12 January
Karen Linfield snatched open her front door at speed, ready to see off the salesman or market researcher who had the nerve to knock on a Sunday afternoon, registered the man standing on her doorstep with the enormous bouquet and proceeded to shut it again.
‘Please don’t. Give me a minute of your time and I’m out of here,’ said Pete. He didn’t recognise her, remembered her as having red hair like her sister. That told him everything he needed to know about himself. His mother would have been ashamed to have seen him treat this woman no better than trash. Sal was right – he had been a wanker. A temporary wanker, he hoped.
‘What the fuck would I have to say to you?’ said Karen, scowling so much her eyeballs were in danger of popping out and rolling down her cheeks.
‘You don’t have to say anything to me, but I have something to say to you, Karen,’ said Pete, emphasising her name as if to prove he’d had the decency to commit it to memory. ‘I have behaved appallingly. It is not an excuse but I have been in a bad place and I have used people and I’m so very sorry that you were one of them. I hate myself more than you ever can, trust me on that.’
Karen Linfield’s lips relaxed a little. She had really fancied Pete when she met him at Sal and Natasha’s Christmas party, dragged him – willingly – back to hers and enjoyed the one-night stand enough with him to allow herself to hope for more. It wasn’t the first time she’d been ghosted by a bloke, but he’d tricked her emotions, made her think he really fancied her back.
‘You’re a lovely young lady, Karen, and deserve better than some prick dicking you about. Please accept these as a token of my sincerest apologies. It won’t wind time back, but hopefully it will make you feel that you are a person of value who deserves flowers. I hope you meet someone who brings you lots of them and treats you so much better than I did. Don’t settle for anything less.’
Pete thought she’d tell him to stick his bouquet, Karen thought she’d tell him to stick his bouquet, but she did know what he’d been through, which was partly why she had been drawn to him at Sal’s party, that air of vulnerability. Her hands came out to receive the flowers. She wished he’d now say, ‘So, can we start again – when can I see you?’ but he didn’t, so it was up to her to dictate the closure terms.
‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I hope you get your head sorted out.’
Then she shut the door in his face.
*
Pete knocked on the door to Sal’s cottage hoping she’d answer and not Natasha. Natasha answered, and gave him a look of disapproval that sent the one her sister had given him just twenty minutes ago far into the shade.
‘Hi, Natasha, is Sal in?’
Natasha’s eyes dropped to the bouquet and bottle bag in Pete’s hands, looked back at his face again then turned her head to shout into the house.
‘Sal, there’s a little boy at the door who’d like a word with you.’ She made it sound like the worst insult she could give.
Sal bounced to the door. ‘Pete,’ she said, slightly confused. She’d been expecting the boy scout from two doors down asking her to sponsor him or something.
‘These are for you,’ said Pete. ‘An apology.’
‘It’s not me—’
Pete cut her off. ‘I’ve just been to Karen’s. Hopefully I’ve made my peace with her.’
‘Oh.’ Sal nodded, a few beats, and then stepped towards him, pulled him into a strong embrace that half-crushed the flowers. ‘You pillock.’
‘I am. A pillock, a tosser, an arsehole, a little boy. All of those things and more.’
‘You’re not,’ said Sal. ‘Come in and have a cuppa.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got more of these to deliver.’
‘Serial tosser,’ mused Sal. They both broke into laughter. She took the bouquet and the bag, peeped inside. ‘Ooh, Grand Marnier, my favourite.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. You’re my best girl mate and I never want to be on the wrong side of you again.’
Sal was lost for words for a moment, which was unheard of for her. She loved this man standing with stooped shoulders in front of her. He’d been through so much, and probably extra stuff that she didn’t know about if his recent blip was anything to go by. She figured that he wasn’t seeing the platinum-blonde solicitor who’d made his face light up any more because he’d shut her right down once when she’d asked. Shame. He was a lovely, kind man who deserved a break. Their friendship had never been really threatened, she knew he’d sort himself out eventually.
