Free A Good Year for the Roses (1988) by Mark Timlin Page A

and allowed it to swing wide.
    After the sombre tones outside it was like walking into another world. The room inside was long, light and spacious. Someone had spent a lot of time and money with their Habitat catalogue getting it to look like it did. The walls were painted white and upon them hung framed posters of Marilyn Monroe and James Dean airbrushed into romantic unreality.
    Carelessly tacked up next to them were photos of Madonna and Curiosity Killed The Cat cut out from magazines.
    There was a double bed covered with a bright print duvet. On a table under the window was a black and chrome Sony midi-system. Under the table were neat piles of record albums. Along the length of one wall was a built-in wardrobe and dressing table, with full length mirrors on the wardrobe doors. In front of the dressing table was a low stool. In the centre of the room was a leather and metal armchair. The carpet was navy blue and the curtains that hung by the long windows were buttercup yellow. Everything seemed to be in it's place and the whole room was immaculately tidy.
    On top of the dressing table was a single wicker basket containing trinkets and badges.
    I stood in the room and slowly looked around.
    George stood beside me pulling at the seams of his tracksuit with his fingers.
    ‘What do you want to see?’ he asked.
    ‘It's OK, George,’ I said. ‘I'd rather look around on my own if it's alright with you.’
    He seemed unsure.
    ‘I won't steal the towels,’ I said.
    ‘There's no towels in here,’ he replied. ‘Patsy's bathroom is next door.’
    ‘Joke, George,’ I said, and wished I'd learn to keep my big mouth shut.
    ‘Very well, if that's the way you want it,’ he said, and with a sad backward glance at me, left the room.
    I started my search with the bed. I checked beneath it. The gap between the frame and the floor was empty. Then I felt under the mattress. Nothing. Finally I flicked the mattress right over. Still nothing.
    I went to the wardrobe and opened it. I caught sight of myself in the long mirror as I did so. I looked hunched and ugly.
    I pulled open the wardrobe door quickly to lose the reflection. The interior was deep and wide and packed tightly with dresses and coats on hangers. On the left hand side was a section of shelving that held neatly folded shirts and sweaters. That was where the lacquered box must have been hidden.
    I took the clothes from the shelves carefully, one by one. There was no sign of anything.
    Equally carefully I replaced them. Methodically I went through the garments on the hangers. Where there were pockets, I felt inside them. I came up empty. At the bottom of the wardrobe were piles of children's toys and books. I pawed amongst them, feeling like an intruder. I found a Cindy doll, boxed jigsaws and games. Once again there was nothing extraordinary. I was happy to finally close the door.
    I went over to the window, knelt down and went through the record collection. It was pretty much what I'd expected. At the back were yesterday's heroes, like Adam Ant and David Essex. Towards the front were Wham! and more recent flavours of the month, but she was beginning to mix in other, newer bands, some whose names I barely recognised. I checked inside some of the sleeves, but for what I don't know. Finally, I went and sat on the stool in front of the dressing table. I dug through the stuff in the basket on top.
    It contained a school prefect's badge and a few cheap silver rings, a champagne cork with a five-pence piece pushed into the bottom and some cocktail stirrers and the little plastic animals that come with them. At the bottom was some loose change. When I'd finished the search I looked up at the mirror in front of me.
    I knew that the real secrets, if there were any, would be hidden in the dressing table itself. That's why I'd left it until last. I felt like a voyeur. I'd never got my kicks from delving into people's intimate lives, not like some coppers did. Then I looked more