 
### Mr Right and Mr Wrong

by Grigory Ryzhakov

Edited by Stephanie Dagg

Cover design and illustration by Roopa Sachidanand

Copyright 2013 Grigory Ryzhakov

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Also by Grigory Ryzhakov, published at **Smashwords.com** :

Usher Syndrome

Pumpkin Day

### Table of Contents

**Mr Right and Mr Wrong**

1. Orange (Citrus cinensis)

2. Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans)

3. Garlic (Allium sativum)

4. Queen of the Night (Selenicereus grandiflorus)

5. White Willow (Salix alba)

6. Grapevine (Vitis vinifera)

7. Dishrag Gourd (Luffa aegyptiaca)

8. Rose (Rosa)

9. Common Stinkhorn (Phallus impudicus)

10. Small-leaved Linden (Tilia cordata)

11. Victoria (Victoria amazonica)

12. Forget-me-not (Myosotis arvensis)

13. Strawberry (Fragaria ananassa)

14. Mistletoe (Viscum album)

15. Pine tree (Pinus sylvestris)

16. Grapefruit (Citrus paradisi)

17. The Madonna Lily (Lilium candidum)

18. Juniper (Juniperus communis)

19. Exploding Cucumber (Ecballium elaterium)

20. Duckweed fern (Azolla)

21. Apple (Malus domestica)

About the Author
**Mr Right and Mr Wrong**

by Grigory Ryzhakov

"When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain."

Mark Twain

**1. Orange (Citrus cinensis)**

Being spoilt for choice had never been my problem until I met both Terrence and Blake on the same day.

My name is Chloe and today is the last Monday of September. After finishing my morning classes at uni, I hurry to Baker Street where I do afternoon shifts at a florist's. My journey from South Kensington on the tube takes about twenty minutes. I try to read a serious book, _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ , while standing in the packed carriage, but I keep getting distracted by some ridiculously hot, probably Australian, guy, who eyes me up. I curse silently when he leaves the train at Hyde Park Corner.

Feeling hungry I pop into a Prêt A Manger outlet in the mood for a sandwich. It's lunchtime and therefore the place is packed. I spot an Asian couple leaving their table and promptly rush to the vacant seat. I seize the chair almost at the same time as a man in a suit grabs the opposite one, and we say "Sorry" to each other in unison.

"Do you mind if I sit at this table too?" he says.

"Sure, it's not like you can sit anywhere else," I giggle like a fool.

The man smiles at me regardless. I unlock my phone and go to see what's happening on Facebook while my mouth works on the sandwich like a combine harvester on autopilot.

"You have a very healthy appetite."

I unglue my stare from the phone screen and see his smiling face again.

"Sorry, what did you say?" I mumble and a piece of lettuce leaf drops from my mouth. "Oops! Sorry, again. Don't get the wrong impression. I'm not such a pig all the time. I do have better table manners whenever Her Majesty drops by for dinner,'' I say and giggle again.

Seriously, Chloe, he'll think you're a moron.

"That's funny. You must be an actress."

"Why?"

"You have a great voice and enunciation," he explains.

"Oh thanks, but I'm not an actress, it's just the way I talk."

"Have you ever considered acting? I'm Terrence, by the way."

"I'm Chloe."

"Beautiful name. It suits you. What do you do then if it's not acting?"

"I study industrial agronomy at Imperial. And you?"

"I'm more boring, I work in financial services."

I can see he is impressed with me. Perhaps the course I picked isn't as shitty as my mother thinks.

"You must be doing well," I say.

Another brilliant statement, Chloe.

"Can't complain," he says with calm confidence.

I take a look at his expensive suit and dark blue tie that matches his eyes. His hair is short and neatly trimmed, probably by some award-winning hairdresser. He's clean-shaven and he now beams another white-toothed smile at me.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing, I just wondered if it's Tom Ford you're wearing."

"Good nose," he says.

We continue to make small talk and while I must have exceeded my monthly limit of silliness, I somehow find myself staring at his small delicate hands as he types in my number on his Blackberry. I win. I've nailed a date. He's over six feet tall, dark blond, around thirty-five years old, medium built and no noticeable belly, though a little bald. Who cares? I've got a date. Yay!

Reality forces its way back into my mind an hour later in the form of Fiona who tells me I've put on my apron the wrong way around.

Fiona is my boss and owner of the flower shop. She's posh, but she's a bloody hard-worker. Have you heard of those Chinese workers making smartphones from dawn to sunset without having weekends to rest? They are slackers compared to Fiona.

She does all the books and ordering and talks to particularly arsy customers as if she's their psychotherapist, when she's not busy changing water, cutting, trimming, wrapping, dealing with deliveries, etc. My job is to sell and help her out here and there, yet sometimes looking at her quick dexterous moves I feel I'm more of an impediment rather than any sort of assistance. A mother of three and a successful entrepreneur, she is now forty-five but looks a decade younger without any visible effort. I hate her, in a nice way.

Still, today I don't feel so inadequate, and a radio tune gets stuck in my head and I hum it non-stop while working on flower bouquets and completely lose track of time.

"Chloe, honey, don't you want to go home?" Fiona wakes me up from my daydreaming once again.

It's nearly eight o'clock. I put on my leather jacket and leave the shop before she gets a chance to lock me in.

"See you tomorrow," I say to her and hurry to catch a bus to Islington. On my way, I get a text from Trish, my housemate, who's on the same course as me. She begs me to buy a pineapple-ham pizza at Tesco's. If you ask me, she's too fat to eat it, but who am I to deprive her of food. She should make her own decisions.

It's so annoying when you pop into the shop just to buy one thing and half an hour later emerge with two heavy plastic bags full of a week's supply of food and waddle home like a penguin.

I envy those guys who shop with backpacks. My fingers hurt so badly by the time I reach the road junction. And then... disaster.

One of the bags has had enough: it breaks and all my food spills out across the pavement.

I curse and jump onto the road to grab a runaway orange when I'm blinded by the lights of an approaching car. I utter "Shit!" in my mind, half-frozen on the spot, when someone grabs me from behind and I'm thrown backwards onto the pavement, falling and landing on something soft that is not my arse.

I lift myself up and look at the guy who just saved my life.

"Are you fucking nuts?" he shouts at me.

"I fucking am on Mondays." This is shock talking, I want to add.

Half-lying on the ground I stare at him and blink several times. He's gorgeous. He's looking at me with his Cheshire cat green eyes in a bewildered oval face, which is neatly framed with short black hair and imposing sideburns.

"Sorry," is all I can say.

"This orange wasn't worth dying for." He jumps to his feet and helps me to get up. I notice a lot of dirt on his black boots.

"It's the stupid bag," I grumble and point to my scattered food shopping, now biting the dust.

"Don't worry. I'll get you another one."

He sprints to a nearby shop and returns after several minutes.

"Sorry, the queue was long," he says, and gives me a pricy fabric bag.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," I say and thank him, trying to find money to repay him.

"Don't worry, it's a present. I don't trust your remaining plastic bag."

We pick up the runaway goodies.

"All safe now," he says when we're done. "Are you all right? I didn't catch your name."

"Chloe."

"I'm Blake, nice to meet you," he laughs. "Can you actually walk?"

I nod.

"Let me help you with this."

"Thank you, I can manage myself, really. I live around the corner."

"You sure? Okay. Listen, I have to go to work now. Here's my card. Come and say hello, I play sets at this club. We've a huge party this Friday night. Here's a flyer. Bring your friends. Call me if you need anything else."

I keep staring at him, so he asks once again whether I am okay or not. I get a grip on myself, thank him once again and try not to look back as I cross the road.

***

"What kept you so long? I'm starving," are the first words I hear when I come home. Trish immediately takes the bags and makes herself busy. I hang up my jacket, slip off my shoes and follow her. We have an open plan kitchen-dining area. I dive into the armchair and sigh audibly.

"Busy day?" she asks.

"Yes. Where's Kurt?" I enquire about our third housemate.

"He's so mean. He bought a Chinese takeaway but hid in his room before I could sample it. Are you hungry?"

I am too excited to hold it in anymore.

"Can you believe I've met not one but two handsome guys today?"

"Handsome guys?" I hear a voice with a German accent, so I know Kurt is lurking behind me.

Kurt is gay and he must have Google Alerts installed in his brain, which buzzes whenever someone mentions hot, sexy, handsome guys.

"Not for you, they're both straight."

"How do you know?" he asks.

I think about Terrence and how he flirted with me; he's definitely straight. Nothing about him could possibly be any straighter, apart from his small hands. He's a banker, not a builder after all.

Then I switch to Blake and am suddenly suspicious. He's more cute than handsome. His features are boyish. He's way too fit. Could he be gay? But then, his shoes were awfully dirty. Yet, he didn't ask for my number and he's a DJ at a club. I wonder what kind of club it is.

"Listening to you people might think every moderately attractive man is gay," Trish says to Kurt. "But somehow you still remain single all this time."

"Because the guys I like are either sluts or off-market," Kurt replies in self-defence.

"Anyway, don't hog the conversation. Chloe, what are they like?" asks Trish.

"Well, Terrence is very tall, like Kurt, immaculately dressed and very pleasant."

"He's a player," observes Kurt.

"You don't know that," says Trish.

"Anyway, Blake is just hot." I tell them about the orange accident.

"Next time put your fruit into a sealed bag," Trish comments.

"He's gay," says Kurt looking at Blake's business card. "What? Don't look at me like this. It's a gay club, I know it."

"You're jealous," I say. "He's a DJ. It's his job. It's not necessary for all the staff to be gay, is it?" I turn to Trish.

"I don't know," she shrugs. "Let's go there on Friday and find out."

***

There is always a price to pay for a wonderful day. I can't fall asleep till the early hours, fantasising about Terrence and Blake. I surprise myself with how it is even possible to dream about two men at once. When I open my eyes, I almost fall out of bed as I realise that I've overslept.

I'm cross with Trish for not waking me up, but then I recall that she's off to see her doctor this morning. She probably didn't want to disturb me too early.

I hurry to the uni like a pursued victim in a Tony Scott thriller, and when I get there I'm only ten minutes late. It evidently gives Mrs Ponds enormous pleasure to tell me off but she allows me to proceed and shows me to a spare lab bench.

Trish sends me an air kiss from the other end of the room.

I put on my lab coat grumpily and start cutting thin slices of a turnip and other roots with a scalpel. Then I take one of them and put it on a glass slide to begin with staining. I'm not sure what to do, so I have to skim through the manual quickly.

Yet, instead of science, Terrence occupies my mind. I decide there's no point thinking about Blake until I confirm his sexual preferences.

"Chloe, it's turning black," Mrs Ponds points to my root sections, which I'd dipped into an iodine solution a while ago. I'd forgotten to set up the timer.

"Do it again," she instructs and leaves.

You can't imagine how much I hate doing things all over again. Mrs Ponds, this nerd in a skirt, probably thinks of herself as someone important. Ha! She doesn't even have a doctorate. Does she honestly think that her boring plant anatomy practicum has any application in modern agriculture? If you ask me, it's just for academics. And certainly it's not something that can weigh more than my careful date-planning in the grand scale of things.

I'd never say this to a feminist, but I think girls have as many dirty thoughts as guys do.

2. Poison Ivy (Toxicodendron radicans)

"Chloe, you must come home this weekend. Marge Stevens told me Victor is in town too, and it'd be great if you two got together."

I've been on the phone with my mum for two minutes and I'm out of patience already. Do mothers deliberately try to annoy their single daughters, who are over twenty-five, by constantly scouting for suitors?

"Mum, how many times have I told you I don't like him? He's fat and shorter than me. And he's a bit dumb."

"Your father isn't exactly a genius either, still we manage somehow. Victor is stable, kind and comes from a decent family."

"Why is he still single then if he's so great? Let me remind you, he's like ten years older than me."

"Four not ten. Don't exaggerate. Besides, you're not in a position to be picky," she replies.

There we go again. I'm a worthless pile of rubbish. Neither the fact that I've obtained a scholarship and got myself admitted to Imperial nor the fact I support myself count.

I'm at the shop holding my phone between my cheek and my shoulder while trimming some roses. One of the flower stems stabs my middle finger with a thorn.

"Ouch!" I drop the phone on the floor. Then I curse.

"Chloe, hello, are you there?" I hear from beneath.

I pick up my old Nokia, which is unharmed.

"Yes, Mum, you literally hurt me. I've just cut my finger. Sorry, I have to get back to work now."

She ignores me and rambles on.

"You see, you're so clumsy, you shouldn't even be working there. With all due respect to Fiona. Please find something more deserving. Why do I have to conceal from my friends the fact that you work at a flower shop?"

"I don't know, Mum, why?" I reply tartly. "It's not my problem you try so hard to come across as posh when you're not."

I shut up too late, and so to prevent myself from being spat at over the phone with a mouthful of her poison, I tell her I have a customer and hang up.

A normal mother would have been over the moon if her daughter was independent like me. My mum, however, thinks that if I'm so keen to be employed then I should get myself a job at a High Street menswear outlet where I can meet my future husband. I'm surprised she hasn't yet suggested me working at an elite whorehouse where I can evaluate my prospective half's both financial and anatomical endowments.

How am I supposed to be nice to customers after such a conversation? Now I can't clear my head of these sad thoughts about me approaching the age of a hopeless spinster. So what that I'm turning thirty in two years' time? It's just a number.

Does she really think I would have been happier if I'd settled down with Victor in Leighborough ten years ago, mothered two kids and weighed two stones heavier than I do now? Why can't she understand I'm living my life for myself, not for her sake? But she doesn't.

I go through the same argument for hours when I'm left in peace behind the counter and I start thinking the day is never going to end. Then I hear a beeping sound. I check my phone and read the incoming message: _Hi Chloe, it's Terrence. We met yesterday at Prêt. Would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow evening? Or maybe another day?_

I wait half an hour so as not to come across as desperate, which takes a bit of an effort, and then reply, accepting his kind offer. He sends me a text with the address of the restaurant. It's rather posh. We agree to meet there at eight.

Back home Trish and Kurt have a busy evening with me trying on possible outfits for dinner with Terrence. It doesn't help that their fashion preferences couldn't be more different.

Kurt wants me to wear a cocktail dress but Trish says that's a stupid idea since Terrence might think I'm taking this date far too seriously. When we rule out that dress, even a simple choice like skirt or trousers becomes difficult. I'm inclined to follow Trish's advice and wear jeans. However, I'm a bit suspicious that she's jealous that I'm going out with a banker, so she maybe she's trying to undersell me. Finally we decide on jeans, a nice white blouse with a touch of embroidery on it, neutral make-up, and loose hair. We add a little silver pendant with a sapphire, a birthday present from Mum, to match my eyes, and his too. This should do. I bet Terrence isn't being subjected to the same ordeal.

Finally, we get comfy on the sofa and go through conversation topics that I should either touch on or totally avoid with Terrence. I can tell they are enjoying it way too much as they throw their crazy ideas at me. Of course, it's not their date they intend to ruin.

Kurt tries to upset me once again.

"The most important thing you should find out is whether he's married or not."

"Are you crazy? He'll run away if I ask him that," I exclaim.

"Don't ask directly. Find out if he lives alone or not, who his friends are. Ask him something which may tell you if he's a parent."

"Like what? Where does he shop for nappies?" I say.

"You never know, he may actually be a single or divorced parent," Trish butts in.

I know she's jealous as hell. And I also know life isn't easy for her: she's two years older than me and she still mentions Rupert at least once a week, even though they split up after college graduation.

Suddenly, a bright idea strikes me on how to make her a more reliable ally.

"Trish, Terrence is a banker. I can ask him if he's got some single friends; there must be scores of them in the financial sector."

"You'd do that for me? Make sure you mention me, otherwise he might think you're asking for yourself."

"I'm not an idiot," I dismiss her worry.

"But you can be quite wild. Don't scare him off," Kurt says. "Especially with your agronomy."

"Unless he orders humus and asks me how you grow chickpeas."

"No, it's you who should ask the questions and let him talk. Men like that."

"Don't interrogate him though, like your mum does," warns Trish.

The recollection of today's phone discussion with Mum still lingers in the same part of my brain where I keep track of my allergies.

"She called today trying to lure me home to fix me up with some local bore. Even his name makes me cringe. Victor. Ugh! Should I simply block her number?"

"That won't work," Kurt says. "I was working from home today and she called here around lunchtime. She tried to find out if you were dating anyone. I said it wasn't my business. She then asked if I've been your housemate for long and where I'm from and what I do..."

"Gosh, she's worse than MI-6," Trish sniggers and almost chokes on her wine looking half-shocked and half-amused.

"Why am I not surprised?" I sigh.

"Just wait," Kurt continues. "Then she asked if I was dating anyone, and when I said no she asked if I liked you. I said of course I did, but that I prefer men. She hung up immediately."

Trish and I start laughing, which makes Kurt look even more offended.

"My mother is much nicer," he says to me and it sounds like an accusation.

"I have no doubt about that. But why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Because I didn't want to complain about how rude your mother was."

"I'll tell her to be nice to you next time."

"No," Kurt looks terrified. "I don't want her to start matchmaking for me!"

"Why? Victor probably won't mind," I tease him.

"I'd like to see that," Trish laughs. "Leighborough's first gay marriage. I actually like that name. Victor. You know, Kurt, Victor and Patricia sounds better."

"Don't be so mean, girls. My sights are set on Blake," he pouts.

"You haven't even seen him yet," Trish says.

"I trust Chloe's taste in men. After all, she always picks the best wine," Kurt touches his glass to mine and they clink.

**3. Garlic ( Allium sativum)**

I think I am sweating over it too much. Just because I haven't been on a date for nearly five months, it doesn't mean that my whole life should disappear into a wormhole of date-related worries. The recent ones were odd like, what if I farted, or if I snorted like a wild boar at Terrence's jokes.

I'm well known to be a primary target for brilliant ideas flying out from the creative ether. Today's one is very useful: I can monitor Terrence's food preferences and sustain a safe conversation on nutrition, different cuisines and culinary-related TV shows and celebrities.

I'd need to be a total wanker to screw this up.

Who knows what awaits Terrence and me in the future? They say the path to a man's heart lies via his stomach. Ha! Only if he's got a massive ulcer.

Humour aside, I need to be prepared.

I'm not used to cheating, but it's worth studying the menu online to find out everything about the selection of dishes and, most importantly, the wine list. No way am I going to shame myself by mispronouncing a French name.

When the time approaches seven, I have a shot of Scotch at home as Dutch courage and proceed to the rendezvous. I hope Terrence won't mind me being a little late, considering that it starts raining like mad and I am hopping across freshly-filled puddles on my way to the tube rather than wait for a bus.

Having successfully avoided the downpour, I look around victoriously at less fortunate specimens in the carriage while shaking the raindrops off my umbrella.

Nothing can stop me, I say in my head, looking upwards and defiantly addressing an imaginary Almighty. I'm sure if minds could be read no one would ever date me, unless they were masochists.

On this cheerful thought I exit the train and hurry up the crowded escalator while trying not to nose-bump someone's ascending arse in front of me. There's a worry it may fart. What's this obsession with body gases today?

God, it's a tedious job to be so self-conscious.

A hundred yards from the eatery I switch into catwalk style, lifting my chin and looking straight ahead of me, which is not an easy feat to accomplish in high-heeled leather boots. As I expected, Terrence is waiting for me: I can see him through the window, waving his hand.

He's dressed in the same suit he wore when I met him the first time. It sits well on him, but doesn't tell me anything of the owner's physical state. I must ask him where he works out.

We exchange greetings and kiss each other on both cheeks like a pair of friends. Then I take a seat opposite him and complain a little about the weather. We agree on the rain being the most unpopular thing in Britain, not counting the current cabinet.

The arrival of the waiter prevents the germs of politics from spoiling our conversation.

We order the drinks. I voice my preference for a glass of red with confidence, which leaves the waiter unimpressed, and Terrence sticks with water.

There's a concern. I'll need to ask him later if he drinks alcohol at all.

Now it's time to comment on his good taste. Yes, men are much more susceptible than we women to the evil charms of flattery.

"I like your tie very much."

"Oh thank you, Chloe, but it's me who should be complimenting you on how ravishing you look. And the pendant really suits you."

"Funny, it's the same colour as your tie."

"Maybe that's because our eyes are blue, so we find things to match them," he replies.

I can see he's a little nervous: he doesn't look at me all the time, instead his gaze wanders around. I find such shyness arousing.

The wine and water arrive and both of us order the main courses, skipping the starters.

"More space for dessert," Terrence says and winks at me. "They have my favourite lemon cheesecake."

_Duly noted_.

By the way, he's not fat, which means he either exercises regularly, or tonight's going to be a rare treat for him.

No matter how hard I try to step into an interviewer's shoes, I end up sharing bits of my life.

"So you love cooking? I bet you're very good." Another compliment aimed at me.

"Not necessarily, I like experimenting with food. Mum says it's hard to believe that I haven't poisoned anyone yet," I laugh and think whether I'm trying too hard to demean myself.

"She exaggerated, I'm sure," he says.

"Of course she did. Mum always reminds me how once, as a teenager, I burnt a pizza inside her precious grill. She's been big on revenge ever since."

"Ha, my sister often tells me that I should stop making pasta. But I just tell her that she should stop eating it," he says.

So, he's got a sister, and they are close.

"Do you have other siblings?" I inquire.

"No, only Rachel, she's bit older than me, though she'd kill me if she knew I said that."

You're not so bad at joking, mister.

We try not to laugh while eating. He's devouring a steak piece by piece and I'm working on a shaft of lamb, strangely served with a garlic sauce. I am armed with a knife and a fork, but picturing myself eating it with my hands like a troglodyte. Etiquette can be so needlessly exhausting. A heretical thought for a girl with a nice upbringing.

Terrence is finally in possession of his beloved cheesecake while I'm too full to move let alone eat anything else. I down a shot of espresso to prevent the digesting food luring me into sleep.

He looks at his watch.

"You aren't in a hurry, are you?" he asks me after paying the bill. (I didn't object.)

"No, I'm not."

"Would you like to grab a drink at a bar? I know a place nearby. It'd be good for us to get some air anyway."

So you do drink after all.

We are walking slowly, and I'm grateful that, without asking, he understands that I'm in no mood to hurry. Especially in crowded Covent Garden.

The bar we enter plays some very loud music and has a red, candle-lit interior, which is rather romantic. We land at a tiny table in the corner. I order another glass of wine and he goes for whiskey and soda.

We have to lean close to each other to out-volume the music. He's smiling mysteriously at me but not approaching for a kiss. I decide to wait patiently.

After saying maybe ten times what a nice place it is, I embark on a risky manoeuvre.

"Do you live on your own or share like me?

He looks at me suspiciously.

"Well, I share with my sister. But it's a spacious flat she owns in Kent."

"You live in Kent?"

"Yes, and I commute."

"Oh, you poor thing."

"It's okay. I often work late and the company books me into a hotel in Mayfair."

"Wow," I say, getting the hint.

"And what about your housemates?" he asks when I've been quiet for a while.

"They are nice."

_Chloe, if you say the word 'nice' one more time, you imbecile, he's going to run away_.

"A German guy, and an English girl."

"Handsome guy?" he asks smiling.

"He's gay, and yes, cute," I laugh.

Kurt, don't ever tell me I don't admire you enough.

Terrence looks at his watch and I conceal a yawn by pressing my hand against my mouth. Ugh! Even after a thermonuclear concoction of coffee and wine I can smell the overpowering odour of garlic. It dawns on me how wrong I was with the lamb. Poor Terrence. What a waste of a date for him.

As if confirming my theory, he finishes his drink and says that he's got an early start tomorrow, so he needs to go. I'm upset, but as it's my own fault, I smile and we walk to the tube station.

"I don't know yet about my weekend plans, but I'll call you later this week if that's all right with you."

"Sure," I say.

We hug each other and he kisses me on the cheek.

Bloody garlic! I recalled an occasion when I kissed a guy who smelled of onions and I nearly threw up.

Or maybe Terrence just didn't like me enough?

No, Chloe! You can't complain about anything after having a free dinner with a good-looking man. Who lives in Kent with his sister, I remind myself.

Well, I can live with this imperfection.

4. Queen of the Night (Selenicereus grandiflorus)

Being a normal person I usually love Fridays. Not today though. I think I must have done every possible job at the shop. I even cleaned the most inaccessible corners of it. It's amazing how much you can achieve when you're killing time waiting for someone.

Alas, the cleaning success fails to improve my mood. Terrence hasn't uttered or texted a word since Wednesday, though he promised to do so. Was he really that put off by my garlic breath?

My tummy is rumbling and begging me to have some dinner. I prefer to have my final meal of the day around seven o'clock, but I'd hoped I might have a date tonight and so haven't have a breadcrumb since lunch. It's nearly eight and I have to face it – he won't call.

So I leave the shop dreaming about pizza, white wine and an entire evening of television at home. When I get there, I can smell stew. Trish has cooked dinner for everyone. At least someone exceeded my expectations.

Needless to say, I complain about Terrence throughout the meal getting a generous dose of sympathy from Kurt and Trish in reply.

"We need to cheer you up," says Kurt, "but not with this."

He takes away the bottle of wine that I was about to open.

"Why not? What else can I do? Call Terrence and tell him he's an arsehole?"

"Have you forgotten about the handsome fellow who rescued you the other day? Remember, he invited us to a party tonight." Kurt produces Blake's card and the flyer he gave me.

"I don't know about tonight," I grumble.

"What do you mean? He did invite all of us, didn't he?" Kurt looks worried.

"Yes."

"The flyer only admits one person," Trish points out. "Can you call him and get us on the guest list? Please!"

It's blackmail. How can I refuse after she fed me such delicious stew?

"Okay, I'll do that. But I'm not in the mood, so I'm not going."

"Why not? Look, Terrence may just be busy. It's not the end of the world. Don't deprive us of a Friday night out!" says Kurt.

"Yes. Chloe, don't deprive us," Trish joins him.

"Stop nagging, you're so selfish," I say and depart to the sofa. But maybe they're right; I need to let my hair down a little.

"Please, Chloe, Terrence isn't the only guy in the world. You liked Blake too, remember?" says Trish.

"He might be gay," I remind her.

You can't blame me for being stubborn – I'm a Capricorn, and it's my destiny.

"Don't listen to Kurt, he's biased. That guy saved your life! He's probably expecting you to come and say 'Hello' at least."

She's got a point. An image of Blake's handsome face pops into my mind, and I think this may even turn into a proper night out. Screw Terrence! It's his loss.

"Okay. Where's my phone?" I announce to their delight.

I type in the number on the card that Kurt is holding for me, looking excited.

"Hello, Blake? It's Chloe, remember, the girl with escaped oranges?"

"Oh hi, Chloe," he replies, "I wondered what happened to you. I couldn't bear the thought of another accident. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you. I was thinking of coming to your party and my friends want to join me."

