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The roses that arrived yesterday are still in my sink and now I can’t bring myself to cut open the cellophane and arrange them artistically. More than ever, they seem tainted, a poor parody of what they are supposed to represent.
A night on my own stretches ahead of me. There was no sign of life at Mike’s house when I got home and, idly, I wonder where he is. Out somewhere working late maybe. I could just call his mobile, see if he’s OK, but then I tell myself I can’t always be calling up Mike when the slightest thing goes wrong. He can’t for ever be my fall-back plan. The man must have a life of his own.
As I sit at the kitchen table and sip my wine, Archie winds himself around my legs and I start to relax – even though it’s wise to be wary of the tips of claws being drawn. Pulling Mrs Silverton’s brochure out of my bag, I start to flick through the pages. Safaris in Style. That was obviously what planted the lie about Africa in my mind. Pathetically, I did take some small pleasure in making Paul look suitably shocked. Is it so unlikely that I’d go travelling on my own? Am I that boringly predictable? Yes, I probably am. Hmm. The holidays look fabulous. Glossy photographs of acres and acres of vast African plains, luxury lodges, upmarket camps and photogenic animals fill the pages.
The microwave pings and my lasagne is bubbling and ready. Picking through the pasta offers me more succour and another glass of wine doesn’t go amiss either. The pages of the brochure are enthralling.
‘Look at this.’ I show the page to Archie who has climbed onto the table to inspect what I’m reading. The face of a lion with a full mane fills half of the page. ‘One of your lot,’ I tell him. ‘He’d give you a run for your money.’
Archie doesn’t argue.
When I’ve eaten, I wash up my plate and go through to the living room and put some wood into the log burner. Mike was, as usual, fabulous and went to collect some more for me a couple of weeks ago and now I probably have enough piled up in the wood store to see me right through the winter.
Curling up on the sofa, I tuck my knees beneath me. This home is my sanctuary. I feel safe here and I’m so lucky to have good neighbours – not just Mike. The couple on the other side of me, Lyn and Martin, are always happy to help out or chat over the garden fence. Paul and Ali at the end of the terrace are a great couple too, though they both work in London in crazy high-powered jobs and aren’t often at home. I carry on flicking through another few pages of the brochure. This looks very tempting. Then there’s a rap on my door and my blood freezes.
I know who it is without even going to have a look. Despite myself, I go to the door and peer through the spyhole. Sure enough, on the other side, Lewis Moran is standing there, hands jammed in his pockets. He’s whistling to himself. I put my back against the door. There’s no way I’m going to open it for him. I don’t want him lunging at me again and trying to kiss me. He’ll be able to see the lights through the window, but there’s no welcome here for him tonight. I’m only glad that I thought to draw the curtains earlier so I know that he can’t look inside.
Lewis raps again. ‘Janie,’ he tries to lift the letterbox to shout through it, but it jams against my bottom. ‘I know that you’re in. Answer the door. I just want to talk to you.’
Making sure the door is bolted – which it is – I quietly tiptoe away. I go and sit on the sofa, huddling at one end, hauling Archie onto my lap.
‘Have dinner with me,’ Lewis pleads as he stands outside my home. ‘A drink. What harm could a drink do?’
Does he seriously not appreciate how awful the last time was? How, even as an out-and-out lie, could I possibly have told Paul that I was seeing this man?
I grab a cushion and fold it over the top of my head, pulling it down so that it covers my ears and blocks out the sound. A second later, my mobile starts to ring and I don’t even need to check who the caller is. I let the call go to voicemail. It rings again, two, three, four times.
‘I won’t give up,’ Lewis shouts and then, thankfully, I hear his footsteps retreat down the path.
Dashing to the window, I pull the curtain back a fraction and watch his figure head to his car in the darkness. He turns and gives one last look at the cottage and I quickly duck back in case he sees me. But he doesn’t and, a moment later, he’s roaring off into the night again. I groan to myself. One awful date, and now the man sees me as some sort of challenge?
Back on the sofa and, of course, I can’t settle. I think about a film and dismiss the idea – something romantic or sentimental and I’d be off bawling again. Anything with a high body count or gore and I’d never sleep. What am I going to do? How am I going to get rid of my unwanted suitor?
