THE COUPLE UPSTAIRS

Going home for my birthday had been a mistake, neighbours stopping me in the street to ask, ‘Adrian not with you, Emily?’

As if they didn’t know he’d left me for another woman.

Here’s the thing about childhood sweethearts in a smallish town; you’re both considered public property by people who saw you hanging out in bus shelters together, wearing matching rings made out of dandelion stems – sending the grapevine into juddering overload with your eventual schism.

Although my younger brother Kyle has kindly pointed out, ‘you’re not that fascinating, Em, there’s global warming and stuff going on as well’, I still felt like hanging a bulletin outside the town hall: ‘Emily Harris & Adrian Naylor have split! Should you bump into her out and about, kindly avert your gaze and mumble something about the weather. Your cooperation is appreciated.’

Adrian and I had moved last year to Loxton, a village 20 miles away. We were so sure we’d be together forever that we bought our first home together. We had chosen a first-floor flat in a converted Victorian terrace and set about decorating.

Which is how Adrian met the other woman. He went to the DIY superstore for paint and changed a tyre for a woman who’d got a flat in the car park.

When he came home with engine oil on his hands and no tub of Elephant’s Breath grey, full of his heroic endeavour, I should have twigged that something was up.

He and this woman had swapped numbers ( he didn’t tell me that as part of his heroic anecdote) – and the rest is history.

The woman has a name: Beverley. She has a house of her own ( luckily the other side of Loxton), so Adrian moved in there.

Leaving me in a half-painted flat.

I unwrap a slice of birthday cake and feel tearful

At least I can afford the mortgage – should I want to stay.

I mean, it is handy for my job (another reason we chose the location) and I still love the bones of the building, its character charm.

But then, I thought I loved the bones of Adrian as well.

So here I am, back at the flat after my birthday.

I let myself in and drop my holdall. I had a long weekend away, and it’s now Monday afternoon. In the kitchen, I unwrap a slice of birthday cake in a brightly-coloured serviette and feel tearful.

I slump on the sofa without opening the living room curtains, which I shut before leaving. Normally, I like looking down on the garden below, which belongs to the ground-floor flat and its elderly occupant, Mrs Horton.

The garden’s been sunk in Winter slumber since we moved in, so it’s hard to tell what it might be like in Summer, but as Mrs Horton is elderly, I can’t see it being any great shakes.

We introduced ourselves when we moved in, knocking on her door.

She peered round our chain and looked rather scared, though she did say hello back.

Back upstairs, Adrian and I had discussed offering to help her with the garden, in exchange for sitting out there in the Summer.

I get up and leave the flat again to go back to my car and fetch a few more belongings brought from home.

That’s when I notice the pot plant to the side of my front door, on the landing.

I hadn’t noticed it when

I first arrived.

There’s a note tucked into the soil on a little plastic swizzle stick.

‘To the couple upstairs’, says

shaky handwriting. ‘I shall be moving in with my sister for a while after my hip op. I have left a key to my flat embedded in the soil of this pot and would kindly ask you to let yourself in and water my indoor plants, as well as my garden, should it go more than three days without rain. I hope to be back within a fortnight. Thank you, Louisa Horton.’

I think back. I’d driven past Mrs H in the village last week, so she’d probably gone in for her op while I was away for the weekend. Wonder why she didn’t drop by to ask for this favour earlier?

She clearly doesn’t know about Adrian ( he’d moved out discreetly).

Sighing, I carry the plant downstairs, then let myself into her flat.

And get a shock.

A man is standing in her lounge, holding a cat.

‘ Who are you?’ he asks charmingly.

‘Right back at you!’ I retort. ‘I’m supposed to pop round daily and feed Baggins.’ He nods at the cat. ‘I don’t live far.’

‘I’m on plant-watering duty.’ I nod at my pot. ‘I didn’t know Mrs H had a cat.’

‘He’s an indoor cat,’ explains the stranger. ‘Likes to sit on the back door stoop but that’s as far as he goes. I’m Josh Horton, Aunt Louisa’s nephew. Still don’t know who you are.’

‘Emily,’ I reply primly. I know both of us are probably wondering the same thing. Why did she get two people to come and look after living things inside and outside her flat?

‘Aunt Louisa can be a tad forgetful,’ says her nephew, as if I’ve wondered aloud. ‘I’m happy to take on both duties and save you the trouble.’

This makes sense, but a stubborn part of me also thinks how nice it would be to have access to that garden, even if I’m not particularly green-fingered.

‘I live upstairs, so I could do both duties and save you the trouble,’ I parry.

He smiles suddenly. He’s about my age and nice-looking. Plus, Baggins the cat is purring. Always a good sign when a cat likes somebody.

‘If you relinquish that African violet,’ says the nephew, ‘I can make a cuppa and talk about it. As long as – er – you won’t be missed back at your flat?’

I stare down at the plant. Is it too soon to talk about being single and why?

Probably. But it’ll have to come out sometime – if only to stop Mrs H leaving notes addressed to ‘the couple upstairs’.

‘I’ve got time,’ I say.

As we drink tea, I tell him, haltingly, about Adrian. After a pause, he says, ‘I came out of a long-term thing myself last year. If you ever need a shoulder…’ Then he coughs loudly and goes off to rummage for custard creams.

We agree to stick to our allotted duties. ‘After all,’ he says casually, ‘Baggins knows me quite well. Plus, I’m not that green-fingered.’

As we step into the garden, Baggins watching from the stoop, Josh adds, ‘ Wait til you see auntie’s garden come Spring. So many flowers, all colours. It lifts your heart to see it.’

And suddenly, I know that I want to stay.

I want to open my curtains and look down on those colourful Spring flowers, and then look back into a flat with fully painted walls and a life that reflects the same vivid richness.

Josh and I agree to meet up tomorrow to share our duties.

‘I’ll restock the custard creams!’ he grins.

‘It’s a date!’ I say, adding, ‘well, er, you know what I mean.’

I go back upstairs to phone Mum and Dad, tell them I’ve arrived ‘ home’ safely – and that I’m finally going to finish painting ‘my’ flat. Plus, I’m going to start flexing a green finger or two.

And might even mingle with the locals. You never know.