"Great! It starts ten pm tonight."

"Can we have a free pass?"

"Sure. I'll put your names on the list."

***

I'm not a tramp on a hunt, but they dress me like one. Trish is generous with the eyeliner to match my abundant raven hair. The skirt I put on is from my college days; I wear it about once a year on similar occasions. Kurt whistles with appreciation at the outcome and gives me a hat to accentuate the more indie and less slutty side of me. I look in the mirror and must say there is one advantage in dressing like an eighteen-year-old emo girl – it takes years off me.

To my relief the outfits Trish and Kurt pick out aren't exactly _haute couture_ either, to put it politely. Trish's red dress is a bit tight. I mean, the most fortunate scenario will be people asking her when she's due.

I assure her she's stunning in it.

Kurt is sporting his shocking yellow trousers that clash with his white and red striped polo shirt. I'm confident he can pick up someone colour blind though. The condition is apparently more common amongst guys. He doesn't ask our opinions, but he might have spotted my eyebrows jumping to the ceiling. Finally, he puts on his pricy Italian white leather shoes, while Trish and I go through our selection of high heels. It's all about the right colour again: hers are red velvet and mine are glossy black, both from Primark.

I straighten up and take a first step. It feels alien, like Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. Only in my case I can feel every bloody muscle of my feet. Beauty comes with a price. At least I don't stagger.

Trish seems to enjoy being three inches taller.

We get a cab and arrive at The RIM. Yep, Kurt was right: a rainbow flag is waving above us.

The doorman is a small, lean Latino who ignores my merry, chirruping explanation that we are on the list. He is eyeing Kurt instead who reciprocates, blushing like a coquette. When the doorman ticks off our names, the bulky security guard behind him lets us in. We are stamped by a girl at the ticket office and walk downstairs.

The RIM is spacious, dimly lit with blue lights and has several alcoves with sofas and tables. There are about thirty people in here, mainly bespectacled hipsters. I look around and notice a DJ's spot at the very back. Hoisted on a box, the work station is around three metres wide. I approach and see Blake behind the glass wearing headphones and looking seriously sexy.

I call "Hi", but he doesn't hear or acknowledge me.

I decide to let him be for now.

I wander to the bar, where Trish is already ordering me cider. I developed a taste for the drink last summer. I get a tiny bottle of a Swedish variety, moderately expensive like everything else from Scandinavian shores. Kurt goes for vodka, brave guy. We sit strategically at a table overlooking the dance floor and start observing the clientele.

My mood is back to normal; perhaps I should go out more often. Kurt can't sit still for even a minute and joins the dancers' pool. The guys aren't much to my liking so far, but Trish thinks there a lot of 'cuties'.

Kurt quickly finds himself a dancing partner, a boyish tart with a hair quiff, wearing a black and white checked shirt with a little red bowtie.

I need to get drunk quicker.

Trish agrees to look after my cider while I go to the bar and order a shot of tequila, which I down right away. Then an idea comes to my mind. I borrow an orange from a barman, collect Trish and we walk to Blake's shelter. This time he gets it.

"Hi Chloe, nice one," he points to the citrus fruit. "You're totally transformed."

"Yeah, decided to go for a trashy look tonight," I laugh. "This is my friend Trish."

He lifts his palm to salute her.

"If this is trashy, then I love it. You girls are like two cherries among the tarts," he says.

Trish giggles.

"Are you working all night?" I ask him.

"Till one am, then Tim will be taking over and I'll be all yours, okay?"

I nod.

"Enjoy the party." He suddenly kisses us both on the cheek, then puts on the headphones and gives us a thumbs-up.

I still have no clue what's happened when I return the orange to the bar. Why did he kiss us?

Trish tells me that Blake's at least bisexual.

"Did you see his biceps? I bet he's totally ripped and has a nice six pack," she says.

We order another round of cider and walk to the periphery of the dance floor. Blake puts a dance mix of a current chart topper on and we start shaking it.

The place is filling up fast. I soon find myself squeezed in between two guys. Both wearing white, tight t-shirts, they display their toned bodies very effectively. One is a clean-shaven blonde and the other is dark with designer stubble. They dance dirty, moving their hips around like crazies. I feel safe, since they are clearly an item. I nickname them the Cub and the Angel.

Two metres from me, Kurt starts paying attention to my new company, much to the dissatisfaction of his current acquaintance, which makes me laugh.

"What's funny?" the Cub asks me.

"I think my friend over there is jealous," I shout into his ear.

The two try to locate Kurt, who promptly waves at them and then turns back to his dancing pal.

"He doesn't look straight to me," the Cub says.

"That's because he's not," I reply.

They then start kissing each other while casting occasional glances at Kurt. This turns out to be far more entertaining than I expected.

Exercise is not my forte, so after a few minutes I go back to the sofa to relax.

The Cub and the Angel join me and even buy me an apple martini.

We talk some rubbish about how great the place is and the music too. They ask me what I do and I amuse them with my story, inspired by drink, of how I once inoculated pear trees and almost cut my wrist with the knife.

The two guys both work in the fashion industry, so we discuss the Galliano scandal. I'd be bored by now if it wasn't for the fresh supply of booze they keep providing.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mind being a fag hag for a while, but by now I want the company of a straight guy, even an arsehole like Terrence.

I wish Blake could finish his set sooner.

"Hey Chloe, done with the dancing already?" Kurt sits on a stool in front of me and smiles at everyone. I introduce him to the item.

What a bastard! He's nowhere to be seen while I'm with Trish, but once I attract a pair of cute guys, he's back in a blink of an eye.

Manipulation. I wonder who would pull a couple of hunks for me?

After having an overdose of their camp speech, I'm off to the toilet. The image I see in the mirror is not flattering, so I tidy up my hair and re-apply lipstick.

At the bar I sway between another cider or an appletini, but decide they are too sour, so go instead for a smooth piña colada.

I don't hurry to return to our sofa, where the item and Kurt are getting comfy. I even spot some snogging.

How lame it is to be a single girl, especially in a happy gay club. Am I becoming an old spinster? No, I can't be, not if I can consume that much booze and not feel wasted yet. Well, the latter is not strictly true. I am feeling intoxicated. It's the only way I can reflect without feeling depressed, just slightly bitchy.

I check my phone and find that Trish has texted me to say that she's gone to another club with some guy she met while having a smoke outside. This information occupies three messages, and I wonder when she managed to type it all in.

Once again, I succumb to the grooves Blake is throwing at us. I must say he's got a good taste for tunes.

Half an hour later, I find myself back on the sofa, and this time I feel my head is spinning, even though I stopped dancing. Kurt and the item have disappeared off somewhere.

Maybe I should leave too. There are hardly any girls left on the dance floor, and a significant proportion of guys are now topless. It's a gay paradise.

"Peeking at some flesh, eh?" I hear the voice from the left and I'm relieved to see it's Blake. He sits with me drinking beer from a bottle.

"Where are you friends?"

"Trish's partying elsewhere and Kurt is missing too."

"I'm glad you stayed," he says and looks at me with what I'm tempted to misinterpret as affection. The next moment we are interrupted.

"Hey Blakey, nice job, mate."

Blake introduces me to a tall man with a ponytail called Chris.

"You guys want to join our table?" he asks. Blake looks at me indecisively and I nod politely though I'd rather stay here with him.

I don't regret it for a moment – Blake's friends are a lively crowd. They make jokes about my short skirt and Blake being a 'lover boy'. Then they switch to discuss the gay cloud at the club's epicentre. Somehow they nail it without saying anything homophobic or offensive, and I laugh as hard as my belly muscles can afford. Perhaps I shouldn't have started a double rum cola knowing what preceded it, because it goes right to my head and I pass out.

I don't know what time it is but I can see the sunlight through my lashes when I try to unzip my eyelids. My head hurts and I think that maybe I should drink some water. Then I look at the bedside alarm, which is showing 9.32 am.

Wait a minute! I don't have a bedside clock!

I glance around and realise that it's not my room, not even my house. Shit!

5. White Willow (Salix alba)

Don't panic, Chloe.

I try to lift myself up, but a wave of nausea overwhelms me. It will be better if I keep my head on the pillow for now.

The good news is that I presumably didn't have sex while I was knocked out, because I'm still dressed: my skirt, tights and undies are all in place. I'd have loved to get rid of them now if I was at home.

Now that my biggest worry is resolved, I'm considering going back to sleep, but I can hear someone else breathing nearby. Trying to make as little noise as possible I slowly roll around to the left and face a sleeping man.

It's Blake. Thank God! He must've brought me here.

I look at his gorgeous facial profile. If I wasn't in this wretched state, I might be able to gather enough bravery and kiss my saviour.

Blake is sleeping on his back, his right arm behind his head like a prop. His bare armpit is shaved, and I don't know if it's a good thing or not.

Speaking of bare, Blake's not covered since I've hogged his blanket. My gaze travels further down his body and stops.

He's got a stiffy. Though the Calvin Klein trunks cover Blake's manhood, they fail to conceal his size. I'm impressed and I don't feel ashamed at all to inspect him, since I'm feeling extremely nauseous.

At least I distract myself with Blake.

God, Trish was right, he is so fit. I want to touch his pecs and belly muscles, they look so fine. He's like some sort of living sculpture.

Another wave of nausea interrupts my admiration. I have to do something about it; the way my stomach is turning now can only mean one thing. Where's the loo, I wonder.

I roll back to the bed edge, look down and see a large plastic basket full of laundry two metres from me. As fast I can I slip off the bed, holding my mouth with my right hand.

I go down on my knees, and topple the basket with my left hand to ditch the linen. Then I cling to the vessel with both hands and start filling it up with my stomach contents in several painful bouts. My nasal cavity is burning and the stench is atrocious.

What did I think I was doing when I mixed all that booze last night?

"Chloe? Are you all right?"

This is the worst time for you to wake up.

"Yes, sorry I'm noisy," I mumble.

To my displeasure he springs off the bed and approaches me.

"Let me show you the bathroom. I'll take care of that." He takes the basket from my hands as I stand up.

"Sorry, it's disgusting."

"It's just mucus and bile," he says. "You should eat properly before drinking."

I think the green colour might have come from the appletinis. Thank God I'd digested that stew before it could get trapped in my stomach with all that vile booze mix.

In the bathroom I wash my face and rinse my mouth. Blake brings me a jug of water and a glass. "If you're still feeling shit, you should rinse out your stomach."

Before he disappears down the corridor I steal a quick look at his V-shaped back and the two melons of buttocks protruding from his boxers.

Chloe, for once in your life you end up in bed with a total hunk and all you do is throw up in front on him.

I spend the next half an hour following Blake's advice. This could be the worst thing I ever experienced since breaking up with my first love.

I can hear Blake singing merrily somewhere. After cleaning up and making sure no tiny evidence of my awful activity is left, I go back to the bedroom. He's not there. I walk to the kitchen and find him by the hob making coffee. He offers me a drink, which I politely decline.

"Looks like someone enjoyed herself last night," he says smiling.

"Enjoyed it too much. My head is about to split in half."

He reaches for a plastic box on the top of the fridge and gives it to me.

"I'm not sure if I should take aspirin now," I say.

"It's a hangover relief sachet with vitamin C and some analgesic, which stops prostaglandin release."

I want to slap him now.

Not only Blake is sexy and has witnessed my disgrace, he's apparently a pharmacology professor under cover.

"How do you know these things?" I say.

"What things? I'm just prone to migraines. My brother, he's got a PhD in biochemistry; he gave me this and explained everything."

"How funny, my mum's got the same PhD," I say.

"Really, maybe they know each other?" Blake suggests.

"I hope not, my mum is terribly bossy."

"I see, is it a family trait?" he chuckles.

"What?"

Are you teasing me, you sexy man?

"Just joking."

He bares his teeth in a smile and looks full of life considering how wild last night was. I lower my gaze and notice that his willy is back to dormant state, though it still bulges out substantially.

Mental note. Stop looking at his crotch, Chloe!

I move to the sink, pour myself a glass of water and dissolve the sachet, trying to look anywhere but at him.

The kitchen is ridiculously clean considering it's a guy's place. I notice a calendar displaying a topless lad for October. Maybe Blake is gay after all.

I take a sip of the medicine, which is not so awful.

Suddenly, a mobile phone rings and Blake picks it up.

"Hey Ellie," he says.

I don't mean to eavesdrop but I can hear a rather camp male voice getting through. Maybe it's just a phone distorting the sound.

"When are you coming to London? Really? I'm good, a bit knackered, I think I'll go back to sleep."

After he hangs up he explains that was his brother. I smile but decide not to ask questions.

_Two gays in the family – it must have been hard for your parents_.

"Listen, Blake, I think I'm getting better. May I please take a shower here?"

"Of course, one second."

He disappears for an instant and returns with a towel the size of a small African village. It smells of lavender.

"Feel free to use anything in the bathroom you need," he says. "I'm going to go back to bed. The coffee is like a sleeping pill for me."

"Don't worry, I'll be quick and then leave."

"OK. Can you shut the door on your way out please, and make sure it clicks? I don't want to be burgled while I'm asleep."

"Don't worry, I'll slam it properly. And... thank you for rescuing me. Again."

"No worries."

We smile at each other and there's an awkward pause.

"Okay," we say simultaneously and laugh.

"I'm off to the shower," I say.

The magic sachet and the warm shower prove to be an effective cure. I study my nails and decide that it's time to get them done.

I'm amazed by the amount of herbal shampoos, conditioners and moisturisers I find on the bathroom shelves, all organised neatly. Jesus, I don't have even half as much stuff as Blake does.

Someone once said, "It's good to look natural". Yet it probably takes a lot of grooming to look as damn natural as Blake.

When I come back out into the bedroom he's asleep. I get changed in the lounge and leave his flat.

It's windless and warm outside; the sun is hidden behind the clouds. The street is quiet, lined with serene-looking front gardens. I realise I have no idea where I am. I go to a maps app on my smartphone and find that I'm still in Islington, in fact only a few minutes' walk from where I live. This explains why I met Blake at the traffic lights near my house for the first time. So we're neighbours. Kurt is going to be so pleased.

I'm greeted with the quiet eeriness of our house when I walk in. Feeling exhausted, I pour myself a glass of water and relax on the sofa. A sudden stomping sound from the stairs, which can only be Kurt, wakes me up.

"Ooh, someone just came home," he says. "Where have you been?"

"Where you left me," I snarl at him like a grumpy hyena.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I left last night without saying good bye."

"I hope it was worth it," I say.

He sits next to me in his Donald Duck pyjamas. I can feel he's dying to pour everything out and I feel like a priest who's about to hear a sexually explicit confession.

"Was it a threesome?" I ask, deliberately spoiling it.

He nods, and despite my assurance of not wishing to hear the details, proceeds to describe his latest nocturnal adventures.

"For three hours and twenty-five minutes?" I ask, thinking that I must have misheard him.

"Yes, I checked the time," he says proudly.

"Was that the length of the actual intercourse?"

"No, it's hard to say about the intercourse, there were several bouts," he explains.

"I really don't want to hear the details. Where's Trish, by the way?"

"Still in bed," he says.

"Trish?" I shout and stand up to refill the glass with water.

"And what about you? Where have you been?"

"At Blake's," I say, trying to sound as casual as a drama school dropout can manage.

"Yes, wow! Tell me what happened?"

I go upstairs to check on Trish, but he follows me and keeps asking questions.

"Did you do it?"

"Of course not," I say.

"Why 'of course'? He's cute," Kurt reminds me.

"I was too drunk," I reply.

The door to Trish's bedroom is open and I see her lying in bed, as immobile as a wooden log, amongst the scattered clothes, blankets and cushions.

"Trish, good morning." I pat her on the shoulder.

"Get out, I'm sleeping," she breathes out feebly.

"Do you want some tea? It's half past twelve," I say.

"I'm sleeping," she replies without moving.

"Can you imagine, Chloe spent the night with Blake," Kurt says.

"Kurt! I'm not the one who had a threesome," I object.

"What?" Trish lifts her head from the pillow and brushes her hair away from her face. "You slept with Blake?" she asks me.

The expression on Kurt's face is priceless.

"I did."

"You said you didn't," Kurt interrupts me.

"We slept in the same bed, but we didn't do it. That's what I meant."

I'm now attacked with questions from both of them, so I give them the entire story including Blake's erection episode, which results in further interrogation.

"How well hung?" Trish asks.

"How many centimetres?" Kurt demands.

"I didn't have a ruler with me," I reply.

Kurt ignores my sarcasm and presses on.

"He was asleep. You had time to estimate –"

"Look, I'm a decent girl, not a personalised condom designer."

"Is there such a job?" Trish asks with interest. "Kurt, what about your threesome? You're not a prude like Chloe. You'll tell me everything, won't you?"

"All right, the prude shall leave you two to it. I need to lie down," I say.

My friends can be insufferable at times, but I feel at home here. They are my family, and they're what I need on a quiet Saturday. For now, what I need even more is to recuperate.

I take another shower and eat a yogurt, which makes me sleepy. Before going to bed, I figure I need to set an alarm for five pm – four hours of sleep should be sufficient. I unlock my mobile and see the message from Terrence, which says, _Hi Chloe, sorry I only got back to you now, been busy as hell. What are you doing tomorrow? Fancy meeting up for a walk in the park? Or a Sunday roast? I hope you're doing well. T._

I mull over my reply and type in: _Sure, let's meet. I'm free 2 pm. Just woke up now, went out with friends last night. Should be in top shape for tomorrow. Xx Chloe._

Send.

I sneak into my bed and the phone beeps, alerting me about a new message. Terrence invites me for a walk in Greenwich Park. Bizarre choice. I'll reply when I wake up.

I have barely closed my eyes when Trish has her revenge. She comes into my room.

"How's our sleeping beauty doing? You just got something."

"What?" I say half-annoyed, half-interested.

She presents me with a scarlet rose.

"What's that?"

"You've got a secret admirer," she smiles.

"What?"

"I found it on the doorstep."

"But who's it from?" I ask.

"I told you, a secret admirer," she smiles again.

She shows me a tiny card that's been attached to the flower with only my name written on it.

"Weird and spooky," I say.

"Romantic," Trish reassures me.

"Suddenly I'm the centre of attention."

"What do you mean?"

I tell her about Terrence.

"So unless either of them tracked me down, there's someone else," I conclude.

Blake was asleep when I left, or was he? Terrence has no way of knowing where I live unless he's hired a private detective. Could it really be that my life is finally getting interesting?

Trish complains to me about her night. She ended up catching a taxi and coming back home on her own. I don't say this to her but I think that maybe it was her punishment for leaving me on my own at The RIM.

Sadly admitting there won't be any chance to have a revitalising sleep now, I get up and discuss the dinner arrangements with her.

My phone beeps again.

Can't people be more patient? But it's not Terrence, it turns out that the text is from Fiona. She begs me to come to work tomorrow and promises me double pay, adding that she's aware I have to study but this is an emergency.

Damn it! She's so nice.

Trish tells me to say 'No', but I think I can manage both work and Terrence.

She leaves me alone while I'm texting him about postponing to six pm. No walk in the park. Terrence replies straight away that he'll meet me at a pub.

Meanwhile, Trish comes back from the kitchen with a vase for the flower.

Who the hell sent me that bloody rose?

6. Grapevine (Vitis vinifera)

I hate it when people snog in public places. Isn't this supposed to be an intimate thing?

Yes, you won't find me in the front lines of the exhibitionism movement. Perhaps it's not me talking but envy.

I'm on my way to Greenwich, going south by the Northern line. It wasn't difficult to secure a free seat on a Sunday evening. After a hard day's work at the shop, which I hope Fiona will appreciate properly, I'm relaxing by reading a book on soil science.

I'm so excited about this. I'm not a nerdy girl, but I think it's okay to be passionate about a subject you're studying.

Next to me, the distracting sounds of heavy petting increase. The teenage couple ignores my occasional glances full of disapproval, but I decide not to say anything.

"Just fuck off to the library," is all I'm likely to get for a reply, I suspect.

The chapter I'm on is called 'Ecology'. In it I learn about edaphon, the term that describes the sum of all communities of organisms living in the soil. I can talk about an edaphon of Hyde Park, for example, or an edaphon of my mum's flower bed. The whole concept is rather cool. I used to view a tree as a tree, now I can view it as an edaphon of its roots and associated organisms  bacteria, viruses, algae, fungi, worms and other invertebrate animals.

I love how edaphon sounds. It'd make a good name for a mobile operator.

I get so distracted that I nearly forget to change at London Bridge to hop on a Jubilee line train to Canary Wharf. I shut the book with a loud clap and leave the carriage smiling to myself. I startled the lovers with that clap; enough, I hope, that they bit their tongues.

Though I'm a little worn out having made three changes, as my DLR train finally crosses the river I regain enthusiasm for my date.

Terrence meets me at the station exit as I alight at Cutty Sark. He stands there in an elegant black cashmere coat and holds a bunch of red roses, so my suspicions about the identity of my mystery rose man get hold of my mind once again.

I accept the flowers and we kiss each other's cheeks.

Then we walk inside Felton Arms, and my stomach emits a victorious growl as I smell a turkey roast.

Terrence asks me about my night out and I have to mention Trish a lot as my good behaviour alibi. I think men have a great sense for rivals, because Terrence queries me if I met someone. Once again, my acting skills come to the rescue as I lie jokingly about a handful of marriage proposals that I had to reject yesterday. Well, he needs to know that I'm in demand but not a slut.

"Speaking about suitors, a bizarre thing happened yesterday," I say when we sit down by the window. Terrence gets a beer and brings me a glass of red wine.

"What is it?" he looks worried.

"Someone sent me a rose. Trish found it on the doorstep with only my name written on the card."

His face becomes even more worried.

"Creepy."

"So it wasn't you?" I ask, just in case.

"God no, I have no idea where you even live. I hope it's a joke."

"Me too," I say taking a gulp of wine but spitting it out immediately.

"You all right?"

"It's corked."

"Corked, really?"

"Smell it," I hand him the glass.

"It's somewhat damp," he says, wrinkling his nose.

"Exactly," I reply.

"No worries, I'll get you another one."

Terrence leaves to deal with the barman, while I open my compact and check my make-up. When I close it the wine is there in front of me.

"They apologized and replaced it with some pricy burgundy," Terrence says smiling.

I sniff the new wine like a hunting dog before approving it.

Next thing, our turkey arrives.

"Where did you learn about wine?" Terrence asks.

"I did a lot of wine-tasting for my first student project. Cork contamination with fungal spores is quite common. The fungus produces this TCA, a vile smelling compound that kills the wine aroma, as you might know. I studied methods of how winemakers make sure it doesn't happen."

"So what's the trick?"

"Apparently some people UV-irradiate the cork before use. Others just stick to plastic corks. The industrial-scale producers of cheap wine tend to use screw caps more and more nowadays. But TCA contamination is still a problem."

"I love such problems as long as I get compensation," Terrence jokes.

He is charming and I really should stop lecturing him on my subject; he might get the wrong idea about me.

"So, what are you going to do about the creep?" he asks.

It takes me a couple of seconds to figure out what's he on about.

"As long as only I get flowers delivered outside my apartment I can't really complain to the police, can I?"

"Chloe, you should be careful."

The topic is not inspiring, so we get busy with the food, which is excellent.

I cast a glance at him from time to time and always meet his cheeky gaze from below his tall forehead.

Two hours later he walks me back to the station and we kiss.

I don't know what it is, his skilful lips or the lingering scent of his Hugo Boss perfume, which further magnifies his virility for me, or the fact that he wraps his strong arms around me, or maybe all of that together, but I feel blissful shivers all over my body and prepare to melt away.

How I've missed dating!

7. Dishrag Gourd (Luffa aegyptiaca)

It's Monday. I loathe being lectured about phloem transport on Mondays, especially when that distracts me from daydreaming about Terrence.

Trish is skipping the lecture, so she's asked me to write the notes clearly. I envy her now. It's so dull.

Professor Keith Bathbrush, however, looks like he's been waiting for this talk all weekend.

As if it's not enough for him to have a laser pointer, he hops around the projector screen showing us different cells lining the plant vessels with his right hand while making expressive gestures with his left. You'd think he's simultaneously teaching for the hearing-impaired.

Most of us (the girls in the group) came to the conclusion that he is rather cute and not too old, though he's probably in his early forties. He's skinny and not very tall, like a teenager, but to compensate for that he has a deep and posh voice. Perhaps even slightly camp. Could he be gay? After any talk he's always surrounded by bespectacled male students, so I long since abandoned the idea of asking him questions.

Thank God I have good eyesight, so I sit on the upper row at the very back and can oversee what's happening around me. Half of the girls gave up on Bathbrush after five minutes and are now busy texting each other. When are they going to grow up?

I carefully conceal my age from them to fit in. I say I'm twenty, though I'm twenty-two; all right, twenty-eight. There's one thing I can thank my mother for: my genes. She looks pretty good at fifty-two.

I hear a loud beep coming from the left. One of the girls, I think Sarah, has gone red from embarrassment. Luckily, Bathbrush ignores the disruption.

Just how stupid do you need to be to forget to mute your phone?

Then I hear another loud beep, distinct from the first one. I roll my eyes up, but then notice that half of the audience is looking at me. My facial expression freezes as I realise it was my phone. Without giving myself away, I continue to look straight at the screen, appearing interested in the capillary action of water. Then another beep comes through. Bathbrush looks at me sternly. I can sense the vibes of displeasure emanating from him.

I return a look of innocence. Without changing my gaze I slowly search around with my hands for my bag, and having found it, locate the culprit and place it on my notepad.

When Bathbrush turns back to his slides, I switch off the sound and check the messages. They're from Blake.

Hey Chloe, how's it going? Still hung-over? Lol just kiddin'. Would you like to go out for a drink on Wednesday? I'm out with a couple of friends. Feel free to bring yours too.

The second one says:

Forgot to say, it's the Green Lantern in Covent Garden, I'll be there 7 pm onwards. Hopefully see you there. Xx B

Well, he's got the nerve to set the time and place without me even replying. But then, maybe his friends did it.

What am I to him? A buddy or a fag hag?

I reply with a 'yes', knowing that Kurt is dying to establish Blake's orientation. Provided there's a possibility of some of the males there turning out to be straight, Trish might be delighted as well. The girl deserves a break.

The next two things on my list to contemplate are the mystery rose guy, no follow up there yet, and the next time I'm going to see Terrence, which is tomorrow.

When the lecture is over, I quickly descend the stairs heading to the atrium but suddenly stop by the door when I hear my name.

"Chloe McKenzie!"

I turn around. It's Bathbrush and I'm expecting a reprimand.

"I thought that you might benefit from my tutorials," he says. "I notice that you didn't sign up for them. Could you perhaps reconsider?"

"Professor Bathbrush, to be honest I'm more interested in soil science. I'm too busy and I work part-time, so I'm afraid I can't make it."

