were incapable of communicating that her front door was broken. At least he was being helpful, she decided. What use would any of her other boyfriends have been, in a situation like this? They’d have laughed and called her an idiot, then raided her fridge for beer while she sorted everything out.
‘Yeah,’ Sean chortled into her phone, having lapsed into conversing-with-tradesman mode. ‘Girlfriend left something in the oven, fire brigade called … yeah, you could say that, hur-hur-hur …’
She jammed her back teeth together. You know what women are like, was the unspoken theme.
Sean finished the call and beamed at her. ‘Well, that was a bit of luck. He’s local: says he’ll be here within the hour.’
‘Great.’ Roxanne mustered a wide smile. ‘Oh – let me get you your present.’
‘Darling, I’m sorry.’ He frowned in mock regret. ‘I really think they’re too burnt to eat.’
‘That was just a little treat—’
‘Come here. I want this kind of treat …’ He grabbed her playfully and went in for a kiss, but she spun away.
‘Hang on a minute …’ She rushed off to her second bedroom – a box room really, that served as overspill storage for clothes and accessories – to retrieve the gift she had wrapped so beautifully in matt duck-egg blue paper with a perfect silver bow.
Sean was lounging on the sofa in her living room when she handed it to him.
‘Here you go. Happy fiftieth, darling.’ As she curled up beside him, she experienced a rush of pleasure at having tracked down a wonderful gift for a man who really did have everything.
‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ He peeled away the wrapping paper with care. ‘Oh, wow! This is amazing, Rox. You know I love his work …’ He gazed at the hefty coffee-table book of photographs by Laurence Grier, one of his photographic heroes.
She snuggled close as he turned the pages reverentially. Grier, who had been active since the 50s, specialised in black-and-white photographs of achingly beautiful women in rather shabby surroundings. They always looked as if they had been caught off guard, applying lipstick in a dingy cafe, or drawing a picture with a finger on the steamed-up window of a bus.
‘Glad you like it,’ she said with a smile.
‘Of course I do. You’re so thoughtful. I love you, babe.’ He kissed her gently on the lips.
‘I love you too, darling,’ she murmured, beaming with pleasure. ‘Look, there’s something else too.’ She leaned over and turned to the book’s inside front cover, on which the photographer himself had written: Happy 50th birthday Sean, with all good wishes, Laurence Grier.
Sean stared at the inscription. ‘It’s signed! Is this for me?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, laughing, ‘unless it’s a remarkable coincidence.’
His eyes widened. ‘How on earth did you get this?’
‘I bribed him with enormous amounts of money,’ she said with a grin.
He closed the book and placed it on top of a muddle of magazines and newspaper supplements on her coffee table. ‘Seriously? You actually met him?’
She nodded. ‘Yes – when I was in Paris for the shows.’
‘Really? Wow. You planned ahead …’
‘It was just luck really,’ she said quickly, a little embarrassed now: Paris fashion week was back in October. Did it seem overly keen to have planned Sean’s birthday present seven months ago – and only two months after they’d started seeing each other? ‘He was staying at my hotel,’ she added.
Sean kissed her again. ‘You’re amazing, Rox. Gorgeous, sexy and amazing …’
She smiled and pushed back her tangled hair. ‘And I noticed that he liked to sit with a gin and tonic in the hotel bar every evening, so I went out and bought a copy and hoped he’d be there, just one more time …’ She omitted to mention that it taken visits to four different bookshops before she had managed to track down a copy, and even then, it had a torn cover so they had to order another for her to pick up the next day.
The intercom buzzer sounded. Sean leapt up to answer it. ‘That’ll be Tommy!’ he exclaimed.
She stared before scrambling up after him. For a moment, it seemed as if the excitement over the joiner’s arrival had surpassed that of the photography book.
Sean hared towards the front door ahead of her in order to greet him. ‘Hi, mate, that was quick …’
‘Only three streets away,’ Tommy replied with a grin. He had cropped ginger hair, a soft Liverpool accent and scratched at his stubbly chin as he examined the door. ‘Whoa, that’s some mess you’ve got here.’
‘Yep, think the whole door needs replacing?’
‘Yeah, for sure – but I can do a temporary patch-up right now, make it secure …’
‘… And fit a new door at some point?’ Sean enquired, as if this was his flat, and he was in charge here.
‘Uh-huh, I can get you some prices …’
‘That would be great,’ Roxanne said firmly, forcing the man to register her presence. ‘A temporary patch-up, I mean. It’s actually my flat.’
‘Oh, is it? Right …’ Tommy darted a quick look at Sean as if to say, Is that okay with you, her expressing an opinion? before starting to unpack his tools. Roxanne gave them a cursory glance, then strolled away to get on with the business of chipping the brandy snap mixture off the tray, to the soundtrack of the two men bonding.
‘My missus once left the iron on,’ Tommy was saying. ‘On our way to the airport, we were, in a taxi. “Christ, Tommy,” she screams, “I think the iron’s still on!” So we had to turn around, get the driver to take us all the way back …’
‘God, yeah,’ Sean sympathised. ‘I know that feeling …’
What feeling? Roxanne wondered, using a bendy kitchen knife to hack at the charred confectionery. She didn’t recall that she had ever subjected Sean to an iron-left-on incident – although she supposed after tonight’s episode she could hardly occupy the moral high ground.
‘… And d’you know what happened?’ Tommy crowed. ‘We get all the way home and the iron’s stone-cold …’
‘It was off all the time? You’re kidding me!’
‘Nah, isn’t that typical?’
‘Did you miss your flight?’
Tommy snorted. ‘’Course we did! Cost us over three hundred quid for new tickets.’
Their laughter rumbled through Roxanne’s flat as the two men revelled in that hoary old topic: the idiocy of womankind. Oh, what fun they were having. Roxanne understood what was going on here, as shards
