Page 114 of Paper Roses

I glance at his photo on the bookshelf—one of a few on display in the room—and take a deep breath, waiting for the familiar pang of loss to hit. I exhale slowly when it doesn’t come. I stand and walk towards the photo. I smile easily in response to Mick’s laughing face.

Still no pain.

Frowning, I run my fingertip over the shelf. I think I prefer the teal-painted shelving Artie had chosen for the lounge at home?—

The pang hits finally—hard and heavy—but it’s not the feeling of loss I expected.

Home…

I glance around again, walking towards the windows with the view I love. I still love the view, of course, but the carpet beneath my feet feels wrong and the walls around the panes are a boring white.

Should I redecorate? Do the work here that I’d lied about to Artie?

A hoarse laugh leaves my throat. If I did redecorate, I’d want Artie’s opinion on every choice.

The realisation comes to me in a flash and is startling in its vividness.

This flat is no longer my home, no longer my sanctuary—my safe and quiet place.

My home is my husband, who’s currently in Germany, no doubt enjoying himself tremendously with a wealth of German men who aren’t such twats as not to recognise what’s right under their noses.

My home is Artie. I lick my lips and sweat breaks out all over my body. And he’s my home because I’m in love with him.

I whirl, knocking against a table by the window with a clatter. One of my paper flowers—an early experiment of the peony variety—falls to the floor and I pick it up.

Of course, I’d made Artie a paper rose this week. My heart and hands recognised the symbol of true love before my mind caught up.

I stare blindly into the too-quiet lounge and finally admit the truth. It’s a truth I’ve been frantically denying for a lot longer than our fake marriage. I love Artie. And I love everything about him—his crooked smile that somehow contains more sunshine than any other, his long fingers that can either soothe or arouse me, his kindness and the simple joy he takes in life, refusing to indulge in self-pity. He makes me feel happy, alive, protective, and cherished.

And by some miracle, this beautiful young man actually loved me back. I knuckle my eyes. And in return for that gift, I rejected him and offered him a shitty friends-with-benefits arrangement. I have so much more to offer him—so much love. But am I too late?

I have only an hour a week to convince him of my love before he finds someone else.

“I know wherever you are, you are fucking laughing at me, Mick,” I grumble and then sigh. “And I know you’re furious that I’ve spent years mourning you. You’d have hated that with every fibre of your being.”

I remember a conversation we had years ago at the start of us. He’d been talking about his age and wanting me to move on quickly if he died before me. I’d laughed and dismissed it, not wanting to hear about him dying, but he’d been curiously insistent. “If you’re not inside a pretty boy by the time my memorial ends, I’ll fucking haunt you,” he’d threatened. We’d laughed, and I’d completely forgotten that conversation until now.

“You kept your word, then, you contrary wanker,” I say affectionately.

The fire gutters and for a wild second, I imagine I can smell his cologne—spicy and warm like him. “I will always love you,” I say quietly. “I don’t know whether we’d have lasted if we’d been given the chance. But I do know that I promise to think of you with a smile from now on, because that’s what you’d have wanted. You’d like Artie. You wouldn’t have understood our relationship in the slightest, but you’d have liked him.” I take a breath. “Bye, babe,” I whisper.

A peace steals over me that I haven’t felt in years. Maybe never.

I pace the room, seized by energy for the first time since Artie left. I’ve never got anywhere in life by backing down from achallenge. “I’m getting my husband back,” I say out loud and feel the touch of Mick’s approval.

sixteen

. . .

artie

Berlin is lit up for Christmas. Everywhere I turn there are festive decorations and lights burning bright against the cold winter darkness. Cafés are illuminated sanctuaries full of laughing people, and the city seems alive with jollity.

Today, however, I have no eyes for any of that. All my attention is on my husband.

I see him as I walk up the street. As he sits waiting for me at a café, he watches people walk past and seems a study in stillness, a thing that’s so unusual for him it makes me pause. In London, he’s a hive of activity even while sitting. His phone is always in his hand, and his attention is on ten things at once. He’s the one person in the office to whom everyone wants to speak and to whom all the problems come.

Here in Berlin, he’s different. I’ve privately christened his visits as the Magic Hour. During our shared sixty minutes, he focuses only on our conversations, and he seems at peace in a way that really suits him. I’d love it if he spent more time at peace, but that’s not up to me. Maybe, as his friend, I canpersuade him. Of course, I still want more than friendship, but I’ve spent the last six weeks training myself not to think about it, breathing through the pain until the feeling dissipates.

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