Two weeks before his work trip, Harry and Poppy Whitmore had a row. A bad one. Bad enough that the cat, Tibbles, tucked himself away somewhere unknown just to stay out of the firing line.
***
Poppy had asked for flowers.
“Harry, buy me flowers. Just because. No reason.”
“What’s the reason?” he asked, eyes still on his phone.
“Me. I’m the reason.”
Harry thought about it: well, why not? It was rational. He went to the shop. Came back twenty minutes later with a big carrier bag. Poppy smiled, looked inside. She pulled out a cabbage. Fresh. Firm. White.
“These are flowers?” she asked quietly.
“It’s cabbage. Flowers cost a fiver and they die. Cabbage costs eighty pence and we can get three days of salad out of it.”
“Harry.”
“What?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot.”
She didn’t speak to him for three days. He didn’t understand what he’d done. She didn’t explain. Then he left for Birmingham. “Work,” he said. “Nothing personal.”
Poppy thought: Nothing personal—that’s us.
He was gone for two weeks.
She stayed behind with two children, a cat, endless laundry, the school run, the nursery run, and the same fried eggs on the breakfast rotation.
And with WhatsApp.
That was where they talked.
Day one.
He: “Arrived. The room’s grim. Negotiations tomorrow.”
She: “Well done. The cat wolfed his dinner and then howled for an hour demanding more.”
He: “Who’s ‘well done’? Me or the cat?”
She: “The cat.”
Day two.
He: “Photo of breakfast. Photo of the hotel. Photo of colleague Dave snoring in the next room.”
She: “Lovely. Our tap’s leaking. Water everywhere. I called a plumber. He didn’t come.”
He: “Call the landlord.”
She: “I did. They said they’ll send someone within three days.”
He: “Bunch of morons.”
She: “The morons are the ones who went to Birmingham.”
Day three.
He: “How are the kids?”
She: “Son got a D. Daughter won’t eat dinner. I’m exhausted.”
He: “Hang in there.”
She: “Thanks. I’m not hanging in there. I’m falling apart.”
Day four.
He: “Today I saw a giant fluffy rabbit in the shopping centre. Thought about buying it for our daughter, but couldn’t face carrying it onto the plane.”
She: “You were never afraid of carrying things onto a plane. You were afraid of spending the money.”
He: “You’ve got me sussed.”
She: “I sussed you on our first date, when you ordered tea without sugar and said sugar was bad for you.”
He: “And you ordered a cake and ate the whole thing without offering me a bite.”
She: “Because you’d just told me cake was bad for me.”
Day five.
He: “Today I fell asleep during negotiations. Honestly. Just closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, everyone was staring.”
She: “Will they fire you?”
He: “I hope so. I’m tired.”
She: “I’m tired too.”
He: “Let’s be tired together, but in different cities?”
She: “Let’s be tired together, but at home. When are you coming back?”
He: “I miss you.”
She: “I miss you too.”
He paused for a minute. Then he wrote: “You know, I just realised I don’t miss being home. I miss you. The way you curl your legs up on the sofa. The way you drink coffee in the morning and screw up your face because it’s hot. The way you tell the cat off and then feel sorry for him. The way you laugh when our son tells his terrible jokes.”
She didn’t answer. She read that message five times. Then she cried. Because he had never written words like that. In fifteen years of marriage—never. He was a materialist. A pragmatist. A man who said “I love you” only on birthdays, and only after being reminded. And now this. Coffee. The cat. Jokes. As if someone had hacked his phone. Or he’d suddenly seen the light.
Day six.
She: “Were you drunk last night?”
He: “No. Sober as a judge.”
She: “Then why all those words?”
He: “Because I miss you. It’s like alcohol—the brain switches off and the tongue runs away.”
She: “Are you comparing love to alcohol?”
He: “I’m comparing love to honesty. Sometimes to be honest you need to be a little drunk. Or very lonely.”
She: “You’re lonely? You’ve got Dave and the others.”
He: “Dave isn’t you. He doesn’t know I’m afraid of the dark and sleep with a nightlight. You know. And you never laughed at me.”
She: “I did laugh. Once. When you said you were afraid of the dark because Tibbles might be in it.”
He: “Tibbles is an animal. He poops in slippers. That’s terrifying.”
She: “You’re an idiot.”
He: “I’m your idiot.”
Day seven.
She woke up to a message sent at four in the morning.
“Can’t sleep. Thinking about you. Picturing us meeting at the airport. You’ll be wearing that blue dress I love. I’ll be holding flowers. We’ll hug, and I’ll say, ‘Sorry I’m like this.’ You’ll ask, ‘Like what?’ I’ll say, ‘Quiet.’ You’ll say, ‘I’m used to it.’ I’ll say, ‘That’s bad.’ You’ll say, ‘That’s life.’”
She didn’t reply. She just put on the blue dress. Even though it was only the seventh morning, and the airport meeting was still a week away.
Day eight.
He: “Went to the zoo today. On my own. Watched the monkeys. They look exactly like our colleagues—pulling faces, throwing food, acting like they’re in charge.”
She: “You went to the zoo on your own? At forty?”
He: “So what? I’m allowed a childhood. You let me.”
She: “I do. Just send photos.”
