Stephen cracked open one eye and immediately squeezed it shut again. The low March sun aimed a merciless beam straight through the window, right into his face. He fidgeted on the crumpled bedsheet, trying to dodge the light.
“Finally awake, then?” His wife’s voice cut through the air. “Open those shameless eyes of yours—I want to look into them. Other blokes buy their wives presents, bring flowers. But you? You drank yourself senseless last night. Do you even remember what day it is?”
Stephen scooted closer to the wall and managed to open his eyes just a slit, like a soldier peering through a gun slit. There stood Catherine, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“W-what day?” he stammered, genuinely puzzled.
“International Women’s Day, that’s what! A day for celebrating us. And instead, you drowned yourself in booze. Disgraceful. I was going to open that nice bottle of wine our daughter brought me—saved it for today, I did. But you, you greedy sod, sniffed it out and necked the lot. Wasn’t the vodka enough for you?”
Before Stephen could shield himself, a slipper, flung with expert precision, smacked him square on the forehead.
“Take that—”
He dodged the second by burrowing under the duvet—thank God they only came in pairs. Peeking out, he ventured, “Cathy, love, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it up to you.” He hiccuped, tried to rise, and promptly tangled himself in the bedsheet.
Catherine rolled her eyes and stormed off to the kitchen, where the clatter of dishes signalled deep displeasure—a storm brewing.
Best steer clear, Stephen decided. He edged past the kitchen to the bathroom, splashed icy water on his face, cleared the toothbrushes from a glass, filled it, and gulped thirstily. He smoothed his thinning hair with damp fingers. The kitchen clamour continued.
Quiet as a mouse, he crept back to the bedroom, dressed, and slipped into the hallway. Balancing on one foot to pull on his shoes, he wobbled—nearly toppling. The noise brought Catherine charging out.
“Off to the pub, are we?”
“Cathy, I’ll just… won’t be long—” He yanked his coat off the hook and backed toward the door.
“Oi, stop right there!” she commanded, advancing like a battleship. But Stephen was already out, slamming the door behind him.
“You just wait till you get back!” her muffled threat followed him down the stairs.
Outside, the sun shone brightly, icicles dripped a steady rhythm, and patches of worn tarmac peeked through melted slush. Every other man he passed clutched bright daffodils or cellophaned tulips.
“Mate, got the time?” Stephen asked a man holding a fluffy bunch of mimosa.
“Time you quit the hair of the dog,” the man tossed back over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t say no,” Stephen muttered, shuffling on. He’d meant to ask where the flowers came from.
“Lad, where’d you get those?” he called to a younger bloke.
“Back there.” The boy jerked a thumb behind him.
Stephen trudged in that direction until he spotted a woman by the traffic lights, a box at her feet full of mimosa sprigs. His pace quickened—flowers might soften Cathy’s mood, maybe even earn him a celebratory pint. But when he reached her, only one scraggly sprig remained.
“Last one, love—special price,” she said with a knowing look.
“I need a proper bunch. For the wife. Got any more?”
She tutted. “You’ll have to wait. I can ring for another delivery.”
Stephen hesitated—that limp twig would only insult Cathy. The steady stream of flower-toting men meant other sellers must be about. He checked his pockets—no idea if he had cash. Catherine might’ve confiscated it. Crumpled in his jeans, a fiver. No clue what flowers cost these days.
A crowd huddled around a car boot sale up ahead. At the quoted price for tulips, his heart sank.
“Just want one?” asked the bearded seller, accent thick as stew.
“Only got this.” Stephen brandished the note.
“For that, you get one tulip. Take it or leave it.”
One flower wouldn’t cut it. He wandered off, racking his brain for who owed him. Alex! Alex still owed him twenty quid from last week’s bender. Stephen’s money had funded it—debt stood.
The door to Alex’s flat swung open just a crack. “Who is it?” came the voice of Zoe, Alex’s wife—a right dragon who kept him on a tight leash.
“It’s Steve. Alex owes me twenty. Desperate here.”
Silence. Then—”I’ll give you what for!”
The door flew open—Zoe’s hand shot out in a rude gesture. Quick as a flash, Stephen yanked the door wider. Zoe stumbled forward, the gesture missing his nose by inches. Behind her, Alex lurked in a stained vest and floral boxers.
“Alex, mate, do the decent thing—” Stephen began before the door slammed in his face.
He sighed. Money? Maybe Catherine’s coat pockets—she always had change. Summer’d be easier—just nick some from a garden. Who picked March for a women’s holiday anyway?
Defeated, he plodded on until a bloke clutching a paper-wrapped bouquet paused by a bench. “Spare a fag?”
“Don’t smoke. Drink, aye—but not fags.” Stephen eyed the red rosebuds peeking from the paper. The lad looked gutted.
“Stand you up, did she?”
“Forty minutes. Feet’s froze. Won’t even pick up.”
“Flowers’ll freeze too,” Stephen clucked.
“Sod it—” The boy made to bin them.
Stephen sprang up, grabbing his wrist. “Hold on—give ’em here. My missus’ll love ’em. You’ve no idea what she’s like—” He didn’t elaborate—the lad thrust the bouquet at him.
“Take ’em.” And with that, he stalked off.
Seven roses. Seven! Not limp tulips—proper roses! Stephen hugged them to his chest, coat flaps guarding his prize. Halfway home, someone shouted—he ignored it, speeding up.
“Stephen! What’ve you got there? Warming a bottle?” chuckled a neighbour by the door.
He opened his coat proudly. “Gave up the drink! Cathy’ll be chuffed.”
“Happy Women’s Day—blasted thing,” he panted, bolting inside.
Up the stairs, he felt ten feet tall. Catherine wouldn’t see this coming. He’d only ever brought her roses twice—when he proposed and when their daughter was born.
The flat smelled of roasting meat—his stomach growled. Key in the lock, he toed off his boots—mud tracks would undo even roses. Catherine had an arm like a cricketer.
“Back so soon?” Her voice carried from the kitchen.
Stephen marched in, thrusting the bouquet ahead like a peace offering.
Silence. Then—Catherine turned. The roses hit the table as she gasped, hands flying to her chest, knees buckling.
“Your heart! Need an ambulance?”
She shook her head, mouth working like a fish. Finally— “You nicked these?”
“No! Alex paid me back—got ’em proper.” The lie came smooth. Heroic, even. Yesterday’s drunk was today’s romantic.
Catherine inhaled the scent, eyes shining—a look he hadn’t seen in years.
“Ta. Wash up—dinner’s on.” Her voice had gone soft.
At the sink, Stephen studied his reflection—bags under his eyes, but the guilt was gone.
The table held steaming beetroot soup, a dollop of sour cream melting in. Then—Catherine set a vodka shot before him.
“Fancy joining me?” he ventured.
“Go on, then—a drop won’t hurt.” She fetched another glass.
They ate, watched telly, talked of old times.
“Remember when you’d pinch flowers from gardens for me?” She laughed like a girl.
Stephen did the dishes—unheard of—and later, as Catherine slept, he tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
A proper holiday, this. Should buy her flowers more often. Shame about that lad’s date… but lucky for me.
The warmth in his chest had no name—just something long forgotten, something good.
