There’s a woman living in my attic because she’s in love with me. I was surprised too when I first realised. At school they used to call me Trotters, and no amount of the camomile soap my late mother gave me ever cleared the acne from my shoulders. I’ve known women, of course, but I’ve spent most of my forty-five years alone. Until now—until Rose. I named her after the red-green rose that climbs the side of the house in summer. I imagine she slipped in while I was gardening and went straight for the stairs. The hatch was left open for days when I was supposed to be getting the Christmas lights down. It wasn’t terribly social of her, but I can be awkward too at times.
I hear her moving above me. She stays still during the day, then at night shuffles on her soft bottom, or her fleshy stomach, her long nails catching the plywood boards. There isn’t enough room for her to stand upright. I’ve invited her down, of course. My mother raised a gentleman. But she’s shy and the shuffling stops at the sound of my voice, the scratching too. I try not to be offended. Confidence comes with time, I realise.
*
Yesterday morning, I wrote what my mother would have called a love letter and left it by the attic hatch, next to a mince pie and a newly sharpened pencil. I waited eight hours to see if she might write back. She didn’t, though the mince pie had been eaten and the pencil nibbled. When she’s my girlfriend, I won’t let her nibble pencils. But for the time being, I’ve decided I don’t mind.
I’ve begun to wear my best clothes: the navy shirt I used to wear to church, carefully pressed, and my Ralph Lauren chinos, which I bought in a final reductions sale last spring. I wash behind my ears now and wear the cologne the assistant at Boots recommended. I keep the house tidier than usual, and make a point of playing my harp at seven o’clock every evening. I always keep the attic hatch unlocked.
I imagine she’s the colour of cocaine from spending so much time up there, but in a beautiful way—consumable, even. I don’t mean it offensively, of course. My mother always said I’d be happiest with someone a little shy.
*
Two weeks have passed, and Rose still hasn’t come down or even written back. I’ve left several love letters now, each one a little more embarrassing and desperate than the last. I’ve begun to wonder whether she’s fallen in love with the neighbour instead, since our attic space is connected and she could just as easily slip down into his living room as mine. He smokes stinking cigars, but he has a Bentley from the 1960s and a full head of hair.
I open a bottle of Merlot, take a long sip, then let it drop. Glass splinters across the beige kitchen tiles, and the wine splatters like blood. My mother would have told me off for making a mess.
*
The dog won’t walk this morning. She keeps stopping on the pavement and won’t move again unless I nudge her with the tip of my boot. The park is quiet—more daffodils than people, more benches than dogs—but the temperature has risen fast over the past days and the beach, when we reach it, is already full.
Women swim in small bikinis and tight costumes. I can’t look at them without clenching my fists. It’s been six weeks since I’ve heard anything from the attic. I spit onto the sand and tug on the dog’s lead. Any one of those women could be Rose, but now I won’t ever know. I tug the lead harder.
I look around for the neighbour, imagining three cigars hanging from his slug-like mouth, but he isn’t there. I think about going round to his house or grabbing one of the women on the beach and shaking her silly just because I can, but I think better of it.
I tighten my grip on the dog’s lead and tell myself there’ll be another Rose—one who’s grateful. Once I find her, I’ll forget all about the old Rose. And this time, I’ll make sure she doesn’t leave.
Rachel Makinson is a UK-based writer and editor, with a BA in English Literature with Creative Writing from Newcastle University. Her work has been featured by several magazines and journals, including Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal, Marrow Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, Scribbled, Tabula Rasa Review, and the London Independent Story Prize.