Rumours and Red Roses by Patricia Fawcett Page A

she didn’t need Marina to tell her that, and that was flattering if nothing else. They had, she conceded, hit it off straightaway. They were of a similar age and, despite the difference in backgrounds, they had a lot in common. They liked the same music, were neither of them outdoorsy and, perhaps more importantly, they had the same sense of humour, close to losing their composure at the restaurant this evening as they were forced to listen in to a loud conversation at the next table about the difficulties of coping with an incontinent dog. The couple were celebrating their wedding anniversary but the poor dog’s problems seemed to be their prime concern just now.
    ‘I suppose, after a while, the romance goes,’ Becky had murmured, joining him in a smile.
    ‘I hope not. Not for everybody anyway,’ he said, reaching across the table to touch her hand and smile at her. ‘Not for us, I hope.’
    The little unexpected gesture and the words had delighted her. Therewas promise in the words, the touch of his hand was warm and tender, as were his eyes, and she had had a sudden romantic vision of the two of them – years on – celebrating their anniversary. One thing was sure, with neither of them doggy people, dogs, incontinent or otherwise, would not be on the agenda.
     
    ‘I can’t take the credit. I got decorators in,’ he told her after she admired the large, sparsely furnished open-plan living area of his fancy apartment in a pleasant tree-filled square off the main street. ‘I haven’t much idea myself, nor did I have the time to fuss about. I just told them to keep it simple and to keep it within budget. My mother says it’s much too clinical. What do you think? Come on, be honest.’
    It was a man’s room. The furniture was bang up to date, large cream sofas, some solid pieces of furniture giving an instant pleasing impression but, looking at it again, she felt there was something missing. Simon had asked for her opinion and, right or wrong, she decided she would give it.
    ‘Well, I think your mother is right. It is a bit clinical,’ she agreed. ‘It’s hard to pin down but it just lacks something,’ she added, hesitating to say ‘a woman’s touch’ because that would suggest that she was anxious to get her hands on it.
    He laughed. ‘I knew you were going to say that. Go on. What would you do?’
    ‘I know designers like a blank canvas but I like a touch more colour,’ she said, slowly spinning round. ‘You need some strong colour somewhere . And you need more than one picture on the wall. You could have a group of pictures over there. And although I like blinds for an office, I prefer curtains at home.’
    ‘I paid out a fortune for those blinds.’
    ‘Sorry. You did ask me what I thought. There’s something particularly satisfying about drawing curtains on a winter’s night. Nice heavy curtains with a lining. And you could have some bright cushions and a throw. And where are your flowers? You haven’t any flowers, Simon. Even silk flowers would be better than nothing.’
    ‘I see.’ Simon looked round the room as if with fresh eyes. ‘Flowers, eh? Curtains, cushions … I thought you said you liked it.’
    ‘Oh yes … I do.’ she said, uncomfortably perched on a fashionable designer-inspired chair in cream leather that was far too low slung andtoo deep so that if she sat back in it properly her feet would not touch the floor. What she really wanted to say, although she didn’t want to upset him, was that it didn’t look as if anybody lived here. It had the icy perfection and the cold feel of a show house.
    And where were his books?
    ‘In the bedroom,’ he said, when she asked. ‘It’s a big room and it doubles as my study. There’s a desk in there as well in case I need to work late.’
    The urge to kick off her shoes was huge but it seemed just too cosy a thing to do. She was wearing pretty new lacy underwear from Marks & Spencer under the new black dress, just so she