ONLY A ROSE

                          ONLY A ROSE

Six months after they met he suggested they went to stay at his parents’ apartment in Spain. It seemed to her a sign that things were progressing in the right direction, where before she hadn’t been sure. He was a reticent man who had not, until now, said he loved her. He sent her cheery text messages and did DIY work round her house. They spent most weekends together but always on their best behaviour. The query remained: what did he really feel?

Once when she and a girl friend took off for a few days on impulse and without telling anyone, he had called her at her hotel. ‘Where are you? When are you coming back?’ The mystery she had created gave her a temporary sense of power but still she wondered. Now they would spend an entire week together and alone and, she asked herself, did he feel as nervous as she?

        The apartment had a spacious living room with large windows looking onto the beach. It had delightful, seafront terraces where they could sit to admire the sunset. It was, however, frighteningly new with beds that looked as if they had never been slept in, likewise the kitchen with its array of shiny saucepans and appliances. Its cleanliness and tidiness alarmed her whose sofa at home sagged under a throw to protect it from dog hairs. Where bills were stuffed behind the clock on the mantelpiece and bits and pieces lying on her kitchen units that oughtn’t to be there.

A five-minute walk brought them to the charming old town with its scents of jasmine and narrow streets. On their first evening, when they took a stroll to sit in one of the pretty squares and sip a glass of sherry, she had glanced up at an old blue painted house whose windows were fringed with wrought iron balconies and wished they were staying there. It would have been, she thought, far easier to cope with.

        The conversation turned to what they would do next day.

        ‘I thought maybe the Picasso Museum,’ he suggested. ‘And I hear the Roman theatre is worth a look.’

        ‘Oh,’ she said. She drained her glass and set it on the table. ‘Oh, I was thinking of the beach, it does look lovely. I’ve brought my cossie,’ she added.

        He was gazing at her as if she were a stranger. ‘I didn’t realise you wanted that kind of holiday.’

        ‘Well no, not exactly, I just thought as we’re right on top of it, it’s a pity not to enjoy it, some of the time.’

        The waiter hovered. He signalled for two refills.

        ‘I don’t like the beach,’ he said. ‘Getting hot and sticky in the sun and then all that sand.’

        She pictured the glorious golden stretch that had beckoned her from the window. ‘I see,’ she said.

        The drinks arrived, he clinked his glass against her. ‘But there’s nothing to stop you going for a swim on your own, is there?’

        ‘If you’re sure?’ She could have kicked herself for sounding lacking.

        He gave her another quizzical look. ‘We don’t have to live in each others’ pockets for the entire time we’re here, do we?’

        She wanted to say: but wasn’t that the idea of this week, to spend time together and see how well we got on?

        ‘Of course not,’ she said.

        The pattern of the week was set: every morning she went for a swim and spent two or three hours on the beach. They had lunch, which he had prepared in her absence, and then either lazed the afternoon away on the terrace or did some sightseeing. All seemed to be going well except for the question of the sand. When she arrived back rosy with salt water and fresh air she had left at trail of sand over the immaculate floors of the apartment. He had followed the trail to the bathroom and tapped on the door. He raised his voice above the noise of the shower.

        ‘You’ve made an awful mess,’ he told her when she came out wrapped in a towel. ‘I hope it isn’t going to mark the floor.’

        ‘Of course, it won’t, it’s only sand. Just let me get some clothes on and I’ll clear it up.’

        ‘It’s just that my parents have trusted us with the apartment,’ he continued in the restaurant where they were tucking in to seafood. ‘I wouldn’t want them to think we had abused their kindness.’

        ‘Oh, don’t be such a fusspot!’ she wanted to say. ‘They’ll never know anything about it if we give the place a good clean before we go.’

        ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said.

        His expression altered. He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Please, I don’t want to sound as if I’m nagging you. Of course you must have your swims. Maybe be a bit more careful, next time?’