‘Welcome home, Pete Moore,’ she said.
*
Pete sat parked around the corner from Ria’s small detached house. It was his turn to stalk her this time, waiting until her blue Golf pulled up onto the drive. He gave it five minutes before ringing the bell and heard the strains of ‘Für Elise’ playing in the belly of the house. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the blind at the window flutter and then a long minute passed before the front door flew open with the same alacrity as it had done at Karen Linfield’s house. It did not begin to close on him this time though.
Ria stood before him with freshly applied lipstick and a shirt customarily unbuttoned down to mid-breast level. A fresh spray of scent drifted out to him. Not Tara’s this time.
‘Ria. I came to apologise. My behaviour, the last time we met, was appalling. I think you know me well enough to realise it was out of character.’
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she said, mouth gathered into a tight moue.
‘Thank you.’
He stepped inside, kicked off his shoes in order to walk on her pale blue carpet, even though she was treading on it in high pin-heels.
‘Come through.’
He followed her into her lounge. It was very Ria – black, white, pinks and golds. A huge black and white photo of her naked in a Christine Keeler pose astride an Arne Jacobsen chair took up one wall. The pink cushion covers on the sofa had her photo printed on them: the room screamed ‘me, me, me’.
Pete sat down on the sofa at her invitation, pushing one of the cushions out of the way as he didn’t feel comfortable sitting on her face. Ria sat down on the adjacent armchair, crossing her shapely legs.
‘You were saying,’ she said, in a tone that said she was going to make him work for this.
‘I’m sorry. You have been so thoughtful and generous and you didn’t deserve what I said to you. I acted bullishly – like a prick in other words – and I came to say that I am really, really sorry about that.’
‘And you think a bunch of flowers is going to make everything all right?’
‘No. I wish I could unsay the words I used, but I can’t do that. This doesn’t even begin to cut it, I know.’
The bouquet was full of pink scented flowers, clearly chosen with care.
‘Yes, well, it was an emotional day. I can sort of understand why you flipped. But you really did hurt me, Pete,’ she said, which was the understatement of the year. He’d smashed her heart into pieces actually, because she’d realised that day that he was totally aware that she fancied him and that’s why he’d been keeping her at arm’s length. She had been as cross at herself, for not taking him up on his offer. Maybe in bed he would have realised that he desired her as much as she desired him.
‘Then please, accept these from me even though I wouldn’t blame you if you threw them straight in the bin,’ he said.
She took the spray of flowers from him. ‘They’re lovely, thank you. Can I get you a drink?’ He was forgiven, because she still wanted him, even after he’d insulted her in such a horrible way. He’d rather she hit him in the face with them.
‘No thank you. That’s kind, but I—’ don’t want to get sucked back into this ‘—I don’t want to keep you. I hope you’ll not hold it against me.’
She smiled and for an atom of time he wondered if he should keep her, accept the drink, let her in. She was besotted, pretty, caring. Is this what Tara had asked herself about him: that Pete was a good man who adored her so why couldn’t she settle for him, why couldn’t she let Alex Wilder go?
‘I wouldn’t ever hold it against you, Pete. I’ll call and see you sometime, shall I?’
He cringed inwardly. No, it would be cruel to give her false hope.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea, Ria.’ He said it as gently as he could, hoping she would realise he was being kind, not callous.
‘Right.’ Her clipped tone told him that he’d disappointed her again. She’d read hope and possibility as well as apology in those beautiful flowers.
He stood, smiled at her and said, ‘Goodbye, Ria.’
‘Just before you go,’ she said, taking a paper bag out of a drawer. ‘These are for you. They were in the bags of things that I took from the cottage. They’re letters.’
His hand came out to accept them.
‘I think you should read them all,’ she said.
Later, when he did read them, he realised that if Ria had wanted to deal him a punishing blow for rejecting her, she couldn’t have picked a more brutal method.