Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,49
ignore me, Lydia. Just so long as you’re really, really sure. But I still think you could hold fire for a few months, just so you can get to know him better.’
‘I do know him, Cassie. Anyway, will you be my maid of honour?’
‘Of course, hon. You know I’m always there for you.’
‘I do, thank you. Let’s catch up later in the week.’
Thinking about my conversation with Cassie again, it does feel right. The issues over money are behind us, and Patrick paid for everything during our weekend away, no expenses spared. The beautiful hotel, a massive bouquet of red roses, dinner, and the ring on my finger, which came in a Tiffany’s box and must have cost Patrick tens of thousands of pounds. It dwarfs the ring Adam gave me. I don’t remember feeling quite so in love with Adam. This feels fresh, exciting, very right. Besides, I may never get another opportunity like this. Both Cassie and Fiona have been single for ages.
‘Cassie’s just looking out for you,’ Fiona says, jolting me back to the here and now. ‘You’ve been through so much this year. I think you’re really lucky, and if love has come your way, you need to grasp it.’
‘That’s what I think, too.’
Of course, Cassie knows me better than Fiona does. And she knows that I have a tendency to be a bit of a bull in a china shop, certainly more impulsive than she is. But sometimes I wonder if that’s what has made me successful in business. I’m prepared to take risks – calculated risks, at least. But my relationship with Patrick doesn’t feel like a risk. He makes me feel wonderful, both in bed and out. I feel safe in his arms. But most importantly, I don’t want to miss this opportunity of happiness. Does that make me selfish or foolish even? I hope not.
As I’m driving home from the gym, I stop off at the supermarket to pick up some food for supper. The kids will be home on Saturday, and in the meantime, Patrick and I are spending as much time together as possible. I’m midway through making a risotto when the doorbell rings. It’s Patrick. He sweeps me into a big hug, and it isn’t until he releases me that I see his suitcase.
‘What’s that?’
‘As we’re formally engaged, I was hoping I might be able to stay here more often? It’s a real hassle for me having to live between my flat and here.’
‘I thought you said you were old-fashioned and didn’t want to live together?’
‘True.’ He laughs. ‘But that doesn’t mean we can’t spend lots of nights together! Will you want to carry on living here when we’re married? After all, this is the house you shared with Adam.’
‘Goodness, I haven’t thought about that. I want to do whatever is the least disruptive for the kids. But maybe we should sell this house. Move somewhere new, somewhere that’s ours?’
Patrick follows me into the kitchen. ‘I think that’s a marvelous idea. Something smells scrumptious.’ He helps himself to a beer from the fridge whilst I stand at the stove and stir the risotto.
‘I’m going to have to choose the right time to tell the kids about us getting married, and if they don’t want to move to a new house, then I think we’ll have to carry on living here. They might be really upset. Not that they don’t like you or anything, it’s just they’ve only recently lost their dad.’
I note a flash of annoyance cross Patrick’s face, but after a sip of beer, it’s gone and he smiles at me. ‘Of course. It’s just I want to scream about our engagement from the rooftops. I am the happiest man alive.’ He moves across the kitchen and puts an arm around my waist, purring in my ear. ‘So, the soon-to-be Mrs Grant, what can I do to help you make supper?’
The problem is, I can’t tell the children yet. It’s Christmas, and Adam’s absence will be a gaping chasm for Mia and Oliver, despite us being away from home. Along with the hordes of travelers returning home or going on holiday, I take a flight to Geneva, followed by the train to Sion. It is years since I’ve been to the Alps, and I have forgotten how stunning the scenery is as the train snakes slowly along the edge of Lake Geneva, the sun glistening on the pale silvery water, so still it could be a mirror, reflecting