Page 49 of Paper Roses

He frowns. “I’m guessing that your stepmother wasn’t much support.”

“Not really. We were expected to rally around Laura which didn’t go down well with Daisy.” I dismiss the memory and smile at him. “Goodness, this isn’t a cheery subject before we go into the Artie Party. And look at how it rhymes. That automatically makes it more fabulous.”

“That’s never been my experience. Especially with a poetry slam.”

“You’ve been to a poetry slam?You?”

He tries a glare but doesn’t quite succeed. “Mick made me go. He said he wanted us to embrace our literary souls, and then signed me up to go on the stage.”

“That’shorrifying,” I say from the bottom of my shy and retiring soul.

“You’re telling me. I had to sit through two hours of people putting their life’s torment into iambic pentameter. What was even more horrifying was that I was tipsy, and the only thing I could think of was to recite a limerick which opened with the words, ‘There once was a man called Friar Tuck’.”

I burst into laughter, and he shakes his head, a wry look on his face.

“We had to leave soon after,” he concludes. “Mick was laughing so hard I thought he’d wet his pants.”

This is the first time he’s ever mentioned Mick without an undercurrent of sadness, and once again, I wonder about his grief. Sometimes I sense guilt there, as if he’s somehow at fault for something.

“So, you were born here?” I say to cover the suddenly awkward silence.

“My dad swore the labour sent him prematurely grey. He wanted her to be at hospital and then she had my brother at home too.”

His smile is nostalgic, and I bite my lip wondering if I can ask about his dad. It’s just that he’s never told me much beforeand now all these small details are spilling out of him like the chocolates from a box of Quality Street.

His lip twitches, and he pats my cheek. “He died when I was ten.”

My heart twists. “I’m so sorry. Were you close?”

His face clouds and I curse myself for my nosiness. I never want him to feel sad.

“Yes, very,” he says. “He was funny and kind. He did a lot with me and spent hours ferrying me around to football matches and training. I’m so thankful for that time we had together. He was just this big man who you felt safe with.”

“Like you,” I say without thinking and then blush.

“You think that of me?” His tone is flabbergasted.

I blush harder and he trails a finger down my scarlet cheek, the pad of his fingertip like a kiss on my cheekbone.

“Yes,” I confess foolishly. “I always feel safe with you. It’s like you’re between me and the bad things in the world.” I swallow and add quickly. “While at work, of course.”

His expression is dazed, as if I’d hit him in the face with a stick. “Artie, I?—”

A window opens and his mum shouts, “Are you bringing my new son-in-law in, or shall we celebrate the party I’ve been planning for at least eight months on the pavement?”

Jed sighs. “She could have been a town crier with the power of her lungs.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, Ma.” He crooks his elbow towards me. “Ready?”

I slide my hand onto his arm, feeling the power of the muscle and the heat of his skin. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Thank you for doing this. We’ll keep it short and sweet, so we don’t have to lie too much.”

“Optimism, thy name is Jed.”

He snorts and ushers me into the house. We step into a narrow hall with a staircase ahead of us. On a console table there’s a telephone and a photo showing a couple in wedding clothes. I recognise Jed’s mum. She looks impossibly young and very happy. His dad was tall and wide-shouldered, and Jed has his smile.

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