“Katie, I’m sorry…”
Stephen cracked one eye open and immediately scrunched them both shut. The low March sun was aiming a merciless beam straight through the window and into his face. He squirmed in the tangled sheets, trying to escape it.
“Awake, you useless lump?” came his wife’s voice. “Open those shameless eyes—I want to look in them. Other men buy their wives flowers, give them presents. But you? You drank yourself into oblivion yesterday. Do you even remember what day it is?”
Stephen shuffled toward the wall and managed to pry his eyes open. Through the narrow slits, barely wider than gun ports, he saw Katie standing there, hands planted firmly on her hips.
“W-what day?” he mumbled, genuinely confused.
“March 8th, you fool. International Women’s Day. *My* day. And instead of celebrating, you drown yourself in booze. Can’t even stand the sight of you. No shame at all. I thought we’d have a quiet evening, share a bottle. Our daughter even brought me a nice wine—special occasion and all. But no, you greedy wretch sniffed it out and drank the lot. Wasn’t the vodka enough?”
Before he could shield himself, a slipper—flung with deadly accuracy—struck him square on the forehead.
“That’s what you—”
The second slipper missed—Stephen ducked under the covers just in time. Thank God they only came in pairs. He poked his nose out.
“Katie, love, I’m sorry. I swear I’ll make it right.” He hiccuped, then tried to stand, only to trip over the duvet.
She waved him off and vanished into the kitchen. The clatter of dishes began—always a bad sign. When she banged pots like that, trouble was brewing, and it wouldn’t blow over anytime soon.
Stephen decided retreat was the better part of valour. He sidled past the kitchen to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, emptied the toothbrush mug, and gulped it down. He wet his thinning hair and slicked it back. The clattering continued.
Creeping back into the bedroom, he dressed and slipped into the hall. Balancing on one leg to put his shoes on, he wobbled and nearly toppled. Hearing the noise, Katie appeared in the doorway.
“Where d’you think you’re going, you drunk?”
“Katie, I’ll just—I’ll be quick—” He yanked his jacket from the hook and backed toward the door.
“Oi, stop right there!” she barked, advancing with all the intimidating presence of a woman who wasn’t to be trifled with. But Stephen was already out, slamming the door behind him.
“You just wait till you come back!” her voice carried through the wood.
Stephen didn’t stick around to hear the rest. He hurried down the stairs.
Outside, the sun shone bright. Melting ice dripped from the gutters, and patches of worn tarmac peeked through the slush. Every other man he passed carried bright yellow daffodils or tulips in vibrant cellophane.
“Excuse me, mate, got the time?” Stephen asked a bloke holding a bunch of daffodils.
“Time to sober up,” the man tossed over his shoulder.
“Wouldn’t say no,” Stephen muttered, trudging on.
He’d meant to ask where the flowers came from—why’d he asked the time instead?
“Lad, where’d you get those?” he called to a younger man ahead.
“Over there.” The lad jerked a thumb behind him.
“Right.” Stephen set off in that direction.
Soon, he spotted a woman by the traffic lights. At her feet was a box, and from it sprouted clusters of daffodils, bobbing like eager chicks.
Stephen quickened his pace. He desperately wanted flowers—something to soften Katie’s mood. Maybe, if he played his cards right, she’d even pour him a drink. But when he reached the box, only one scraggly stem remained.
“They’re going cheap,” the woman said, eyeing him knowingly.
“I need a proper bunch. For the wife. Got any more?”
“Fresh,” she snorted. “Want to wait? I can call for another delivery.”
Stephen hesitated. That one sad bloom would only insult Katie. The stream of flower-toting men hadn’t dried up—there must be another shop. He kept walking, then had a thought: better check his pockets. No idea if he even had cash. Katie might’ve nicked it to keep him off the bottle.
He stopped and rummaged. One crumpled tenner. No clue what flowers cost these days. Up ahead, a crowd huddled around a car boot. Hearing the price of tulips, his heart sank.
