Page 56 of Paper Roses

“I’m scared,” Artie whispers. “What if it’s the ghost of my stepmother?”

“Then I shall tell her what a witch she was.” I draw myself up. “And I shall demand to know why she treated such a wonderful person so badly.”

He stares at me as though I’ve just shinned up a ladder and hung the moon. I raise my chin. That look always gets to me.

“Come out!” I shout. “Laura, I would like to—” I hiccup again. “I would like to tell you that I’ve seen your wedding photo, and you had very wonky eyebrows.”

“Oh mygod,” Artie breathes.

That sounds good, so I carry on. “You had very thin lips. You looked like…” I pause for inspiration. “Like you would have resembled the head gremlin inGremlinsif you’d had time to pluck your eyebrows properly.”

Artie snorts and I grin at him.

I continue in a louder voice. “I’m going to go and exor-exor—” I try to remember the word. “I’m going to exercise you!”

Artie shakes his head, looking awed. “She didn’t even like aerobics. She said…” He stops for a few seconds, as if forgetting what he was going to say, before triumphantly finishing, “She said women in leotards were an abomination.”

“Howdareshe. My mother had a leotard in the eighties. And legwarmers.”

He gasps. “Your mother isnotan abomination.”

“Thank you.” I pause. “Although she is rather scary.”

He pats my arm. “Sh-she’s lovely.” He runs his hand down my arm almost dreamily. “You have very big muscles.”

“Thank you. I shall show you what I can do with them.” I draw in a breath. “Wait here,” I instruct him. I lurch towards the source of the noise, which seems to be coming from the kitchen.

Something flutters and I punch out at it. “Take that!” I shout. I register that I’m hitting air just as I spin and fall over. “What the fuck?” I mutter.

Everything is spinning, so I lie down and stare at the ceiling. I think I’m supposed to be doing something, but I don’t know what.

Movement makes me raise my head, but I relax as Artie settles next to me. I raise my arm, and he curls up next to me, pillowing his head on my shoulder. He snuggles closer, and I clasp him tightly, loving the feel of him against me. Alarm bells ring in my head, but I ignore them. He feels so nice in my arms. So right.

He stirs. “It’s okay. I don’t think there’s a ghost, after all. You just punched the plastic sheet over the kitchen door.”

“Did I? Are you sure?”

“Yes. You’ve torn it down.”

My sluggish brain ponders this. “Meh, it had it coming.”

He chuckles, and I keep him close. I love being with him. I make a protesting sound when he sits up. “Where are you going?”

“I think we should go to bed.”

“Really? Why can’t we stay here?”

“The builders might have a shock in the morning.”

I stretch out. The floor is very hard, and I am becoming aware that I’m lying on a cement floor after having punched a glorified shower curtain.

“Shit,” I mutter. I sit up and my head begins to thump. “Oh dear.”

Artie nods, clutching his temples. “I don’t feel so hot.”

“Neither do I. This is why I rarely drink.” I hesitate. “Do you think the answer might be to drink more?”

“Probably not.”

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