“Flowers for you,” he said as he handed me a large cactus. There wasn’t a flower in sight, so ‘flowers’ was a bit of a stretch. Handling the bowl carefully, I took the cactus inside. Who on earth would have sent this to me? Some of my friends have a warped sense of humour, but I hadn’t done anything to deserve a cactus. Had I?
Placing it on the kitchen counter, I gingerly removed the card. “David Robbins”. Well, that answered part of the mystery. I ran out the door, along the corridor trying to catch the delivery man, but there was no sign of him. I’d have to ring them. I scrutinized the envelope. There was no delivery address, or return address, no insignia. Should I open it? Somehow, I didn’t think the message accompanying a cactus would be particularly friendly.
Perhaps he lived in the building? I scanned the list of names on the post boxes. Ah, there he was. I’m number 23, he’s 32. Retrieving the cactus, I carried it upstairs and knocked on his door. Nothing. I knocked again, a little louder. If he didn’t answer, perhaps, I should leave it on his doorstep? There had to be a story here, and leaving the cactus wouldn’t satisfy my growing curiosity. My mother was always telling me not to be so nosy. ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ is my least favourite idiom. I can’t help it if I find people interesting. It’s why I write biographies – they are a license to ask questions.
I was about to go back to my flat with the cactus, when the door opened. “Sorry I was in the shower,” said a voice as warm and mellow as summer sunshine. Wrapped only in a towel, a magnificently chiselled torso was on display.
“Sorry,” I began, then realised I wasn’t. Taking in the sight, admiring the beauty of creation. I was at a loss for words.
“Can I help you?”
“Um, I think this is for you,” I offered the cactus. “It was delivered to me by mistake.”
“Ugh. Another one. Thanks for bringing it up.”
I had to ask. “What did you do?”
He sighed, and stepped back so I could see a row of large cacti, standing proudly erect on the windowsill.
“They’re a message from my ex-girlfriend.”
“Not exactly subtle, is she?”
“Subtlety was not one of her strong points. Sorry you were bothered, and thanks for bringing it up.”
“Please don’t shoot the messenger.” I smiled.
He looked at me appraisingly. I wished I’d paid more attention to my appearance: I hadn’t tamed my flaming red curls this morning and was in my yoga pants.
“I’ve a pot of coffee on the go. Fancy a cup?”
“I’d love that,” I said stepping over the threshold before he could change his mind.
“Give me a sec to put some clothes on.” He said, much to my disappointment. He moved with a lithe grace, and I must confess I enjoyed the view: lean hips, powerful legs, and strong pecs. Why would anyone dump a specimen like that. I was between boyfriends, and this Adonis would fill my fantasies very nicely for a while.
Sinking into a cushy sofa I took in my surroundings. A large TV dominated one wall, but that was where the man-cave décor ended. A plush navy rug covered real wooden floors. Professionally fitted drapes hung at the window in a complementing shade. Custom made shelving lined one wall, stacked with rows of books, punctuated by sculptures and artefacts. It was spotless, and much larger than my flat.
A huge oil painting dominated one wall: Impressionistic in style, it contrasted light and dark. I noticed the bollards, waves, and realised it was a seascape, dark and stormy clouds being chased away by the sun. It was bold, beautiful. It must have cost a fortune. Now that I thought about it, the casual elegance spoke of money.
You can learn a lot about someone by studying their bookshelves, and his was a revelation. He liked to travel, enjoyed adventure sports – no surprises there. But there were also advanced texts on marine biology, oceans, climatology, novels (he liked adventure and suspense) but even philosophy and gourmet cookbooks. All were neatly grouped by subject, and their spines stiff and straight, a little like the row of cacti.
“Do you like reading?” he asked.
I looked up at his smiling face, noted the roman nose, strong jawline, and blue eyes. His lips were a little too big, but he smiled, and my stomach flipped. He looked at me, raised eyebrows framing twinkly eyes.
“Sorry, what was the question?”
“Do you like reading?”
“Oh, yes, well. Actually, I’m a writer.”
“Wow. What do you write?”
“Biographies mostly.”
“Fascinating. I’ll get the coffee, and you can tell me who you’ve written about. You must have some amazing stories.” I followed him into the kitchen, which was gleaming surfaces and shiny appliances. A top-of-the-range coffee machine dispensed barista style coffee. Heaven, I sighed, taking in the aroma.
We settled in the lounge, and I sipped appreciatively. He sat next to me on the sofa, denim-clad legs stretched out his arm draped across the back of the sofa. “So, who have you written about?”
“Why is your girlfriend mad at you?” We spoke at the same time.
