Roses have always been on my bedside table. He started giving them to me when I was bedridden for a week, after I fell down the stairs. Every evening without fail, he would visit me to clean the house, and to cook me dinner. Silly Zoë, he would say as he fed me, you really should learn to take care of yourself better. Yet for all his little scoldings, he would always be there for me.
On the third day, he brought with him a single red rose. It was about ten inches tall and stood in one of those small porcelain vases with a wide lip and a narrow neck that curved out like a womans body. The colour of the rose was not like the bright red ones you see at weddings; it was a darker, more sensual and raw shade of red.
You like it, Zoë?
I wasnt even sure why he asked. I could hardly take my eyes off the rose, and my fingers tugged lightly at the sheets under the blanket, desperately wishing to touch its petals; to find out if they were a