Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,42

things it doesn’t matter. I can afford to pay, and Patrick appears genuinely upset. But there is a little trickle of concern that pings at the back of my throat like an annoying tickle. Did he leave his wallet behind on purpose? Is the difference in our financial status an issue, if not for him, for me?

I try to dismiss the concern. When we’re home and I’m downstairs locking up, Patrick bounds up the stairs and then reappears with his wallet in his hand. He starts counting twenty- and ten-pound notes.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

‘Paying you back for dinner.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I say, kissing him on the nose. ‘Put your money away.’

He grabs me then and tugs me upstairs. We shed our clothes as we go.

I thought it would be weird sleeping with Patrick in the bed I shared with Adam. In fact, it feels perfectly ok. I suppose Adam and I had been distant for such a long time, this room seems more like my own rather than our marital bedroom. I awake from a deep sleep, Patrick snoring gently next to me, his face line-free and beguiling in sleep. I glance at my alarm clock.

It’s 6.35 a.m., and last night Patrick said he had a taxi coming to collect him at 7 a.m. so he could get to the car rental depot as soon as they opened.

‘Patrick,’ I say, gently shaking him, ‘wake up!’

He mumbles something incomprehensible and throws an arm over my stomach.

‘It’s time to get up.’ I speak louder this time. He startles me by sitting bolt upright in bed.

‘Shit, I was in a dream,’ he says, rubbing his eyes.

‘You haven’t got long.’

‘Bloody hell.’ He jumps out of bed and rushes towards the bathroom. ‘I’ll have a quick shower, if that’s ok?’

‘Sure.’

I put on my dressing gown and start collecting the clothes that we cast off in the heat of passion last night. Patrick’s crumpled shirt is on the bedroom floor along with his boxer shorts and socks. I have to walk along the corridor and halfway down the stairs to retrieve his trousers and tie. I chuckle as I bend down to pick them up. As I lift up his trousers, a receipt flutters from his pocket. I pick it up and can’t help but look at it. It’s for dinner for two in at La Belle Gras Restaurant in Mayfair, London. £167. An expensive dinner. And then I note the date and frown. It is dated the night before yesterday. That doesn’t make sense. Patrick told me he was in Manchester, not London. He told me what a boring time he had.

The shower is still running when I shuffle slowly back into the bedroom. I put the receipt back into his trouser pocket. He has lied to me. And he has just asked me to lend him money for a rental car, plus I paid for dinner, not forgetting the huge fifty thousand pounds on loan for his sister’s treatment. I have a reason to be suspicious, don’t I? I sit perched on the end of the bed, listening to the roar of the power shower. I wait until eventually the sound of crashing water stops. Patrick emerges, a white towel around his waist; he’s using another one to rub his hair dry.

‘I wish I didn’t have to go,’ he says, pouting. ‘I want to ravish you all over again.’

I attempt a smile. He is too busy getting dressed to notice my discomfort. Should I say something to him? I am sure there is a reasonable explanation. Perhaps it’s not even Patrick’s receipt. Maybe it’s for a colleague or something he picked off the ground? But how likely is that?

When he is dressed, he leans down to give me a kiss. He smells of mint toothpaste and my almond shower gel, and then there’s that intoxicating scent that I can’t quite define but is so authentically Patrick.

‘Can I see you tonight?’ He slips his hand down inside my dressing gown.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t do tonight. I’ll call you,’ I say.

He stands up and stares at me.

‘Lydia, I am in love with you.’

‘Oh,’ I say, unable to articulate any other words. I think I’m in love with him too, but the receipt and the money I have loaned him have thrown me a curve ball, and I need time to think.

Fortunately, we are interrupted by the loud beeping of a car horn.

He throws me another quick kiss and then bounds for the front door.

‘Hold