“Just one?” asked the vendor, bearded, with a thick accent.
“Only got this.” Stephen held up the note.
“For that, I give you one flower. Take it?”
One tulip was as useless as the lone daffodil. Stephen shuffled off.
Then it hit him—Alex owed him fifty quid! Time to collect. They’d drunk on his tab, so fair was fair. He hustled to Alex’s flat.
“Who is it?” came the reply—Alex’s wife, Linda. A right dragon, she was. Kept Alex on a tight leash. When he did escape, he went wild. Alex called her “The Gorgon” behind her back.
Stephen leaned toward the peephole. “It’s Steve. Alex owes me fifty. Need it sharpish.”
A pause. Then:
“I’ll give you something alright!”
The lock clicked. The door cracked open, and a hand shot out—middle finger extended.
“There you go!”
Stephen, quick as a flash, yanked the door wide. Linda stumbled forward, her rude gesture missing his nose by inches. Behind her, scrawny Alex—in a stained “Brew Crew” vest and floral boxers—flinched out of sight.
“Alex, be a mate—”
The door slammed.
“Bollocks.”
Where else could he scrounge cash? Should’ve checked Katie’s coat pockets—always loose change there. Too late now. “Summer’d be easier—just nick ’em from a garden. Who picks March for a women’s holiday anyway? Bloody snow still about!”
No way was he going home empty-handed. Head down, Stephen plodded on, ignoring the smug flower-bearers. Lost in self-pity, his foot slipped on ice. Legs wobbled. He slumped onto a bench to steady himself.
Thirst clawed at him, and his stomach growled. Not a bite since yesterday. God knew when—or if—Katie would feed him now. No flowers, no forgiveness. His mind circled back to money. The tenner might buy a couple beers, but that was it.
Then he remembered—how he and Katie met, how he used to carry her, literally. Back then, he never came home without flowers. (Pinched from gardens, mostly. Nearly got nicked once—outran the cops.) They’d raised two kids. Son moved away; daughter visited with the grandkids. Where’d it all go?
Might as well spend the tenner. He was about to head for the pub when a bloke clutching a bouquet in a paper bag approached. Spotting Stephen, he stopped.
“Got a fag?”
“Never smoked,” Stephen said, eyeing the red roses poking from the bag. The lad looked gutted.
“Girl stood you up?”
“Forty minutes, freezing my arse off. Won’t pick up her phone.”
“Roses’ll catch their death,” Stephen tutted.
“Sod ’em—” The lad drew back to lob the bouquet into the bin.
Stephen sprang up, grabbing his wrist.
“Hold on—give ’em here. I’ll take ’em. For the wife. You should see her—” He didn’t get to elaborate. The lad shoved the flowers at him.
“Take ’em.” Then he stalked off, hands jammed in pockets.
Stephen stood stunned. Seven roses. Seven glorious, blood-red roses!
He glanced after the lad—no second thoughts. Unzipping his jacket, he cradled the bouquet like treasure, shielding it from the cold. Someone called out, but Stephen ignored it, picking up his pace.
“Oi, Stevie—warming a bottle under there?” a neighbour called by the flats.
He flashed the roses. “Given up the sauce. Katie’ll be chuffed.”
“Happy Women’s Day—bloody nuisance of a holiday,” he laughed, bolting inside.
Climbing the stairs, he felt lighter, younger. Katie wouldn’t see this coming. Please don’t let her have popped to the shops. He’d only given her roses twice—when he proposed, and when she came home with their daughter.
The hallway smelled of roasting meat. His stomach growled. Mouth dry as dust.
Inside, he toed off his shoes immediately. Muddy footprints wouldn’t be forgiven, roses or not. Katie had a wicked aim with those slippers.
“Had your fun?” she called from the kitchenHe stepped into the kitchen, heart pounding, and held out the roses, watching as her anger melted into teary disbelief before she pulled him into a tight embrace.
