“One more question, Steph, before I assist you in losing some underwear and then I think I can hear your desk calling to have you shagged across it.”
She swallowed hard at the bluntness of his suggestion, such as it was, because there was no option of discussion, not that she objected to his plan.
“What’s with the picture on the desk?” she asked.
“It’s a picture of you and me at our friend’s wedding and I have one on my desk and you have one, which was your idea,” he paused to look around her desk and continued, “Well, you do have one, but not on your desk it would seem. Are you ashamed of me?” he asked but she was unsure whether he was being serious or not.
“No I am not ashamed of you . . . but people will know about us if we broadcast it like that.”
“Point taken, Steph, but not for the reasons you think. However, until you are established in your role I will attempt to be a little more restrained. Now can we address the issue of your excessive underwear?” he asked making her laugh as he pulled her to her feet and lifted her onto her desk before suddenly pausing to say, “Nice flowers.”
“Yes they are, thank you.” She stroked his face and moved up to kiss him.
He moved back from her kiss. “Why are you thanking me? They’re not off me.”
“Of course they are, they have to be.”
“Darling, I can guarantee they are not off me and if they were they wouldn’t be yellow roses. I send my mother yellow roses. So, if they are not off me I would really like to know who is sending you flowers.” His demeanour and tone bristled now as he paced across to them and pulled the card from them. “Shall I, or would you like to?” He offered the card to her.
“Feel free,” she told him still confused as to who had sent them, but knowing she had nothing to hide.
Jon opened the card and his face went from intrigue to confusion to irritation and then to absolute rage. Steph frowned at him before he read the card aloud, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, a real trip down Memory Lane last night with lots of laughs and dancing too! You really are one of a kind Stevie. Love Chris, kiss, kiss”
“Ah, that’s nice,” said Steph flatly hoping that Jon would see the innocence of the gesture, if it was innocent.
“Nice? Nice! You are fucking joking! What is nice about Dr Smarmy sending you flowers? And what is nice about you going out dancing with him all the way down Memory fucking Lane last night? I warned him to back off,” said Jon angrily and before she had the chance to continue he said, “And another thing, whatthe fuck is with Stevie? Maybe you should fill me in on your little night out. The one I was so clueless about.”
Steph stared across the desk at Jon and considered how to proceed and decided to go with calm and innocent, because she was, she had done nothing wrong, except by not mentioning it to him, but there must be lots about Lucy that he didn’t share with her.
“Will you please stop shouting and swearing, Rosie will hear you,” said Steph calmly.
“Do I look like a man who really gives a shit, Steph?” he asked, raising his voice a little more making her shake her head.
“Shall I explain last night and the flowers or not?” Sadness dripped from every word as she realised that the light-hearted banter from just a few minutes ago had now dissipated completely as he ran his fingers through his own hair.
“Go on,” said Jon sulkily with a wave of his hand to signal that she should continue.
“I went to visit Dad who reckons that there is something not quite kosher about us, well you. When I left I ran into Chris who asked if I wanted to go for a drink and as you were busy I didn’t see any reason not to. We went to a pub round the corner from the hospital and had two drinks, neither alcoholic, but we just talked and laughed and the thing with Stevie is just that Chris used to call me that because he used to tease me about having a blokey name, no more than that. Like when people call me Steph or Stephie. Happy now?” She got to her feet and moved around the desk to stand in front of Jon again, hoping her accurate account of the evening, told with flatness would calm him.
“I am far from happy, Steph. You went out with an ex-boyfriend and didn’t even mention it until I opened the card on the flowers he sent you,” replied Jon with a mixture of annoyance and concern. “You didn’t explain the dancing,” he suddenly said as if just remembering it.
“It was daft really, Chris put a song on the jukebox, something we used to dance to and then he managed to get me to briefly dance, in the beer garden of all places,” she explained, even offering a short laugh in the hopes of conveying the innocence of it all. It had been innocent, hadn’t it?
“What song?” he asked immediately surprising her.
“Does it matter?”
“Obviously it does if you’re avoiding answering the question,” he replied curtly.
“What do you want me to say, Jon? We went for a drink and chatted about old times and we laughed a lot and then we danced toTruly, Madly, Deeply. Then he walked me back to my car and I went home where I chose to text you and then worried all night in case anyone else could see your messages. And as for you trying to warn Chris off, I think that was really unfair to draw Mr Wright into it too. He is in my past, firmly. I ended things with Chris years ago and I am with you, and usually happy with that.” She was tiring of the conversation and his shouting and objections.
“Why has he sent you flowers?” asked Jon, his voice quieter, but accompanied by a pout now.
“How the fuck do I know, maybe for old time’s sake or to say that he had a pleasant evening. I don’t know, but you are overreacting to this Jon, and if I did this every time you spent time with another woman I would be in a permanent state of annoyance, starting with your evening and breakfast with Lucy.” She almost spat the last couple of words out.
“Right I am absolutely sick of this now. You will be attending the Foundation Gala tonight and we will be putting all of this bullshit to bed once and for all. I will be talking and you will be listening because this, us, needs to be clarified and aired.” He didn’t even pause before turning practical. “Buy something nice, a gown, formal. Get a cab and be there at seven, no argumentsor excuses,” he said firmly and dead seriously filling her with a mixture of dread, fear and excitement in equal measures.
“But what about . . .”
