Page 65 of Mad About You

‘No cats,’ Harriet said, beaming.

Cal appeared on the stairs with damp hair, as Harriet, a slightly smug expression on her face, conveyed the huge bushel of flowers to the kitchen.

‘Woah! An admirer?’ he said.

‘A wedding thank you,’ she said. ‘I assume.’

She was proud of the Danny and Ferg gallery, now she thought about it. And they weren’t to know she was toiling under duress.

As she said it, an extraordinary alternative occurred to her.

Marianne.Harriet had never, for a moment, imaginedMarianne might be grateful to her. If that emotion ever arrived, it’d be a long way off. Even then, Harriet doubted that the woman who warned you off your intended was ever very likely to be close to your affections. Harsh, but there it was.

The prospect was so peculiar and exhilarating that whoever the flowers were from, she knew she’d be slightly disappointed if it wasn’t Marianne now.

She pulled the card from the box and opened it.

Two words, in capitals, in the foreign, feminine handwriting of some anonymous florist shop assistant.

GAME ON.

Harriet blinked at it. ‘Game On’? What …? Was this a mis-delivery?

The few seconds where it dawned on her that this wasn’t a gesture of affection, but one of hostility, was sufficiently sickening that she knew her sender had got his money’s worth. It would’ve been queasily intimidating no matter what, but her opening that card eagerly was the real coup de grâce.

‘Who’s it from, then?’ Cal said.

‘Couple from last week,’ Harriet said, concealing her shakiness, stuffing the card into her jeans pocket.

‘The Goths?’

‘What?’

‘In Whitby?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘You must’ve smashed it.’

‘Mmm-hmmm.’

Harriet’s heart was clanging like a kid bashing a cymbal. WAIT: Scott had her address? HOW?Think, think …Was it him? It had to be him.

The doorbell went again.

‘These’ll be my flowers,’ Cal said, and Harriet forced a smile.

The kitchen was suddenly full of Mr and Mrs Clarke Senior, and Harriet remembered Cal had mentioned his parents were coming to take him out for lunch, as a delayed birthday visit.

‘Hello, you must be Harriet!’ said a grey-haired, sixty-something man, a scaled-up version of Cal, with a fleshier nose and broader build. Actually, he shared a jawline with this father, but she could see Cal’s features more closely resembled his slight, fair mother. (She was reminded of a Lorna complaint about vapid Facebook comments: ‘Child looks like both of its parents shocker.’)

‘I’m Andrew and this is Sandie, it’s lovely to meet you.’

‘Nice to meet you too.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you!’

He looked excessively delighted to meet Harriet, as if the discovery of a woman in his son’s kitchen was the treasure of the Sierra Madre. He was one of those men who wore lashings of an expensive, spicy aftershave, its scent now filling the room and eclipsing the lilies. Good.

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