Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,59

the chicken stew, rice and vegetables on a plate and place it on a tray. I carry it upstairs. I’m about to open Mia’s bedroom door when I hear voices inside. It sounds as if Patrick is talking to Mia but in a low voice, so I can’t make out what he is saying. I hesitate a moment and then knock on the door.

‘I’ve got some food for you, Mia,’ I say.

She is seated cross-legged on her bed. Her eyes are red from crying. We refurbished Mia’s bedroom a little over a year ago, transforming it from a pink Barbie-inspired room into something surprisingly sophisticated with a teal-velvet-covered headboard, a copper pendant light and copper accessories. Patrick is perched on the window seat, his arms crossed, the teal blinds pulled down behind him. I can’t quite put my finger on the atmosphere. It reminds me of the ozone-scented air after a heavy storm; a relief that the worst is behind us.

‘I’ve just had a little word with Mia, and she’s got something to say to you, haven’t you, Mia?’

‘I’m sorry, Mum. I won’t behave like that again.’

‘It’s ok, love.’ I place the tray on the end of her bed.

Patrick throws Mia a look that I don’t understand and then leaves the room.

‘What was that all about?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ Mia says, shaking her head. ‘I’m okay now, and I’m sorry for being rude.’

‘It’s all right, my darling. I know how difficult things have been.’ I try to give her a kiss, but she wriggles away and grabs the plate of food.

‘Thanks for this,’ she says, spooning large forkfuls into her mouth.

I don’t know what Patrick has said to Mia, but I don’t recognise this polite version of my daughter.

The next few days are uneventful. Gail Smithers has a good look around the house and values it for twenty percent more than we bought it for. If she knows about Adam’s death, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she tells me that she has a number of properties on her books that might be suitable for us, all at a fair whack more than what she proposes we sell our house for. She says she can think of at least three clients whom she wants to show our house to. I am buoyed up by her positivity.

Today was packed full of meetings, and I realise I’m going to be home late. I message Patrick, who offers to collect the kids from school and to make supper. I smile. Adam used to help out, but only if I asked him to. I finish off my work and it’s gone six thirty by the time I put my key in the front door.

‘Hello!’ I shout, dumping my coat and my bags in the hall and walking down the corridor to the living room.

‘Oh!’ I exclaim, my hand in front of my mouth as I look around the room. Logically, I know that this is my living room, filled with my furniture, but it looks nothing like how I left it this morning. The large cream sofa has been moved to the other side of the room and has its back to the wall. The armchairs are placed facing it, nearer to the fireplace. The antique satinwood bookcase is now on the wall adjacent to the patio doors, and the console table is a few feet in front of the doors. On it is a large arrangement of dried flowers that I keep in the hall, along with some ornate silver candlesticks. Even the long, silken-haired rug has been moved.

‘Do you like it?’ Patrick asks. He is seated on the sofa a little too closely to Cassie, who has her legs curled up underneath her.

‘Um, yes. It’s different. Hi, Cassie. I didn’t know you were coming over this evening.’

‘I wasn’t. I rang up earlier for a chat; Patrick answered and invited me for supper.’ She lays her hand on Patrick’s forearm. I notice a nearly drunk bottle of wine on the coffee table.

‘Not only is he handsome and witty, but he’s a great cook and a fine interior decorator. You’ve got a good un here, Lyd.’ She sucks her index finger and blinks slowly.

I smile awkwardly. Cassie is drunk, and she’s flirting with my new husband in my lounge that I no longer recognise. For a moment, I feel like a stranger in my own home. And I don’t like it.

‘I’m just going to get myself a drink,’ I say, turning around.

‘No, you stay here. Let