At Christmas, for the last twenty years, Len buys me a voucher, and I carefully choose a return gift. Ages ago, we agreed on a price cap of twenty pounds. For a long time, I picked posh deodorant and a pack of specialist beers. Before wrapping them, I used to pluck a lock of my hair and hide it inside the box. Ask me, Len. I’m yours.

A year ago, during the week before Christmas, Len asked if I’d call them Lenora. They instead of he. I’d thought, At last! Ask me, Lenora. I’m yours. We’re not getting any younger.

Full of hope, I went hunting for presents with the eagerness of a vampire in search of blood. AWOL in TK Maxx. Gleeful in Ann Summers. I bought a book about Anne Lister, fluffy socks, posh knickers, classy perfume, and a sexy negligee. Fizzy wine and chocolate nuts. Jewelry and bras. I spent far beyond the agreed twenty pounds and well into my savings.

Sod it, I’d thought, in the middle of the soap aisle, giddy with lemon bubbles and rose body cream. I’ll ask you instead.

The other book was about the inner sensual being and taking romantic risks. Sexual frolics and pizza in bed, with no knife or fork either. Knickerless amongst the ruffled sheets of freedom.

My presents didn’t go as planned. Len locked themself in the office and bought a beanie hat. Refused to come out. From December until March, all I saw of them was via penguin-shaped notes stuck on the mops. When I knocked on the door and asked about bleach, they said to use my judgement, that they were busy with inventories. Needed the hat because of chills. They wanted to be called Len again and to be left alone.

Enough said.

I scuff my shoe along the floor. “Shall I get on? The toilets? The peachy-bleachy is good, no?”

Len fidgets and squirms. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But it’s five to. The important workers will arrive soon and see us.”

Len looks up to the ceiling and back down at the floor. “I’ve done the bathrooms already. Don’t you worry about them seeing us. Sod it! We’re not to be ashamed of.”

Oh?

They rumble on without pausing for breath. “Syl. I’m sorry your mum’s poorly and you’re so far away. I’m sorry, hen.”

In a flourish, they remove the Santa hat, and underneath it is a shiny blond bob, shoulder-length. They reach behind the boxes of gloves and bring out a bunch of flowers.

Mamma mia, and fuck a duck.

Len doesn’t mention bleach. “I worried you wouldn’t come back, you see. I’m so sorry, Syl. Sylvia.”

My name. Oh, my name! Silk and dancing and preciousness. Sexual frolics and pizza in bed. Sex on the sofa and giggling. Walking in the woods. Pub lunches. Midnight kisses and waking up together as Anne Lister and her lover might have done.

“Your hair’s gorgeous,” I say. “You look gorgeous. But?”

There’s always a but. I can’t do it anymore. Another year with stick-its and nobody on Christmas day. Skirting the mop cupboard and talking bleach. I can’t.

Len blushes. Watches me, looking at the roses, and quietly falling apart. “They’re for you, sweetheart. I know you loved the old rose bush. I used to see you sniffing those flowers and smiling. After I got the text about your mum, I went up to the boss’s office, and said. “You’re to get a nice new rose bush by the window. For Sylvia. The new bush is coming Wednesday. There’s a card, too. Everyone in the building signed.”

I can’t do it anymore. Another year with stick-ons and nobody on Christmas day.

Len pushes the bouquet into my hands. “Roses. Speciality. Extra smelly.”

The roses are beautiful. “You shouldn’t have.” About now, I notice Len’s shoes. Heels. Red, shiny heels. Black, sheer tights.

I can’t do it anymore.

Len teeters on their heels before gripping my arms and maneuvering me firmly into the back of the cleaning emporium. “I said to myself. If Syl comes back! I’m an old fool. All the times I wanted to ask you and didn’t get the nerve. I’m a bloody fool.”