"Well, it's a shame, although I realise you aren't so keen on plant physiology. Yet many aspects of it are related to soil and I cover them in my tutorials: mineral nutrition, the role of symbiosis in plant metabolism and some practical things like hydroponics."

"Okay, I'll think about it."

"You promise? Here are a couple of reviews I recommend that will help you make up your mind," he says and hands me over a sheet with references to at least twenty papers, which I politely accept.

"Thank you, Professor," I say and smile broadly to reassure him.

Then he's attacked by a flock of four-eyed boys, and I can escape.

Though I didn't ask for extra work, I still admire his enthusiasm and the fact that he cares about me. Yet how am I going to fit those classes into my week?

Both Trish and Kurt keep telling me that I'm turning into Gollum. Are they simply envious that I am disciplined enough to study every evening?

No way am I going to screw up this course. I'm going to nail it even if I'm getting dark circles around my eyes. There's always concealer. All I want is to get the best job out there on the bio-fertiliser market, but that's true for hundreds of other graduates. I need to stand out. So even if this is a lame excuse for agreeing to attend Bathbrush's tutorials, I don't care.

I arrive at the pub an hour late. I spot Kurt's characteristic spiky hair, approach him and put my palms over his eyes. The two unfamiliar guys in front of me, sitting at the other side of the table, raise their eyebrows in a synchronised manner.

"Is it Chloe?"

"Yes," I reply and let him see again. "I was thinking of a nice way to introduce myself."

The two guys I don't know are Sean and Dean. Trish presents herself to me as Daisy Esmeralda.

"Just look what the cat dragged in," I hear Blake laugh from behind.

"A girl with mousy hair," I make a weird joke. We hug and kiss on both cheeks. He smells nice and looks so happy to see me.

"What should I get for you?" he asks me.

"A glass of red please."

"Who else wants a top up?"

"Bacardi and coke for me. Thanks," Kurt replies, eyeing me and Blake with a smirk.

When Blake departs, I sit next to him and ask in a low voice, "So, what did you find out?"

Trish is speaking to Sean slash Dean, so it's safe for me to gossip with Kurt.

"He's definitely straight unless my gaydar is badly damaged. He was asking about you a lot."

"Oh yeah, what did he ask about?"

"If you're single and then what you like doing, about your hobbies."

"What did you say?"

"I said that you're a sad workaholic addicted to caffeine, romcoms, male strip clubs and weed."

"You're joking, right?" I say.

Kurt giggles and continues.

"I also told him that you like banjo jumping and other extreme sports."

"Yes, Chloe, I've booked a paintball for all of us this weekend. Are you good at shooting?" It's Blake. He brings me wine and winks at me while landing at my right side.

Great! Now I'm sandwiched between two jokers.

"Kurtie told me that you have an admirer," Blake says.

"What?" I turn to Kurt and want to hit him for spilling the beans on Terrence.

"The rumours are greatly exaggerated," I assure Blake cheekily.

"But the rose is still in the vase, I assume?"

Oh, so _that_ admirer.

"Why does everyone make it part of their daily duty to remind me about that? As if I have no other things to worry about," I sigh.

"Like what?"

"Do you realise what it takes to endure Bathbrush for two hours?" I continue bitching to him.

Blake looks confused, "No, I can't say I ever spend that long scrubbing my back."

"Bathbrush is my course professor. You could call him meticulous."

"Oh poor Chloe, you need another drink. Kurtie?" Blake disappears after 'Kurtie' confirms another Bacardi and coke.

"Stop telling everyone about the fucking rose," I hiss.

"Why do you say that? I only told him to find out if he did it or not."

"And?"

"He said 'no'," Kurt replies.

"What if he's lying?"

"Why would he lie?" Kurt looks surprised.

Oh God. Sometimes I worry about my favourite German. It's okay to trust people, but being this naïve...

Martin Eden was right  nothing relaxes you after a hard day's work better than getting stoned on booze. Still, I have to watch it. It's only mid-week and we all remember last Friday night.

Don't we, Chloe?

"There you go," Blake brings us more liquid tranquillizer.

"Wow," he comments when I drink a third of the glass at once.

"It's delicious. Is it Pinot? It's very good for me," I say and giggle.

"Is it?" Blake enquires, looking amused.

"Pinot is very rich is resveratrol, a potent antioxidant."

"But the alcohol in it harms you more," Kurt objects.

"Who's talking here?" I frown at him. "Not only does your cocktail have as much booze as my wine, but it's also full of sugar, dear."

"I'll be quiet about my beer," Blake says.

"But you sweat it out at the gym, whereas Kurt sits in an office all day," I say.

"I go to the gym too."

"Do you have a six pack?"

"No, but–"

"Ah, ah, ah. There you go," I say. "Go on, Blake, show him yours."

"No, I won't," Blake says.

Is that shyness that I sense?

"Yes, I'd like to see it," Kurt says with excitement.

"You perverts, I'm not buying you any more drinks."

"Kurt is getting the next round. Aren't you, my sweet stollen?"

"I am, if Blake shows us his abs."

"Go Blake! Go mate!" Sean slash Dean shouts. Apparently the pair and Trish have been paying attention to our conversation.

"Unbelievable," Blake sighs. "I won't strip for booze. I have my dignity."

"Please," Trish begs.

"Mate, the ladies insist," Sean or Dean says.

"Okay. Watch it, while it's there," Blake says with a hint of a cheeky smile in the corner of his mouth.

He lifts up the bottom of his long-sleeved shirt and we gasp in anticipation, but there's another t-shirt underneath.

"You tease," I giggle.

He then pulls up the undershirt to reveal his tanned belly.

"Wow." Trish appreciates the sight.

"Can I touch it?" asks Kurt.

"Only if you marry me," Blake says and winks.

When it's nearly eleven pm, I tell the guys that it's time for me to go home. Hugs and kisses follow. Blake says he's heading to The RIM for the night shift. I don't know how he does it – he looks completely sober.

This can't be said about my flatmates and me. Kurt calls a cabbie and we say goodbye to Sean slash Dean, which takes few moments since Trish has to make sure they've got her number.

I'm relieved to finally be back home; only that feeling doesn't last long since there's another rose waiting for me on the doorstep.

The card attached to the wrapper contains a handwritten message: _For the beautiful Chloe W_

8. Rose (Rosa)

We go inside and look around for possible signs of someone breaking in. Everything looks the same.

Kurt asks me if I know someone called W. Trish says that she knows a couple of Williams, but I have no idea who this person might be. There are endless Williams, one Wilbur, one Wheaton and two Wallies in my phone list of synchronised social media contacts. There may be other Ws whom I know but whose numbers I don't have.

Trish reassures me that it must be someone well-meaning but shy if he (we assume it's a 'he' for now) calls me beautiful, sends me flowers and even leaves his initial.

I'm too tired to have this conversation. I collapse on my bed, dreading having to stand up again to change into my pyjamas and remove my make-up. The mere thought of this is exhausting.

It's Blake's fault. I did ask for lemonade, didn't I? Not for the bloody gin and tonic! It was definitely one drink too many. How could I resist it though? It's as if he's made it his mission to turn me into an alcoholic.

I growl but overcome my laziness and start my sleep preparations. I pinch my stomach in front of the mirror  someone needs to go back to aerobics class. I continue examining my body, remove my tights and freeze.

There's a patch of uneven, dimpled skin on my left thigh. I check the other one – the same thing. Is this...? No! It can't be! I'm only twenty-five, well, twenty-eight. It can't be cellulite!

But the unvarnished truth is still facing me. It's hardly visible, but it's there.

Well done, Chloe. Too much studying and drinking. Here's your reward.

I get in bed feeling grumpy and still drunk. There's been an overwhelming amount of things for my brain to process in one day. I check the alarm on the phone and there's a new text message from Terrence.

Chloe, darling, how have you been? Are you free on Friday night? Shall we meet for dinner at around 7?

I text him, _Sure, I'm free. Where're we meeting?_

So, at least Terrence is still keen on me.

My phone beeps but the new message is from Blake.

Hi pretty thing, I'm having a bbq this Friday night at my place. Can you make it? Thanks for coming along tonight! Kiss Trish and Kurtie for me. Xx Blake

I want to reply with a 'No', but then I think I'd rather leave this for tomorrow. I turn off the lights and, as I close my eyes, I feel like my body is resting on a rocking boat. It's going to be a tough morning.

And Bathbrush makes sure it is.

I'm half-sitting, half-lying on my regular seat at the back of the lecture hall, while Bathbrush relentlessly elaborates on wood lignification. He's gone through all the chemistry of it and is now on the mechanical section. And I hate maths. I hate it at any time, especially ten o'clock in the morning and while being hung-over.

I should have stayed home instead of dragging my poor self here like a pathetic wreck. However, I do make an effort to follow the talk. Trish is asleep next to me. I'm tempted to drop off too.

During the break, I escape to the cafeteria. Trish comes to my rescue with a cup of tomato soup, the sheer smell of which revives me to some extent. I tell her about the late-night texts yesterday and ask for her advice.

"I can't see a problem. You have dinner with Terrence and then go to the party," she says.

"What if he invites me to his place?"

"Then you skip the party."

"But I like Blake too. Would it be too impolite not to go to his party?"

"Impolite? It's just a party. Don't tell me you're falling for Blake too," she laughs and then sees the expression on my face.

"Oh no, Chloe. Seriously?"

"Well, I don't know. I feel completely on the same wavelength as Blake. Only I don't know if he sees me as more than a friend," I try to explain.

"Oh, he does, lucky you. But what about Terrence?"

"He's great too. And I don't know what to do."

"Me neither."

We remain silent and start working on our soups.

"You know what," Trish says. "You don't have to decide now. Eventually, you'll figure it out."

***

I haven't worn it for such a long time that I'd almost forgotten about it.

This is no regular, high-neck Jersey bodycon dress. It's handmade, my mother's present to me for my eighteenth birthday. A chess-like pattern of small white rhombi on their sides makes me look even thinner than I am. The rest of the dress is the brightest hue of midnight blue.

My armpits are terribly pale, so I spread a little bit of tanning foundation on them.

The dress is long enough to cover the problem areas on my thighs, but tights should do the job anyway.

Trish helps me once again with mascara, because I always get it wrong.

What would I do without her?

I'm feeling anxious and the fact that my tummy starts rumbling demanding food doesn't make it more bearable. I stuff my handbag with enormous amounts of cosmetics, medicines for headache, stomach upset and skin rash, a pack of condoms, lube, perfume, peppermint chewing gum, toothbrush and tampons. This, as Trish jokes, swells it almost to the size of a small suitcase, but I'd rather carry some extra weight than disobey my instincts.

As always, I'm very punctual, being exactly ten minutes late to arrive at Juanita, a Mexican place around the corner from Green Park station. If everything goes well, we may go jingle to Soho after dinner.

A waiter shows me to our table and I see Terrence seated there wearing a tuxedo.

Wasn't he supposed to wait for me at the entrance like a true gentleman?

As if to answer this he stands up and kisses my hand. I take off my leather jacket and hang it on the chair.

"I need to get some air, Chloe," he says to me.

"What's wrong?"

"You look so ravishing that I'm all out of breath," he says cheekily.

"Are you? You know I'm trained to do CPR." I continue our sequence of silly flirtations.

"Sir, madam, what would you like to drink?" the waiter enquires.

I order a Gorgonzola and aubergine starter right away and lemonade after declining Terrence's offer of wine.

"You're not drinking?" he says, arching his eyebrow.

"Just not now, the night is young," I reply.

"That's true. I like wise women," he says mysteriously.

"Have you met any?" I reply.

Seriously, Chloe, these jokes will get you in trouble one day.

The fact that he makes me plenty of compliments is reassuring. I'm not as tense anymore. I repay Terrence by praising the look of the steak he ordered. Apparently, it tastes good too.

I'm not lagging behind: after my starter I promptly gobble up the chunks of sea bass I ordered.

Foreseeing an awkward silence, Terrence asks me questions, which require long answers to prevent me from getting bored while he's defeating his main. The one about why I picked my university course makes me produce a monologue, which would have put Dostoevsky to shame, but of course only in terms of the word count, not the quality of thought.

"It was actually Trish who gave me the idea. A few years ago I was depressed after I split up with my ex. But, anyway, Trish and I became very close. She's got an uncle working at MyPlant who helped us to get scholarships to study plant agriculture at Imperial: it's a scheme funded by his company, which not that many people are aware of. Plus, as we realised later on, it's not the most universally loved corporation. I don't really have to tell you that, though."

"But why agriculture?"

"At the time I didn't care much about what kind of stuff I should study, so Trish's idea looked good. I figured a career in anything was better than no career at all. Coincidentally, at that time I saw a TV programme about sustainable agriculture in poor Sub-Saharan countries and that's how I eventually became crazy about soil. I thought that at least I could be a real specialist and contribute to the world. Caring just about myself all the time plainly sucked and it didn't do me any good anyway."

"Is this your final year? What's your plan after you graduate?"

"I haven't decided yet. I'm not even sure I can survive the course on plant physiology. I stupidly put myself under our professor's spotlight, so it's tough at the moment."

I notice that Terrence has finished his meal and listens to me, propping his head on his left palm like a child.

"Coffee and sweet?" I ask him.

"You just read my mind," he says.

I wish I could.

9. Common Stinkhorn (Phallus impudicus)

As I expected, Terrence takes me to the bar where I allow him to buy me a glass of Pinot. I'm getting addicted to this stuff. The image of Blake comes to my mind. I still haven't replied to his text.

We find the only vacant tall table we can stand at, onto which I hoist my bag and a drink. Terrence gets a mojito, which I prefer to beer, especially if I'll be kissing this man any time soon.

The music is an eclectic mix of jazz and electronic sounds. Maybe even trip-hop, but I'm not a chart guru. When a mellow female vocal heralds the start of a new slow track, Terrence invites me for a dance right by the table where we drink. Some other couples join in.

"You smell so good," he murmurs into my ear.

His hands are now resting on the small of my back and mine are on his shoulders. We kiss; at first it's a shy, brief kiss, then the snogging follows.

"Shall we go somewhere quieter?" he asks me.

"Yes," I breathe out.

"I'm staying at a hotel nearby tonight."

"Are we not going to your place?"

"Not to Kent. Unless you want to see my sister?"

"Ah."

I have no further objections.

We take a cab though it wasn't necessary as the Bonk Plaza (the nickname I came up with for his hotel) is only several minutes' walk up the street in Mayfair. Terrence collects the key at reception and orders a bottle of champagne to be brought to the room. I struggle with being both pleased about this clichéd gesture and horrified at it. Is he that kind of a guy? So far I haven't seen any real sign of originality. Yet I'm being unfair to him; he's probably working his arse off to afford all this.

The room is on the seventh floor. I promptly inspect the luxurious bathroom and correct my hair and make-up. Meanwhile, the champagne arrives, so by the time I'm back Terrence has already cleared the foil and folded the towel around the bottle.

The cork pops out and the foamy stream of liquid hurries out.

"Voilà," he says offering me a glass.

"What should we drink to?"

"To your bright future, Chloe," he says.

He takes a sip and then looks unblinkingly into my eyes, slowly leaning forward for a kiss.

While our lips are busy I unbutton his tuxedo and he throws it on the chair. Then I release his bowtie.

"I'm so crazy about you," he says.

"How crazy?" I whisper.

"This crazy."

He grabs my arse with his left hand and wraps his right arm around my shoulders, then carefully lowers me onto the bed like I'm made of porcelain.

Here's the problem: I'm still wearing my dress. So, I push him away and turn around, kneeling on the bed.

"Release me," I whisper.

He follows my instruction and unzips my dress, and then he starts kissing my neck and continues down my spine paying attention to each of my vertebrae.

"Let me help you too," I say, turning around.

Terrence looks at me like a hungry puppy, his face turned red, and when I finish unbuttoning his shirt and touch the belt above his manhood, firmly projecting through the dark fabric of the trousers, he groans, clearly wanting me to continue.

When we are finally in bed, he's lying on top of me caressing my body.

"I want you so badly," he says.

"Go on," I say and we kiss again. He reaches for the top shelf of the bedside cabinet and takes out a condom.

"Will you help me?"

"If you want me to," I say.

The amusing thought that there's always a first time strikes me as I roll the condom down his pulsating penis, a king-size like this bed.

"Done."

"You're so hot," Terrence says.

He wraps his arms around me and lays me down on my back, kissing me furiously. His cock makes its entrance through my front door – is that too coarse a description? – and Terrence emits a moan as our bodies become fully united.

We kiss and the skin all over my body tingles with numerous pinpricks of pleasure. He moves his pelvis first slowly, then his thrusts become more and more frequent and his kisses firmer. After a minute he shudders and says, "I'm coming."

Then he slumps and whispers, "Fuck."

Is that it?

He withdraws and rolls onto his back next to me.

I can hear him breathing out heavily like he just swam across the English Channel.

"Fuck, that was something. I'm so tired now."

Oh, I'm sorry I subjected you to such vigorous exercise.

"Me too," I say instead.

He turns his face to me.

"Thank you," he says and we kiss.

So what's next, I wonder, as he goes to the bathroom to throw away the condom and take a shower.

I check my phone and see Blake's message reminding me about the party. A part of me wants to go; the other part wants to cuddle with Terrence. I'm still feeling aroused.

Is he always that fast? Or it is just new excitement that made him sprint shoot?

Terrence comes out, naked and looking hot, even with his manhood now at rest. Now it's my turn and I go to the bathroom slapping his arse on my way, which surprises him.

"Bad girl," I hear him saying.

I decide to freshen up myself under a cool shower and after a minute I add in hot water and cover myself from neck to toe in jojoba shower cream. The toiletries are fantastic in this hotel.

When I come out, the TV is on and Terrence is snoring in bed.

Just great! What am I supposed to do now? I'm not sleepy at all.

I get dressed and use an order form for room service to leave a note for him. I figure that because he didn't tell me whether he wanted me to stay or not – although, of course, he probably did – it'd be okay for me to leave.

Hi Terrence, you passed out and I decided to go back home. Call me. Kisses, Chloe

I scratch the 'you passed out' bit as it sounds accusatory. Then I tear the whole thing into pieces.

On the new form I write, _Thanks for the lovely evening. Kisses, Chloe_.

When I come downstairs I pass the smiling man at the reception who says, "Good night, madam!"

I keep my head straight, looking forward and feeling embarrassed as I walk outside. He probably thinks I'm a hooker, but then a hooker would not run away shyly like me.

The tube is still running as I discover when I walk inside Green Park station. I alight at Highbury and Islington and enjoy a ten-minute walk home admiring the bright cloudless sky. The air is chilly yet there's no wind. Perfect weather. When I pass Blake's street I stop.

It's half past midnight, probably too late. I check my mobile and there's a new text from him.

Hi Chloe, a bit worried with you not replying, has the rose creep kidnapped you? I phoned Trish, and she said you're on a night out. Anyway, the party is in full swing, you missed the pork and ribs though, where are you? I hope you're OK.

He sent it out at 00:10. I knock on his door and ring the bell, but no one opens it. Then I try calling him without success. After waiting for several minutes I decide to go home, but then I hear my phone ringing.

"Oh thank God, Chloe, where are you?"

"At your door actually," I reply.

"What, is no one letting you in?"

"No."

"Sorry, it's very rude of them," he says.

The door opens and a drunken young couple dressed in tracksuits barge out laughing then stop and invite me inside.

"It's okay, I'm in," I say to Blake and hang up.

"We're leaving, can't stand any more of this bunch of snobs and degenerates." I can hardly understand what the guy in a beanie is actually saying to me. His girlfriend snogs him and waves at me.

"Chloe, come along to the garden, keep your shoes and jacket on." It's Blake meeting me in the hallway.

"How's your evening so far?"

"Good, but still sober."

"Excellent, we're short on meat, but there's plenty of drink left."

Out in the garden I see the fire set up in the barbeque mangal. The garden furniture is scattered around. There're still at least ten people present. Blake goes inside to find a bottle of wine for me, while I get to know everyone.

I sit on the sofa, which, I remember from last time, is normally located in the lounge. I'm immediately offered a roasted marshmallow on a stick. Blake sits down next to me.

"It's for you," he says. "Is Merlot okay?"

"Yes, thank you. Do you have glasses?"

"Just drink from the bottle, you're the only 'winepire' here."

"What have I missed?"

"Only the feast."

Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of a guitar. The guy with a ponytail, whom I remember from that night out at The RIM, starts singing a tune, 'The Sulphur Man' by Doves as Blake tells me. I'm impressed with the guy's strumming technique. It's not the easiest song to play at all. My own guitar skills don't stretch as far as three basic chords. I put my head on Blake's shoulder and surrender to the song.

Then I ask if there's another marshmallow I could have. Blake hands me the packet so I roast my own. I wait for the brown crust to form, and then wait a little more for it to cool down and then devour it.

"It's the best with wine," I tell Blake and give him a piece to try.

He smiles as his mouth takes the marshmallow from my fingers; he looks cute, like a mountain cat. I kiss him on the cheek, which startles him.

His eyes seem to become wider and the fire is reflected in them. We kiss, this time properly. Our hands catch up and we end up with our arms around each other. He tastes of beer, but I don't care.

When our lips part we just look at the fire without saying a word and keep holding on together.

"Are you ready for flying lanterns?" he asks me after another song finishes.

"Lanterns?"

"Come with me." He takes my hand and we go back to the house. I suspect it is simply a cunning plan to lure me inside.

I'm wrong. In the kitchen he opens a cardboard box sitting on the floor.

"I've ordered all this from China. Wax candles, rice paper lanterns and string. Have you done this before?"

"No," I reply.

"You'll love it."

"I pick green, it's my favourite colour," I say.

"Okay, I pick red then."

"Your favourite colour?"

"How did you know?"

He takes a round bamboo frame with two aluminium wires forming a cross inside it and embeds a candle in the hole in the centre of the cross. The paper lantern has four flaps on its open end, which Blake uses to wrap around the hoop and fixes them with staples. I copy what he does. We attach fishing lines to the metal wire as a precaution to make sure the lanterns won't fly away and set fire somewhere.

He brings a hairdryer and we inflate the lanterns. Then we ignite the candles and carry our masterpieces outside. I'm paranoid that I might release the string, so I attach its free end to the back of a garden chair.

"Good idea. Now make a wish," Blake says as we still hold our lanterns.

I look at him and think, "Be mine."

I feel like blushing at this silly thought and I am thankful that even if I did it wouldn't be visible in this light. Then I set my lantern free to rise as far as the string will let it. Blake lets his fly up too.

His friends cheer with excitement and scurry to the kitchen to make their own. Blake runs two circles about me to intertwine the strings, so now our lanterns ascend together.

I hug him and bury my forehead in his broad chest inhaling the smoky scent of his jumper and examining his back muscles with my fingers. He closes his arms around me.

We slowly rotate on the spot below the two stars we just lit.

Soon the sky above us is full of lanterns. The ponytail bloke, who I now remember is called Chris, plays up-tempo Irish tunes as we dance around the fire.

Eventually, the lanterns burn out and by that time I have emptied the bottle of wine and polished off the remaining marshmallows. Powerless, I lie on the sofa and watch the party guests dissipate. I must have slipped into a nice dream, in which Blake carries me in his arms to the house, to his bedroom.

We get undressed quickly and slip into bed under an enormous duvet, where our lips, limbs, bodies become entangled. We are both aroused, but he makes no further advances on me, so without a logical coitus finale we continue with our caresses until the dawn breaks outside and we fall asleep snuggled up together like a pair of earthworms in love.

***

It's the first time I remember ever waking up in such a blissful mood. I'm lying on my left side. Blake's hot muscled flesh is behind me and his arm is protecting me like a safety belt.

I want to freeze this happy moment forever. No, I want to see his eyes again, full of tenderness. I realise the difference now: Terrence always has lust and mischief in his gaze, while Blake's eyes look at me with purity and affection. Does it mean that Terrence only wants me sexually?

I'm horrified with myself: how can I think about another man while I'm lying next to Blake? Actually, the whole situation is a contender for a trashy talk show. Then I remember Trish's words, 'You don't have to decide now', and relax. It's always better to have too much choice than no choice at all, isn't it?

I escape to the shower. When I'm back in the bedroom Blake is awake and peering at me.

"Good morning," I say, approaching him to plant a kiss on his nose.

"Morning, beautiful," he says.

"What's that?" I point to three suitcases next to the bed.

"Oh, I'm flying to Paris tomorrow," he says.

"What? You never mentioned it."

I knew something like this was going to happen. Good things never last long for me.

"Yes, last night was a kind of farewell party," he says. "I'm off for two or three weeks, maybe longer."

"Why?"

"I'm collaborating on an album and we'll be recording several tracks I composed."

"That's amazing," I say.

Shit!

"Well, that's what I do, remember?" he smiles.

"I thought you were just a DJ."

"Just a DJ? You don't think very highly of my profession! Being a DJ doesn't stop me from writing songs as well," he teases.

"I guess I won't see you again for a while," I say sadly.

"Don't say that. It's only a brief trip. You can visit me in Paris."

I don't reply and slip into my dress.

"Can you help me?" I ask him.

He can detect that I'm upset so he carefully zips it up and says, "Hey, what do you want for breakfast?"

"Breakfast? I thought you were going to throw me out. I thought you needed to pack," I snap coldly with my back turned to him.

"Chloe, please, don't be like that. I like you, I really do."

I hate to admit it but I'm not in a position to make a scene, considering I've slept with two men in one night.

"Sorry, Blake," I say looking out of the window. "A coffee would be great. Do you need help?"

He smiles at me while putting on his pants, "Can you make pancakes?"

"You're pushing your luck," I smile.

"What about omelette?"

"You do the eggs, I'll do the toast," I reply.

"Deal. Am I allowed to take a quick shower first?"

"Sure, I'll make coffee while you're there," I say.

"I won't be that long."

When he's gone to the bathroom, I check my phone. There's an unanswered call from Trish and a message from Terrence, which says, _I miss you_.

Just great.

10. Small-leaved Linden (Tilia cordata)

I have stopped worrying about Terrence or Blake finding out about each other. I didn't mean to hurt them. What's happened was natural.

As a precaution I decide not to tell anyone, even Trish and Kurt, about my double-bill last night.

Trish knows me too well, however, so I have to tell her a half-truth that I had dinner with Terrence and that me and Blake slept in the same bed but we didn't fuck. I assure her that we are just friends. I'm not sure at all if she's bought it, but she doesn't ask any more questions. I can't afford her spreading unnecessary gossip; she knows too many people. The last thing I need is to be viewed as a slut.

And now it's Wednesday. Blake has been in Paris for three days but still hasn't even texted me. Arsehole.

I've had the shortest lunch break ever and am decorating the shop for forthcoming Halloween. Cobwebs and orange Physalis. Fiona is pleased with my efforts so far.

