Bed of Roses - Daisy Waugh

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footstep.

      She bites her lip.

      Another footstep. It’s coming closer, coming up the stairs…

       One step…two step…

      She should call the police.

       …three step…four.

       Fanny’s-heard-a-maniac.

       He’s-just-behind-the-door!

      The bloody telephone receiver’s all tangled up with the back of her chair. She yanks at it—

      Behind her, the office door bursts open. She hears a little thud and something square and purple skidding across the floor towards her. A box of Milk Tray chocolates.

      ‘TE-DAH!’ cries Robert. ‘And all because…the lady loves!’ He laughs merrily. ‘D’you remember that ad, Fanny? The guy climbs into the lady’s bedroom and—’

      ‘No,’ she snaps, clambering up. ‘No, I bloody don’t.’ And then all at once the relief, the anger, the fear, the irritation overcome her. Robert’s standing there with his shiny bob and his woolly jersey all rubbing up against his chin. He’s twisting his fingers together uncertainly, shivering and grinning. Fanny bursts into tears.

      ‘Hey, Fanny!’ His face crumples. ‘Don’t cry! It was only a little joke. I saw the lights were on, I was just—I just happened to be passing. So I thought—Why didn’t you answer the phone?’ He puts an arm round her shoulders. ‘Come on, Fanny. It’s Friday night, what say you we go for a drink together, hmm?’ He holds up his free hand in mock surrender, and beneath the blond facial hair, his pink lips stretch into another smile. ‘And no hanky-panky, I promise!’

      Fanny can’t even bring herself to look at him. ‘Robert,’ she says, gazing down at the floor, ‘I never want to have to say this again. The answer is no. It will always be no. OK? I’m sorry. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing for you. So take your arm off my shoulder, please. Thank you. And—And have a good weekend. I really have a lot of work to do. I’ll see you on Monday morning.’

      He clicks his tongue. ‘You work too hard, Fanny. You’ve got to learn to have fun.’

      ‘Thanks, Robert. I know how to have fun.’

      Robert takes a step away, puts his hands in his pockets, and gazes down at her. He chuckles, shakes his head admiringly. ‘I’ll bet…You’re one feisty lady, aren’t you, Fanny Flynn?’

      ‘I’m your boss, Robert,’ she snaps suddenly. ‘Now fuck off. Oh, God—’ He looks hurt. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’ She tries to smile. ‘And thanks for the chocolates. OK? I’ve just got a lot of work on.’

      ‘It’s OK,’ he murmurs, then he bends down and kisses her softly on the cheek. ‘I can take the knocks. I can do that.’ And because she sees that he’s leaving, and she can see that he’s pathetic and obviously lonely, she forces herself not to recoil, forces herself to stick with the smile. She waits until he has strolled out of the room before she wipes his wet lips away.

      ‘Have a good weekend,’ he calls out to her from the bottom of the stairs. ‘You take care, now! And enjoy the chocs!’ He sounds almost happy, she thinks.

       17

      She can’t work after that. She can’t concentrate. There is a single-screen cinema in the centre of Lamsbury, musty and almost always empty, but still just about open for business. The moment she’s got rid of Robert, Fanny takes herself there, buys a ticket without bothering to ask what is showing, scans the cinema to be sure that he hasn’t followed her, settles down to lose herself in another world and immediately falls asleep.

      Afterwards, she’s heading out through the foyer, feeling blurry eyed and incredibly hungry, when she bumps into Jo and her husband Charlie Maxwell McDonald, who is patiently re-explaining the film’s plot to his father, the General. ‘But they were different characters, Dad,’ he is saying (again). ‘There were three men, and they were all—’

      The General catches sight of Fanny and immediately shouts out to her. ‘Hello, hello,’ he bellows. ‘Thought that was you, nodding off in the front row! Kept your shirt on this evening, have you, Miss Flynn?’

      Fanny smiles patiently, turns towards him. Since that evening the General has said the same thing every time they’ve met. ‘I didn’t see you all in there,’ she says, and grins. ‘Didn’t see much of anything, actually. Was it any good?’

      ‘Drivel,’ the General answers, peering behind her. ‘As per usual. Made no sense at all. Didn’t miss a thing. Have you got your chap with you this evening, then? I can’t see him. Is he here?’

      ‘What chap?’ she mutters. ‘A chap? I don’t have a chap. Thank you. No. I’m on my own.’

      ‘On your own?’ echoes the General indignantly. ‘Attractive young lady like you!’

      ‘She’s been working so hard,’ interrupts Jo, tactfully, ‘she probably longs to spend an evening on her own for once. I know I do.’

      ‘Mmm?’ The General looks unconvinced. ‘Well, well, I dare say. Nice to see you, Fanny.’ He hesitates, on the point of marching onwards, but then in spite of what Jo says, he thinks she looks a little sad, a little lonely. ‘I say, Fanny,’ he adds, ‘if you’re not doing anything on Sunday, why don’t you come to lunch?’

      ‘Thanks—’ She looks ready to accept.

      ‘Oh, blast. Not this Sunday,’ he corrects himself. Turns to Jo. ‘We’ll still have that paranoid bugger staying, won’t we? D’you suppose he’ll ever leave?’

      ‘He says he wants to stay on at least another week,’ Charlie says.

      Jo and the General let out simultaneous groans.

      ‘Well, next Sunday then,’ the General says. ‘Make it next Sunday.’

      Fanny laughs. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

      ‘And Grey McShane’ll be cooking,’ the General brightens a little. ‘Meat. He always cooks on Sundays. Which means of course that we’ll have the Ghastly Guestlies in loco. No way round it, I’m afraid. Wherever McShane cooks, the Guestlies tend to follow. But I’m sure you can cope. And God knows, they need diluting.’

      ‘Right then. Well, I shall see you then.’ Fanny hesitates, tries hard not to ask but can’t resist, ‘So, er – who d’you suppose you’ll have staying with you?’

      ‘Mmm? Oh, no one much,’ the General says airily. ‘We’ve got a couple of bores from the television just arrived, who seem to think I keep a mental file on every aspect of their fatuous “careers”. But they might have left by then. Fingers crossed. And a cold-fish adviser from Downing Street. Well, ex-adviser now. Ha, ha. Another raving ego maniac. As per usual. However. Mustn’t complain…You’ll have to sign a thing. Won’t she, Jo? Sorry. It’s ghastly, but we’ve come a cropper in the past. Things have turned up in the news.’

      ‘You don’t mean a “confidentiality agreement”?’ Fanny giggles. ‘General, I can’t think of anything more glamorous!’

      ‘Excellent. Jolly good.’ He looks at her thoughtfully. ‘Enjoying yourself down here, are you? Not too lonely?’

      Fanny frowns. Enjoying herself? It’s the question she and Louis always ask each other; it’s their justification for always moving on. Enjoying her life in Fiddleford? She’s been too involved in it to wonder. Suddenly it seems a ridiculous question. She’s not even certain how to answer it. ‘Funnily enough,’ she says at last, ‘and in spite of many things – yes. I suppose I am.’ And the frown lifts, as if she realises the truth

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