“Ex-girlfriend. Tell me about your subjects, and I’ll tell you about my girlfriend.”
“Okay. I write under my own name,”
“Which is?”
“Sorry, Tracey Kendall,”
“Tracey Kendall, mm, sorry, I don’t think I’ve read any of your books. I’m David Robbins. Pleased to meet you, Tracey.”
“Likewise. I don’t really write about celebrities, but rather I focus on lesser-known figures, particularly women in history who bucked the trends, refused to conform to the roles society tried to impose on them. I’m fascinated by history.”
“What are you working on at the moment?”
“I’ve just starting my research for the next book, and I’ve a few characters I’m looking at, but I haven’t settled on one yet. Enough stalling, tell me about the cactus. What did you do?”
He had the grace to look bashful. “um, I forgot her birthday,”
“mm, never a good move, but not the unforgiveable sin?”
“Um, there’s more. I was supposed to meet her at her favourite restaurant to celebrate with a crowd of friends. It was her twenty first.”
“You stood her up? Humiliated her in front of her friends.”
He looked down and mumbled “And she saw a picture of me on Facebook with someone else.”
“No wonder she was angry with you!” What a scumbag. “I’d have felt the same.” I stood up to leave. Gorgeous he may be, but my sympathies were firmly with the ex. Twenty-one! My inner voice was screaming. He must be in his late thirties, early forties. No wonder women over thirty didn’t stand a chance!
“Don’t you want to hear my side of it?”
“It’s hard to imagine there is another side.”
“There was a hurricane.”
“I have a great imagination, but even I wouldn’t buy that one. We don’t get them here in Brighton.”
“I was in the Caribbean.” He said softly.
I sat down, looked at him expectantly.
“We were diving, along the Mesoamerican Reef, the largest coral reef in the Caribbean.”
“So, you were on holiday, and you left her behind?”
“No, it’s not like that. We were doing a census of sea life – I work for the University – and we’re studying the impact of global warming on the coral reef. You know the oceans are warming up?”
I nodded.
“Well, the temperature is killing the coral. We’re studying the impact on a range of species.”
“She must have known you were going away?”
“Well, it was a last-minute thing – a friend had some space on his boat and offered my team a couple of berths. It was such a great opportunity; I couldn’t miss it. I sent her a text from the airport.”
“On her birthday?!”
“No, it was a week before. I promised I’d be back in time. Hurricane season started early. A cat four started brewing, and we had to leave, fast. We barely made it to land in time to find shelter. There were no phones, and it was days before I could get in touch with her.”
“And the photo?”
“One of my grad students – it was the first time she’s ever seen anything like that. She was terrified and clinging on to me like a limpet. One of the others took a picture, posted it.”
“Did you explain all of this?”
“I tried to. The stuff I’d left at her place was shredded and boxed, waiting for me when I got home. I went to her place with a huge bunch of flowers, but she slammed the door in my face. She started sending me the cacti, won’t return my calls, blocked me on social media. Says she doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I hoped she’d cool off, so I could explain, but she won’t let me, and I’m starting to get tired of trying. I would have thought she’d trust me more. We were together for nearly a year.”
“Do you love her? Is she worth it?” I held my breath as he thought about his answer.
“No. It wasn’t going anywhere. She liked ‘hooking up’. But I didn’t want to end it like that either.”
“Millennials see dating a bit differently, I suppose. A lot more casual than we are.”
“Aren’t you in your twenties too?”
“I wish,” I smiled strangely pleased.
“Perhaps it’s time I started seeing older women.”
“You won’t be seeing many, if you call them that!”
“Sorry, it’s not what I meant. I meant someone closer to my own age. I’m not doing a good job of this.”
I sipped my coffee. “Tell me about your research.”
He showed me the books he’d written, and we talked, and talked. He kept the coffee going, and we munched on toasted cheese. By early evening we were on the balcony with a glass of wine, looking out over the sea. Empty Chinese take-away boxes sat on the table beside us. “I’d better be going,” I said eventually, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared.
“I’d like to see you again, perhaps take you out to dinner?”
“I’d like that.”
I snuggled into my duvet smiling. He wanted to see me again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d enjoyed a man’s company so much. And he was gorgeous to boot! Excitement tingled in the pit of my stomach, and I wondered if he’d be lying thinking of me too. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought: “Cacti are seriously underrated. I was growing rather fond of them.”//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Denice is a freelance writer, who works part time as a research administrator, and teaches English to people in China using a virtual classroom. She lives in England with her husband, and kowtows to the seven cats, who are their furry children. Follow her on twitter @denicepenrose or through her blog: the-write-link.webnode.com/
About the Author