She has ordered tons of black roses and lilies. I'm worried that vampire and zombie obsessed girls would still prefer red to black when it comes to flowers. Dark chocolate is another matter though.

I am standing on the counter attaching a 'Happy Halloween' banner to the ceiling when I hear the bell on the door ring to announce an arrival. The first thing that comes into view is a pram, and then I see... Professor Bathbrush.

"I didn't know you worked here," he says.

"I didn't know you had a baby," I reply, coming down. "Hello sweetie," I greet the little girl who looks at me quietly with curiosity. "My name is Chloe," I say. "What's your name?"

"Tilia," my tutor replies.

"Professor, really? Tilia, like the linden tree?"

"Yes," he says.

"It's a... unique. So, what brings you here?"

"It's my wife's birthday. May I have those roses?" he points to a snow-white variety.

"Are you sure she likes white?" I query. "It's more for weddings and anniversaries."

"She likes white," he confirms.

"It's a hybrid tea rose called Iceberg. Nice choice, but I have to say it's not very fragrant. So, you decide."

"I'll take them."

Iceberg is cluster-flowered. I carefully select a mix of wide-open flowers and emerging buds to make the bouquet last longer.

"Is this enough?" I ask Bathbrush.

"Yes, thank you, Chloe. You're very skilful in composition. I was just thinking, would you be interested in doing a spring project for your diploma in my lab?"

"Are you serious? Why would you pick me? You know I'm more into soil."

"I have a project in mind which I think you may like," he says.

The door rings again and an old woman walks in.

"Can we talk about this later?"

"Of course." He hands me over the money while I wrap the bunch of flowers.

"Bye, Tilia" I wave at the baby. I think she's smiling.

***

Later on that day I'm having dinner with Terrence. I wasn't overkeen on repeating our recent scenario. I planned to take some time to mull it over. Yet, in the end I still agreed to meet him.

It's an Italian chain eatery. Terrence has already got a bottle of wine for us when I arrive. He's more casual this time: his jeans match my jeans, both blue, and his carmine red vest jumper contrasts with my brown cardigan.

He starts by apologising.

"I'm so embarrassed I fell asleep that night. Thank you for leaving the note, you're such a polite girl."

"No worries, I know you guys work long hours in the financial sector."

I am pleased he's even mentioned that, and considering what I did myself that night, I'm not the one who should be accepting an apology.

"Chloe, I think about you all the time," he says to break the silence. I don't reply and just stare at him, grinning. I wish he would say something less ordinary like, "If you were Europe, I'd kidnap you and swim away with you on my back across the ocean." Can't he take some creativity lessons to broaden his personality, because he's a really nice guy?

"What?" he asks. "What did I say? I really do, you know."

"Can you tell me the details?"

"Oh, I can't say it out loud." He is leaning over the table and whispering, "Erotic thoughts."

"Oh yeah? Do you like erotic fiction?" I ask suddenly.

"No. I like legal thrillers."

"Have you read Kafka's _Process_?" I ask.

"No."

"Why not?" I ask.

"Never heard of it before you mentioned it. Should I be embarrassed now?"

"Of course."

"Since when has the science girl become a book expert?" he asks me.

"My father is a Professor of English."

A moment of silence.

"Oh dear," he says. "Why did you ask me about my reading?" He looks at me suspiciously.

Have I offended him? If I tell him the real reason, he'll be furious.

"I just thought that since you fly a lot on business, you must read a lot on the plane," I shrug.

"I thought you were implying that I'm dumb," he says.

"No, but are you?" I say with a fake shocked expression on my face and then laugh to disarm him.

"Damn, Chloe, you're so sexy."

"Tell me more." I take a sip of wine, fortifying myself for another original thought of his.

"What, you don't believe me?"

I stay silent.

"Okay. Please close your eyes," he says.

"Why?"

"You'll find out. It's a surprise."

I obey and press my palms over my eyes.

"No peeking."

"As long as I don't need to walk like this," I say.

"Ta dah! Wakey wakey," Terrence says.

I open my eyes and see an opened jewellery box with earrings inside. Their shape is so pretty: a small round crystal is attached to a five-centimetre-long silver chain like a berry on a stalk. They resemble two raindrops running down the creamy velvet inner insert.

"Do you like your new friends?"

"Terry, you shouldn't have... They're amazing," I say and keep inspecting the stones.

"You want to try them on?"

I reach out and kiss him.

"Seriously, Terry, you shouldn't have. Are they what I think they are?"

"Yes, I told you, your new friends; a girl's best friends, as some people say."

I take off my tiny turquoise silver dots and put on the diamond raindrops.

"Actually, I was wrong. You don't really need them," he says.

"Why?"

"'Cause you light up the room just fine by yourself," he replies.

I kiss him again, because for the first time I hear a rather elaborate compliment.

When we finish our food, he invites me to his hotel room again. Sensing my hesitation, he suggests that we could alternatively go to my place. But if I'm supposed to keep our affair a secret from Trish and Kurt, at least for now, then I don't really have a choice. Should I say I have a headache?

Who am I fooling? Blake is in Paris, and what happened between us might simply have been a drunken once-off. I am attracted to Terrence. So why should I tease him until I make up my mind? Trish is right, again. I don't have to decide now. It's Bonk Plaza, then.

"Would you like to grab a coffee first?" I suggest, covering a yawn with my hand.

"Very clever, Chloe. Very clever," he smiles, escorting me out of the restaurant with his arm firmly clinched to my waist.

11. Victoria (Victoria amazonica)

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

W

This I got yesterday from my mysterious admirer attached to yet another rose. Naturally, I've Googled it to find it's a poem by Robert Burns. So, the stalker must be educated and might even be a Scot. I am frankly relieved that I didn't get Byron, and I would've panicked if I'd got William Blake.

Speaking of Blake. The bastard should have come back from Paris by now. But I'm not going to text him to find out.

The whole point of my trip is to relax and stop thinking about men. But how can I stop? I've slept with Terrence four times already, and lunched and dined with him more than that, yet Blake is still on my mind, as if he's secured a dedicated area in my brain cortex.

Maybe I'm in love with both of them? How bloody marvellous!

It's not productive to be mad at myself, because I can't do anything about this state of affairs yet. It's tempting to talk to mum about it. Maybe she'll help me. In the end, despite all our differences and disagreements, who knows me better than her?

The train is approaching Leighborough and, looking from the window, I can't believe this is where I was born.

What a dump! Other villages in Sussex are cute and cosy with picturesque views, and you'd expect the same with Leighborough. You couldn't be more wrong.

The town is like a miniature Milton Keynes, with dozens of identical roundabouts and hundreds of small red-brick houses, which must have been created by cloning.

My parents moved in here in the 70s, when Leighborough was a new, modern, exciting place to live, built on the outskirts of an old coalmining town and a one-hour train journey from London Victoria.

Depressing suburbia, people say. Yet I remember my childhood years as the happiest of my life: no woes, no responsibilities. No men.

Hold on. Victor Venier, a plump kid with funny round glasses, stalked me from when I was five until I escaped from Leighborough to study at a college in London. No, I've always had trouble with men.

As I step out of the train I freeze on the spot. Victor Venier. VV and not a W. Oh my God! Is it him? Of course it's him!

I recall the phone call conversation with my mum last month and how she tried selling me Victor as a proper suitor. Did she give him my address?

I board a local bus and mull over this new possibility on my way to my parents' house. Should I ask her straight out? Of course, she'll deny it. How many times has she tried to send guys my way? And why Victor, and why now? She knows only too well I'm never going to say 'Yes' to him. And what's with this creepy way to show his admiration?

Well, if it's him, at least I don't have to worry about a serial killer. Victor has never been violent, just clingy.

So is it him or not? I can't be a hundred percent sure...

By the time my mother opens the door to let me in and hug me I've mastered complete serenity.

"Hi Mum," I say, trying to break free from her embraces. "I've missed you too. Is Pa home?"

"No, I've sent him to Waitrose. Are you hungry?"

"No, I had a latte on the train."

"You sure? It's still five hours before the party starts. You are so thin. Let's go to the kitchen."

"Mum, what party?"

"Me and Pa are throwing a house party. It's our anniversary, remember?"

"That was last month."

"Correct, we've been waiting for you to celebrate together."

"Mum!"

"Sorry that I haven't told you. Don't worry, you are my best present."

"It's not that. I came home to have some quiet time with you, I need some advice."

"We have the whole of Sunday for that."

"Mum, you really make me want to never visit home again, with this surprise. I guess you've invited the entire neighbourhood?"

"Just close friends – Meyers, Stevenses, Veniers. Will you help me prepare the conservatory?"

"Veniers? Did you invite Victor as well?"

"Of course I did." She's got a poorly managed look of innocence on her face.

"Mum!"

"What? He's changed a lot. He's turned into a well-respected and rather handsome man."

"Yes, the one who stalks his childhood friends by sending them roses anonymously."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she says.

"Yes you do," I say. "Don't you?"

Mum lowers her gaze.

I'm the actress in our family, not her. So, I can now tell for sure that she knew about it.

"How could you do this to me?"

"But Chloe, isn't it romantic? Who else would treat you like that? Should I remind you what happened with James?"

I suddenly feel a chill in my chest.

"Victor has always admired you, my dear," she continues.

"How many times have I told you I don't care about him! And don't you ever, ever mention James in my presence!"

I storm off to my room and slam the door.

I may as well go back to London. It was all a big mistake to come here. Tears form in my eyes against my will, so I fall onto my bed and burrow my face into a cushion.

Why does she always have to bring up that bastard James? To lower my self-esteem, so I agree to date Victor? What kind of mother love is that? I really don't need to deal with this rubbish now, not on top of everything else.

My frustration overcomes the action of caffeine and I fall asleep.

I'm dreaming about James, our first auditions, then him dressed as Lady Anne in _Richard III_ , then him with me on a ferry crossing the Thames, his handsome face, and then, suddenly, I see her. The bitch!

I wake up and it's twilight. I can hear nothing, so the party mustn't have started yet.

I wonder why the memories of James still unsettle me so much. There are only questions in my head and no answers. I need to stop this. They say the first cut is the deepest. I need to accept this; there's no need to freak out when someone says his name. He dumped me, I broke down, and I destroyed myself back then. Yet I survived: I'm not that fragile anymore. I'm taking care of myself, I have a job, and I have a new passion in life. The past is the past. It's a lesson, not a sequence of recurring asthma attacks.

Get a grip on yourself, Chloe.

A new idea strikes me that my overreaction is a product of guilt. That's what caused this emotional distress. Deceiving is not my natural trait, but it's so human. Trish said that it was okay if I decided later whether I'm into Blake or Terrence. The truth is that weeks go by and I'm no closer to a decision. Let's hope it will come naturally, I don't want to involve my brain in this anymore. Too tired for that.

I take a shower, put on my old green wool dress and go downstairs.

"Coffee, dear?" my mum says, as if nothing ever happened between us.

She's always been smart at handling conflict. She knows I need to be left alone to pull myself together.

"The guests will be coming in half an hour. Do you want to put on something nice?" she asks me pointedly, using her sweetest tone.

"No," I snap in defiance, "I'm fine."

I sit down in the lounge on the sofa and enjoy my temporary solitude and coffee.

Someone approaches me from behind. It's Pa.

"Argued with your mother again?" he sighs after we hug each other.

"Yes, I'm not happy with her schemes, to put it mildly."

"What has she done this time?"

I tell him about Victor and her plot to lure me here.

"Don't be mad at her. She loves you," he says.

"So much she can't stop hurting me."

"I'll talk to her."

"No, please don't, she'll never change. Why can't she let me live my own life, make my own mistakes?"

"She's your mother. It's her duty to see you succeed."

"Can it just be her wanting me to live a life according to her own dreams? This won't work. I'm not like her."

"I know. She means well by being intrusive. I'll talk to her, I promise."

"Thanks, Pa."

"Let's go and get you some food, shall we?"

Reluctantly I follow him onto the conservatory. The beau monde is already settled in, and the air is filled with fresh gossip and the sound of metal spoons clinking when touching the ceramics. Mum has made sure there's no shortage of refreshments. I ignore everyone trying to establish eye contact with me and proceed to the table with the food. Chicken wings, goat's cheese, barbeque ribs and a bunch of asparagus shoots hop onto my plate, followed by pickled tomatoes and oily mushrooms. I ask Pa to screen me from the crowd and let me have a quiet dinner. Alas, my mother ruins my hideout, borrowing Pa for a stroll around the room.

Here I am, defenceless, and Mrs Lamprey spots me first.

"Chloe, is it really you? You've grown even taller since last time I saw you. And even more beautiful."

"Thank you. How're you doing?"

Mrs Lamprey is infamous for her lengthy monologues, so this time she tells me about her latest family trip to India, which gives me enough time to consume my meal without uttering a word. What an adorable woman. As a bonus, no one else risks approaching me while she is around.

After filling my stomach, I pour myself a glass of wine, and my mood improves immensely. Now it's time to break free. Alison Meyer, my mum's friend, is passing by to top up her plate.

"Alison, can you imagine this?" I say, increasing the volume of my voice to make sure she knows she's being intercepted. Mrs Lamprey stops talking for a moment, not quite believing that she is being interrupted in such impolite way.

"Oh hello, Chloe, you look lovely, my dear," Alison says.

"Did you know the rainfall in Cherrapunji exceeds what we get in Britain by twelve hundred percent? And we think it's so bad here. Mrs Lamprey was just telling me about her amazing family journey from Panjabi to Delhi. Have you ever been to India yourself?"

"No, I haven't," Alison replies.

"Well, you must go there sometime. Oh, an old friend," I say waving at no one in particular on the opposite side of the room, "please excuse me." And I leave.

Done.

"Chloe," I hear a male voice as I head to the exit.

Damn, he's here.

I turn around and, having gathered enough sarcasm, I spit out at him, "Oh hello, Victor, do you have any scarlet roses stashed around your person, by any chance?"

He's taken aback and muted for a moment, which gives me sufficient time to take a look at him. Mum was right, he's changed. The glasses look as expensive as his blazer, and he's not as chubby as I remember him; in fact, there's broadness to the shoulders, adding a touch of maturity. What is he now, thirty-two? He must be. What remain the same are his dark brown eyes, still looking at me like a puppy at a succulent bone.

"Sorry, Chloe. Are you mad at me?" he asks.

"Not anymore, but you know, I lost half my neurons thinking about a psycho stalking me. What the heck you were thinking of? You," I point a finger at him, "owe me."

"Sorry, it was your mother's idea. It was foolish of me to follow her advice."

"I've told her off already," I boast.

"So, how can I repay you? Maybe... dinner sometime?"

Is there a touch of pleading in his voice? I'm flattered someone cares that much for me after all these years have gone by.

From the corner of my eye I spot my mum two metres away from us trying to eavesdrop on our conversation while pretending to talk to Alison Meyer's husband.

"Fancy a little walk? " I say to Victor, grab his arm and we exit to the garden.

"Do you still smoke?" I ask him.

"No, gave up recently," he replies.

"Me too, ages ago though. Look Victor, you're nice guy, but I don't have any feelings towards you. Besides, I'm seeing someone at the moment. Can we just be friends?"

"Your mother told me you were single," he says, clearly confused.

"I don't discuss my dates with her, at least not until I get marriage proposals," I smile. "So, friends?"

"Okay, but let's get inside. It's freezing."

"What are you doing in Leighborough anyway?" I ask him while we are squeezing through the guest crowd to get some more wine. "I thought you lived in the Angel area."

"My flat is being renovated. I didn't want to rent, so I'm staying with my parents for now. Commuting isn't a problem for me. It's a temporary solution."

"Oh I see. You must be doing well."

"Can't complain, architects with a CV like mine are decently paid. I heard you swapped your acting career for agriculture," he remarks.

"Did my mother tell you? " He nods. "I swear, one day I'm going to strangle her. What else has she wikileaked?"

"Just that you work at a florist's."

"I'm glad she doesn't blog. That'd be the end of me."

Victor laughs, "I bet she would put _The Daily Mirror_ to shame."

"Oh, that she would."

It's a new experience to stand here next to Victor and actually enjoy his company when he's behaving like a friend. Maybe I should introduce him to Trish.

We chat about his life. Victor has been single for almost a year now, but only if you count his latest very brief relationship. Before that, he'd never got beyond the second date.

"I guess the problem is that I always fall for girls that are out of my league," he sighs.

"Nonsense," I comfort him. "There's no such thing as a league. You just need to reciprocate with someone," I say and remind myself that Blake is not necessarily that much into me.

"It's easy for you to say, Chloe, you're hot."

"Don't worry, Vic, you'll find your girl soon."

***

It's just after dawn – ten past eleven in the morning to be more precise – when Mum unceremoniously wakes me up.

"Chloe dear, breakfast?" She puts a tray of food and coffee on the bed next to my hangover-possessed body.

"Thank you," I murmur feebly, but don't move.

"You all right? Seems like someone enjoyed her time with Victor, didn't she?"

"Mum, I'm thinking of doing a PhD."

I'm not, but I'd like to see her panicking for once.

"What? Are you crazy? You want to waste three years of your life like I did?"

"Mum, please, stop shouting for God's sake."

"Why don't you get married instead, my dear? You are not going to be young forever, even with the genes you got from me. It's three, maximum five, years before men stop paying –"

"Mum, would you please –"

"It was only a thought, dear," she retreats.

"All I want to say is that I'd like to make my own decisions and I want you to accept them. If I need your advice I'll ask for it. I'm a grown-up, please, respect that."

"Respect what? I can't sit and watch your life going down the drain, can I?" She starts crying. "I've put such hopes on my little princess. Why are you so ungrateful?"

I hug her but don't give into her intricate blackmail.

"Mum, don't worry. I want to make sure I meet the right man this time too. I've been seeing someone lately."

"You have?" Her face suddenly brightens up and she wipes away her tears.

"Who is he? What does he do for a living?" She starts her usual interrogation.

"Mum, let me have my coffee, all right?"

"Okay, but don't even think of leaving without telling me everything." She points a finger at me in a gun gesture.

I sigh.

There are many recipes for how to spring to life the morning after a crazy party. I guess none of them works for everyone, since a hangover manifests itself in different people in unique ways.

I start with fried eggs and mushrooms and crispy wholegrain pumpkin-seed toast. One minute later I already feel better and within ten minutes I've polished off the remaining food on the tray. Immediately, a second wave of sleep is about to get me. I stand up heroically and walk to the bathroom wrapped in my blanket. The power shower wakes me up inadvertently: I even plot my hasty retreat through the garden door to avoid the scheduled tête-à-tête with Mum. After what happened yesterday I've changed my mind about sharing with her my dilemma over Terrence and Blake. She'll go for the money choice, naturally. There's no doubt about that; her question about Terrence's occupation was just a prelude.

I blow-dry my hair, then quickly pack my bag and check for messages on my mobile phone. There's one from Kurt. _Hi Chloe, I met Blake at Camden Market earlier this morning. He's back from Paris but lost his phone with all the numbers. He's invited us to another party at The RIM this Friday. Asked me to let you know. How's your mum? Say hello to her from me. xx K_

Well, this might explain why Blake's been out of touch, unless he's lying. But what stopped him from e-mailing me or sending a message online? I haven't seen him online lately, but any person who loses his phone would let his friends know. I open my laptop and go to Blake's Facebook profile. There it is indeed, a status about his lost phone posted yesterday. Still, what about before yesterday? Surely, he could have given me a call. Or was lantern night only a fantasy? Bloody men! Go figure.

Nothing from Terry so far.

Suddenly I get an urge to feel good about myself, which overcomes the safeguards I set up. I put on the diamond earrings Terrence gave me and go downstairs to boast to Mum.

"Have you verified them?" she asks me after a brief moment of admiration.

I can't believe I hear that.

"Mum! They're from Tiffany's. See, here, on the box?"

"So, you didn't?"

"No, I simply appreciated the gesture," I say.

"Chloe, you are still so naïve. The cost of a gesture is important. Earrings are not a wedding ring. In fact, they could be a sign of a player."

"Terrence is not a player," I reply and feel that familiar anger starting to build up inside me.

"Don't jump to your conclusions till you see the ring," she says, clearly oblivious to my displeasure with her.

12. Forget-me-not (Myosotis arvensis)

Things are often not what they seem to be. Mistletoe looks good in a wreath and it's a symbol of Christmas, yet it's still a parasite. It can even kill the host tree it populates.

This less than merry observation creeps into my mind as I look around Fiona's shop with its sparkling decorations. The scarlet flame of poinsettias is a bright and lively contrast to the cold and gloom of outside, but it doesn't cheer me up. I'm in a bad mood to be rational.

It's three weeks before Christmas and Terrence still has not shared his plans with me. He claims the office gets really busy, and that he might be working in New York over the festivities. I'm not buying it.

I don't want to be stuck in our loop of dinners and hotel shags. I want to do something romantic. Is it not natural to expect our relationship to develop into something bigger after we've been dating for two months?

So I decide to give him a hint that I'm not content with the situation. I cancel our traditional Friday night dinner. I tell him I am feeling unwell. In reality, tonight I intend to crack the dance floor at The RIM. Come what may. Besides, it'll give me a chance to talk to Blake.

Who knows, maybe Blake will be keen to spend the holidays with me. There's always a homely Christmas alternative with Mum and Pa, plus Kurt has invited me to his parents' place in Heidelberg. The more I think about it, the better this German option seems to me. Yet, those famous German sausages and other calorific food scare me a little.

For the last couple of weeks I've been hitting the gym almost every day after work. I've lost half a stone and I can't allow Christmas to put it back on. I hope Blake and Terrence will appreciate my improved physique.

Kurt agrees to keep me company tonight. Trish is going out on a first date with Victor instead. I keep my fingers crossed.

Once inside the club, I take off my jacket to reveal a black viscose dress tightly accentuating every curve of my toned body. A quarter, no, almost half of the present crowd, including the gay majority, turn their eyes to me. I deflect their gazes effortlessly with a cheeky theatrical smirk. Kurt is standing next to me looking proud.

"Gosh, Chloe, why don't you always dress like this?" he asks.

"I don't want to be permanently hustled."

"You could be a model."

"Like I haven't had enough drama in my life."

"So, let's drink to it," he says after we've done with the cloakroom.

This is his night as I turn out to be a perfect wingman for him. Hordes of gays approach us to get a picture with me. Kurt is taking shots on his phone: just a couple of hours after we arrive his contacts list has increased substantially.

I deliberately avoid looking at the DJ station, waiting for Blake to make the first move.

After midnight, the music changes like a chameleon from mainstream pop to drum-n-base and then house, as if the DJ wants to attract someone's attention.

When a new disco track bordering on ska punk starts playing, I'm about to order a cocktail from the bar.

"I'll pay for that and a Stella for me, please." Blake materialises at my side and gives a twenty to the barman.

"You didn't come to say 'Hello'," he complains but looks happy to see me.

"No, I didn't."

And you know very well why.

"She's a fierce girl. Am I allowed a friendly kiss?"

Okay, you don't deserve it.

The whole hugging and cheek smooching shenanigans follow.

"Oh, by the way, may I have your number?" He takes out a prehistoric Nokia from his pocket and starts typing in the digits I dictate.

Dear God! Physical buttons. The screen is black and white as well.

"Where did you get this fossil?" I ask.

"Rummaged through my brother's closet and there it was, works like new," Blake grins.

We head to the free alcove and sit down next to each other.

"How was Paris? Enjoyed lots of French perfume and lipstick I assume," I say.

"You mean girls? No, I was stuck in the studio all the time," he says baring his while teeth in an angelic smile.

"Of course you were."

"What, you don't believe me?" he asks.

"No, I don't. You do realise that I was a little worried after not hearing from you for three weeks?"

"You were?" His face lights up in a smile.

"No! Why would I worry about someone pretending his phone is the only means of communication in the digital world?"

"Don't be mad at me," he pleads.

"I won't if you have the decency to explain why you didn't call me?"

"You want the truth? You're not gonna like it."

"I knew it," I sigh.

"You knew what? That I was scared I was getting attached to you and that's why I didn't call?"

"What?"

"Never mind," he says.

"You were getting attached to me? Seriously?"

Don't buy this, Chloe. He's messing with you.

He doesn't reply but he looks like he meant what he said.

"Why get in touch now?" I ask. "If this attachment is so unwanted?"

"Because I missed you," he says and grins.

"Liar. I have to admit, a pretty convincing liar though," I say.

"Is that what you think? I'm not your boyfriend, so I don't have to lie to you," he says, looking offended.

It takes a moment for me to digest this. Attached but not a boyfriend?

"So what happened between us that night was just a fling?" I say with a calmness that takes effort.

"Don't be like that, Chloe. You're a special girl to me. The only problem is that I may not be good boyfriend material."

"Why not? You need to grow up at some point."

"It's my profession. I'm frequently away, playing gigs and I can see you are the jealous type."

"So what do you suggest we do?" I sip my rum cola while he comes up with an answer.

"Let's keep it simple. Why bring a relationship in? You and me, we were happy that night and that's what counts. Not discussing our status."

"So if I've got this right, you want us to be occasional lovers?"

"Ooh, that's harsh. I guess friends with benefits is what I meant, maybe more."

"Semantics aside, it's either dating or nothing," I say.

"I'm not against dating," he says and wraps his arm around me.

"Not that kind of dating," I say and unwrap myself.

"Right. What if I told you that I dreamed about you last night?"

"What? You dirty bastard," I laugh and punch him on the shoulder.

"It was nothing sexual. Just a weird nonsense thing like all dreams are. You were throwing roses into the fire."

"Was I? By the way, I found the mysterious guy who sent me the flowers."

"Sniffed him out, Sherlock? How?"

"By the initials. He's Victor, my childhood buddy. My mother wanted to set me up with him in that peculiar way of hers."

"Do you like him?"

"No."

"Poor guy."

"It's okay. He's on a date with Trish now."

"She won't forgive you those roses."

"I can cope with that."

"Another drink?" he asks me.

"Same again, but first I need to visit the ladies. Thank you," I say and depart.

As I walk away from the alcove I wonder if I'm now behaving like a double-crossing bitch.

Poor Terrence.

This thought comes with no hint of remorse. I'm either drunk, or I've toughened up, or both.

Or have I?

As I come back into the noise I see a skinny blonde chatting with Blake. They kiss on the lips before she leaves.

"You waste no time, fella," I observe as I take my cocktail and down a massive gulp.

"She's an old friend. Where had we got up to? Roses?" He looks completely unperturbed.

"Got her number too?" I ask. "I must say, you've got good taste in women."

"You like her?"

"Yes, she's pretty. What's her name?"

"Joan. Have you done it with a girl?" he asks.

"No, I'm a bit conservative," I reply.

I want this useless banter to stop, but I can't.

"Would you like to try?" he presses on.

"Look, Blake, I'm not that kind of girl. I thought you were at least mature enough to understand that."

"Sorry. Don't be mad at me. You come around here, voluptuous and unreachable, so what do you expect from me?"

