**28th February, 2024**
Bloody hell.
Simon cracked one eye open and immediately screwed it shut again. The low February sun fired a merciless beam through the window straight into his face. He squirmed under the tangled duvet, trying to escape it.
“Awake, then?” His wife’s voice sliced through the thudding in his skull. “Open those shameless eyes—I want a proper look at ’em. Every other bloke’s got the sense to buy flowers, chocolates—something—for their wives. But you? Pissed as a newt last night. You do remember what day it is, don’t you?”
Simon inched toward the wall and managed to open his eyes into slits. Through the gaps, he saw Emily standing there, arms akimbo, her sharp hips jutting out like a pair of defiant spades.
“W-what day?” he croaked, genuinely baffled.
“Valentine’s, you daft git. Supposed to be romantic, innit? But no—you found the whisky and drank yourself into oblivion. Couldn’t even save me a drop, could you? Our Lucy brought me a nice bottle of red, special like. I’d tucked it away for tonight. And you—you greedy sod—downed the lot. Wasn’t the beer enough?”
Before Simon could shield himself, a well-aimed slipper hit him square in the forehead.
“Take that—”
He ducked the second one by diving under the duvet. Thank God she only had the pair. He poked his nose out.
“Em, love, I’m sorry. Swear I’ll make it right—” A hiccup interrupted him, and he tangled himself further in the sheets trying to stand.
Emily waved him off and disappeared into the kitchen. The clatter of pots followed—never a good sign. When she banged about like that, it meant the row would drag on for hours.
Best scarper while he still could.
Simon sidled past the kitchen, slipped into the loo, splashed cold water on his face, and gulped down a glass straight from the tap. He slicked back his thinning hair with damp fingers. The banging hadn’t stopped.
Quiet as a mouse, he crept back to the bedroom, dressed, and tiptoed to the front door. Hopping on one foot to pull on his trainers, he wobbled—nearly toppling. The noise made Emily stick her head out.
“Where d’you think you’re off to, you drunken fool?”
“Em, love, I’ll just—won’t be long—” He snatched his jacket from the hook and backed toward the door.
“Oi, stop right there!” She marched forward, all five-foot-nothing of her, but Simon was already through the door, slamming it shut behind him.
“Don’t you dare come back unless—!”
He didn’t stay to hear the rest.
—
Outside, the sun was shining, icicles dripped from the eaves, and patches of cracked tarmac peeked through the slush. Every other bloke he passed clutched roses or tulips, their paper-wrapped stems poking out of Sainsbury’s bags.
Simon cleared his throat and tapped a stranger’s shoulder. “Mate, you know what time it is?”
The man, holding a bouquet of daffodils, snorted. “Time you sorted yourself out.”
“Aye, fair point,” Simon muttered, shuffling on. He’d meant to ask where the flowers came from, but his brain wasn’t working right.
Up ahead, a lad in a tracksuit carried a bunch of red roses. “Where’d you get those?” Simon called.
“Tesco,” the kid tossed over his shoulder.
Simon trudged toward the supermarket, dodging puddles. Maybe if he got Emily flowers—proper ones—she’d soften. Might even pour him a celebratory gin.
At the entrance, a harassed-looking woman stood behind a folding table, selling wilting carnations. Only a few sad stems remained.
“Last ones,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “Half price.”
Simon hesitated. A handful of half-dead blooms? Emily would skin him. The street was still thick with men carrying flowers—somewhere had to have better stock.
He checked his pockets. No idea if he even had cash. Emily might’ve nicked it to keep him off the booze. His fingers closed around a crumpled tenner.
No clue what flowers cost these days.
Down the road, a bloke with a thick beard and a stall shouted, “Roses! Three for a fiver!”
“Just the one?” the vendor asked when Simon hovered.
“Er—got this.” He held up the tenner.
“For that? One rose. Take it or leave it.”
One flower wouldn’t cut it. He shuffled away, racking his brains. Who owed him?
Dave! Dave owed him twenty quid from last week’s pub trip. Simon set off toward Dave’s flat. Never mind that they’d drunk the money together—technically, it was a debt.
Dave’s missus, Sharon, answered the door. A right battle-axe, she was. Kept Dave on a tighter leash than a pit bull.
“What d’you want?” she snapped, blocking the doorway.
“Is Dave in? He owes me twenty. Need it urgent.”
Silence. Simon could practically hear her weighing whether to lie.
“I’ll give you something,” she growled, then thrust a hand out—middle finger extended.
Simon yanked the door wider in surprise. Sharon stumbled forward, her rude gesture missing his nose by an inch. Behind her, Dave—pale as milk in a ratty T-shirt and boxers—flinched.
“Dave, mate, be decent—” The door slammed in his face.
Bugger.
Where else? Should’ve checked Emily’s coat pockets—she always had loose change.
Summer’d be easier—just nick flowers off some posh garden. Who invented Valentine’s in bloody February anyway?
He trudged on, avoiding eye contact with men clutching bouquets.
Then—a miracle.
A bloke in his twenties, face thunderous, stood by a bench, gripping a bouquet. As Simon passed, the lad chucked the roses toward a bin.
Simon lunged. “Hang on—don’t bin ’em!”
The kid scowled. “Waited forty minutes. She never showed.”
“Shame to waste ’em.” Simon eyed the crimson blooms.
“Take ’em,” the lad muttered, shoving the bouquet at him. “Rather you had ’em than the rubbish.”
Seven roses. Seven! Not scraggy daffs—proper, velvety roses.
Simon tucked them inside his jacket like smuggled treasure and hurried home.
“Changed your ways, then?” Mrs. Patel from number twelve called as he passed.
He flashed the bouquet. “For our Em.”
“About time! She’ll be chuffed.”
Simon took the stairs two at a time, heart pounding. Emily hadn’t had roses since their wedding day and when Lucy was born.
The flat smelled of roast chicken. His stomach growled.
He toed off his shoes—Emily would murder him for muddy prints, roses or not—and braced himself.
“Back, are you?” Her voice carried from the kitchen.
Simon stepped in, thrusting the flowers forward like a peace offering.
Emily turned—and gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth.
“You nicked these?” she whispered.
“No! Dave paid me back, so I—”
She touched a petal, then sniffed. A slow smile spread. “They’re lovely.”
For the first time in years, she looked at him like she used to—soft, warm. His chest ached.
Dinner was shepherd’s pie. Emily even dug out the good whiskey, pouring them each a finger.
“Remember when you’d pick flowers from the park for me?” she laughed, suddenly girlish.
Simon washed up after, humming. On telly, some chat show played—background noise as they reminisced.
Later, as Emily slept beside him, he pulled the duvet over her shoulders. An old feeling stirred—something lost but not forgotten.
Funny, that. All it took was a bunch of roses.
