Page 58 of Paper Roses

I stare after him, flabbergasted. I’d never once thought of Mick during, before, or after that kiss.

The first time I slept with a man after Mick’s death, I threw up and lay shivering and crying on the bathroom floor all night. But after kissing Artie, I feel nothing except a lingering desire to do it again very soon.

I vow to revisit the thought when I’m completely sober. I start up the stairs after him and then nearly bang into him on the landing. He’s standing staring ahead as if struck by lightning.

“What is it?” I say wildly, wondering if he has actually seen a ghost and not a plastic curtain.

“There’s only one bed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He turns and clutches my jumper, staring up at me. “Don’t you remember? Eric said they’d had to abandon doing up your room because of water damage. We’ve only got one bed.”

I groan. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

“Me too. The fifteen vats of your mum’s amaretto sours helped.”

“They do induce serious memory loss. I should have warned you.”

“I doubt you could have stopped me.”

“True. You’d downed three in the time it took me to cross the kitchen.”

He snorts and slaps my stomach lightly. “Stop it. You lie.”

“I can’t believe I forgot about the bed.” Although, I have to admit that the idea strikes me with a bolt of heat I really shouldn’t be feeling.

“Well, we were more focused on deceiving the entirety of your nearest and dearest.”

I rub my face with an unsteady hand. “I know. It’s just getting worse. Ma was on about throwing a party for the extended family.”

“I’m so?—”

I point a finger at him. “Don’t you dare say sorry. Getting married wasmyplan.”

He presses his lips together like he wants to protest. But then he nods, and I pat his shoulder, dragging my hand away before it lingers.

“It’s not a problem,” I say. “You sleep in the bed. I’ll grab a duvet and sleep on the floor.”

“On thefloor,” he says in a horrified voice. “No way are you sleeping on the floor. It’s freezing in this house.”

“I’ll be fine.” Before I can move, he places his hand on my arm. The pressure is gentle, but it holds me in place like an iron bar.

“You can sleep in the bed with me,” he says firmly.

“Pardon?” I say hoarsely.

He opens the bedroom door and I follow him.

It’s a large space created by knocking two rooms together. There’s a dressing room and an en suite, and everything smells pleasantly of paint and new carpet. It looks lovely, with a set of French windows that lead onto a small balcony overlooking a wild garden and Wimbledon Common. At the moment the only furniture is the big oak bed that was delivered yesterday, two bedside tables, and an old armchair upholstered in orange velvet. There’s still enough room for the sofa and coffee table Artie ordered last week.

He switches on the lamps, creating a warm glow, then crosses to the window and draws the temporary curtains. Suddenly, I feel like we’ve been enclosed in a bubble of light and warmth.

“You’ve gone very quiet,” he observes.

“I can’t share a bed with you.”

“Why?” His face suddenly looks stricken. “Oh my god, is it because of Mick? Because in that case, I totally understand. I know you said you didn’t sleep with anyone and?—”

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