I headed down to the market. The flowers were so expensive.

‘Have you got anything cheaper?’ I said.

The bloke behind the stall rolled his eyes a bit and said, ‘I’ve got these lilies. They’re a bit limp, but you can have them for a quid.’

They looked alright to me. I decided to take them straight round to Siobhan’s. My plan was to leave them on the doorstep, with a little note. I checked my bag for my pen but it wasn’t there, so I wouldn’t be able to leave a message. Oh well – it would add to the romance, anyway, if Siobhan thought her flowers were from a mysterious admirer.

I reached Victoria Gardens and paused at Siobhan’s gate, which stood wide open. I could hear music coming from inside the house: something I didn’t recognize. I wondered which part of the house she was in. As long as she wasn’t looking out the front window, I’d be okay. I wasn’t meant to know where she lived.

Heart beating fast, I headed up the short path to the front door. I was about to lay the bouquet on her step when I saw a bunch of keys hanging from the keyhole. What was this? An invitation? Turn the key and come straight in, Alex. But no, she didn’t know I was coming. Was she expecting someone else? I was confused. But then I realised it was a sign, and I had another idea.

Taking the keys from the lock, and still clutching the flowers, I turned and ran back towards the main road. There was a heel bar there; I’d passed it on the way up. A sign outside said, KEYS CUT WHILE U WAIT.

I only had to wait five minutes, then I headed back to Siobhan’s house, creeping up to the front door again to replace the keys in the lock. My own copy of her front door key sat snugly in my pocket. Now I would be able to enter her territory and find out more about her at my leisure. I was so excited at this thought that I could hardly walk or breathe. I was tempted to hang around, hide somewhere until she went out, but in the end I thought it would be best to come back another time. Before I went, I left the flowers on her step. Keys and flowers. A gift for both of us.

Chapter 7

Siobhan

Thursday

Class went well last night. I think I’m finding my stride – well, I think we all are. I heard some really promising work. Kathy’s was fantastic. It never ceases to amaze me, how the beauty of words can grip me in the gut and pull me – she read out this piece about yearning, and loneliness, and love, and I really felt choked. She talked about candy floss as ‘tiny threads of twisted pink longing’, and the bone-chilling ache of cold sea water turning her character’s ankles numb.

It reminded me so much of my (one and only) holiday romance, when I was sixteen, with Colin the Glaswegian. We had to communicate in sign language because his accent was so thick. And body language. I wonder what happened to all his letters? I don’t think I have them anymore. Kathy’s piece brought it all back, how I felt when his mum wrote that note to say he’d died in a car accident. Life is so harsh. I often wonder if he and I would have ended up together. I know we were only kids, but I really felt something for him. I can’t picture his face anymore, just that great mop of wind-swept curly black hair, those blue blue eyes, and the clammy feeling of spending too long in a wet swimsuit. Coming back to the hotel at the end of the day all horny and sandy – that’s what reminds me of Colin. I don’t think I’ve felt that passionate about anybody since.

It really makes me think that if love does come along, you have to seize it with both hands and not let it go.

Anyway. Back to the class. Brian didn’t turn up, which gave me a horrible feeling that maybe it was him who sent that card. Phil’s still Number One suspect – and God knows how Brian could have found out my address – but I suppose it is possible. Surely not though . . .

Talking of my various admirers, Alex asked me out. Maybe the card is from him? He must like me. I said no, although I did give it a moment’s thought – it’s not that he’s bad looking, or anything. It’s not even that there might not be a spark, if I let there be. But there’s just something… I don’t know what exactly…which unsettles me about him. Maybe just his own weird energy.

He seemed cool about me turning him down, though, so I’m sure he’ll just move on to his next conquest. He probably doesn’t even like me all that much; probably is just impressed that I’m a ‘faymuss awfor’. Or, rather, an ‘awfor.’

I noticed that he's sent me a friend request on Facebook, which I hardly ever go on. Kathy sent me one too, which was nice. But I am not going to confirm Alex because there are various shots of me on there in my bikini in Malta last summer with Phil. Don't want one of my male students perving over them, do I? Though maybe I shouldn't have accepted Kathy either...

And bloody Phil has unfriended me on there! I know because I tried to visit his profile to see whether he was still listed as 'in a relationship' and I couldn't get onto the page. Guess I must have hurt his feelings more than I thought.

Friday

Dead flowers. Phil has actually left a bunch of dead flowers on my doorstep. I can’t believe it. That’s a really horrible thing to do to somebody. I don’t blame him for feeling fed up – he’s been rejected by me and Lynn – but how could he stoop to something so cowardly and pathetic?

It must be Phil. All these weirdnesses can’t be coincidence. Has he totally lost it? It’s so unlike him. There was the graphic postcard. Then hang-ups when I answer the phone, six or seven times in the past couple of days. And now the dead flowers.

The more I think about it, the more angry it makes me. He knows I hate lilies. And these have got brown spots all over the petals, and slimy stems. They stink. What’s that sonnet where Shakespeare talks about how bad lilies smell?

Just looked it up, it’s:

“For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.”

That just about sums it up, Phil, you nutter. I feel like going into his office and ramming them up his –

Maybe I’ll just ring him instead. Tear him off a strip on the phone. It’s not worth the energy I’d expend in going down there myself.

I stuffed the lilies into the bin under the sink, snapping the stems in two, trying to cram them in without letting any of the woody ends rip the bin bag. All the petals immediately dropped off, and that atrociously sticky pollen fell all over my hands, the kitchen floor, the top of the bin. By the time I’d cleaned it all up (which took ages because at first my attempts just left yellow swirly smears everywhere, and I had to practically bleach all the surfaces) I was in such a rage that my best being-rude-to-estate-agents voice came completely naturally:

‘Phil Harmony, please.’

‘Sorry, he’s on holiday. Can I put you through to his secretary?’

This somehow made me even more furious. I can’t bear idiots who give you the wrong information on the telephone. Of course he wasn’t on bloody holiday, his holiday had been cancelled. That receptionist always had been dim.

‘Hello, Siobhan,’ said Diane when I got through to Phil’s office. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s on holiday.’

Oh – well, of course, he’d have already booked the time off. I felt bad for mentally slagging off the receptionist. She wasn’t to know. She wasn’t to know I’d mentally slagged her either, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel guilty. I invited the anger back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try him at home,’ I said, about to hang up.

‘He’s not at home,’ Diane said, sounding half-puzzled, and half-impatient; sort of, what part of ‘on holiday’ do you not understand? ‘He’s gone to Portugal.’

Suddenly the hand I was holding the phone with began to shake a bit. I’d been chewing gum at the time, and shock made it slide towards the back of my throat, giving me a moment’s panic. I had to suck it back into my mouth again. I grabbed it and pulled it out of my mouth, then rolled it around between my finger and thumb, feeling it change consistency, becoming harder and smoother, like a small lump of fear personified, sticking to my skin.