Louis and Kris lived in Pimlico in a maisonette not far from the Thames, a couple of suburban roads north of the riverbank. They had the upper floors, and if you stood on the flat roof over the extension you could just about see a glimpse of the buildings on the southern side of the river. This was where they were holding the wedding planning meeting, completely against building regs and the wishes of their neighbour underneath. But what the insurance broker under them didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
‘Unless we fall through onto his Aga. Can you imagine fitting an Aga in Central London?’ asked Louis. ‘It was so heavy they had to hire a crane to lift it in over the roof.’
‘Electric rather than gas or oil,’ said Kris. He didn’t seem bothered to be sitting so close to the edge without a balcony rail, even with his balance issues. He reminded her of Jonah in that. Maybe it was an unwritten requirement for living with Bridget?
‘What’s the point of an electric Aga?’ Louis raised his hands to the heavens. He’d chosen the chair nearest the house wall. Heights weren’t his thing. ‘They are supposed to be in country kitchens with Jill Archer knocking up a batch of scones for the village fête.’
‘I haven’t cured him of his Archers addiction,’ said Kris mournfully.
‘That’ll never happen. It’s fascinating. The characters go through personality transplants at regular intervals like aliens have taken over their brains, just so the story can keep on rolling with some dramatic tensions. The story of simple country folk.’
Kris topped up his beer from the large glass bottle of some local microbrewery. ‘People in real life aren’t like that. Someone who starts life an arse ends it as one, in my experience. Take my best mate, Ralph. I love him dearly – he saved my life – but he can still be a total shit to women. You have to love him despite his failings.’
‘Ah, so you should give up trying to change me then and take me warts and all,’ said Louis triumphantly. ‘I’m stuck on The Archers and you’ll just have to adjust.’
Jenny tapped the pad which was lying on the garden table they’d carried out of their kitchen sash window.
‘Jenny is calling us to order. Quite right, darling. We’ve confirmed the venue and the colours for the flower arrangements. So how much do we spend per head on our guests? The caterers sent a menu with options.’
‘What about cancelling the caterer and doing a bring-and-share supper?’ said Kris as an opening gambit.
‘What about eighty quid a head, not including alcohol?’
While they wrangled their budget, Jenny flicked through her messages. Her mother had reverted to politics. She interjected an ‘I know. Aren’t they all awful?’ which would do for any political statement her mum might make. Louis pushed a glass of white wine into her hand. She sipped it without looking. It tasted crisp and cold – perfect.
‘We’ll still be paying off the wedding when we draw our pensions!’ argued Kris.
‘You already have a pension.’
So there was still some way to go in this argument. She tuned out again and went through the messages from unfamiliar numbers. No, I haven’t been involved in an accident which wasn’t my fault. No, I don’t want to find out more about PPI mis-selling. No, I don’t want to know more about your amazing broadband deal. She hit delete on all of them. Then she came across another with a weird opening line. Do you like my flowers?
Was the joker going to unmask himself? It had to be Jonah surely, as Bridget didn’t text? She tapped on the message.
Do you like the flowers? I enjoy putting them where you lay your head. Do you think of me when you look up at the canopy at night? Do you miss me?
Something about the tone set her teeth on edge. Who are you? This isn’t funny!
An admirer.
Her hand jolted, spilling the wine. Oh my God, the answer was instantaneous. The person was waiting on the other end. Even though they weren’t right beside her, it brought them so much closer.
‘Jenny? What’s wrong?’ asked Louis.
She must’ve given away that she was alarmed. Turning the screen to face them, she showed them the message.
‘You have a secret admirer who leaves you flowers?’ Louis was trying to work out why this was upsetting her.
‘Sounds more like a stalker,’ said Kris. ‘Creep.’
Jenny nodded fervently.
‘Flowers in your bedroom?’ Louis was anxious too now.
‘Have you told Bridget?’ asked Kris.
Jenny set down her wine and picked up her iPad. Yes. Neither she nor Jonah have owned up to it.
‘But it has to be one of them?’
Who else could it be? The house is never empty. Bridget’s there all the time.
‘Then this must be Jonah’s idea of a joke,’ said Kris, gesturing to the messages. ‘He has a cruel sense of humour at times. Do you want me to talk to him?’
Jenny shook her head.
‘I know. I’ll send the reply for you.’ Before she could stop him, Louis composed a response.
Take your limp dick and fuck off, you flower fetish crazy guy.