He sent a photo. The monkey was making a face. So was he.
She laughed out loud. The children came running. “Mum, what’s funny?” She said, “Dad’s being silly.” The children said, “Dad’s always silly when we’re not there.” She said, “Yes. It’s a shame we don’t notice.”
Day nine.
He: “I’ve been thinking. Remember how we met? You dropped your purse on the Tube. I picked it up. You said, ‘You’re very attentive.’ I said, ‘You’re very beautiful.’ And then we went for coffee.”
She: “I still remember you ordering tea without sugar.”
He: “And you ordering cake.”
She: “I still remember that cake. It was delicious. Cherry.”
He: “And I remember the way you looked at me. As if I wasn’t just a man on the Tube, but a whole life.”
She: “You were a whole life. You still are. I just forget sometimes.”
He: “I forget too. But right now I’m not forgetting.”
Day ten.
He didn’t write a single word. All morning, all day—silence. She called. He didn’t pick up. She texted. Nothing. She started to panic. She imagined the worst: he’d collapsed, fallen ill, been hit by a car. Tibbles followed her around the flat demanding food. The children asked for cartoons. She thought about him.
At eleven at night, a message came.
“Sorry. Phone died. Left the charger at the hotel. Spent all day trying to find one. Ended up getting one from Dave. He gave it to me, but only after I promised I’d never fall asleep in a negotiation again. How are you?”
She: “I was scared. I thought you were dead.”
He: “I’m alive. I miss you. I’ll be home soon.”
She: “Three days.”
He: “Three days. Will you meet me?”
She: “In the blue dress.”
He: “With flowers.”
She: “Deal.”
Day eleven.
He: “Bought presents. A Lego set for our son. The rabbit for our daughter. A scarf for you.”
She: “You can’t choose scarves. Last time you brought pink, and I don’t wear pink.”
He: “It’s not pink. It’s dusty rose.”
She: “Dusty rose is pink.”
He: “It’s the colour of a sunset over Birmingham.”
She: “Are you a poet?”
He: “I’m an accountant. But for you, I’ll become a poet.”
She: “Don’t. I love you as an accountant. Your handwriting is neat and the numbers add up.”
Day twelve.
He: “Flying tomorrow. Come and meet me.”
She: “I’ll be there.”
He: “Are you nervous?”
She: “No.”
He: “I am. Like it’s the first time.”
She: “The first time I choked on a piece of cake and you patted me on the back. It was awkward.”
He: “It was good for me. I touched you.”
Day thirteen. The meeting.
She stood at the airport in the blue dress. With the children. They hadn’t brought Tibbles, obviously—he’d have caused a scene. She watched the arrivals board. His flight was an hour late. She drank coffee. The children played on their phones.
She thought: Why did he write about her legs? Why about coffee? Why about monkeys? He had never been like this. Maybe he really had fallen in love with her again. Or maybe it was just the trip—a break from routine, from the children, from burnt fried eggs. Maybe once he was home he would go quiet again, ask about the cabbage, and disappear into his laptop.
He came out of arrivals. With flowers. A huge bouquet. She had never seen flowers like that from him—except at their wedding, and even then her mother had chosen them.
He walked over, hugged her, kissed her.
“Sorry I’m like this.”
She: “Like what?”
He: “Quiet.”
She: “I’m used to it.”
He: “That’s bad.”
She: “That’s life.”
He: “No. That’s a habit. I’m going to change.”
She: “Don’t. I love you however you are. Even with the cabbage.”
He: “The cabbage was a mistake.”
She: “The cabbage is the past. The flowers are the present.”
They drove home. In the taxi he held her hand. The children fell asleep. Tibbles met them on the doorstep, sniffed the flowers, sneezed, and walked into the kitchen.
She put the flowers in a vase. He put the laptop in the drawer.
“I’m not working tonight,” he said. “Tonight I’m only yours.”
She: “And tomorrow?”
He: “Tomorrow I’m yours with a laptop. But tonight—no laptop.”
They ordered pizza. They drank wine. They watched a film. A silly film, about love. She laughed. He held her. Tibbles sat nearby demanding ham.
“Harry,” she said. “Are you really going to change?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll try.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then you’ll call me a moron. And I’ll write back, ‘I miss your legs.’”
She laughed.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I’m your idiot.”
They finished the wine. They finished the pizza. They put the children to bed. Tibbles fell asleep in the armchair. Poppy looked at her husband.
“You know, I missed you too. Not you—us. The people we were at the beginning. Cheerful. Silly. Without the mortgage and without the cabbage.”
“The cabbage is a symbol of my stupidity. I’m never buying cabbage again.”
“Buy it. Just buy it with flowers.”
“Deal.”
They hugged and fell asleep. On the sofa. Because the bed had already been claimed by Tibbles.
In the morning, he left for work. With the laptop. He kissed her and said, “I love you.”
That evening, he didn’t forget the flowers. He stopped at the florist’s. “Something inexpensive,” he said, “but it has to make my wife smile.” The florist suggested daisies. He bought them.
Poppy put them in a vase. Tibbles sniffed, sneezed, and walked away.
And that’s how it went, every day.
That’s the whole story. Ordinary. Simple. Absurd in places, even stupid.
So what? Love often sounds stupid. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
