the room. It’s a beautiful flat and has been my sanctuary ever since Mick died. Here, I could still feel him and be close to him.

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