I finish my drink and say, "Apology accepted as well as your compliment. It's getting late, I'm leaving."

"Shall I walk you home, neighbour?"

"Oh don't trouble yourself. I'm sure Joan will –"

He interrupts me with a kiss. I don't see it coming and lose my thread of thought. _Sneaky bastard!_

The kiss is actually a prolonged snog.

"I insist," he says when our lips part eventually.

I should have slapped his face and left. Instead, we walk together through the empty streets of night-time London and he tells me about his Paris clubbing.

"Are you sure you don't want to go my place?"

"Nice try, but no. Walk me home. You promised," I say while struggling to contain my urge to say 'Yes'.

"Okay, but I warn you, I'm going to bring my guitar and serenade you at your window."

"Oh God, what have I got myself into?" I laugh.

I hug him once again when we approach my house.

"Will I see you soon, my love? Tomorrow?" he asks.

"Whenever you bring me the ring."

"But it's my preciousssss," he complains.

"Good night, Blake." I shut the door in his face and listen to his footsteps fading away.

I really hope he's not going to fulfil his threat. The last thing I need is the neighbours' cats joining the choir. I'm annoyed at myself for thinking about Blake more than he thinks about me. He's just another player.

13. Strawberry (Fragaria ananassa)

The morning bursts through my window with bright sunshine, which is so rare for London in December. I briefly go through my recollections from last night and feel a moment of victory. I resisted Blake. I'm getting stronger. I should be proud of myself, shouldn't I? Then there's this unpleasant tingly sensation of longing growing inside me. I should be thrilled about seeing Terrence tomorrow. I'm not.

This is what I feared. I can't date both of them. I thought I was getting double the attention, and a choice, but what's left in my heart? Loneliness.

No, I probably can't even stay friends with Blake.

My stomach emits a gurgling sound informing me that breakfast is overdue. I drag myself out of bed, feeling weak in my limbs and in desperate need of an invigorating shower. In the corridor I bump into Victor who has just come out of the bathroom. At least he's wearing boxers and not so overweight anymore.

"Morning Chloe," he says gingerly, clearly flattered that I've bothered to scrutinise his physique well beyond a casual glance.

"Victor! Can't say I'm surprised. Have you moved in here already?"

He laughs.

"I trust your date with Trish went well," I say.

"Yes, thank you, Chloe."

"Right, unless my nostrils deceive me Trish's baking downstairs, so you'd better catch up with her," I say and then add quietly, "I'm happy for you, guys."

Inhaling the jasmine aroma while standing under the stream of hot water makes me more content with my reality. However mundane it may sound, I have to start swotting for my plant physiology exam, so I need serenity in my soul. I can't allow immature excuses like ADD, romantic feelings or depression to stand in the way of a first class honours degree. It almost feels like all men, especially Terrence and Blake, and even Bathbrush, are there to challenge me. I accept it.

I am drying my hair and making lists of things in my head for the entire week. With no classes to take until Christmas, I can manage day shifts at the shop without having to compromise my gym routine. I only have to slot one date in with Terrence; that can be our usual Friday.

I'm finally ready for food so I run down to the kitchen-diner, finding there Trish, Victor and a mound of pancakes. Untouched.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing, we're waiting for strawberry jam. Kurt kindly volunteered to get it from the corner shop," Trish replies. "He promised he wouldn't be long."

They sit next to each other at the table, comfortably, like a long-lasting item. Needless to say I'm a tad envious.

"Well, I need some input immediately," I declare, opening the fridge and taking out a yogurt. "Where's the spoon?"

It's not necessary for me to give a running commentary on my actions, but I'm trying to avoid the uncomfortable silence.

"How was last night at The RIM?" Trish asks me.

"The RIM? Pray, tell me more," Victor comments.

I would have preferred the silence. Now I have to make things up.

"To summarise it," I say, standing with my back to the front door and deliberately ignoring the sound of keys opening it, "Kurt drank so much he threw up on the bouncer's shoes."

"What? This is a lie!" I hear Kurt's indignant voice behind me.

Both Trish and Victor snigger, and then she asks me, "What about Blake?"

"Oh, that playboy. I caught him snogging what looked like an anorexic frog, so I dumped him and left early."

Someone's hands from behind touch the sides of my hips.

"You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find a princess," Blake says.

"What are _you_ doing here?" I cry, blushing.

"I've been invited."

I turn to Kurt, "We'll talk later."

"Yes, we will, Chloe. And would you please stop spreading this nonsense about me. I can hold my drink very well. I take vitamins C and B3 before going out to guarantee that I'm not easily intoxicated, because then I can complete my pick up smoothly."

"Wow, that's German practicality," Blake says.

"You may have been invited, but stay away from me," I say.

"Aren't you happy to see your friend? Mmmm, is that what I think it is? Yummy," he says and walks past me to nick a pancake.

"Hands off!" Kurt shouts, making everyone jump.

"Don't be greedy," Trish says. "Blake is my guest too."

"I'm not greedy. He hasn't washed his hands yet."

"Bossy," Blake laughs. "What about my trainers?"

"Well, being the only man in this house, I'm the one looking after this carpet, so..."

"Someone didn't get laid last night?" Blake takes off his shoes, approaches Kurt and squeezes him in a powerful hug. "You need this, mate."

"Could you please employ your biceps to open the jam?" I hand out the jar to Blake.

"Then you guys can continue."

"Kurt, mother approves," Blake teases me back.

I sigh at this immaturity, but appreciate that he's making an effort. How can I possibly get rid of him now?

After breakfast and endless banter, Blake asks me for the house tour.

"Nice, I can see your personality all over here," he says when we enter my room.

He lies on my bed. "Comfy, I may as well take a nap here."

"Get out, I need to study," I snap at him.

"So study, I promise not to snore."

"You're too much of a distraction," I say, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him off the bed.

This was a mistake. He pulls back abruptly and I fall onto him.

"Blake!"

"What?"

He's enjoying this too much, so I punch him on the ribs.

"Ouch! Don't hurt me, baby."

I must say he portrays taking offence convincingly. I kiss him on the forehead and say, "Please, I really do need to study for my exams."

"When are they?"

"After Christmas, mid-January."

"It's only the second of December, you crazy nerd."

"So what? I have to do a lot of reading."

"I don't care." He locks his arms around me and flips us on our sides. "Now you have some pillow space too."

Before I can protest he kisses me on the lips. I surrender.

Who wouldn't?

I then hear a click and giggling.

"Look at them. Aren't they just cute?" This is said with a camp German accent. Kurt is playing paparazzi.

"Give us some space, will you?" I bark at him. "And I'll have to confiscate this photo."

"Too late, I've already sent it to your mum."

Apparently Kurt thinks this is funny.

"I will be making risotto out of your tiny gay brain if you did," I say.

"Kurt, mate, I'm staying here as long as I can, but you gotta run," Blake comments.

Kurt disappears.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" he asks me, now that we are alone again.

"Kurt invited me and Trish to stay at his parents' place in Heidelberg. And you?"

"I'm going home. Maybe you could join me?"

"What about your anorexic frog?"

"You really did get jealous, I'm flattered. But, seriously, I'd love you to come with me," he says.

I uncling myself from him and sit up on the bed.

"You're bad boyfriend material, remember?"

"What I meant is that I don't like labels. Can't we figure these things out later? We've only just met. Come with me, it'd be fun," he says and I feel his hand stroking my neck.

I look at his impossibly handsome face, "I can't. I promised Trish and Kurt."

"You can't or you don't want to?" he asks.

"Blake, I need some time, and right now I need to focus on my degree. I'm even taking some books to Germany."

"I get it, don't sweat it. It was only a suggestion. Come here," he says.

We lie together quietly for some time and I can't stop thinking how foolishly stubborn I am. Do I keep this distance between us because I'm stuck with Terrence or it's because I think Blake may not be right for me? Right or wrong, he's the one who wants to spend Christmas with me.

Just because Terrence is hard working, well-mannered and sorted out, it doesn't make him better than Blake for me.

I think I'm falling asleep, but it's more likely delirium caused by this irrational mess, which has replaced my normal reason.

14. Mistletoe (Viscum album)

"We are going to have a white Christmas!" Trish's excitement lets itself out in the form of an ultra-soprano a cappella.

"Please, don't shout, just enjoy the view," I tell her.

"All right, Miss Grumpy," she says.

Kurt's father Erwin picked us up from Frankfurt City airport. This is my first ever trip inside a BMW and I'm not getting carsick as usual. Erwin and Kurt enjoy their German chat, so I have to deal with Trish, who, being an insufferable lark, didn't really need that extra cup of coffee on arrival. Nothing's going to shut her up now.

We've entered Heidelberg from the north and we are now crossing the Old Bridge. I peer at the banks of the Neckar decorated with the beautiful medieval architecture of the Altstadt, covered in snow.

"Chloe, look at that gothic castle on the hill over there," Trish says pointing in its direction. "Maybe you can hire genuine knights' armour there. I'd love to go clubbing like that."

"I'm not sure I can cope with so much creativity coming from you," I tease her.

"What do you suggest doing instead?"

"Let's see the sights, drink mulled wine at the Christmas Fair and stuff ourselves to death with sausages."

"Listen," Trish leans close to me and says in a lowered voice. "It was your choice, you could have spent Christmas with Blake. But since you're here, I'm not going to stand for any bitterness. Besides, you need a break from your passionate exercise."

"Are you still mad at me for that vase?"

"No, but I'm jealous you were humping so vigorously it caused an earthquake, even in my room."

"Well, you and Victor have had a bit of action too."

"We are not as noisy –"

"Oh yeah, well, maybe I just have sensitive ears because I have to wear earplugs each bloody time," I say.

"You do?" she giggles. "Then we both need a break."

Trish is right. My sex life has got out of control. I've been meeting up with Blake practically every other evening these past three weeks.

What Trish and Kurt don't know is that I've also had my Friday night dates at the Bonk Plaza with Terrence. I'm not engaged to either of them, so technically I'm not cheating, merely keeping two lovers who are unaware of each other. Some call this romantic suspense.

"Chloe, I'm a little scared," Trish confesses.

"About Victor?"

"No, he's fine. It's the exams. I'm not as organised as you and I've wasted the best part of the year. Can we study together for a while, please? It'd be impossible for me to slack off then."

"So you're going to ruin my concentration as well?" I smile.

"I promise I'll behave," she says.

"She won't," Kurt pipes up.

"Mind your business, will you?" she tells him and turns back to me. "Please."

"All right, but you have to give me your word. Any distraction and I'll go back to solo mode."

"You're so strict. Poor Blake. I can't believe such a hunk ended up with you, Miss Dictator."

"I'm doing you a favour, remember?" I frown.

"Yep, mouth is sealed from now on."

"Until lunch," Kurt adds.

We are now on a quieter road in the middle of the forest. It's so tranquil here; no sign of wind and the trees are completely covered in exquisite snow embroidery.

"Here we are," announces Kurt when the car turns into a short driveway and stops.

"Are you kidding me? You live here?" I ask Kurt.

We get out of the car and face a stone-laden two-storey mansion topped with a triangular roof. A snow-white cat is peering at us from the attic window.

"Look at the polar kitty," Trish exclaims.

"His name is Kai," Erwin says. "Welcome to my house."

"Kai is a very apt name," I say. "This looks amazing! Like the Snow Queen's parlour."

"Have you read Hans Christian Andersen?" Erwin says, clearly surprised.

"Mum used to buy me all the classic children's books," I say but neglect to mention that when I struck thirteen she switched from fairy tales to romance.

At last we are in the house and you can tell it's not British. It's very warm here. I've heard that Germans are stingy when it comes to spending on energy, but Kurt's parents break from the stereotype. The ground floor is one massive lounge with a real mantelpiece, on each side of which there is a niche in the wall for firewood.

Kurt's mum meets us wearing a colourful dress with painted flowers. She's rather small, plump and merry like a Russian doll, a striking contrast to the tall, dry Erwin who resembles a veteran Viking, not that I've ever seen any of them. Kurt has his mum's cute face and his father fiercely grey eyes. I wonder whose personality he's inherited.

"My name is Irma. Welcome to Heidelberg," she says and presses mine and Trish's hands.

She then talks to Kurt in German.

"Mum prepared you the room next to mine: it has two single beds. We use it as a guest room for our relatives. But there's also the attic if you prefer. My cousins will be coming tomorrow, so you have the first choice."

After a brief tour we pick the attic. That's partly because it has the best view from the window, but it's also where Kai likes to be. He's an adorable creature and definitely a ladies' man. I suspect there will be a fight tonight between Trish and me for the cat. Kai makes my little lavender cushion at home seem like a boring piece of cloth. I've already started planning to smuggle him into the UK.

Irma is spoiling us with Sauerbraten and potato dumplings, a distant relative of Trish's stew. The meat tastes incredible. Kurt explains us that it needs to be marinated for almost a week in a special mix of wine and herbs before roasting it.

Yummy, and it's still two days before the Christmas meal. I'm very much looking forward to it now. Screw the possible cellulite relapse that may result. A girl is entitled to fully enjoy her winter break

Before we go out on the town, Trish and I have a lie-in in the loft to cherish our girlie time. Kurt has shut himself in his room and is calling up his friends and arranging our cultural programme.

"What bliss! Kai may not be as sexy as Blake, but no one can beat him on the cuteness scale," says Trish.

"Stop talking about Blake," I say. "It's unfair on Victor."

"No, it's not. Blake is like a Greek god to me. I fancy him but I do realise he's never going to cast a second glance at me. He's unattainable. Victor is my cuddly bear, I feel right with him. He spoils me and doesn't mind my lumps."

"Seems like you're getting on well. I wish it was the same in my case," I sigh.

"You know, Chloe, Blake is all over you. What more do you want?"

"True, but I'm not sure about his intentions, or mine for that matter. And then there's Terrence," I say.

"Speaking about Terrence, I'm actually dying to find out what's going on with you and him, but I've had no chance to ask you lately. I don't trust Kurt, I think he fancies Blake and is spying for him," Trish says.

"Don't be silly," I say.

"I'm not kidding."

"Do you think Blake knows about Terrence?" I ask.

Now this is a worrying thought.

"Don't know. I didn't want to pry, since you seem to keep it as if it was a state secret, but considering your Friday night outings, I sort of guessed... Erm, are you still dating him?"

"Yes."

"You do? Have you consummated it yet?"

Trish's eyes glisten with the excitement of a tabloid journalist who has stumbled upon a headline story. I have no choice but to tell her everything. About my Friday dates, about him being busy all the time, about the earrings (which were not my father's present as I'd said) and the Bonk Plaza.

Trish tells me off for being a 'secretive bitch' and says that's not the way to treat my life-long friend. After a brief sulk she calms down, and her curiosity is back in action.

"Hmm. Are you sure he isn't married? This doesn't seem like a normal dating model to me."

"I can't be a hundred percent sure, but he has said he isn't. To be fair, it is partly my fault. I have to fit him in around the shop, the gym, study and Blake, so I told him I can only meet once a week."

"But he doesn't seem to mind, does he? Where's he spending Christmas?"

"He's in the US, working."

"Do you believe that?"

"I do. Overall, he seems an honest, hard-working guy. And he said he'll make it up for me: we're going for a weekend break to Paris in mid-January."

"Paris? Well done. Maybe I'll have to drop hints to Victor about something like that. Anyway, what are you going to do with Blake?"

"He wants us to be 'special' friends, nothing more. Well, that's what he's getting until I can sort this all out," I say.

"Now that's the attitude," she approves.

"You think it's moral?"

"Who cares? Men certainly don't. And so neither should you."

"I'm glad I told you," I say, and I sort of am.

Trish gives me a hug, then takes Kai from me and walks to the window.

"See, kitty? Auntie Chloe sinned a lot, but now, after she's done her confession any guilt is absolved, and the burden of her misdeeds is no longer there. Bear it in your fluffy mind whenever you steal a sausage. Always come clean."

"Meow," Kai replies, presumably in agreement.

***

It's dark when we reach the market square where the fair is taking place. Trish has already taken hundreds of pictures on her phone.

"My fingers are numb. Kurt."

"I refuse to pose any more anyway." He looks so cute in his reindeer head hat, which has long, blood-red antlers sticking out from it.

"No, what I meant is, me and Chloe would like to try this cherry glue-wine. Hmm, funny name. And we need pretzels."

"Thank you, Almighty," Kurt says. "Those will keep you busy for a while."

I'm a little jealous of Trish. I've never met anyone who enjoys Christmas as much as she does. We've only just arrived but she's promptly befriended dozens of guys on Facebook, most of them American soldiers stationed here.

"Guten abend," she says to a newly found victim in the guise of a young seller of wooden figurines. At that, her German vocabulary is exhausted. "What's your name?"

"Kurt," he replies smiling.

"O.M.G. Chloe, we need to make a wish. Another Kurt. Come over here," she orders our Kurt.

As a gesture of gratitude to the craftsman she buys a whistle in the shape of a finch.

"What?" she says when both Kurt and I roll our eyes. "I needed a rape alarm anyway."

"Darling, you're quite alarming enough by yourself."

"Don't be mean, Chloe. I think it was a great idea to get this," she replies and blows into the whistle. "It works well, doesn't it?"

This must be an understatement of the year, I think, as my right ear is taken out of action.

When all of us are sufficiently frozen it's time to look for pubs. We turn away from the riverside towards the south and I spot a place called Hemingway's.

"I want to go there," I say.

"Isn't it American?" Trish isn't so keen.

"I've been there before, it's nice," Kurt says in my support. "They have a German menu and local drinks."

"Shame it's too cold to sit outside, it's got a nice beer garden," I comment before we get inside.

Luckily it's not too crowded yet. We find a free table and I sit next to an old gentleman, who's reading a book.

I wonder if Hemingway actually ever visited this place. The seats are covered with brown PU leather upholstery. Modern elongated lamps stick out from the ceiling, while the chandeliers on the bar with real candles give the place an eclectic air.

"Oh wow, there are some of my university friends," Kurt says and points to people at one of the tables. "I'll leave you for a moment to say 'Hello' to them, okay?"

"Chloe, I guess I'm getting drinks this time," Trish says. "What are you having?"

I catch her looking at the gorgeous dark bartender, which explains why Trish is so eager to take my order.

"Something local, please; a lager, I mean, not a hunk from over there."

"Very funny. Just give me a moment," she says.

A moment that will last an eternity, no doubt. I observe her laying siege to the bar.

"Excuse me, young lady, but I couldn't fail to notice your accent. You're from Southern England, aren't you?"

I realise that the elderly gentleman with the book is now talking to me.

"That's right. Sussex. My parents are Scottish though."

"And your friend?"

"Trish? We are from the same town, and Kurt is German."

"I saw you two exchanging words and thought how much I miss this humorous English banter," he says.

"I gather you're British too. An expat, perhaps?"

I don't know why but I start talking like him. It's a bad actor's habit to assume the lingo of the person you're speaking with.

"Indeed I am," he replies. "It's a long story and you wouldn't want me rambling on about it. You young folk have a short attention span, which is good, since it encourages brevity. I'm an Oxford alumnus in physics, eventually I ended up here, got a department position and now I am retired. It's not very interesting. But you, however, seem to have a curious story to tell," he prompts.

"Me? No, I'm a simple girl. You don't want to hear about my silly problems."

"I'm an old man, a father and a good listener. No problem is silly if your life is affected by it," he says with a scientist's rationality. "Sorry, but I have forgotten to introduce myself – Calvin Rutherford."

"I'm Chloe, lovely to meet you. I saw that you were reading a book, what is it called?"

" _The Elementary Particles_ ," he replies.

"Ah, about atoms. I see."

"No, it's a French novel about love."

Now I'm intrigued.

"Is there a particle of love?" I ask, probably a very naïve question.

"It depends on how you define love," Calvin replies vaguely. "You see, for one person this can mean sexual passion, for another it's the need to simply be intimate with someone emotionally. There is even a point of view that these things are not love. That love is about being willing to give, to protect, and to appraise someone, and feel happy about that. It's about bestowing grace, often through self-sacrifice."

"I'm not sure I like that book," I say. "I'm not into sacrifice. I believe in mutuality, but not a mutual sacrifice."

He looks at me, smiling with myriads of wrinkles on his face akin to rays of sunshine. "When you truly love someone, you are happy to sacrifice yourself," he says.

"Maybe. Why does the book have that title?" I ask.

"Elementary particles are people. You and me. When we fall in love we can produce progeny. The major character in the book is a biologist who invents human cloning, to make it possible for humans to reproduce without love. His brother, who teaches literature, also struggles with a loveless life."

"I knew I'd hate the book. Too depressing for me. Life is too hard and too short. I want to believe in nice things, even if it's all a delusion."

"What's a delusion?" Trish interrupts our conversation.

I introduce her to Calvin.

"A real scientist! Chloe will be one as well soon. We both study agronomy, but, unlike me, she's bright."

"I'm not so bright. Urgh. What is this?" I ask her pointing at the weirdly smelling drink in a ceramic mug that she brought.

"It's beer, a local one. Apparently it's a whopping eight percent alcohol, stiff like you prefer. I couldn't remember the name, sorry."

I take a sip; it doesn't feel that strong and has a rich lagery taste, which, despite the smell, I find more than agreeable. I need to watch it though; there must be tons of half-fermented carbs in it masking the booze.

"Agronomy? What a strange occupation for such spectacular young ladies as you. What made you choose it?" Calvin asks.

"Spectacular? You're spoiling us," Trish says, clearly delighted. "The biggest compliment you get to hear from a guy nowadays is hot chick."

"Or foxy lady, God forbid," I grumble.

Calvin looks at us, patiently waiting for an answer to his question.

"Oh yes, where was I? Agronomy, yes. My uncle works for an agricultural biotech company," Trish explains.

"Is it, what it's called, ahem ...," Calvin says.

"MyPlant Inc., the one that must not be named," I smirk.

"So, when I graduate, I'll get a job there," she summarises her career ambitions.

"And you, Chloe?"

"I'm a nerd, so I'll maybe try to get a grant to do a PhD in soil science."

"Why the soil?" Calvin asks.

"I just like it. Must have been an earthworm in my previous life," I smile.

Kurt soon joins us and the evening is in full swing. Before leaving our company, and remembering our earlier conversation, Calvin tells me, "Cherish your delusion, Chloe, whoever he is, I hope he knows he's one lucky fellow."

Exactly. Whoever he is.

15. Pine tree (Pinus sylvestris)

Next morning I wake up with an astonishing clarity in my head to match the cloudless azure sky. No hangover whatsoever; it must be a Christmas Eve miracle. Or, more likely, bloody good German beer.

I slip from the bed and spot Kai sunbathing on the windowsill. The snow carpet looks renewed, and the twigs of the trees sparkle with their crystalline coat. I hold my breath.

It's perfect weather for jogging. I try to wake Trish, but she mumbles something offensive and burrows further under the blankets. I persist for a while longer until her hand protrudes and makes a rude gesture.

My next move is to persuade Kurt to join me.

"Go away! I'm on holiday!" He throws a cushion at me and I retreat to the corridor before he decides to use heavier objects.

There's nothing wrong with solitude. It's therapeutic when prescribed in moderation.

I put on my skiing holiday outfit, which I haven't used for several years but brought with me in case an opportunity to wear it arose. It still fits, thanks to my recent gym sessions.

The roadside path is already cleared, so I don't have to jog through knee-high snowdrifts. I run up the hill first; it'll be easier to descend on the way back. The air is crisp and smells of conifers, which are abundant in the nearby park.

I recall yesterday's conversation with Calvin. It must be rewarding to dedicate your life to science and then enjoy retirement in a serene place like this. I realised I didn't ask him about his life. Does he have a wife? He mentioned that he's a father. I hope he's happy and loved by his family. And I must find that peculiar French book.

On my left there's a clearing with a stunning view of the old town, the river and its bridges. I take out my phone to take a shot and notice a new text message from Terrence.

_I think I love you, Chloe. Merry Christmas_.

Does it mean he misses me so much he's sent his greetings a day early? I shall reply tomorrow. Hopefully, I can figure out what to say.

After a quick photo session featuring some clumsy self-shots I'm ready to turn back. My serenity is now destroyed and I start feeling hungry. I wonder what Irma has made for breakfast. I must offer her my help. The last thing I want her to think is that Kurt lives with two lazy, shallow, useless prima donnas.

I need to stay completely immersed in the festivities and remove Terrence from my mind while I'm here. But that's easy to say. All I have to do is to reply, "I love you too." Would it be a lie?

I'm not so sure I'm in love with him. I can't tell whether it's because of Blake or the fact that Terrence and I haven't spent enough time together. Well, the Paris holiday should make things clear. Hopefully.

With a hundred metres to go I discover my second wind and speed up. A hot shower and coffee and cuddles with Kai are on my mind when I'm suddenly hit with a snowball. I stop and see a shoulder-high wall of snow erected in front of Kurt's house's entrance. Trish emerges from one side of it and throws another snowball at me.

"You just wait," I shout and laugh.

If someone wants her arse kicked, well, she's getting it now.

I take a handful of snow, staring apprehensively at the wall, and make my first weapon.

Trish emerges again and we throw simultaneously. I hit her in the fanny and she misses me. I jump yelling 'Yay' and get hit on the thigh by Kurt, who's been hiding behind a tree next to the wall.

Oh, so you ganged up against me? The wrath of Chloe shall be unleashed upon you then. Relentlessly.

I hide myself behind Erwin's car and prepare four snowballs, two of them I hide in my pockets and another pair I hold in my hands. The task is to get to the house and neutralise the enemy on the way.

When I slowly stick my nose out from behind the car, I see Trish lying on the top of the wall, head propped on palm, holding a snowball with her other hand.

I spring towards her, shoot at my target and miss. She throws hers at the same time as I do my second one. I miss again while she hits me in the shoulder. She's falling off the wall, carried forward with her throwing force. I laugh and rummage through my pockets for new supplies when I'm hit again, this time by Kurt's ammunition.

I respond but only manage to 'injure' the tree. It appears he's stocked up on ammo as I'm hit twice again within seconds, and then Trish recovers and sends another snowball my way.

I'm on the verge of despair and losing the battle when a car arrives and stops next to Erwin's. Two lads, who both look to be twenty-something and are presumably Kurt's relatives, join the battle. The enemy hides behind their fortification to concoct a new evil plot, while my two new allies, David and Derek, get busy alongside me making snowballs after brief introductions. They are to take care of Kurt and I'm to deal with Trish.

"Stop hiding, you bunch of sissies," Trish shouts at us. A massive snow missile lands a metre from us.

Time to put an end to this.

The lads and I come out simultaneously and charge in a line. Derek leads and takes most of the impact on himself, while I'm safely in the tail.

Halfway through we separate: the guys attack Kurt while I keep running and crush into Trish's hiding place. The wall crumbles into several chunks and I land on top of Trish. We both start laughing hysterically.

