Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,24

grab my black patent leather clutch bag, double-checking that my wallet, phone and keys are inside, and hurry downstairs, pulling on my trench coat as I go.

‘You look stunning!’ Cassie exclaims as I open our heavy oak front door.

She gives me a kiss and walks past me, down the hallway towards the kitchen, her trainers squeaking on our supersized dark grey flagstone floor.

‘Something smells scrumptious!’

‘Just a ready-made lasagna, I’m afraid.’ I hold on to the thick carved oak post at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Mia, Oliver, Auntie Cassie is here!’

Silence. I remember the days, not so long ago, when the children would speed downstairs, careering into Cassie’s legs, desperate to share their latest news or demonstrate the toy of the moment. These days Mia refuses to call Cassie Auntie. ‘She’s not my aunt,’ Mia hissed last month. But old habits die hard.

‘There’s white wine in the fridge. Help yourself. You’re in the normal room.’

‘Are you expecting to be back late?’ Cassie grins and then winks.

‘No. Just in case you’re tired.’

‘I’ll wait up for you. Right, off you go.’ She flaps her hands at me. ‘Go meet Rory, the solicitor. The one with the smoldering dark eyes and pecs that show through his tightly fitting white shirt. The one who looks like a sex god.’

‘Ha ha,’ I say, biting my lip. I still feel bad about it. It’s too soon to be internet dating, just four months after my husband died. But as Cassie has told me on numerous occasions, (a) we were planning on divorcing anyway, and (b) Adam is dead, so it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong, and (c) I’m not trying to replace their father, just seeking a bit of happiness for myself, and surely the children will understand that.

I’m still not sure that Cassie is right. It seems that I’m looking for a new relationship with indecent haste, and I am riddled with guilt. Perhaps I shouldn’t go? It’s not too late. But Cassie will be furious. She set up the account on 4everlove.com, she has chosen my date, and she insists that I deserve happiness. I know she means well, but still I wonder. There is no way that I’m going to broadcast that I’m already on the lookout for love.

‘How was your date?’ I ask Cassie as I check my bag for car keys and house keys a second time.

‘Crap. His profile said he was in haulage. He’s a lorry driver with a red, bulbous nose and a stomach that looks like one of those big pink Pilates balls. Needless to say, we won’t be meeting again.’

I sigh. Cassie doesn’t give up. She is looking for love and is determined to find it, but she’s not prepared to compromise. In some ways she’s lucky. Pete and Cassie got divorced years ago, when Dale was just three or four years old. They’ve stayed friends and have managed the co-parenting thing remarkably well. Cassie has had a couple of long-term relationships over the past fifteen years, but she’s been single for a while now. She’s hot on internet dating. And although Mia and Oliver are probably old enough to stay home alone, she babysits too.

‘Fingers crossed you’ll have an amazing date,’ Cassie says, blowing me a kiss.

‘Thanks, hon. I’ll try.’

This is my first internet date ever, and frankly, I’m terrified. Rory Morrison is a solicitor. I checked him out before we started talking on the phone. He works for a medium-sized firm in Leatherhead, specialising in property law. Annoyingly, there is no photo attached to his bio on the firm’s website. If he’s on Facebook, I haven’t found him.

He seems a nice enough guy, and during our short conversations on the phone, he made me laugh a couple of times. I would have preferred to meet for a drink, but Rory insisted on us going out for dinner at Barney’s, one of the smartest restaurants in the area. His treat, he said. Hence why I’m dressed up. One thing is for sure, Rory will not be getting any action tonight.

The restaurant is in a side street in Horsham, tucked away on a narrow alley. I park the car several roads over. I don’t want him to see my fancy motor.

I tie my trench coat tightly around my waist and walk quickly towards the restaurant, glad that I chose the kitten-heeled shoes rather than the stilettos. It’s a warm, balmy evening and there are plenty of people milling around, enjoying the unseasonably fine weather. I check my