Follies of LoveHe believed that serenading her beneath her window every night would win her heart, only to discover she had moved away a month ago.

A fortnight before the business trip, Oliver and Poppy Ramsey have a blazing row. A proper one. So much so that Tiddles the cat, just to be on the safe side, squeezes himself into some impossible hiding spot to stay out of the line of fire.

Poppy asks him to buy her flowers.

– Oliver, buy me flowers. Just because. No occasion.

– What’s the occasion? – he asks, without looking up from his phone.

– Me. I’m the occasion.

Oliver thinks it over. Well, it makes sense. Rational. He goes to the supermarket. Comes back twenty minutes later with a big bag. Poppy smiles, peeks inside, and pulls out a head of cabbage. Fresh, firm, white.

– Are these the flowers? – she asks quietly.

– It’s cabbage. Flowers cost a tenner and wilt by tomorrow. Cabbage costs ninety pence and keeps us in coleslaw for three days.

– Oliver.

– What?

– You’re an idiot.

– I’m your idiot.

She doesn’t speak to him for three days. He doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. She doesn’t explain. Then he goes off on his business trip. To Manchester. He says:

– Work. Nothing personal.

Poppy thinks: “Nothing personal — that’s us.”

He’s gone for a fortnight. She stays behind with two kids, a cat, endless laundry, school, nursery, the same fried eggs every morning. And a phone full of messages. That’s where they talk.

Day one.

He: “Arrived. Grim hotel room. Negotiations tomorrow.”

She: “Well done. The cat wolfed down his food and then yowled for an hour demanding more.”

He: “Well done to who? Me or the cat?”

She: “The cat.”

Day two.

He: “Photo of breakfast. Photo of the hotel. Photo of my colleague Gary, who snores in the room next door.”

She: “Lovely. Our tap is leaking. Water everywhere. Called a plumber. He didn’t show.”

He: “Call the letting agent.”

She: “Did. They said they’ll send someone within three days.”

He: “What a bunch of arseholes.”

She: “The arseholes are the ones who went to Manchester.”

Day three.

He: “How are the kids?”

She: “Our son got a D in maths, our daughter won’t touch her dinner. I’m exhausted.”

He: “Hang in there.”

She: “Thanks. I’m not hanging. I’m falling.”

Day four.

He: “Saw a giant cuddly rabbit at the shopping centre today. Wanted to buy it for our daughter, but couldn’t face dragging it onto the plane.”

She: “You were never scared of dragging things onto a plane. You were scared of spending the money.”

He: “You’ve seen right through me.”

She: “I saw through you on our first date, when you ordered tea without sugar and said sugar was bad for you.”

He: “And you ordered a cake and ate the whole thing without offering me a bite.”

She: “Because you’d just told me how bad sugar is.”

Day five.

He: “Fell asleep during a meeting today. Honestly. Just closed my eyes and nodded off for a second. When I opened them, everyone was staring.”

She: “Will they sack you?”

He: “Hope so. I’m knackered.”

She: “I’m knackered too.”

He: “Fancy being knackered together, but in different cities?”

She: “Fancy being knackered together at home? When are you back?”

He: “I miss you.”

She: “Me too.”

He goes quiet for a minute. Then writes: “You know, I’ve just realised: I don’t miss home. I miss you. The way you drink your coffee in the morning and wince because it’s too hot. The way you scold the cat and then feel sorry for him. The way you laugh when our son tells his terrible jokes.”

She doesn’t reply. She reads the message five times. Then she cries. Because he’s never written words like that. In fifteen years of marriage, not once. He’s a materialist, a pragmatist, the kind of man who only says “I love you” on birthdays, and even then only after being reminded. And now — coffee, the cat, jokes. As if someone hacked his phone. Or he’s had an epiphany.

Day six.

She: “Were you drunk last night?”

He: “No. As sober as a judge.”

She: “Then why all those words?”

He: “Because I miss you. It’s like alcohol — the brain switches off, the tongue loosens up.”

She: “So you’re comparing love to alcohol?”

He: “I’m comparing love to honesty. Sometimes, to be honest, you have to be a little drunk. Or very lonely.”

She: “You’re lonely? You’ve got your colleagues.”

He: “Colleagues aren’t the same as you. They don’t know I’m afraid of the dark and sleep with a nightlight. You know. And you never laughed at me for it.”

She: “I did laugh. Once. When you said you’re afraid of the dark because Tiddles might be lurking in it.”

He: “Tiddles is a beast. He does his business in your slippers. That’s terrifying.”

She: “You’re an idiot.”

He: “I’m your idiot.”

Day seven.

She wakes up to a message. At four in the morning, he’s written: “Can’t sleep. Thinking about you. I’m picturing us meeting at the airport. You’ll be wearing that blue dress I love. I’ll have flowers. We’ll hug, and I’ll say: ‘Sorry I’m like this.’ You’ll ask: ‘Like what?’ I’ll say: ‘Quiet.’ You’ll say: ‘I’m used to it.’ I’ll say: ‘That’s bad.’ You’ll say: ‘That’s life.’”

She doesn’t reply. She simply puts on the blue dress. Even though it’s only the seventh morning and their airport meeting is a whole week away.

Day eight.

He: “Went to the zoo today. On my own. Watched the monkeys. They’re just like our colleagues — pulling faces, lobbing food, acting like they run the place.”

She: “You went to the zoo alone? At forty?”