"Chloe, we got him!"

I look up and see the lads approaching us and carrying Kurt by his arms and ankles, akin to a live stretcher.

"Get off me. I'll kill you next time!" he wails.

"No, you won't." Derek and David swing his body like a hammock and then throw Kurt into the nearest snowdrift. At last, I'm avenged.

***

"Chloe, what do you think about Derek? Isn't he the cutest ginger guy ever?"

We are supposed to be studying. Trish lasts just twenty minutes before her ADD kicks in. The agreement was that if we did at least three hours of reading on Christmas Eve I promised her a study-free Christmas day. I must admit that even without her interruptions, it's not easy to concentrate after such a filling breakfast of ham, eggs and local blueberry pies. I insisted on Kurt and his cousins leaving us in peace, so they've gone cross-country skiing for the day.

"And I noticed David couldn't take his eyes off you," Trish adds.

I remain silent and don't even turn my head towards her. I hear her sighing.

I'm at the chapter on plant stem cells, and this is by far the most exciting part of the book and of great relevance to biotechnology, which Trish is keen to pursue at the MyPlant company.

After all, plants are not so unlike us. They don't have a nervous system like ours, that's true, but they can sense things using chemo-electrical means. They can't run away from herbivores and pathogens, but they've evolved astonishingly complex defence and immune systems based on their secondary metabolites. Plants should be our role models in terms of recycling and efficiency. I wonder why the TV programmes about nature are so biased towards animals.

"Chloe, you've been on the same page for like ten minutes," Trish observes.

"I'm thinking."

She's got a point. It's unfair to ridicule her for her short attention span when I can't concentrate myself.

"Can we have a break?" she whines.

"How are you going to cope with a full-time job if you can't sit quietly even for half an hour?"

"I'm not going to be working during Christmas breaks," she replies.

"You're insufferable, you know that? You promised to behave, remember?"

She assumes a grimace of wretchedness on her face.

"Okay, let's have a coffee." I give up.

Trish screams in joy, which disturbs the poor cat sleeping on the bed. Seems like Kai will have his proper vacation when we leave.

***

Ten minutes later Trish polishes off the remaining items from the bakery and leans back in the chair with a look of satisfaction and accomplishment.

"This exam is going to be the end of me," she announces to my amusement.

"Not with a healthy appetite like yours," I say.

"Don't be jealous. I love life and I love food. It's like being gay for Kurt. You just need to accept it: this is me."

"I do accept it, that's why we've been friends for ages. It's just your merry and relaxed attitude doesn't seem very suitable for the serious, mundane job you're aiming at," I say.

"To be honest, Chloe, I'm not entirely sure myself. It did seem like a great idea in the beginning, but now I'm thinking more and more of becoming a housewife. I'm not a career person. You have the looks and the guts. I don't."

"Don't be silly," I say. "You have a chance to get an upper second if you nail this exam."

"I doubt it. Besides, even If I do get there by a miracle, I'm more than likely to end up as a secretary at MyPlant. My in-depth knowledge of plant physiology would be of more use for dinner parties in that case."

"I don't want to hear about this anymore. You promised me, and you're going to stick with it," I say.

"Ha, I wish you were this determined with Blake and Terrence," she counterattacks me.

I am yet to tell her about Terrence's latest text.

"Wasn't it your advice that I could decide about them later?"

"So it's my fault that you've ended up with two lovers? Anyway, I wouldn't complain if I were you. That's a nice dilemma to have; maybe that's why it's taking you so long to pick your man."

"What do you mean by that?" I ask.

"Nothing, just saying." Trish looks into her cup, smiling naughtily. All my irritation with her put aside, she's undeniably the best friend I could have. Trish may be considered a big girl, but her attitude is as light as the grasshopper's from Aesop's fable.

16. Grapefruit (Citrus paradisi)

I meant to stay home and revise for my exam on Tuesday. But Trish, my demon, tempted me to come with her and Kurt to the party.

When we got back from our holidays, London welcomed us with rainy weather. I was still inside my German fairy tale when the coldness of our unheated, shared house reminded me of the start of yet another year full of worries and responsibilities. I have to resume work at the shop and start writing my theoretical thesis, which we have to submit by mid-February. The paper counts as one third of the total marks for my plant physiology degree; the forthcoming written exam makes up the other two thirds. I haven't met anyone yet who has even come up even with a title for their thesis. In my case it has been pre-determined.

Bathbrush offered me the chance to do a Master's degree project at his lab on the promising use of cyanobacteria as bio-fertilizers to improve crop yield. The caveat to this is cyanobacterial toxicity for plants. If I am going to do research on it, I may as well pick this problem as my subject. My worry is that Bathbrush has overestimated my potential.

I have to do my best, within sane limits.

No pressure, Chloe.

But tonight I've succumbed to Trish's nagging that "It's bloody Saturday, which is respected even by workaholic Jews". I've put on my old satin, high-waist brown dress and a leather jacket on top. I'm very proud of myself for preserving my calorie intake-expenditure ratio during the last holidays, so I can accentuate my curves with a turquoise leather belt. Trish is sporting a sexy secretary look: a white blouse in contrast with a black skirt. The latter is way too short for her, in my opinion. To complete the picture she wears a grey trench coat, which Victor got her from Zara for Christmas.

"Chloe, could you please slow down, we aren't running a sprint," Kurt comments at my zealous stride when we leave the house and head over to Blake's.

I hate to admit it but I'm nearly skipping with impatience to see him. I got him a nice present from Germany, a pint glass. It'd be awkward if Blake forgot about a present for me. Not that I need any from him, but it'd be an affirmation of his feelings towards me. Terrence's is the trip to Paris next weekend. I somehow doubt Blake is going to top that.

It's funny but I seem to be getting used to my love life ambiguity. Though it was Blake who said that we are just special friends, I wonder how Terrence would react if he ever finds out. No, I don't wonder. I think I know.

Chris, the ponytail, lets us in when we arrive. He says "Shh" and leads us to the lounge where Blake is in the middle of a speech.

Apparently, there is a Skype session going on: I can see a dark-haired middle-aged bloke wearing glasses on the screen of the laptop hoisted on the mantelpiece.

"I couldn't dream of a better brother than you!" Blake continues, casting a glance my way. "You make me feel proud and you inspire me to be better myself. Thank you for that and happy birthday, Ellie!"

"Happy birthday, Ellie!" everyone shouts, including me.

"If anyone wants to talk to Ellie, now's a good time."

Blake passes his computer to the next person and approaches me.

"Late as always," he says. "Hi Kurt, hi Trish."

"Politely late. You've hardly mentioned Ellie to me before, why not?" I usurp the conversation.

"Haven't I? Strange, considering this is actually his apartment I'm looking after. He's based in New York at the moment."

"So, the naked hunks aren't yours?"

"Nope. They're his calendars, porn mags, toys and whatever else incriminating you find in here, apart from condoms. By the way, Kurt, would you like me to introduce you to him? You rainbow souls will probably have something to chat about."

The boys depart to find the virtual Ellie, so Trish and I pour ourselves a glass of grapefruit vodka punch and find an empty couch, the ideal spot for some gossip.

"At last, the mystery is solved. A gay brother," says Trish.

"Yep, I must say the interior design in here puzzled me a lot," I say.

"At least you admit detective McKenzie wouldn't have worked it out."

"Let me remind you, I did find out that Victor was the flower stalker."

"Only because he left his initials," Trish says.

"You've ruined what remained of my self-esteem." I grab the ladle and refill my glass with extra punch. "This is the proof. I'm becoming an alcoholic."

"As your best friend, I won't allow you to drink on your own," Trish announces and tops up her glass. "And for the info, it's not a drinking competition. Let's talk to someone."

We scan the room to spread the malarkey around.

A tall, thin, blonde girl dressed in tight blue jeans and a pink sweater is studying Blake's CD collection in the corner tower next to us.

"Hey, would you like a drink?" I say to her when she turns in our direction.

"What is it?"

"A wild mix of Smirnoff, sugar and squeezed citrus fruit, I assume that's why they call it punch. I'm Chloe, by the way."

"Annette. Are you Blake's friends?" She talks with a French accent, but she could be from somewhere like Belgium, Andorra or Switzerland. Or Luxembourg. She's not tanned enough for French Caribbean or Polynesian.

"No, we saw this bowl of booze from the outside and crashed the party," I laugh.

"Is it true?" Annette asks, with a worried look on her face.

"Hey, girls, I see you've introduced yourself to each other already." Blake kisses Annette on both cheeks. I don't move a muscle on my face to show that I don't care.

"How did you two meet?" I address Annette.

"At a party like this last year. We used to go out, didn't we?" She smiles at Blake while he nods.

"Why did you stop?" I ask.

"I met someone else, and Blake did too. It was only a sexual thing between us. We still meet for fun occasionally," Annette replies.

Have I just blushed?

I look up at Blake who is now meticulously studying the label on his beer bottle.

Annette continues, completely unaware of the fact that this sort of conversation is rather embarrassing for English people, "Speaking about fun, it's been a while since I last saw you, Mr DJ, October probably. Where have you been hiding from me since?"

"He hasn't been hiding. Blake and me, we've been seeing each other," I tell her.

"Oh sorry," she says and giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. "I had no idea."

"It's okay, Blake isn't my property. I know he's got quite modern views on romantic relationships," I say.

An awkward silence follows. Trish is staring at me as if trying to find any signs of displeasure, which could serve her as my permission to punch Annette, quite literally, in the face.

I smile and raise myself from the couch. "If you'll excuse me, I'd love to speak to Ellie before Kurt bores him to tears."

I wear my smile until I'm a safe distance from them, then I take a swig of punch, emptying my glass.

Bloody hell! She's not very bright. And an overdose of make-up and a trashy outfit like that don't make anyone even remotely beautiful.

I look at her from the corner of my eye. She has her eyes on Blake while he is talking to Trish.

Am I jealous? Well, I don't have any right to be.

I see Kurt in front of me talking to a couple I've never met before. The computer is playing a pop tune. Ellie has gone offline.

"Want to change the music?"

I turn around and see Chris.

"Something more up-beat, maybe?" I suggest.

He puts on an instrumental track with a modern electronic sound, probably mainstream and popular.

"What is it? Educate me," I say.

Chris goes enthusiastically into the realm of drums-n-base and the related and even weirder outposts of club music. I can't believe he enjoys this stuff so much. I thought you had to be on drugs to be able to endure these gut-wrenching rhythms. Maybe I'm an old-fashioned hag with over-sensitive ears. Not a good match for Blake, then.

Eventually, the party boils down to a small company gathered around the coffee table and drinking the port Blake has been saving for such an occasion.

Annette is still here. Kurt left, but Trish presumably decided to stick around for my sake.

When she and Chris go outside for a cigarette, Annette asks us, "What's the craziest thing you've ever done?"

"I once went alone on a bike ride to Death Valley," says Blake.

"Was it hot?" I ask.

"No, it was February, bloody freezing. I got chills and stayed in the nearest motel for days afterwards to recover."

"That's crazy. What about you, Annette?" I ask.

"I don't know. I'm boring. I went to an orgy once and forgot to take the pill," she laughed.

"What? What happened then?" I probably have a well-mixed expression of terror and disgust on my face.

"Nothing. I got lucky," she shrugs.

"Wow, I've never been to an orgy," Blake says.

"You haven't?" Annette looks surprised. "What about you, Chloe?"

"Nope," I say shyly as if it's something shameful to admit.

"What about a threesome?" she asks me.

"Nope."

"Would you like to try it?"

"Not particularly," I say, slightly scared now.

"You sure?" she actually bothers to verify. "We could have fun together. It'd be so hot to watch you and Blake, you know. Have you tried it with a girl?"

No, and I've had enough of your nonsensical questions.

"Blake, what do you think?" I ask.

"Don't know. We could... I guess, just... What about you?" he says it slowly while studying my reaction. He can't hide the fact that he's interested, which is the last straw as far as I'm concerned.

"No. I'm too tired, so I'm going to leave now. I've got an early start tomorrow. But you guys carry on." I spit it out quickly while I spring to my feet and grab my jacket in haste.

"Chloe, it's still early," Blake says, rising too.

"I need to go," I say, avoiding eye contact with him. "I know the way out. It was nice to meet you, Annette. Bye." I wave my hand at her, turn around, collect Trish and get the hell out of there.

The most annoying thing is perfectly clear to me: I'm no better than Blake. Moreover, at least he is honest about the fact he's been seeing other girls.

**17. The Madonna Lily ( Lilium candidum)**

I arrive at St Pancras train station and rush to the coffee kiosk desperately craving for a life-saving ingestion of cappuccino. I'm out of the habit of waking up so early and so I'm not sure if I'm giddy because of excitement or low blood pressure.

When I approach the tourist information kiosk with the paper cup firmly attached to my mouth and my wheelie-bag rolling behind me, I see Terrence pacing back and forth and checking his watch.

"Hello, I'm not very late, am I?" I ask.

"Not at all. Hello darling."

We hug each other and I have to abandon my coffee for a moment to kiss the man. Then we go through the check in gates and find seats in the departure lounge.

Terrence leaves me for a moment to buy newspapers. I check my hair, which, to my surprise, isn't dishevelled. I probably irradiate contentment at the moment. The exam mayhem is over, just the little final hurdle of my thesis left to hop over, so it's perfect timing for a small getaway with Terrence.

"This is for you." I look up and see him holding out a white rose to me.

What gallantry!

"I saw your button-hole is missing a flower," he says pointing to my coat.

I thank him and bury my nose into the petals. It is more invigorating than the cappuccino.

We are soon invited to board the train, a first-class carriage, where Terrence treats us to a bottle of champagne. If there is one thing Terrence doesn't need to work on, it is generosity. His mum brought him up well.

After a quick breakfast, he dives into his newspapers and I take out my laptop to go through some academic papers for my article on cyanobacteria. I need to find a way of stopping them from producing toxins, at least in theory. My search for toxic blooms and plant symbiosis using Google Scholar yields an interesting paper called 'The Secret Life of Plants'. Most of it is dedicated to the neurobiology of plants, a grey area of science at the moment. I don't quite know yet how it's going help me with the toxins, but my curiosity is piqued by it.

"Plant intelligence? What the hell are you reading, Chloe?"

Terrence has clearly finished with the papers and is now scanning my computer screen.

"Shocking I know. There's an on-going debate on whether plants have a brain or not, but a growing consensus is that they have some sort of alternative. A complex system involving many tissues, chemical signals and electricity."

"Don't tell that to vegetarians, they may decide to go on a hunger strike." He attempts a joke.

"Unlikely, but this could put an end to our hypocrisy stroke delusion in recognising animals' monopoly on pain perception." I'm very pleased with this line. I hope I'm going to say something like this during my presentation on my thesis.

"My God, Chloe, you should work as a McDonald's spokesperson. Such talent shouldn't be wasted in the lab."

"It's up to me to decide how to waste it, thank you very much." I smile and close my laptop. "Since there's no way I'm going to study now, fill me up with the latest media schlock. Anyone come out, been repossessed and locked up this week?"

"Spokesperson she is," Terrence laughs while I punch his shoulder.

***

"Is this a former royal residence?" I ask when our taxi stops at a building with an Empire style façade.

"No, just a hostel we're staying at," Terrence winks at me.

A fellow wearing an Enlightenment-era uniform opens the car door for me and offers a gloved hand for support, addressing me as Madame.

Madame? That would be nice.

"What's it called again?" I ask Terrence when we walk to the entrance.

"La Maison des Champs Élysées," he says proudly. I burst out laughing because of his mispronunciation of almost every syllable of it.

"What's funny?"

"You French is adorable," I reply, wiping the tears.

"Someone's asking for trouble." He slaps my arse.

While Terrence checks us in at reception, I look around the vestibule.

Five stars, no less. Everything looks immaculate and somewhat eclectic. Empire versus Chanel-inspired minimalism is my conclusion of the efforts of an amateur interior designer. I've never been to places like this, even during my stellar drama school years.

I feel the urge to learn more about luxury and architecture in case Terrence starts taking me to posh parties. I wouldn't want to come across as an ignorant ladder climber. Plus, I'd need to think about how to brand my profession to avoid the organic farmer tag. Not because I care that much about what a bunch of rich snobs would think about me. It's for the sake of Terrence.

Our parlour, I wouldn't call it anything else, is like one of those you see in films. Tons of space, everything is white and atmospheric. Expensive fabric. There are white orchids, lilies and red Anthurium in vases scattered around the lounge. I must be a princess and this is my fairy tale.

Our luggage arrives promptly, and Terrence gives a twenty-euro note to the porter, who grins and mutters 'merci monsieur' a couple of times before disappearing behind the doors.

"Stop throwing money around," I tell him. "Can you actually afford all this?"

"Don't worry about that. I owe you. It's my delayed Christmas treat, if you like."

His words miss my ears, as I'm busy inspecting the parlour. Terrence follows me and grins at each of my outbursts of admiration.

"Are you tired? Would you like to order lunch in?" he asks.

"No, no, no! We are in Paris, let's go out."

"Here we go. I've found an adventurous soul."

"Well, at least we can have lunch downstairs before we go out on a journey," I say.

"You probably already know but this is the best shopping street." He must think that shopping on the Champs d'Élysées is every female's dream.

"We'll think of something to buy, but before that I'll need a relaxing bath for inspiration. I warn you, it might take a while here," I say.

"No worries. I'll take a shower meanwhile, and then a little nap," he says.

"You go first then," I say.

"No need, there're two bathrooms."

I look at him in disbelief. "You're in such trouble now."

"What have I done?"

"Nothing and everything. It'd be impossible for me to top all this," I say, waving my hands in a gesture of abundance.

"We'll see." He comes close to me and gives me his best ever snog.

I think I might have found my Prince Charming at last.

Considering Terrence's occupation, he's a surprisingly bad sightseeing planner. If it was up to him, we'd spend all day eating lunch, then view the embankment of the Seine from a boat before stuffing ourselves with foie gras and red wine at a cosy place somewhere in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, followed by us being shipped back to our La Masonic Lodge. Quite satisfying to some, but not the infected-with-a-culture-bug me.

I seize the reins during our post-lunch espresso.

"I think we should start with the Luxembourg Garden, then go to Les Tuileries; it could be a fun comparison. The Louvre is just around the corner. So, a couple of hours there –"

"Maybe we could skip it?" Terrence suggests.

"No way, it's the best thing in Paris."

"But there will be crowds of tourists there," he objects.

"There's a reason for that. Besides, I haven't been there for seven or eight years now. How about you?"

"Well, I..." he mumbles something indiscernible.

"What? You've never been to the Louvre? How many times have you visited Paris, ten?"

Please, doctors, I need ammonia.

"I'm not a fan of museums," he shrugs, looking sheepish as if he fears I'm going to stop liking him for that. Well, I'm not, but he needs to be educated.

"It's because you've never been here with me. I promise you'll love it," I say.

Who says dating Prince Charming isn't hard work?

***

Three hours later I hound him below the glass pyramid, where he can finally rest on the descending escalator.

"The real fun is about to start," I announce.

"If you say so." He gives me this 'I'm fucking tired' look and I think of getting us yet another coffee before entering the exhibitions. A better idea comes to mind: I retrieve a bottle of water from my bag and hand it over.

"You're dehydrated, darling. Finish it off and your strength will return."

We start with the old Greek marbles. I get my phone camera ready and take a couple of snaps.

"Terry, could you please pose for me here?" I request.

"What, next to this dickless bloke? No."

"Please, it's the Pythian Apollo. Isn't it amazing how the male body hasn't changed in three thousand years. But the clothing has. I want to document the transformation."

I can see he's flattered with this comparison to Apollo.

"Is it one of your pranks? Promise me it's not," he says.

"Of course, not. I promise."

I don't have a single photograph of him and I'd like to have at least one after this trip. There'll be a lot of questions from Trish.

We circle around the statues until I suddenly give him my phone. "Press here when I'm there," I instruct him, pointing. Then I climb up on the podium behind a beheaded sculpture and make it whole once again, at least with my silly head.

"You're crazy! But I've got it," Terrence laughs.

"Miss, you can't be up there. Get down immediately."

A museum worker hurries to me as I jump off the platform and giggle.

"Sorry, I swear I won't do it again," I say to her.

Terrence frowns at me and shakes his head.

"I'm dating a tomboy," he says.

An inexhaustible sightseeing-mad tourist substitutes for tomboy after I drag Terrence through two more art galleries before sunset. He is allowed to regain his breath at the top of the Eiffel Tower, where the admirable night-lit Paris temporarily distracts me.

I suggest a grand finale for our day at a vibrant restaurant, which I discovered by doing a meticulous flip-through of my Lonely Planet travel guide.

"No, Chloe. It's a fucking mountain to climb. Let's dine at our hotel and continue the drinks in our room. I'm overwhelmed beyond sanity already."

Undaunted and disregarding his childish whinging, I devise a cunning counterattack. It's a 'No Way, Terrence' that I'm in Paris and not sieging Montmartre. Sunday is not going to be the same there and we are leaving on Monday afternoon. No way to retreat, Captain McKenzie.

"Don't get me wrong, darling, I love our La-Maising parlour, but you have to trust me on this. We are young, aren't we? La Bonne Franquette has a great cabaret show. Have you ever seen the French cancan? Did you know this restaurant has fed every famous Impressionist painter you can name, even your favourite Monet? Also, there's a tram going up to the top of Montmartre, so no climbing is necessary. It's the best place in Paris."

"You've already said that about the Louvre," he grumbles.

"What, you didn't like it?" I ask, hands on hips.

"Of course I did, especially the fact I nearly got arrested when someone hoisted herself on a sculpture and then torpedoed through the crowd to get to _Mona Lisa_."

"I don't know what you are talking about," I say.

"It was very entertaining to see to what lengths Chloe would go to take a shot of another masterpiece, even when there's a clear sign saying no photography allowed."

"Oi! I didn't use flash. Why can't I have fun, just once, for one day?"

Pause.

"Oh don't make that sad puppy face, you hit below the belt," Terrence sighs. "All right, let's dine out there."

Yay! I try hard but fail to hide my joy.

"We'll have a relaxing Sunday, all day, I promise." I kiss him and assure him that this would make me so happy.

What I don't tell him is that when he went to the loo earlier on at the Pompidou museum, I booked a table for us over the phone at La Bonne. You might think it's not such a good idea to show reckless assertiveness when you go on holiday with your potential other half for the first time. But why should I hide who I am? I have had enough with men shaping my path; from now on, I'm making sure I'm an equal.

Any woman who has self-respect gets what she wants in the end.

"Bonsoir," the waiter addresses us when we reach our destination.

"J'ai réservé une table au nom de Chloe," I say, provoking his loud praise of my French. The bastard spoils it immediately by asking if we are American. I reply 'English' and show him a two-fingered gesture. Terrence gives me that look.

"For two people, I know," the waiter nods, oblivious to the mortal offence I just caused him.

"You speak French, troublemaker?" Terrence says while we are ushered to our seats. "There was something about a reservation, wasn't there?"

"Correct," I beam at him, sheer innocence.

"It was your plan all along, wasn't it?"

I grin and repeat my regular one-liner, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, you don't."

If it were Blake, we'd have exchanged informed and mischievous smiles. Men can be so different.

By the time Terrence decides what to eat from the menu (I know in advance, it's a steak), we finish our first bottle of wine. I get snails for a starter, simply for the sake of observing his face distort in horror.

"I'm not kissing you after those," he threatens.

"You are funny. It's the same as to say that I'm not using the loo after you chuck them out in the morning," I laugh.

"Chloe! That's gross!"

"Flies would disagree," I sprinkle with laughter. Possibly, I am pushing the limits here. "Sorry, I don't know what's got into me today. I blame you for spoiling me so much."

"I dread to think what you're scheming next."

Out of compassion, I leave him in peace for the rest of the meal.

The cabaret throws him back into the thick of things when a showgirl sits on his lap and put his hand on her inner thigh. Terrence looks at me helplessly, his face turning ketchup-red. A hysterical guffaw pierces my body like a lightning bolt and I give the woman a hi-five. I think I may have pulled some muscles. I should really contain myself next time.

It's half-past eleven when we finally escape from La Bonne and Terrence catches a taxi for us. During our journey back to the hotel, we pass Pigalle.

"What a shit hole," Terrence comments.

"What, bad memories?" I ask.

"Mistakes of my youth."

"Don't be silly, child, it was just a bad dream."

"I'm drifting away," he sighs and uses my lap as a cushion to rest his head.

I have to kiss him like it's a reversed gender version of _The Sleeping Beauty_ to wake him up when we arrive back at the hotel. Terrence is so happy to be here, he manages to cover the distance between the taxi and our room in an uninterrupted vertical state.

Once back in the parlour I run to the bathroom to remove my make-up.

Why was I worried about Terrence? The day has gone so well that I never felt bored. He's not as creative as Blake, yet he's pleasant company nonetheless. Sometimes being too picky is plain stupid. And considering I behaved like an idiot half the day, he's a sport for patience. Shame I didn't take a picture of him with that girl. Trish is going to have a seizure from laughing when I tell her.

It may sound like an understatement, but he wasn't joking when he said he was tired.

As I walk back in the bedroom, I see Terrence already in bed, undressed and fast asleep, and his clothes dispersed haphazardly around the room.

His phone at the bedside lights up and starts vibrating. A photo of a good looking blonde woman and the name Samantha come up on the screen. Who could she be and why is she calling at this hour? Maybe his sister? What was her name? Or could it be his ex?

I hesitate over whether to answer it or not. Luckily Samantha hangs up, thus relieving me of making the choice. Should I wake him up? What if it's something urgent?

Calm down, Chloe. She will text if it is.

Terrence looks so hot with this happy face and upper torso sticking out from under the duvet. I lean in to kiss him on the forehead. Despite the fumes of alcohol emanating from his body, he's my little treasure.

I take a look at his phone. No messages. Nothing important then.

***

His loud groan is the final chord of our morning intercourse. I'm buried under his sweating body, now immobile.

"I love you," he says, breathing heavily.

"I love you too," I reply, and almost believe that since I said that, it must be true.

He burrows his face into the cushion just above my left shoulder.

"Terrence?"

"Mmmm?"

Are you falling back to sleep?

"I need to go to the bathroom," I say.

"Sorry," he mumbles and moves himself off me. "I was guarding my Open Sesame."

"Then I should nickname you Alibaba. By the way, someone called Samantha tried reaching you last night; you may need to return the call." I put an emphasis on the name and Terrence looks startled.

He grabs his phone while I put on my nightie.

"Oh ho. That's my ex. I wonder what she wanted," he says.

"Reunion?" Even in a state of shock I can't resist a joke. "I didn't know you were still in touch with her?"

Did that sound like jealousy? He mentioned he'd had a long previous relationship, but now I've got the name and the face. And she's doesn't look like a woman to ignore.

"Just keeping in touch," he replies.

