A rose for a rose.
Five simple words written on the card attached to the single red rose left outside Anne’s house. She took it into the kitchen, where her husband, Tony, was eating his breakfast.
“Now, if I was the jealous type,” he said, as she put the rose in water and then placed it on the table.
“I can’t just throw it away. It’s perfect.”
“Just like me,” Tony said, taking a bite of toast and dropping crumbs everywhere.
“Plate, Tony.”
“Sorry, love.”
He grabbed the saucer from under his coffee cup, leaving a brown ring on the white tablecloth. Never mind, Anne thought. She would be off to work soon. No clearing up after Tony for the rest of the day.
This was the third rose to appear at their door in as many weeks. Anne would take their dog, Jackson, out for his morning walk and, on their return, the rose would be there. Always the same message. Always the same gift.
“Maybe a patient is sending them to you?” Tony said.
“I doubt it,” said Anne. “Most of our patients are pensioners.”
“What about that handsome new doctor you’ve mentioned?”
“Dr Carter is so inexperienced he can hardly send off specimens, let alone red roses to a receptionist he scarcely knows.”
Tony returned to his newspaper, but Anne could tell he was preoccupied. Until now, he had believed the courier had simply delivered to the wrong address. Charming, Anne thought. In the good old days, Tony had sent her roses. Lots of them. She lightly touched the rose’s delicate petals. There was something unreal about the way the bud would slowly turn into a beautiful flower. If only humans did the same.
She turned her attention to the all-too-real Tony. Five minutes. That was how long it had taken him to drop strawberry jam down his pyjamas.
Anne took one last look at the elegant rose and then went to prepare for work.
Just as the rose started to die, an identical new one arrived.
“Imagination isn’t his strongest point, is it?” Tony said, irritably.
Anne picked up Tony’s old socks from the bedroom floor and threw them into the washing machine. Did romance always have to be as transient as a flower in bloom?
A wedding photo on their bedside table caught her eye. It was a long time since they had resembled the smiling couple in the picture. Tony, slimmer then and with more hair, had written her poetry in those days. She had kept it all, of course, in her bottom drawer, but she didn’t look at it any more. The Tony who had won her heart seemed like a different person from the Tony she was married to now. But then maybe he felt the same about her?
Anne headed to work, feeling depressed.
Suddenly, she became aware of heavy footsteps behind her. She would know that gait anywhere. She turned around, thinking she must have forgotten something, but all she could see was Tony semi-hidden behind a tree.
Was he following her? If so, he was making a bad job of it because the tree was tall and thin, while Tony was short and stout. Maybe he was walking the dog? But there was no sign of Jackson and anyway Anne usually did that.
She was about to call Tony’s name, but something stopped her from doing so. She walked on, without looking back. Tony clearly still had a few lessons to learn from James Bond.
When Anne reached home that night, the place was very quiet and she found two notes in the kitchen.
“Out with Jackson, back soon,” read the first. “Don’t cook – table reserved at the Italian for eight.”
Then she studied the second.
A love poem – by Tony.
This one wasn’t for the bottom drawer, she reflected. She replaced the note accompanying her latest rose with Tony’s poem.
She picked up the phone.
“I would like to stop my weekly delivery, please. It’s to Mrs Anne Edwards. No, nothing’s wrong. In fact I’m very happy with your service.”
Roses really were a girl’s best friend, Anne thought, as she put the phone down.
