Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,56

walls and doors, large windows that look out onto the park, and pinkish chairs. The officiant’s table is in front of an unused fireplace. It looks much like the drawing room of a stately home.

The registrar is a woman in her sixties who does her best not to look surprised that we are only a party of five. Cassie is my witness, and a man whom I haven’t met before, called Graham, is Patrick’s witness. The service is quick, and before I know it, Patrick and I are man and wife. Afterwards, we walk hand in hand to the restaurant where I had the date with Rory. Cassie walks with her arm flung around Oliver’s shoulders. He would never let me do that.

I don’t warm to Graham. He doesn’t say much, answering questions in monosyllables and seeming disappointingly aloof. I don’t understand why Patrick describes him as his best friend, and I wonder if they have had a falling-out in the last day or so.

‘How well do you know Sandra?’ I ask Graham as we’re finishing off our desserts.

‘Sandra?’

I frown. ‘Patrick’s sister.’

‘Oh yeah, her. Not very well.’

‘You used to, didn’t you, mate?’ Patrick says.

‘Yes, but I haven’t seen her in years, have I? Doubt I’d recognise her these days. What’s she up to, anyway?’

‘I told you. She’s got cancer.’ Patrick scowls at Graham. The dynamic between the two of them is weird, and I can’t put my finger on it.

Shortly after coffee, Graham stands up. ‘Sorry I’ve got to break up the party. Congratulations again to you both.’ He holds up his empty champagne glass.

‘I’ll see you out,’ Patrick says. He follows Graham as he walks to the door. I have my back to them, but Cassie frowns as she watches them talk together.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Nothing,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Nothing.’

And then it’s time for us to leave; time for Patrick and me to go to the fancy hotel that he has booked. Cassie throws her arms around me and squeezes me hard. ‘Have a wonderful wedding night,’ she says. ‘And don’t worry about Mia and Oliver. We’ll have fun tonight, won’t we?’ She nudges Oliver, who throws a weak smile.

‘Bye, my love,’ I say to my boy. He doesn’t reply.

We walk to the car park where Patrick has left his hire car, packed with a small suitcase that I gave him yesterday with my overnight things. I suppose, if I’m honest, I’m disappointed. There is no white ribbon on the front of the car; nothing to suggest that we are newly-weds. And then I chastise myself. I had all of that last time; I don’t need it now. I have all I need: the love of a wonderful man.

17

Two days after our wedding, Patrick moves in. The kids are at school, and I wait expectantly, hovering at the front door. We have never discussed how much stuff he intends to bring, and I wonder if we’ll have sufficient space. Will I need to get rid of some of our furniture to make space for Patrick’s? Perhaps I should remove the picture hanging over the fireplace and suggest he hang his ocean painting there instead. It’s a more attractive piece of artwork than the abstract landscape that Adam chose and insisted on displaying, chosen because it was painted by a famous artist rather than being a picture he loved. I decide to leave it for now. We can always change things around later.

Just after 10 a.m. I hear the crunch of tyres and I pull open the door. Patrick hops out of his car and opens the boot. He reaches in and tugs out one large suitcase and a small bouquet of red roses. After shutting the door, he carries the case to the front steps, puts it down next to him, places the bouquet on top of it and pulls me towards him.

‘Hello, Mrs Grant. How are you?’

‘Very well, Mr Grant. And you?’

He gives me a quick kiss and pulls away, leaving me wanting more.

‘Lead on,’ he says.

‘What time is the lorry coming?’

He stops still. ‘What lorry?’

‘The removals lorry with all your stuff. Or is it a van?’

‘There is no lorry, Lydia. This is it. The sum contents of my belongings. As I told you, my ex took all of our furniture, and my sister has an old Welsh dresser that belonged to our parents. There was nothing else worth keeping.’

‘Oh.’ I frown. ‘But what about all the furniture in your flat? And the lovely seascape