Free Wildflowers by Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn

yesterday!  In a big coat, I remember now!  I left him alone for about two minutes… and when I came back, he’d gone!  It was him!  It had to be!  But why would he do this to me ?’
    By the time I get home, I’m exhausted.  So stressed I feel ill.  I’m far too worried about these weddings to think about anything else.  But instead of jumping up and making me a nice, soothing cup of tea, Greg shows precisely zero interest in my day.  He’s lying on the sofa again, his bare feet hanging over the end as he watches a re-run of something loud and manly on Quest.
    ‘Get us a beer, babe…’ He doesn’t even tear himself away long enough to look at me. 
    I stare at his toes, amazed that I’ve never noticed how hairy they are.  Really hairy, like a chimp’s and that’s when I know.  On someone else, on the right man , I’d love those hairy feet.  But with a sinking heart, I know I definitely don’t love Greg’s. 
    A ll along, Honey was right and I was wrong, though I won’t be telling her that.  But I’ve done what I always do, falling for an idea in my head, not the real, live person like the one who’s loafing in my flat, expecting me to wait on him hand and foot.  Who doesn’t care about anyone except himself.  Suddenly, it’s incredibly easy.
    ‘ Sorry mate, time’s up,’ I tell him, and I’m not talking about the television.  As I switch it off at the mains, his eyes swivel from side to side as it slowly sinks in that I’m serious.  ‘You need to find somewhere else.’  Just in case he’s thicker than I think.
    ‘I thought you were cool with us living together, babe,’ he says.  This time I’ve got his attention and his eyes meet mine.  I can’t believe he just said that. 
    ‘Now hang on just a moment.  We’re not living together, Greg.  Not in that sense.  Living together implies a partnership that’s mutually supportive…’  I speak slowly to allow my words to take effect.  ‘I simply offered you a bed for a day or two, if you remember, while you organised something more permanent.  I’d say you’ve done quite well out of me.  I mean, think about it.  You’ve lived here all week, eaten my food, drunk my beer, watched my telly from my sofa… and you’ve contributed absolutely nothing.  Not so much as a single pint of milk.’  I pick his feet off the sofa and drop them on the floor. 
    ‘We could have had sex if you weren’t so frigid,’ he says huffily , completely missing the point. 
    Actually, I’m glad he said that.  It really is the final nail in the coffin.  But it’s been a long day and I’m too exhausted to fight.  I just feel overwhelmed with a weary kind of sadness as I realise this really is over.
    ‘ I don’t suppose you even have a dinner jacket, do you?’ But I don’t need to hear the answer.
    H e just shifts uncomfortably and belches.
    ‘ You can stay one more night – here, on this sofa – and that’s it,’ I tell him firmly.  ‘It’s over, Greg.  Tomorrow, you’re out of here.’

6
     
    Not surprisingly, I sleep restlessly again, drifting off to sleep just as it’s time to get up.  An alarm clock ringing in your ear at half past two in the morning is one of the harshest sounds known to mankind, but as soon as I remember we’ve two sets of wedding flowers to magic up and only a few hours to do them in, a tidal wave of adrenaline surges through me.
    As I leave my flat, I pause just long enough to hear the familiar porcine snores coming from my sofa – for the last time, I’m hoping.  Then tiptoe out without waking him.             
    It seems the entire village is asleep as I make my way to the shop.  The sky is black and studded with stars, and in the distance, an owl hoots.  As I unlock the door, Skye appears and Milo, bless his heart, arrives just before three and even stays to help us for an hour.  I’m convinced there’s a little microspark flitting between him and Skye, but I’m far