Yeah, a close touch if she calls you at night.

I don't bring the topic up again during the remainder of our stay in Paris. But I can't stop thinking that this is it. We'll come back to London and everything will be the same: dinners and lame jokes and the Bonk Plaza. Sad thoughts. I decide to focus on my paper instead.

"Someone's turning into a thundercloud. Did I bore you so much?"

It takes me some time to realise it's Terrence who's intruding into my thoughts.

The train is rushing through the tunnel under the English Channel, and its noise hypnotised me into that world of unpleasant imaginings.

"Not at all. I was thinking about us and what's next?" I say.

"I hope we'll spend more time together once you're free from your academic chores," he says.

"I hope this means meeting your friends, maybe your ex?"

"Okay, maybe," he replies without enthusiasm, then he adds, "I meant something more intimate."

"Like what?"

"Moving in together?" he says with an understated tone.

"What? You said you lived with your sister."

"I did and I do, but a cosy place for the two of us is much better, isn't it?"

"Bye-bye, Bonk Plaza?" I ask.

"Yep. What do you think?"

"It'd be great. The only problem is that I'll need to shock Trish and Kurt."

"I'm sure they'll understand. Didn't you say your flatmate is thinking of moving in with her boyfriend? I hope you'll introduce us at some point. I don't know anything about your life, but everything about your course."

"I'll think of something," I reply calmly.

Inside, I'm panicking. If he really wants us to move on, I'll need to do something about Blake. There's no future for me with him. His tours and the hordes of Annettes would always be an issue. I need to cut him off once and for all.

"You don't look happy," Terrence comments. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, the bloody thesis is on my mind. Let's discuss the flat. Whereabouts are you looking?" I portray massive enthusiasm on my face.

"Not looking anymore," he smiles widely. "I paid a deposit on one last Friday to take it off the market for a while, but I'm not signing the contract before you approve it."

18. Juniper (Juniperus communis)

Everything's falling out of my hands today. Could the reason be that I've been going through my dumping speech all day? I even tried writing it down, but it turned out clumsy at best. Intuition tells me that something awful is coming. I haven't got the slightest idea how Blake is going to react. And I'm still undecided whether I'm going tell him the bit about Terrence and me or not.

"Exams or men?"

"Sorry?"

I see Fiona standing in front of me waiting for the answer.

"I said, exams or men? Chloe, you haven't been yourself since you came back from holiday. Is everything okay?"

"Don't worry, just one of these days," I reply and try to grin.

"Dear God, have some chocolate." She hands me a box of Lindt leftovers from Christmas. "You smile like someone who's got piles and a stomach upset on top of Chlamydia."

I chuckle.

"That's better. If you're not immune to my humour, then not all is lost," she smiles.

I don't have any intention of making Fiona my confidante; considering how busy she is, it'd be unfair to her. In comparison, all I have are a silly girl's problems.

When I get home, I think I'll have a light meal, since I'm not sure I'll have any appetite later on. Which is not a bad thing: if I focus on the hunger, I can tolerate bitter thoughts better. Then I think, nope; when I'm hungry I bark at everyone.

I'm about to embark (sic!) on a journey through the fridge when I hear a knock at the door. Damn, he's early.

"Hi, beautiful." Blake looks so happy to see me and awards me an undeserved kiss.

"You've been avoiding me all weekend. I popped in on Saturday, but Trish said you'd gone to your parents' place."

Thank you, Trish.

"Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something," I say.

I probably look tense and pale, so his face becomes serious.

"You're not mad at me for Annette, are you? She can't help it, she's French."

"Did you sleep with her after I left?"

"No, of course not. We're just friends now."

"Special friends, like me and you?" I ask.

He looks slightly guilty.

"I like you, not her. You know that." He approaches me, but I avoid his embrace.

"Blake, I've been thinking about us. We need to stop this completely. I can't do this anymore."

"Are you jealous, silly?"

"It's not that. This sexual relationship is not what I'm looking for. I need certainty. I'm sorry, Blake."

"We've been dating for how long? Three months?"

"Dating? It's mainly hook-ups, considering you invite exes to your parties who offer threesomes."

"I've already apologized about Annette. Was it my fault?" he's almost shouting now.

Time to come clean, Chloe.

"It's not that, Blake," I say quietly but the words hit my ears like thunder. "I've been seeing someone else and it's about to get serious. I've made my choice. I'm sorry."

"What?" He looks puzzled. "Really, another guy?"

The answer is written on my face. I want to fall through the ground now. The explosion is forthcoming. I shrink like a dehydrated desert plant.

Instead, he gives me a mischievous grin and then laughs.

"You've been playing me? Oh my God!"

"No, I had to be sure," I mumble meekly.

"You're good. Who would have thought that a girl like you..."

There's a silence. Blake studies me in the light of new evidence.

"So who's the winner?"

"You don't know him."

"What's he called at least?"

"Terrence."

"What's he like?"

"He's a banker, good-looking and stable."

"Stable? Sounds like a reprimand to be stable. Do you love him?" he asks.

I am not sure about it but I nod to avoid any ambiguity. It's been hard enough already.

"I see. No further questions."

"I'm sorry, Blake."

"I'm fine and I'm glad you're honest. As you said, we've only been special friends. Can we still be friends?"

"Of course," I say. "But without that special addition."

"Fine with me. So... are you meeting this Terrence tonight or are we still having dinner together?"

"No and yes, dinner would be nice if you don't mind," I say and look into his eyes trying to understand what he feels. It's a sheepish look covered with bravado, if that makes sense. You don't have to be a psychologist to tell that I've bruised his masculine self-image.

I need to be nice to him but keep the distance firmly. No way back.

We decide to go to a nearby Chinese place because we are both starving and can't wait for long.

"You know what's the advantage of being friends?" he says while taking another duck and spring onion roll.

"No one having to pretend to be in the mood for sex when they're not?" I try guessing.

"Ooh, what do you mean, Chloe? Men can't pretend anyway. We're always in the mood. Okay, the joke was that friends can split the bill and everyone is happy."

I say, "I'm paying for both of us tonight."

"Is guilt making you so generous? Damn. If I'd known I'd have ordered lobster."

He isn't funny tonight; he's probably more upset than I thought. Yet his appetite remains intact. For that I'm grateful. Feeling guilty would be an extra burden I don't need. It's best for me to keep our conversation neutral and not say anything patronising.

"How's your thesis on blue-green algae going?" I'm surprised he's remembered what I'm writing about.

"Slightly behind my schedule, but hopefully I'll manage to finish before the submission deadline," I lie. The progress is actually extremely good, but I don't want to sound too victorious.

"I hope you didn't dump me and invent your Terrence out of thin air so as to get a lot of free time for your writing. That would have been very sick and nerdily disgusting of you."

He looks as if he actually hopes that I did make the whole thing up.

"Don't be silly," I say. "By the way, how's your tour preparation going? Any dates booked yet?"

"Dates? We start in Melbourne in early February and stay in Oz for two weeks before coming back to Europe where the venues will be confirmed soon."

"When's the album out? I'll be the first to buy it," I promise.

"You'll get your signed copy from me as soon as we get the proofs," he replies.

Music biz is something Blake can be easily distracted with. And talking about it boosts his self-esteem.

After the meal, we roll outside, filled to the brim, and are suddenly caught by gusts of wind.

"Cold. I need a drink, what about you?" Blake says.

I decide that tonight I'm too agitated to focus on any writing, so having a drink would be a good way to calm down.

The bar we settle on is called Nostalgia. Blake holds the door for me and I enter its wooden parlour but then stop abruptly.

Five metres away from me I see James. He is sitting on a tall chair, with broadly open legs, and talking to her. The ancient bitch.

"Chloe, you going in?" It's Blake's voice from behind.

I spin around and tell him, "Can we please go somewhere else?"

"What's wrong with here? There are free seats," he says.

"It stinks! Can we please go?" I push him aside and walk out.

"Hey, wait." Blake catches my hand when we are back in the street and studies my face. I turn away but he's already spotted tears in my eyes.

"What's happened?"

"A bit of dust. Can we go elsewhere, please?"

"I won't move until you tell me what's the matter?"

I look up at him, "Saw my ex, long story. Now can we go, please?"

"Of course. But we are friends and friends don't keep secrets from each other. You scared me."

He gives me his worried look and wipes away my tears with a handkerchief he produces out of nowhere. This provokes a masochistic urge in me to pour certain sad memories out. It's been a long time since I talked about James with anyone but my mum.

***

"A fucking BAFTA-nominated film director! She's fourteen years older than him."

Blake listens to me quietly, while I dispose of the remaining rage. The pub is only half-full, so we've managed to get ourselves a table with two leather-bound armchairs. I place my left palm above the candle flames and keep it immobile until it starts hurting me.

"I don't know what was more painful: his betrayal or the fact that I couldn't see that he'd sell his arse to shoot up the career ladder. Would you become someone's lover to get a big recording contract?"

"Depends if she's hot," Blake chuckles. "Seriously, it seems that your James is still with her though. Maybe it wasn't a career move. Maybe he did fall for her," he shrugs.

"I can't believe it. Why would you defend him?"

"I'm not. Just saying. But..." He stops.

"But what?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"No, say what you wanted to say!"

Blake looks down. "I guess my point is that whether he's a calculating bastard or not, it's been over for years now. Did he want you to quit acting? No. Yes, he hurt you, shit happens, people fall in love and fall out. Some are no strangers to backstabbing. The fact is he's no longer with you. He should be as good as dead to you. But you're still reacting as if you've never fallen out of love with him."

I take a slow sip of the double gin and tonic, thinking about what he's said.

"I'm not sure if I'm able to love again, to trust anyone," I admit at last.

"Really? I've never pictured you as an over-sensitive type. Mind you, your trust issue explains why you've been dating me and the lucky guy in parallel," he winks.

"You always try to joke, don't you?" I realise that I say this with reproach in my voice. Which is unfair. I owe him an explanation.

"After I quit drama school I lost confidence in myself. Empty heart, broken career. Or the other way around. It may have been a rushed decision, but I knew I'd never be able to pursue acting after what happened. I didn't love acting per se. I loved it when I was in love with James. Acting was our thing. I studied for him, because he loved it. I wanted to make him proud and love me back even more.

"When I ended up on my own, acting stopped making sense to me. There I was – useless, with no direction in life. The fact that he chose an older and more successful woman after what we had together, how could it not make me feel inferior? I'm glad it's over. Eight years from then and my confidence is still shaky. But do you really think I overreacted?" I attempt a feeble smile at him.

"Yes, I think you did, though it must totally suck to lose your aspirations. I'd be gutted if I fell out with music."

"On the good side, I have a real calling now."

"Somewhat strange though," Blake comments.

"It's not," I say.

"Finish your drink, weirdo. I'll get you a bonus one for the best sob story."

He gets up off his seat, but I catch his arm.

"How dare you say such things! Don't you have a heart?"

"Not anymore. It's been stolen by a confused and soil-obsessed nerd."

I open my mouth in surprise and let him go. Is he messing with me again?

There he waits for his order, leaning on the bar stand and stealing occasional looks at me, his muscled arms bulging through the sleeves of his checked shirt. He is here for me, and for one moment I want him to be mine again.

Then I retrieve the image of Annette's face from memory, and she's saying, "He's too cool for you."

She's right.

I need someone predictable; plain humour without double meanings. I need Terrence. The choice has been made.

19. Exploding Cucumber (Ecballium elaterium)

I think most problems in my life arise from the fact that I only pay attention to anything that occurs within arm's reach. I still haven't done anything remotely useful for humankind.

I don't even know if my paper will be good for anything except recycling and getting me a grade. And nailing a place at Bathbrush's lab, I remind myself.

Why am I fretting over it so much then? It's as if it's a mental shield, as if I'm scared of the future. Is it a way to keep my mind off Blake?

At least I managed to avoid his presence at the flat-warming party, which I deliberately threw a day after he fled to Oz.

Kurt and Trish kept wowing while inspecting our cosy nest. It's a top floor flat in a converted Victorian house, a couple of hundred metres away from Marylebone Road tube station.

Terrence was beyond articulate bliss at their approval of his taste and he generously supplied my guests with top-ups of Moët. Trish won further brownie points by suggesting a couples' retreat to Goa in June. On Terrence's side there were two blokes from his firm who arrived with their girlfriends. They bored me by shamelessly discussing a hunk on one of the current American TV shows. Champagne was much appreciated.

"It'll be hard to find a good new flatmate." Kurt came to my rescue, after I'd been repeatedly interrogated about what celeb I'd bed, wed and have children with if I could.

"You still have Trish to keep you company. Besides, I'm not moving out yet," I said when we found a quieter corner in the kitchen. "I'll shuttle for the next month or two and then we'll see."

"Doubts?" he asked.

"No, I want to take things slowly. I've been single for too long and I can't leap straight into an intense relationship. I need to have some space while we get used to each other."

"Is Terrence okay about it?"

I nodded.

"And are you happy?"

"I am, in general. It needs to sink in. I feel overwhelmed with the entire change happening and the final exam. It's the end of my student life."

"I think shuttling is a good idea," he nods mysteriously.

For the last week I've been recalling this conversation many times. I've stepped up the social ladder by becoming a couple with Terrence. Even my mum has been nice to me lately. Yet, why does it feel like I'm now living someone else's dream? What about my dream? And what about this annoying habit of torturing myself with meaningless questions?

I was rather careless to voice my concerns to Mum.

"Doubt is perfectly normal," she states with the confidence that I have never yet seen falter in her. "It means you have brains, and understand that Terrence is not perfect for you, like no one else ever is."

"But I'm not sure I love him."

There, I said it.

"You do like him, though, and that's sufficient," she says and looks completely unruffled about my confession.

"Is it?"

"It's good enough to produce children. Love is a medieval invention. It's been long substituted with convenience and suitability. Terrence is right for you. It's only a matter of time before you realise that by yourself."

I found her words consoling, yet mothers can't be trusted on such things. They want their daughters to be happily married; happily as in having money and children but not necessarily love. Then I think she could be right. After what I went through with James, my heart might have been burnt out, and I'm not capable of feeling the same with Terrence. This logic would be enough to put my mind at rest if it wasn't for Blake.

I got his postcard from Melbourne yesterday and the mere sight of 'Dear Chloe' in his handwriting cut off my breath for few moments and left me on the brink of tears. Scratch this – I did shed a few.

Trish said it would go away. Indeed, I'm feeling much better today: half-empty gym in the morning, only a few customers at the shop, and even Fiona looks unusually relaxed when I leave work.

On the way, I contemplate about what I'm going to cook for Terrence. Garlic chicken breasts would do nicely, with a lot of vegetables. Not too fattening, as he needs to keep his love handles from expanding. We need to cut down on the wine too. This is the problem with quiet nights in: the fridge is too easy to reach.

A relationship is hard work and I need to get busy. What's the point, otherwise?

I barely get inside when the doorbell buzzes. I pick up the receiver. "Hi, who is it?"

"It's Samantha."

I pause. That Samantha?

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting a call from anyone. You sure you have the right flat?" I say.

"Yes, are you Chloe?"

"Now it's getting weird. How do you know my name?"

"I guess Terrence isn't around? I'm his fiancée."

My chest constricts abruptly.

What?

"Can I come up? I need to talk to you," she persists.

I press the button.

She is deliberately slow, or perhaps time distorts as my heartbeat accelerates. I feel numb, unable to move.

Fiancée? Shit!

Maybe this isn't real, I think for a moment, but there she is, entering the flat and carrying herself with a predatory, feline demeanour.

She must be about forty, well preserved though. Her blonde hair, neatly done, streams onto her shoulders, a vivid contrast to the dark grey cashmere of her dress. She stops a metre away from me and scrutinises my exterior like a cyborg going in for the kill. Then she smiles. Lizard is the word.

Are you hiding a gun in that green reptile skin bag of yours?

"May I come in?" she says in a high-pitched and casual voice with a hint of an American accent.

I defrost myself and invite her into the lounge.

"What a lovely flat! You chose it?" She runs her finger over a few surfaces and checks it for dust. Having gathered none, she turns to me.

"I came to say 'Hello', but don't be mistaken. We are not friends, and never will be. You have him for now but it won't last long. In fact, none of them lasted more than a few months."

"Them?"

"Don't look surprised," she makes an irritatingly patronising grimace. "You really thought you were the one? Well, you should think twice before you start stalking already-taken men like Terrence."

Is she mad? I didn't stalk anyone.

"Excuse me, let me get this clear. Are you engaged to Terrence? He told me that you are an ex-girlfriend."

She laughs, throwing her head back.

"But of course he did. Two weeks ago he came clean and told me he's having an affair with someone," she says in an amused tone.

Affair. Is this what we have?

"Then he told me that he's moving in with you, that it's over between us," her voice breaks into hissing. "But it's not over."

She approaches me again and continues, "I wanted to see what you are like. Now I know, I shouldn't have bothered myself so much as to track down your filthy hide-out." The last words she utters with particularly crafted contempt.

My mind is trying to figure out if there's any truth in this. How could he have deceived me? He's not that inventive. Is she completely mad?

"Yes, you should be ashamed of yourself, you thief!" she says after she finishes studying my face.

"Get out of here. Now," I say without raising my voice and I point to the front door. "I've had enough of this insanity."

"Am I insane?" She looks at me incredulously.

"Yes, you are. Please, leave now," I say and take her arm to usher her out.

"Get your dirty hands off me, you slut!"

She pushes me away and I fall onto the sofa.

"If you don't leave, I'm calling the police!"

"Yeah, and what will you say? That your secret whore lair was busted? You don't have the guts." She lets out a stifled laugh.

This is getting clinical. What kind of woman talks like that?

"You thought you could get away with this?" she continues. "Well, you won't. You're the one who needs to leave."

I glance at my mobile on the coffee table and she notices this. We both rush forward at the same time. I get it first and clutch it against my chest.

"Give me the fucking phone!" she roars and clings to my hand with both of hers. I lose balance and we fall on the floor. She suddenly moves her hands sideways and the phone flies out of my grasp. She lurches to the left to grab it and tips the coffee table over. The crystal vase on it slips down and shatters into pieces.

"Oops," she says, stopping for moment.

Oops? Is she a freaking twelve-year-old?

I trip her by the ankle and she falls on the floor again.

Well done, Chloe!

"You bitch," she shouts.

I don't know how but I'm determined to get this rabid poodle into restraints.

She attempts to kick me in the shin, but I press both her calves firmly to the floor. What do I do now? How on earth did Terrence ever get involved with her?

"I swear you'll regret it." She wriggles, trying to escape.

The sound of a key unlocking the front door renders us immobile.

"Sam? What the hell are you doing here?" Terrence asks when he walks in.

I must say he's got a nerve to take it so calmly. It must have been an automatic reaction, because now he's blushing like crazy.

I release Samantha and spring to my feet.

"Chloe, I can explain everything," he says.

Banality again.

He looks into my eyes with apprehension, probably to rate the damage. I look away.

"Will you give me back my phone?" I ask Samantha.

Remarkably, she does so without any objection.

An awkward silence follows.

I take my coat and move towards the exit. Terrence blocks it.

"Could we please, please talk like civilised people?" he begs.

"No, I'm done here."

"Chloe, please, don't go, I broke up with her. Sam, tell her we did."

"I don't care if you did. You lied to me."

I'm surprised at how cold my voice sounds.

I walk past him and run downstairs.

"Chloe, please, let's talk about it."

I ignore this and continue until I get outside. There the tears burst out of my eyes.

Lying shit! How could he?

I reach the end of the street when I hear him shouting from behind.

"Chloe, wait!"

I look back and see him at the door of the flats. I keep walking away, quicker with every step, but he follows me, calling my name. I start running and take my Oyster card out of my pocket. I glance back periodically and see him catching up with me.

When I rush inside the tube station, I dodge to the newspapers rack and hide behind it. I see Terrence a moment later: he stops abruptly and swears, hitting the turnstile and startling a few people passing by.

"Sorry," he says and storms outside. I wait for a moment and then my phone starts ringing.

Shit, it must be him.

I hurry to the barrier and through it and scurry down the escalator. Once I board the train, I cover my face with my hands and try not to sob loudly. I might have escaped him, and further unhappiness, but I'm left empty now. To think I ditched Blake for this shit. Idiot!

As I exit at Highbury and Islington I feel the immediate urge to get sloshed, so I stop by at the corner shop and buy a bottle of Smirnoff, a carton of orange juice and a bag of ice. I check my phone and find a bunch of unanswered calls and messages from Terrence.

Too late for you, arsehole!

When I enter the flat, I see Trish spread out on the coach watching the TV.

"My God, what happened?" she gasps, standing up.

"You want to drink?" I say.

"What's this bruise on your cheek? Did he beat you up?" She takes the shopping from me.

"No, his ex did," I reply.

"What?" Trish looks so shocked and sympathetic that I can't hold it anymore.

"It was so humiliating," I struggle to speak, choking on my tears. "She said he dumped her just before Paris. He was lying to me all that time."

"Bastard!"

Trish fixes us two vodkas while I pour out the details of the accident.

"She's nuts!" Trish comments. "It seems totally unbelievable that Terrence dated her."

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. What can I do? He's a knob!" I shake in repulsion.

"Chloe, please don't take it badly, but if you think about it, he did leave her for you in the end, didn't he?"

"So what? With her attacking me like that, it doesn't seem like he did it properly."

"Are you only mad at him for that? Or because he didn't tell you he dated that loony?"

"She said she was his fiancée."

"You didn't answer my question."

Pause.

"Is this about Terrence at all?"

I look inside my glass and swirl the ice in it.

"Of course it is!" I shout. "If Terrence wasn't such a liar, I could have forgotten Blake."

"Oh shit," Trish says. "I knew it."

I pour myself another glass of vodka.

"What do I do now?"

"Let me get this clear? Are you in love with Terrence or Blake?" she asks.

"Right now I hate them both!"

There must be so much loathing written on my face that Trish withdraws further questions. The truth is the only person I'm cross at now is myself.

The sudden ringing of the doorbell makes me jump.

"Don't open it," I whisper.

"Calm down, Chloe. It's probably Victor."

Trish tiptoes to the front door and looks through the peephole.

"Victor," she confirms and lets him in.

As she fills him in, respectfully keeping her voice low, I down the third glass of vodka.

"I think we should go out tonight," I announce.

Their resistance is futile, so ten minutes later we board a cab and head to Soho. By the time we reach that nest of dirt and glamour, I look more or less presentable. I don't care if it's the alcohol talking, but I'm feeling freed.

One thing I'm sure about is that I shall never, ever again ridicule barefoot girls in tiny dresses staggering along the roadside on Saturday night and making stops just to throw up a puddle of pain.

20. Duckweed fern (Azolla)

I can't say I was ever a morning person, even before yesterday's heartbreak-but-not-really-a-heartbreak and the Soho debauchery occurred, but this morning I'm definitely high on misanthropy and photophobia.

The sunniest day of the year could have picked a more apt July placement, yet it chose this worst February slot, probably to stun me further into a suicidal mood. And it is more the alcohol still locked in my body rather than the sunshine that is to blame for my intermittent sleep pattern.

For a moment I'm busy evaluating the magnitude of my destruction and then the curious thought comes into my mind: how on earth did the sun get through the impenetrable veil of my heavy Bordeaux satin curtains.

"Wake up, Chloe! Do you know what time is it? The presentations start in an hour!"

The culprit is identified and she dares to call herself my friend.

"I don't care. Let me die in peace," I utter with my voice cracking like dead wood.

"Don't be a fool, get up!"

Bloody hell! What's her problem?

The surge of fury hijacks my mouth. "Shut it down, will you? I'm sick!"

"No, you're not," she says and peels the duvet off me.

The gust of cold air promptly burns my skin and I bellow, "Put it back, you idiot, and sod off!"

She doesn't move. Just grins, clearly delighted with the stir she's caused.

I leap out of bed and grab the duvet. That's when the wave of nausea overwhelms me and I slump back onto bed.

"Are you all right, Chloe?" She pokes my side lightly as if I'm a dead mammal.

"Leave me alone, you fascist," I moan.

"Chloe, stop playing Miss Misery. We don't have the time."

Need to change the tactics.

"Go ahead, I'll catch up later. I'm not the first to present," I say, with only my nose sticking out of the duvet.

"You will?"

"Yes, I promise." I try to sound persuasive.

"Okay."

I hear her leaving to the bathroom, humming a merry song.

Well, that was easy.

I get up moving smoothly so as not to cause any more nausea and close the curtains. Time to go back to sleep.

I rearrange the cushions and close my eyes, only to be brought back to sodding reality by a sudden flood.

"Are you fucking insane?" I scream at Trish, who has emptied a bucket of water on me.

"Yes I am. Hate me as much as you wish. But you are going to make it to the presentations," she shouts back at me.

"I don't give a shit about them, leave me alone! I'm not going anywhere! How could you do this after what happened to me?" I whinge.

"And what exactly happened?" She drops the bucket on the floor deliberately and crosses her arms in front of her plump stomach. "Not like you cared much about Terrence anyway. Stop acting like a wounded deer, you self-absorbed twat!"

"You stop intruding into my privacy!"

"You stop whining like a child! Are you seriously going to throw away all this hard work like you so masterfully did with your acting?"

"It's not your bloody business." I get up and march past her to the corridor.

"Chloe, please, Terrence is not worth it."

I lock myself in the bathroom.

"Chloe?"

Silence.

"Chloe, please."

"Leave me alone," I bark.

Silent pause.

"You know what? Do what you want." The disappointment in her voice easily reaches me through the door. "Do you hear me? If you screw this up I can't be your friend anymore. I won't be able to forgive myself. Moving out this weekend couldn't be more timely for me."

I wait until she leaves, then sit on the floor with my back leaning against the bath and start crying out of self-pity.

Firstly, I bet on the wrong guy; secondly, Trish is right – I'm a pathetic selfish mess.

Should I call Mum and dump the news on her? I'm sure she'd be pleased with me coming back and taking that secretarial job. She'd probably start making a list of potential suitors the second I hang up.

I look for it everywhere in my thoughts and in my heart, but can't find any reason why I should bother at all. No one wants me to be a scientist, not even myself now. Well, apart from Bathbrush. But I can't do this for his sake. He needs lab slaves, and I'm tired of being a slave of my own stupidity, let alone someone else's.

Strangely, I find the hungover state preferable to the public ridicule I was definitely going to be subjected to at the university if I could have scraped myself off the floor.

I didn't rehearse my presentation even once. And I don't like it. Bathbrush overpraised me. I started imagining myself as a grown-up with a chance of a decent future. Ha!

Trish is tons smarter than me: if I wasn't so self-centred, I would've been more immune to this kind of hysteria. She's unassuming and content with her life, even though there wasn't much to be happy about until I introduced her to Victor. I should be more like her, not like a moody, vulnerable wimp, but humble yet confident.

Another knock on the door interrupts my mind's wanderings. Maybe being polite to her will help?

