Page 11 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

‘The woman from last night,’ David answered as he opened the packet and freed two circles.

‘She didn’t want the flowers?’

‘She bought me flowers. I don’t know that that’s ever happened before.’ David crossed to put the crumpets back and lingered too long at the open mouth of the wooden box. ‘Patti, why’s your phone in the bread bin?’ He was holding it when he turned around.

‘Because, starting at one in the morning, I started to get Valentine’s messages from that bloody app, from women I haven’t even spoken to, and you didn’t show me how to turn off notifications.’

‘Did it occur to you that there was a reason for that?’ His thumb was moving. In the same way that a butterfly’s wingbeat can cause a tornado, I was acutely aware of his scrolling, as though it disturbed the very atmosphere of the kitchen. ‘This one seems nice.’

‘David, I really don’t think this whole–’

‘Ooh, or this one?’ He forced the phone into my eyeline.

‘I thought I was looking for women my own age.’

‘She’s probably in your age bracket. You know, if you were filling out a form for something.’ He leaned back against the counter and carried on looking through the messages. ‘You really should reply to some of these women, not least because it makes you look rude if you don’t.’

‘I don’t pour from the cup of my matured politeness for just any woman, David, I’m not–’

‘If the end of that sentence is “you”, then you can pause there, thank you very much.’ He threw the phone on the kitchen table and went back to much more important matters: loading the crumpets with cheese. ‘I just think if you’re going to do this, you really should give it a proper try.’

‘David, I didn’t say I wanted to–’ The doorbell cut across me again. ‘For Christ’s sake.’

‘It might be something for you,’ David spoke into the open space of the grill.

‘I bloody doubt it,’ I shouted back en route to open the door.

‘Delivery for Patricia?’ The man was holding an offensively large bunch of white roses and pungent lilies.

‘That’s me,’ I answered flatly, taking them from him. I wondered how many flights of stairs the poor sod would have to climb carrying the weight of a toddler in flowers today. ‘Have yourself a good day now.’

‘And you, happy Valentine’s–’

I kicked the door closed without letting him finish. On the walk back to the kitchen, I struggled to free the card, which was the only splodge of red on an otherwise pristine bouquet.

‘“To my darling wife on Valentine’s Day. Don’t be such a miserable cow about finding love. Sending all of mine. From David xxx”.’

I felt myself soften.

‘Oh, come on’ – he was already filling a vase with water – ‘I’ve never missed a year.’

‘Don’t let that cheese burn.’

‘Patti, you old romantic.’ He took the flowers from me with a raised eyebrow. ‘Now, as I’m assuming you didn’t get me anything, how about we…’

I let out a strangled sound. ‘Fine! But only to clear the notifications, and not until I’ve had food and water. They’re basic human needs.’

‘So is romance, Patti.’

‘Oh, David.’ I stretched up and kissed his forehead. ‘Do shut up.’