The Art of Losing. Rebecca Connell

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      Adam’s flowers are starting to wilt. She has kept them in a vase by her bed for the past week, and for days they stayed in full bloom, their crimson petals so plushly perfect that she had to inspect them several times to make sure they were real. She knows that Sandra has noticed them; a sly hint was dropped at the dinner table, a jocular attempt to find out the identity of the sender, but she pretended not to understand. Now the roses are curling and browning slightly at the edges. In another day or two they will be dead, and she will have to decide whether to throw them out, or whether to swallow her pride and press them into dried-out husks, as she secretly wants to. Sitting at her dressing table, she plucks a petal off and crushes it between her fingers, the sweet scent rubbing off on to her skin. He cannot have known that roses were her favourite flowers, although she supposes it is a common enough choice.

      This is not the first time she has sat like this, staring at the flowers. In fact, since she collected them from the pavement seven days ago, it has become something of a mid-morning habit. So when she hears the doorbell downstairs, Sandra’s voice raised in polite enquiry, and the almost inaudible but unmistakable tones answering back, it is perhaps not as much of a coincidence as it might seem. Still, it is enough to make her start up from her chair and run to the door, heart hammering. She can hear him more clearly now – he is asking whether she is around, his voice strained and embarrassed. Mentally, she wills a message down to Sandra. Tell him I’m out, tell him I don’t live here any more. And then finds with a guilty start that this is not what she wants at all.

      Footsteps are approaching now, coming up the stairs to find her. She darts back to the dressing table and opens a book, pretends to study it. The door is pushed open and Sandra peeks around it – she never knocks, presumably clinging to the knowledge that despite the fact that she has been forced to take in a lodger, it is her house and therefore hers to do as she likes in. She’s a big woman, comfortable and matronly with a peroxide bob and meticulously plastered make-up. Such is the size of her that for a moment, Lydia doesn’t see Adam lurking behind in the shadows of the hall.

      ‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Sandra announces, beaming. ‘The same visitor you’ve had every day for the past week, in fact. He finally tracked you down!’ Behind her, Lydia sees Adam experiencing a silent agony of embarrassment and feels sorry for him. She suddenly realises that he must only be nineteen, and still has something of a teenager’s gaucheness. He’s several years younger than her, although of course there is no way he could know this. ‘So!’ Sandra prattles on, oblivious to the mortification she is causing. ‘I suppose this clears up one mystery!’ With a flourish, she indicates the roses, which have clearly been given an elegant vase and set in pride of place. Lydia feels her cheeks flame up, so that by the time Sandra retreats, with much innuendo about leaving them alone for a good chat, she and Adam are equally mute and self-conscious.

      He recovers first, wiping a hand across his mouth and shrugging as if to slough off the temporary awkwardness. ‘Tracked you down is about right,’ he says. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

      She is tempted to ask why but can’t quite get the words out. Standing in her bedroom, where she has only imagined him up to now, he seems larger than life. His scuffed trainers, his big hands and his muscular body don’t fit the quiet chintz of Sandra’s box room.

      ‘I’ve been quite busy,’ she says. ‘I did want to thank you for these, though.’

      He dismisses the roses СКАЧАТЬ