        A flower seller was circling the tables, offering single roses from the basket she carried. ‘A rose for your lady?’ she was asking. ‘Come on, sir, give the lovely lady a rose.’

        She pretended not to notice. She was sure, especially at this moment, he wouldn’t want to be pressurised into buying her a flower. To her surprise, he looked across and beckoned to the woman. She crossed quickly.

        ‘Now here’s a gentleman who knows how to treat his lady,’ she smiled.

        He examined the array of roses and picked out one that was still in bud, its crimson petals just showing. He handed over the money. She felt so surprised that for a moment she couldn’t say anything, just stared at the rose he put in her hand. The gesture to her was extraordinary and seemed to answer her question as to what he thought of her.

        ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. She sniffed the rose but, disappointingly, it smelled of nothing. ‘Beautiful,’ she echoed.

        When they arrived back at the apartment, she filled a glass with water and set the rose by the bed. It was the first thing she saw when she woke. Overnight, it had begun to open a little. She didn’t want that; she wanted it to stay furled, a bud containing the promise of things to come.

        The rest of the week passed smoothly. She swam but took care to sweep up any sand she brought into the apartment before he could remark on it. He seemed far more relaxed, no longer suggesting they jump in the car and go here, there, everywhere. They sat on the terrace late into the night watching the stars, speaking in low voices and she felt them drawing closer. It was as if they had faced a subtle danger and come through it unscathed.

        And all the while her rose propped in its glass gradually opened up and spread its velvety scarlet petals. She told herself: before it dies I shall collect three of them and press them in a book. Maybe, if we stay together, In the future, I’ll look back and remember this, his first gesture of love.

When she arrived back at the apartment he had given it a thorough clean. The glass by the bed was empty; he must have thrown the rose away.

        ‘It was dead,’ he replied, when she asked him.

        She had meant to save some petals yesterday evening and pressed them  but they’d gone out for a meal and returned late.

Had he also parcelled up this week, preparing to leave it behind? Was their view of things so very different: for her an overture to something that might endure, for him a pleasant interlude,

        She felt his presence beside her and, for a moment, they gazed at the view they ould soon leave behind.Softly he spoke her name. She turned to him.

        ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed this time as much as I have?’ There was doubt in his voice.

        ‘It’s been really lovely,’ she said.

        His expression cleared. ‘Then maybe we can do it again?’

        They smiled at one another, sharing this step they were taking into their relationship, he as hesitant as she.

        ‘Yes, please,; she said and held out her arms to him.

        On the last morning, lying on the beach, she thought of her parents and their constant love affair that had lasted four decades. They had never seemed to tire of each other. He was always planning surprises, bringing her little gifts and flowers, often flowers. A few hours after he died in hospital, a deliveryman knocked on the door and handed her mother a bouquet of roses. His life might have been fading but her father had sat up in his bed to buy her something he knew she would love. He was a man who knew that buying flowers for this special person, who laughed at his jokes, kissed him and held his hand as a pain killer took effect, was a way of saying: ‘you are in my thoughts and I want you by my side.’

        When she arrived back at the apartment he had worked his way through it, giving it a thorough clean. The glass by the bed was empty; he must have thrown the rose away.

        ‘It was dead,’ he replied, when she asked him.

        She had meant to save some petals yesterday evening but they’d gone out for a meal and returned late.

        ‘You’d better get a move on,’ he said, eyeing her as she stood there, hair in a damp bun. ‘I’m all packed and ready to go.’ Indeed he seemed anxious to be gone.

        Had he also parcelled up this week, preparing to leave it behind? Was their view of things so very different: for her an overture to something that might endure, for him a pleasant interlude, just that and nothing more?  Could they ever reach an understanding?

        Packing took no time at all. She stood by the door, gazing around. The place shone with tidy cleanliness, the rose had died and was discarded. They might never have been here. This first holiday together that had promised so much might never have been. But still she hesitated and wondered…

                                   ENDS

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