Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,35

I’m wealthy? Only last month, I read about a poor woman being scammed out of a million pounds by her supposed lover, who turned out to be a young man working in an online dating fraud business in Ghana. But no. Patrick isn’t like that. He’s loving towards me. We are in a physical relationship.

I grab my laptop and open up Google. What was it? MPQ something. The drug comes up. MPQ-202. It’s a brand new treatment, being hailed as a miracle cure for inoperable cancers, but because it hasn’t yet completed all of the rigorous testing required by the NHS, patients have to pay for it privately. And Patrick is correct. It does cost around twenty-five thousand pounds a month.

I lean back in my chair. There can’t be a better way to spend our money than saving someone’s life.

I send Patrick a text.

Thanks so much for a fantastic time. Can you send me your bank account details, please?

I have to wait for over an hour until I get a response.

Can’t stop thinking about you. Why do you want my bank acc info? Px

I want to send you something for your sister.

No way!

I gulp. I hope I haven’t offended him. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I just want to help. It can be a loan. Let me pay for the next two months of her treatment. Pay me back when you can.

I can see that he has read the text, but he doesn’t answer. I wait, holding the phone in my hand as if it is combustible, silently praying that I haven’t overstepped the mark. I stand up to go to the kitchen, to switch on the kettle, and then the phone beeps with an incoming text.

Don’t know what to say except thank you. Blown away. I’ll be able to repay you in three months. Thank you. You’re an angel. x

12

It’s Saturday evening, and Patrick parks in front of a newly built block of flats. The entrance hall is plush, with a royal blue, thick-piled carpet and two lifts encased in a wall of marble. He presses a gold button to call the lift, and when we’re inside, he presses the button to the third floor. The back wall is mirrored. I wonder if he will kiss me in here, but he doesn’t. He catches my eye and we smile at each other. We exit the lift onto an equally plush corridor with walls lined with abstract paintings, large splashes of reds and oranges.

‘I’m here on the left,’ he says as he inserts a key into the door of flat number 308. He holds the door open for me. ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. There is a small entrance hall and a door straight ahead that opens onto a large living room. The floors are a pale wood, possibly a good quality laminate. The walls are all painted white and the room is so big, the black leather sofa and two armchairs seem almost lost in it. A wide window looks out onto a park, and it lets in plenty of light. On the wall above the sofa is an impressive oil painting; a seascape in dusty blues and greys about four feet long. The kitchen is open plan to the living room: sleek, shiny black granite countertops and a wall of shiny white cupboards. With the exception of one wooden bowl holding a couple of apples and a banana, and a single red rose still wrapped in plastic, there are no things out on the countertops. Not even a kettle or a toaster. The stainless-steel hob sparkles, and it looks as if there is still a sticker on the front of the oven. It has the feel of a hotel combined with a show flat.

He must notice my frown because he laughs. ‘I’m away for business so often, I’m rarely here. If the kitchen doesn’t look used, it’s because it isn’t. It helps that I’ve got a great cleaner who swoops in after me and cleans away any mess. I’m afraid I’m lazy and often call for a takeaway.’ He picks up the rose and hands it to me. ‘This is for you.’

Then he turns around and starts walking down a corridor to the left. I follow.

‘This is my bedroom,’ he says, holding the door open. A super king-size bed is covered with a dark grey throw; orange-and-grey cushions sit proudly plumped up leaning against the grey velour