"Could you please stop it, Trish? Anyone sensible would have understood a long time ago I'm in no mood for a discussion with a headache like this."

"It's Kurt, Trish has left."

"And you are knocking on my bathroom door because?" I enquire.

"I am very upset with you two waking me up with your shouting," he says. "It's very disrespectful of you. I notified you beforehand that today's my day off. I demand moral compensation and your assurance that this won't happen again. You can resolve your disputes quietly like I do."

I can almost see Kurt complaining to the Travelodge reception about a late night's loud brawl next to the hotel, the two straight lines of righteous indignation above the bridge of his nose. A thought that makes me chuckle involuntarily.

"Can we talk about this later?" I say.

"Yes, but don't think you are evading this conversation. I keep my records."

"Sorry, Kurt. Could you please make me a cup of tea? I'm a wreck and in a hurry. It'd be so kind of you."

"Black or white?" he asks after a short pause of consideration.

"White, medium strong, one spoonful of sugar, thank you. I'll be out soon."

Having received his detailed instructions, Kurt leaves muttering something indiscernible.

I reach for the toothbrush with reluctance to start putting the pieces of me together. Fuck the headache, I'll turn up and speak, even if I puke on somebody and my skull cracks open.

I hardly have time for few gulps of tea before I leave. Kurt has gone back to his bedroom and left me a note saying, "You owe me". How I love my favourite German.

Needless to say I'm late: when I crawl into the auditorium a student who's supposed to talk after me is already answering questions. I trot to the vacant seat on the left corner of the front row. Bathbrush casts a furious look at me and discusses something with the chair, while the questions continue.

He then approaches me and says in a low voice, "You missed your slot."

I nod.

"Do you have your presentation with you?"

I nod again and produce the USB stick.

"Then you're next. Go now." He nods an okay to his colleague and departs muttering, "Unbelievable."

The chair introduces me while I get my slideshow ready. I then look up at the audience and lock my gaze on Trish. She smiles reassuringly. Then I see other faces, judging and accusing me of something. Is it my dishevelled exterior? Is the reason the lengthy and pretentious title of my talk?

If you don't like me now, you haven't seen what is to follow, I say vengefully in my mind.

"Humankind is doomed," I announce loudly (thanks to my past voice projection training) and make a theatrical pause, unintentionally.

Why is it doomed, Chloe?

Panic.

I turn my gaze to Trish who forgets to close her mouth, probably after a yawn.

"Let's face it, we're failing. Overpopulation, extremism, war after war, environmental pollution, destruction of habitats, emerging pandemics, not to mention increased divorce rates; these are all becoming a socially acceptable norm, like cheating and lying." I put the emphasis on the last three words.

Trish looks mortified. Bathbrush shifts uneasily in his seat. Me or piles?

The chair's grimace can only mean, "Well done, girl, the bitchy start of your impromptu tirade definitely cured the snoring academics. Now, get down to business."

"I could live with all that provided someone's concerned and acts upon this – if not to make things right, at least to stop making them worse." I stop to moisten my dried throat, and then continue.

"I love our land and what nurtures it – the soil. And the point of my talk is to show that there are ways to stop wasting our land and soils, and thereby wasting our lives. If some of you are doubtful about the scale of the problem then here are some stats." I click on the mouse button and a new slide filled with colourful charts follows.

"You may be surprised to learn that over forty percent of all agricultural land is severely degraded due to many factors, the major one of which is soil erosion. This can be natural but since the mid-twentieth century the anthropogenic factor has augmented the rate of soil erosion by twenty-to-forty fold compared to what's natural. We are losing billions of tons of fertile soil a year. The current initiatives to avert the coming disaster are not effective enough. Humankind is good at ruining things; mending them requires new thinking, not as a consumer but as a co-inhabitant.

"Yet there are creatures in the world we never acknowledge, whose contribution to the prevention of our demise is infinitely greater than the entire effort of so-called civilised countries." I realise that I've been rambling on with a shamelessly cringe-worthy solemnity. So I add, "And I'm not talking about the gut flora helping you with breakfast."

No one smiles.

I press the button and the next slide pops onto the screen: a green carpet covering the rice paddy. I press again and the magnified photo of a waterweed appears in the centre.

"This is _Azolla_ , an aquatic fern widespread in the tropical regions. It's sometimes confused with water mosses or flowering plants of the duckweed family. It's a fern that forms almost impenetrable green mats on the water surface. In fact, they are so dense, the larvae of mosquitoes can't get through it to the surface to breathe and they die as a result. Hence, it's other name – mosquito fern. Yet, this potential to limit the spread of mosquito-borne diseases is not the only unique feature of _Azolla_. It also lives in symbiosis with certain cyanobacteria called _Anabaena_ , which can fix atmospheric nitrogen, supplying the fern with nitrates required for its growth. This makes _Azolla_ a natural, almost no-cost bio-fertilizer.

"Peasants in south-eastern Asia have been using this fern on rice paddies for this purpose. In addition, _Azolla_ is a natural mulch material: its mats aren't penetrable by sunlight and this prevents weed growth to the delight of rice plants. _Azolla_ is now increasingly used as a component of livestock feed, being a rich source of protein, vitamins and other nutrients.

"This fern is an example of how one can use what's in nature without harming nature. The _Azolla_ - _Anabaena_ symbiosis has inspired microbiologists to make further use of cyanobacteria in plant agriculture..."

As my talk continues I lose any track of time, and graph after graph, table after table, I become livelier. Passion has overtaken the lingering hangover for now.

As I quickly acknowledge my tutors, friends and Bathbrush specifically, my eyes spot Blake sitting at the back, near the exit. Is he home from Australia?

The sudden deafening applause and Trish shouting "Bravo!" make me look down. I blush. Then two questions come from the front row, one from the chair, another from a fellow student. As I briefly answer them, Bathbrush beams at me and grins widely.

The next speaker approaches me and I look to the back of the room once again – there's no sign of Blake.

I return to my seat and scan the lecture hall. Nope, he's not there. Oh well.

I'm still dizzy with excitement and in disbelief about what I managed to accomplish considering my wretched state beforehand.

During the break, Trish sticks around, flooding me this time with apologies and compliments as generously as she did with water earlier on.

The approaching Bathbrush, who congratulates both of us, rescues me from her.

"I always knew that you're a brilliant student, you just needed to work on your confidence," he says. "A weird start, though. Who knew there's so much passion in you?"

"Maybe the fact that I'm a drama school dropout explains it," I say and wonder at how easily this came out.

"I'm happy that you are. Science will benefit from your spirit. I didn't want to tell you this before, fearing you'd stop working, but I have high hopes for you and your research project. You're starting in March, aren't you?"

"I haven't got my grades yet. Wouldn't you want to consider others?" I say shyly.

"I already did," he smiles and pats my shoulder before leaving us to it.

"Ooh, Bathbrush is full onto you," Trish comments.

"Don't be silly," I dismiss it.

She teases me about him in the breaks between devouring the chocolate cookies provided at the interval. Suddenly her eyes widen and I fear she's choking.

"I almost forgot to tell you," she says as I exhale in relief.

"Blake turned up, but I told him you may be coming late".

"What?"

So I did see him.

Trish looks at me, curiosity written all over her face.

"Late?" I ask. "How did you know I was coming at all?"

"Oh c'mon, I've known you for years," she says after murdering the last cookie. "Even if the Thames had flooded London, you'd have rowed here to give your presentation. You're too proud and conscientious to burn your fingers twice."

She's right. I'm done with Blake. I can't afford being tempted and then shipwrecked once again.

***

Normal people would've called their parents first, but I run to the shop to tell Fiona. Is it wrong to value a woman who could be your mother more than your own mum sometimes?

This proves to be a terrible idea as, when I arrive, I see Terrence pacing around at the shop's entrance.

"Thank God you're okay! I was worried sick." He rushes over to me.

"Terrence, stop!" I push him away when he tries to hug me. "Please, stay right there. And I'm not okay."

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Can we talk, please?"

"We already are. What's the point though?"

"I want to apologise."

"Apologise to her," I say.

"She's on her way to the States. I told her I was going to sue her for breach of privacy and assault if she didn't leave the country."

"Can't see why would it stop her? She's crazy. Well, not my business anyway. I need to work now," I brush past him.

"Chloe, please," he follows.

We've got Fiona's attention now I notice.

"Okay, wait," I order him.

I go inside the shop and quickly tell Fiona I need ten minutes.

"Is he causing you trouble?" she asks.

"Not anymore. I need to break up with him properly."

"Oh."

I leave her to digest the news.

Terrence is begging me to come back while we walk to a café and get a table outside it. The waiter tells us there are seats inside, but I reply that we won't stay long. Terrence frowns.

"You can't imagine how shitty I feel about it. I know I should have told you, but I was afraid you wouldn't have gone out with me if you knew I was engaged."

"Of course I wouldn't. Who would?" I say in disbelief.

"Please understand, I'm like any other ordinary man. I have weaknesses. I fell in love with you, it was a desperate measure."

"The problem is I don't love you, Terrence. I'm sorry," I say.

"You're mad at me, that's why you're saying this. Think of all the great moments we've had. I mean Paris was amazing. Why throw it all away?"

"You should have thought about it before lying to me," I reply.

The table next to us is brought to silence.

We are interrupted by a waiter who delivers two cups of coffee and places them on the table, his hands trembling so much he spills some of it.

'Oh dear' is the sentiment written all over his face.

"Listen Terrence, I am mad at you, you're right. But at the same time I'm glad this happened."

"You are?" he asks with a glimmer of hope.

All cards out, Chloe.

"Yes, I am. Samantha's escapade made me see the inevitable. I was trying to be a better person with you. I felt more of a certified adult. That's all it was. It was a delusion. I'm not in love with you, not because you hurt me, or something is wrong with you."

I take a deep breath.

"I realise I love someone else I rejected some time ago because I was dating you."

"C'mon, you made that up to get rid of me," Terrence says.

My eyes become wet for the umpteenth time today.

He needs no other reassurance.

"Oh shit," he utters as it comes down on him like a bombshell. "When? Who? I can't fucking believe it!"

If one thing makes an arsehole like him completely disoriented – it's competition.

"Me too, we both made wrong decision. You should have stayed with Samantha."

"I bloody should have!" he snaps at me, then takes a tenner out of his wallet and slams it onto the table's steel surface. "I hope I never see you again!" he spits out and leaves.

I mop my face with a complimentary napkin.

Yay, you've done it, Chloe! Back to being miserably single.

21. Apple (Malus domestica)

It seems that spring is reluctant to wait until March to claim London. Daffodils, crocuses and snowdrops are flowering in Kensington Gardens. Recently I've been going there almost every morning before work to feed the birds at the pond. And as nature itself springs to life my anguish subsides, and solitude starts feeling as if it's not such a bad thing after all.

In two weeks' time, I will bid farewell to Fiona and start working on an eight-week experimental project, full-time. Bathbrush got me funding starting mid-March to relieve me from my part-time job.

"If everything goes well, you'll continue in October," he said.

He's made me apply for countless PhD scholarship schemes, but also assured me that if I fail to win any of them, he'll use his grant money to keep me on.

I have doubts about the whole PhD enterprise, a joke that gradually transforms into reality, so I'm happy about the bridging project. There's plenty of time to quit before the autumn. Mum doesn't know about it yet; I dread to think what her reaction's going to be.  
Another worry on my list is the continuing quest for a new flatmate as Trish's finally moved out.

For now, Kurt and I, kindred spirits in singledom, have made a list of the essential qualities for the successful candidate to possess: he or she is ideally a tidy, quiet, drinking, healthy, communicative, smart and single person. Trish has never been the first and is no longer the last in terms of these adjectives. Still we'll miss her. There's a chance she might even come back to us, a selfish thought I couldn't help myself having.

Speaking about Trish, she's late, and I have to order another coffee out of boredom. For the same reason, I initiate visual surveillance of the nearby area. This Costa attracts mainly a student clientele, so the couples are all below twenty-five. They are still fresh to each other, oblivious to what's coming: the break-up. I try guessing which of them will split up first. The cutest ones for sure.

"Chloe, I know you've been hatching a plan to assassinate me." Trish leans over to peck my cheek.

"Sit down, before I decide to execute it," I grin.

"May I order a drink as my last wish?" She leaves before I can issue a pardon.

When she's back I'm not asked the usual myriad of small-talk questions as would usually happen. Straightaway I can see Trish isn't interested in my answers.

"C'mon, if you keep it any longer, you'll explode. What is it you want to tell me?" I ask.

That's when I notice a half-carat diamond on her finger.

"Is it? Wait! Did he propose?"

"Yes," she laughs blissfully. "We're getting married."

The rest of our conversation is basically her monologue about Victor.

That could be me, I think, as she describes the honeymoon scenarios.

As long as principles matter more than happiness to me, I may never fulfil anything of what Trish is talking about.

"Are you listening, Chloe?" She snaps her fingers in front of my face. "Blake agreed to be our DJ. Isn't this great?"

She probably sees me going pale, yet makes no indication of that and continues matter-of-factly.

"Almost forgot to tell you that Blake invited us to the countryside, his parents' place."

Pause.

"What on earth for?" I ask.

"His album got to the top of the charts in France."

"Well done for him," I comment distantly.

"So. Will you be coming? It's this Saturday in Norfolk."

"I know, but I won't come," I say.

Now it's her turn to be surprised. "You know?"

"I got his invitation, for Terrence and me. Tore it in halves and binned it."

"What? Why?"

"I expect a sensitive attitude from a friend. Clearly I'm wrong. If Blake likes making evil jokes–"

"He doesn't know you ditched Terrence," she interrupts me.

"You didn't tell him?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Are you trying to wind me up? It's not my job to tell him such things," she says, arms folded.

"Please forgive me," I reply.

Either her acting has improved substantially or she's telling me the truth.

"I'll forgive you if you come to Norfolk with me."

This blackmail isn't going to make me any less suspicious. Does he know or not? A trip north-east of London is the only way to find out.

***

"Do you have the right address?" I ask Trish when our rented Renault stops at a Georgian red-bricked mansion. "This looks like the orphanage Jane Eyre was sent to rather than a cosy family nest. Judging by the number of windows there must be at least a dozen cells in it."

"I never doubted he was posh," Trish says casually.

We get out of the car and look around. The driveway is carpeted with white pebbles, which make a stylish contrast to neatly trimmed borders of cypress shrubs. The main entrance is decorated with neoclassical-whitewashed pillars. The wooden front door opens revealing the imposing figure of Blake gift-wrapped into a high-neck wool jumper and his regular Levi's. He's clean-shaven, which makes him look more intelligent.

"Well, well, for once you're on time. You caught us in the middle of getting ready. The chimney-sweep has only just gone, the soot hasn't settled down yet."

"You and your silly jokes, Blackford. Go and help with the bags." That must be his mum stepping forward to greet us. "We're always ready for our guests. I'm Lucia. Please, come in."

Blackford? Is there such a name?

"Blackford never mentioned you live in such an exquisite house, Mrs Hetherington," I say and notice Trish losing the battle to suppress her laughter. I must say it's not easy for me to keep a straight face either. Blackford. God help me.

I imagine his public school history tutor saying, "Master Blackford, if you wouldn't mind being so kind and enlightening the class on the origins of the East India company."

Poor Blake is oblivious to all the teasing and torture to come from us – he's busy unloading our luggage.

Lucia invites us to the dining room where afternoon tea is being served.

She's wearing a grey blouse and black slacks, which accentuate her slender physique that any woman in her fifties would be proud of.

She offers us scones, blackcurrant jam and butter. Trish welcomes the feast enthusiastically, while I thank Lucia and say that I'm not hungry yet but that a cup of tea would be excellent.

It must be a subconscious thing: I don't want to make a bad first impression by swiftly exterminating her pastries while grunting akin to a wild hog who's just unearthed a truffle. Not quite what Trish is doing, but the comparison is not entirely unjust.

"I was told you've passed your exams. It must be a relief," Lucia smiles.

Now, that's something I could use to make a good impression.

"Do you keep any animals around here, or grow crops?"

"We do. Horses and honeybees, so most of our land here is meadowland."

"Honeybees? Blake never mentioned anything about that."

"You are the urban generation, what can be done?" she shrugs. "It's comforting to see young women like you taking up agronomy. I can't deny that I'm not too happy with the nomadic lifestyle of my sons."

"Ellie isn't exactly nomadic." Blackford joins us.

"Still, he's far away."

Blake barely sits down when the doorbell rings again.

"Here she is," he mutters and runs to meet the new arrival.

My head turns to the vestibule involuntarily as I hear a soft female voice.

"Stephanie did her MA in Musical Theory with Blackford," Lucia shares with me. Trish gives me that look – _I'm with you, sister_.

The cause of disturbance reveals herself in a moment, being introduced by Blake as Steph.

The same age as me, she's irradiating well-being and confidence through her porcelain pale face and black onyx eyes. She's not the sort who's mute in the company of newcomers either.

I forget to hide a wince when she addresses Blake as 'darling' and congratulates him on his album chart success.

"I gave it a listen, darling. Not quite my usual playlist, yet I was curious at you implementing that unusual broken staccato pattern."

I know some big words too, you puddle eyes.

"Stephanie, I heard you're teaching at the Royal College of Arts at the moment?" Lucia says, smiling at me for some reason.

Am I supposed to best that?

"Yes, I don't know why I agreed to do it. So much work. And these exhausting trips early in the morning. Feels like my student life's back," Stephanie says taking a scone with delicately crooked fingers.

Easy on the butter, darling.

I catch myself at this evil mental remark.

Hold it, Chloe. You had your chance with Blake.

No matter how friendly I try to be and how charming and kind Stephanie may come across to the others, my dislike of her fails to diminish.

The guests keep coming and the social interactions, with booze also making a contribution, prevent me from further bitching.

After dinner, the lounge is transformed into a party zone; Blake mingles with trays giving away his cocktails and the accompanying nibbles.

Trish uses a brief moment of my unattendedness to usher me into a corner. "Can you please stop plotting Stephanie's murder for a second? She's actually nice. Blake's been drooling over you all evening, in case you haven't noticed."

"Has he? I'm not so sure it's me he's after," I say.

"He has, but if you keep sporting this dried mushroom scowl of yours, he may well switch to somebody more willing."

"Trish, seriously, I don't want to hear about it!"

I spot Blake's back: he's at the other end of the room in the company of my new arch-enemy and his other friends. He turns his face in my direction and our eyes meet for a split second. I look away as if I've done something indecent. When I glance at him again he's still watching me and smiling.

"We haven't met before I believe," a blond stranger says, clinking his glass to mine. "I'm James."

What an unfortunate name you have, fellow.

"Chloe," I say and look away. I'd rather get drunk than strike up another romance.

He chuckles. "That was brief."

I turn to him putting on an exaggerated grimace of enthusiasm.

"Perhaps I should ask you what brought you here," I say.

"My girlfriend invited me. I'm not a family friend. Do you know Blake?"

A girlfriend? So he's just being civil.

"Yes, I'm one of his friends. Which one is your other half?" I say managing a grin, this time genuine.

"Stephanie, over there," he points to my used-to-be-arch-enemy. She waves at us. Whoosh!

Dear Steph, please forgive me for being such a colossal moron. One question, Chloe – will there ever be an end to you embarrassing yourself?

I want to jump as sudden joy sweeps over me and makes me take several gulps of gin and tonic in one go.

"Good heavens! Someone's thirsty."

"James, let's have a proper drink," I announce.

I lead him to the bar area, looking for tequila and lime. It may require more than one shot for me to gather enough courage to ask Blake for a tête-à-tête.

***

An hour later the party has moved to the karaoke stage. I've drunk myself into a state of exhilaration and I dance crazily amongst the few others who have lost their inhibitions, while Trish is singing her heart out in the form of a cringe-worthy version of 'No Regrets'. Blake is playing a serious DJ, failing to hide his terror when Trish screams the highest note a quarter of a tone lower than where it should be. I pretend I'm pitch-deaf and shout my approval when she finishes.

This and the overall polite ovation she receives gives her a rather inconvenient boost of confidence, so she continues this crusade of slaying the entire Robbie Williams' repertoire. 'Angels' is her next victim.

I stop counting the glasses of liquids I consume trying to reach a state of nirvana. As the slow song starts, I march over to Blake and drag him to the centre of the room.

"I don't know what to think," he whispers into my ear as we rotate on the spot. "You've been playing Miss Unattainable all day and suddenly all this madness is unleashed. This can only mean one thing."

"What's that?" I giggle.

"Ninety percent Trish's vocals and the rest is tequila," he says. "I'm sorry but I'll have to ban your access to the second one."

"You can try," I say.

"What do you reckon I've been doing here?"

Embracing me.

"You think too much of yourself," I say, teasing him.

"On the contrary, all I can think of is you."

Pause.

Really? You do?

"Remember the last time we danced like this?" he asks.

"Hmm. Your marshmallow party?"

"Correct. What did you wish when your green lantern took off?"

Another pause.

"I don't remember," I lie.

"Nor me," he says.

A memory of that night flashes through my dizzy mind. I release the fishing line...

I want you to be mine.

That was it.

Can I tell him?

No. Even in this wasted state I'm ashamed to say these words; they would sound too solemn and pathetic at best.

The fear of rejection.

"Thank you for the dance," he says and heads back to his post. I'm left standing here on my own now that Trish has stopped singing. The music needs to keep flowing regardless of what I feel like.

"I saw you two reunited." Trish brings me a fluorescent blue drink a few minutes after her farewell to the stage.

"Is it safe to consume?" I say rudely, but accept it.

"It's Powerade. Ions to keep you up. Blake's order. I dropped in some vodka to enhance the flavour. Don't tell him," she winks at me and her lips form a cunning grin.

I love Trish and to manifest it I say, "You sang beautifully."

"Tell that to Robbie," she laughs.

Fearing to spill it, I exterminate the blue concoction within seconds. My freed upper limbs join the rest of my body in rhythmic convulsions just in time for a groovy track Blake's put on. I don't care if I dance like someone who is under a defibrillator. Nor does Trish.

Most importantly, dancing helps me to vent off all the booze I have consumed this evening, so by the time I dive into bed I'm tired and don't feel too intoxicated anymore.

I dream.

I lay on a hummock, swaying lightly and enjoying a cool breeze from the sea. Perhaps it's a little too cool for my liking. Still, it was a nice feeling to have before something pushes me in the back and I open my eyes.

It's hay. Loads of it. A sea of hay. And it's freezing.

I try to get up but that's not easy when you're lying in a haystack. I hear distant laughter and look around.

Trish and Kurt are running away towards the house. When did _he_ arrive? I swear they'll regret it.

I reach the ground and wonder what time it is. With frost on the grass, it must be early morning.

I am not keen to walk barefoot, but staying here would mean catching pneumonia, which is a far worse alternative. So I trot to the house, wrapped in a blanket, shivering and plotting revenge.

As I pass the stables I hear a familiar merry humming. I peek inside and see Blake carrying a bucket of water. He stops and puts it down.

I want to complain about my flatmates, but then reconsider. Could it be that this is their cunning plan to set me up with Blake?

I keep looking into his eyes before noticing his t-shirt is wet and dirty. I can't help a thought that it's the most suitable outfit I've ever seen on him.

"Morning," he says.

"Have you been cleaning up in here?" I ask.

"I was about to. And I brought a treat for the horses." He points to a basket full of apples sitting on the ground next to the entrance.

I kneel down to pick one up and bite off half of it.

"Crunchy," I say with a full mouth as I shiver to beat the cold creeping in.

"Jesus, you must be freezing." He rushes to me instinctively and hugs me, rubbing his hands over the blanket.

"When did Kurt arrive?" I say to fill in the awkward pause and take another bite.

"Just now. You all right?"

"It depends on whether falling asleep in bed and then waking up in a haystack is all right," I shrug.

He sprinkles into laughs.

"Trish's prank?"

"I thought you knew," I say.

"No," he shakes his head.

He must have realised he's still hugging me, so he lets go and says, "Do you want to see something?"

"Okay," I reply, with some reluctance.

"It's my secret base," he whispers.

He brings a ladder and we climb to a loft space above the boiler. I straighten up with caution: the ceiling is only around twenty centimetres above my head. I notice a small window overlooking the house and a sleeping bag on the floor. Boxes full of toys and mechanical parts are piled on top of each other, serving as outer walls of the compartment.

Blake fishes a cowboy hat out of one of them and hands it over to me.

"What do you think of my place?" He beams a smile of innocence at me.

You must have no clue of how blazingly hot you are right now.

I step forward and smooch him like a hungry hummingbird that has found a flower full of nectar.

Blake needs no further hints – his arms lock my body in a tight grip and we slowly descend to the ground.

Oh, so that's what the sleeping bag is here for.

We slip inside it like a pair of sardines. I don't mind the lack of space.

Blake covers my face and neck with kisses, shielding me from the cold with the heat of his brawny body. I begin to think that maybe I'll let Trish off without a reprimand. Then I find a more deserving subject to focus on.

***

"Can I ask you a question?"

"No," he replies.

We're still up in the loft, relaxing in a blissful post-coital haze. The sound of Blake's breathing next to me is the sweetest music to my ears.

"Why not?" I press on.

"Because the answer is I love you," he says and pecks me on the forehead.

"A different question then. Why Blackford?"

He sighs, rolling onto his back.

"I was named after a village in Somerset founded by my ancestor. My parents thought it sounded posh."

"You don't say."

"I know, right?" he titters and leans over to kiss me. We keep holding on to each other, while I struggle to contain the actual question I wanted to ask.

"Blake?"

"Yes?"

"Why me? You could've picked Annette or some other sylph-like glamorous model?"

He backs off me slightly.

"I didn't pick you out of anyone, you silly. I didn't have to. It's not even a matter of choice. A guy can like many girls, but only one of them can keep his..." He takes my hand and places it onto his chest.

"And who's that lucky lady?" I whisper, as my mouth has gone dry.

"Remember when we first met and that orange tried to kill you?"

"Yes, my most romantic adventures usually involve some degree of peril," I laugh, slightly confused by his question.

"You actually produced a joke like this when we fell on the ground and I swore at you," he says. "It was something about Mondays."

"You remember that?"

He grins.

"It's not every day you rescue a comedian."

A sudden glowing earnestness appears in his eyes. He looks down at my hand still resting on his heart.

Then he says, "I fell for you right there, at the traffic lights. I should have known what a girl like you might demand in return for her runaway fruit."

"A replacement?" I make an innocent guess and giggle as he embraces me and we kiss.

"There's no such thing for me," he mutters, and no other words are spoken for quite a long while.

###

About the Author

Grigory Ryzhakov is a Russian molecular biologist and speculative fiction writer living in the UK.

To connect with Grigory, please visit his blog at http://www.ryzhakov.co.uk

Twitter – @GrigoryRyzhakov.

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/GrigoryRyzhakov

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