He: “Why not? I’m allowed a bit of childhood. You’re the one who lets me.”

She: “Fine. Just send photos.”

He sends a photo. A monkey pulls a face. So does he. She laughs out loud. The kids run in: “Mum, you alright?” She says: “Dad’s mucking about.” The kids: “He’s always mucking about when we’re not there.” She says: “Yeah. Shame we never notice.”

Day nine.

He: “I’ve been thinking. Remember how we met? You dropped your purse on the Tube, I picked it up. You said: ‘You’re very observant.’ I said: ‘And you’re very beautiful.’ Then we went for a coffee.”

She: “I still remember you ordering tea without sugar.”

He: “And you ordering a cake.”

She: “I still remember that cake. It was delicious. Cherry.”

He: “And I remember how you looked at me. As if I wasn’t just some bloke on the Tube, but a whole life.”

She: “You were a whole life. You still are. I just forget sometimes.”

He: “I forget too. But right now — I’m not forgetting.”

Day ten.

He doesn’t send a single word. From morning till night: silence. She calls; he doesn’t answer. She texts; he doesn’t reply. Panic creeps in. She imagines the worst: he’s collapsed, he’s ill, he’s been hit by a bus. Tiddles follows her around the flat demanding food. The kids ask for cartoons. All she can think about is Oliver.

At eleven at night, a message: “Sorry. Phone died. Left the charger at the hotel. Spent all day looking for a new one. Gary had one. He gave it to me on condition that I never fall asleep in a meeting again. You okay?”

She: “I was worried. I thought you were dead.”

He: “I’m alive. Missing you. I’ll be home soon.”

She: “In three days.”

He: “In three days. Will you be there?”

She: “In my blue dress.”

He: “With flowers.”

She: “Deal.”

Day eleven.

He: “Bought presents. A box of Lego for our son, a bunny for our daughter, and a scarf for you.”

She: “You can’t pick scarves. Last time you brought back pink, and I don’t wear pink.”

He: “It’s not pink. It’s dusty rose.”

She: “Dusty rose is pink.”

He: “It’s the colour of the sunset over Manchester.”

She: “Since when are you a poet?”

He: “I’m an accountant. But for you, I could become a poet.”

She: “Don’t. I love you as an accountant. Your handwriting is clear and the numbers add up.”

Day twelve.

He: “Flight’s tomorrow. Come and meet me.”

She: “I’ll be there.”

He: “Are you nervous?”

She: “No.”

He: “I am. Like the first time.”

She: “The first time, I choked on my cake and you patted me on the back. It was so awkward.”

He: “I liked it. I got to touch you.”

Day thirteen. The reunion.

She stands at Heathrow in the blue dress. With the kids. They’ve left the cat at home, obviously — he’d only make a scene. She watches the arrivals board. His flight is delayed by an hour. She sips coffee; the kids play on their phones. She thinks: “Why did he write about legs? Why the coffee? Why the monkeys? He’s never been like this. Maybe he really has fallen in love with me again? Or is it just a business trip — a break from real life, from the kids, from the burnt fried eggs? Maybe once he’s home he’ll go quiet again, ask about the cabbage, and disappear into his laptop?”

He comes through the arrivals gate. With flowers. A huge bunch. She hasn’t seen flowers like that from him since the wedding — and even then, her mother chose the bouquet. He walks over, hugs her, kisses her. Says:

– Sorry I’m like this.

She: “Like what?”

He: “Quiet.”

She: “I’m used to it.”

He: “That’s bad.”

She: “That’s life.”

He: “No. That’s habit. I’m going to change.”

She: “Don’t. I love you as you are. Even with the cabbage.”

He: “The cabbage was a mistake.”

She: “The cabbage is the past. The flowers are the present.”

They take a black cab home. He holds her hand the whole way. The kids fall asleep. Tiddles greets them at the door, sniffs the flowers, sneezes and stalks off to the kitchen.

She puts the flowers in a vase. He puts the laptop away in the drawer. Says:

– I’m not working tonight. Tonight I’m all yours.

She: “And tomorrow?”

He: “Tomorrow I’m yours with the laptop. But tonight — without it.”

They order pizza, drink wine, watch a film. A silly rom-com. She laughs; he holds her. Tiddles sits nearby, demanding a slice of pepperoni.

– Oliver, – she says. – Will you really change?

– I don’t know. But I’ll try.

– And if you can’t?

– Then you’ll text me “you’re a prat”. And I’ll text back “I miss your legs”.

She laughs.

– You’re an idiot.

– I’m your idiot.

They finish the wine, finish the pizza. Put the kids to bed. Tiddles falls asleep in the armchair. Poppy looks at her husband.

– You know, I missed you too. Not you — us. The people we were at the beginning. Fun, silly, no mortgage and no cabbage.

– The cabbage is a symbol of my stupidity. I’m never buying cabbage again.

– Buy it. Just make sure the flowers come with it.

– Deal.

They hug and fall asleep. On the sofa. Because the cat has already claimed the bed.

In the morning, he goes to work. With the laptop. He kisses her and says, “I love you.”

In the evening, he doesn’t forget the flowers. He stops by the florist’s:

– Something cheap, but something that’ll make my wife smile.

The florist suggests daisies. He takes them.

Poppy puts them in a vase. Tiddles sniffs them, sneezes and walks off.

And so it goes, every day.

And that’s the whole story.

Ordinary. Simple. Absurd, even stupid in places.

So what? Love often sounds stupid. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there.