Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,32

jumps out of the driver’s seat.

‘Hello.’ He smiles coyly, kissing me on the cheek and picking up my suitcase. He is wearing dark jeans and a pale blue button-down shirt, open at the neckline. ‘This is a beautiful house.’ He whistles as he looks up at our historic home, with its long sloping roof of reddish tiles and the unique double chimney giving way to the glass hallway that connects the old house to the newer converted barn with its exposed ancient oak beams. It is impressive from the outside, and even more so on the inside, laden with history and centuries of laughter and pain, births and deaths. I am very conscious of what our house portrays. Money. Privilege. From the outside, no one can know what heartache has lain within.

I smile. ‘Yes, it’s been a labour of love.’ I don’t add that we bought it as seen. It was the previous owners who had the vision to restore the house and merge the unused barn with the smaller, fifteenth-century farmhouse.

Patrick puts my overnight bag in the boot of the car, alongside a small rucksack. He then holds open the passenger door for me. I slide inside. The car is spotless and smells as if it has just been valeted.

‘I’ve booked us into a boutique hotel in Brighton. I hope it’ll be ok. I haven’t been there before.’

‘I’m sure it will be lovely.’

Unlike our previous dates, there is an awkward silence between us as he drives. I suppose it’s because we’re both anticipating what is to come. I wish I’d had a strong drink before leaving home. From time to time, I throw furtive glances at his profile, but Patrick’s eyes are firmly on the road ahead. He drives quickly but confidently.

Eventually, we check into a hotel set a couple of roads back from the seafront, near the Lanes. There is a small reception area with a black granite counter, two high-backed red velvet chairs and black-and-white prints hanging on the walls, seascapes of Brighton.

‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs Grant. Please can you complete this form for us?’ The receptionist speaks with a heavy Italian accent as she hands Patrick the booking form.

I turn away, keen to hide the flush I feel blooming on my cheeks as a result of being called Mrs Grant. The fingers of my right hand move to the ring finger on my left hand, where for the past sixteen years, whenever I have felt nervous, I have twirled my wedding band around. I can’t get used to my ringless finger.

Our room is small, with a queen-sized bed piled high with red-and-grey cushions. I stand awkwardly near the door, wondering what the etiquette is. I hope Patrick isn’t going to make a move now, in full daylight.

‘Shall we have a stroll along the seafront and get some drinks before dinner?’ He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear.

‘Sure,’ I say, a little too eagerly.

We meander along the promenade, away from the pier. There is a strong breeze and my hair whips around my face. Patrick stops suddenly and turns towards me.

‘Can I kiss you?’ He doesn’t wait for an answer, pulling me into his arms. My heart is beating wildly and I feel like a teenager out for an illicit meeting with her older boyfriend.

When we pull apart, he takes my hand and leads me to a pub. It’s busy inside, but he finds us a little table in a corner. He hands me a glass of wine and a packet of peanuts.

‘I’m afraid I can’t eat those. I’m allergic to peanuts.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

He smiles at me, but then gazes off into the distance. I can tell something isn’t right. My heart sinks. Didn’t he like our kiss? Is it because of my peanut allergy? Am I about to be dumped before we’ve even started?

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, holding my breath.

‘Yes, yes. Just a few issues. I don’t want to bore you with them or ruin our evening. I’m sure a couple of drinks will do the trick.’

I lean towards him. ‘You can tell me. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that,’ I say, taking his hand. He doesn’t pull away, so perhaps I’m not about to get jilted.

‘It’s my sister.’

‘What about her?’ I ask. I didn’t even know he had a sister. ‘But you don’t need to tell me, obviously.’

He throws me a half smile. ‘My sister, Sandra. She’s battling a rare cancer. It’s