Jenny grabbed the phone off him but it was too late. Kris was laughing.
Not funny, guys!!!! she scribbled on the notepad where they were planning their wedding.
‘No, it’s not. If he does it again, I’ll sort him out for you,’ promised Kris. ‘What about thirty quid a head, that’s including booze?’
They slipped smoothly back into discussing their wedding reception, leaving Jenny with that incendiary message winging its way through the ether. Thanks to the bloody frustrating fact that she couldn’t talk, she hadn’t explained the connection to the earlier message about the attack on her years ago, so why should they be worried? But she was. She didn’t like the fact he had her number; she hated the thought that it might be Jonah. He was in the house with her; she believed they liked each other; they had an intimate relationship. This flower thing wasn’t a joke for her and he had to know her well enough to get that. What did it mean? She needed space to think – puzzle it all out.
Jenny gestured that she was going in to the loo.
‘OK, sweetheart. I’ll guard your wine for you,’ said Louis with a wink.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Kris.
No, all wrong. What did it signify that she was sleeping with a guy who could torture her like that? Jenny pointed inside and clambered back over the sill. Pain lanced through her as she bent to squeeze through the gap. Damn her neck.
Reaching the bathroom, she leant against the sink and took some breaths. Managing her pain, Dr Chakrabarti would call it. Her eyes watered and she felt like sobbing but feared if she started she would be unable to stop. Splashing some cold water on her face, she dabbed herself dry with the black hand towel. Focus on that, not the pain. Such a guy colour. Her gaze drifted to the bottles lined up on the shelf below the window. Nestled against the shaving foam was a tub of Kris’ prescription. His pain killers for his ongoing discomfort after amputation. She picked it up and shook it. Practically full. The case studies she’d read online edged into her mind, how the desperate began stealing from medicine cabinets when visiting friends, or going around houses with an estate agent on the pretence you wanted to buy them and taking from strangers. The ideas had been planted …
Oh my God, you aren’t! Her conscience squawked with outrage. Jenny, this isn’t you!
No, Kris was a hero and friend. He didn’t deserve this from her.
I need it more than him.
You do not!
I can’t function. He has Louis. He can get a repeat prescription. No one would question a veteran.
This is wrong and you know it!
Somehow her internal moral compass had gone awry, needle swinging north-south-north-south without settling. The tub ended up in her handbag without her even remembering the moment.
Put it back.
No.
Now her inner voice arguing with inner conscience sounded like a toddler.
You’ll hate yourself.
I already do. So, so much.
There came a knock on the door. ‘Jenny, are you all right in there? Louis and I are sorry if we made a joke of your stalker.’
It was Kris. Too late to put it back now. He might hear the rattle. At least, that’s what she told herself.
She opened the door and gave a wan smile. Stealing made her feel like scum but she didn’t have the will power to stop. She pointed to the door.
‘Heading home?’
She mimed being tired.
‘Yeah, we understand. We can be a bit much for anyone. Thanks for your help with the wedding. I’ve knocked Louis down to a reasonable price per head so we won’t have to sell our first born.’
She gave him a thumbs up. She was such a fake friend.
‘Are you really all right? You look …’
She raised a brow.
‘I suppose that’s not a very flattering thing to say, but you look bad, not your usual self at all.’
How accurate. She mimed sleep again.
‘Good idea. Get some rest. Do you want us to stump up for a cab for you?’
She shook her head. Ouch.
‘Fine. See you soon then. We’ve made an appointment at the suit hire place. Want to help us choose? It’ll be one morning next week.’
Another thumbs up.
‘I’ll text you the time and place. Maybe your mean old boss at the café will let you have the time off?’
She smiled, as he meant her to.
‘Jenny’s just heading off!’ he called to Louis.
Louis came in carrying the wine she had left. ‘Did he tell you what a tight-fisted bastard he’s been?’
She didn’t feel like this teasing but had to play along. She shook her head.
‘We’ll be eating burger and fries from McDonalds if he has his way.’
‘Nothing wrong with a Big Mac. My army mates would appreciate it far more than that salmon crap you want.’
Jenny put a hand on each chest and mimed pushing them apart.
‘Yeah, yeah, we won’t come to blows about it. I love the idiot too much,’ said Kris.
‘Love you too.’
She waved goodbye and left them to their good-natured sniping.
The tub of pills deep in her bag broadcast a beacon of shame all the way home to Gallant House.