The Beachside Flower Stall

by Karen Clarke

  ‘What shall I get?’

  ‘Cod and chips twice.’ She wiped a hand over the steamy mirror of the bathroom cabinet and pushed her face to the glass. ‘God, I look old.’

  ‘You look lovely,’ I said, truthfully. ‘You suit not wearing make-up.’

  ‘So do you.’ She turned to study me, scrunching her china-blue eyes. ‘You’re very pretty, Carrie,’ she said. ‘That lovely red hair of yours. You should let it down more often.’

  A blush swept over my face. I’d never known how to accept a compliment.

  ‘Your birthday’s May, isn’t it?’

  I nodded, puzzled.

  ‘Your birth flower is lily of the valley, which symbolises humility and sweetness.’ She touched my cheek. ‘Very appropriate.’

  My blush intensified. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘I’m October,’ she said. ‘Marigold.’ Her hand fell away. ‘It means sorrow.’

  ‘Ah.’ The mood had started to sour. ‘I think I’ll have haddock, instead of cod,’ I said, to divert her.

  Her eyebrows rose. ‘The cod and chips twice was for me.’

  * * *

  Ruby polished off her double portion in the time it took me to plough through half of mine.

  ‘I eat my feelings,’ she said, licking her fingers, perhaps seeing something in my expression. ‘I always have, even when I was young.’ She didn’t seem too bothered. ‘A healthy appetite, my grandfather used to say.’ I wondered whether he’d been religious too, but her tone was affectionate. ‘Your dad was the fussy one, I remember,’ she said. ‘Everything on his plate had to be eaten separately, and vegetables made him gag.’

  ‘All vegetables?’ I put my plate on the floor and collapsed back on the sofa. Ruby was sitting beside me, swaddled in her fleecy blue dressing gown, her bare feet up on the coffee table. She’d changed her bedding while I was out, and I was so relieved she hadn’t climbed back beneath it that I wanted to keep her talking. ‘Dad wouldn’t let us leave the table until we’d eaten our veggies.’

  ‘That’s typical of Ken.’ Ruby shook her head. Her hair had dried soft and fluffy, and stuck up here and there, like feathers. ‘Do as I say, not as I do.’ She wagged her finger in a parody of Dad that made me smile.

  ‘What was he like as a boy?’ I asked. ‘In photographs, he always looked so serious.’

  Ruby’s face seemed to fold in on itself. ‘There wasn’t much smiling in our house.’ She pulled a tissue from her dressing gown pocket and wiped her fingers. ‘But your dad was lovely, always had a kind word for people, and loved playing the banjo. I really looked up to him.’

  ‘Dad played the banjo?’ I giggled. ‘I can’t imagine it.’

  ‘“When I’m Cleaning Windows” was his party piece.’

  ‘No wonder he never mentioned it.’

  A companionable silence fell, broken by Ruby’s stomach gurgling. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. ‘I always knew he’d be a good father.’

  ‘He is,’ I said, smiling. ‘Although he’s terrible at telling jokes. He always gets the punchline wrong.’

  ‘I think I’d have been a good mother.’ Ruby’s words came out of the blue, and I held my breath as she began shredding the tissue in her lap. ‘I didn’t think I deserved to be one after giving Donny away, so I never tried again.’

  I twisted round and watched a tear drop from her chin. ‘You shouldn’t think like that—’

  ‘How did you get on at the stall?’ She rubbed at her eyes with a scrap of the greasy tissue, and I knew the topic was closed.

  I stifled a sigh. I didn’t want to think about the stall. ‘It was fine,’ I said, remembering my original intention on returning to the flat. ‘Would it be OK to take a quick look at your emails?’ I untucked my legs and stood up. It was gone eight o’clock. With any luck, Megan would be miffed that I hadn’t got back to her, and decided to try her luck with a different florist.

  We have to make a good impression. Jane’s voice in my head again.

  Then I remembered Ruby’s bank statement.

  ‘It’s about the wedding I mentioned,’ I said, when she didn’t respond. She was staring at her empty fish-and-chip wrapping, as if willing more food to appear. ‘The one at Hudson Grange.’

  ‘Hmm?’ She glanced up with a slightly dazed air.

  ‘Megan Ford is marrying Tom Hudson on the 28th, and would like us to do the flowers.’ The words left a sour taste. Or maybe it was the battered haddock. ‘She said she was going to email the details over.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Still Ruby didn’t move, but her gaze sidled in the direction of the bookshelf. ‘My laptop’s over there,’ she said, flapping her hand. ‘It’s been plugged in, so should be charged.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I said, though it was the last thing I wanted to do.

  ‘Jane promised to deal with my messages until I’m back on my feet.’ Ruby’s voice was plaintive. ‘Can’t she do it?’

  ‘She’s gone away, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Ruby subsided. ‘I’m not used to her not being around,’ she said. ‘You can normally set your clock by her routines, especially in the evenings.’

  ‘Really?’ I found the laptop and carried it over to the table.

  ‘Dennis cooks dinner, usually something with carrots, then they watch television until bedtime.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘They were working their way through The Wire, the last I heard.’

  I couldn’t imagine Jane watching The Wire. Countryfile seemed more her thing.

  ‘She’s got the hots for Dominic West.’ Ruby’s chest heaved in a throaty chuckle. ‘Her menopause has brought on something of an awakening,’ she added. ‘She asked me the other week if I knew where the G-spot was.’

  ‘Oh god,’ I said, feeling a flush rise. I kept my gaze on the laptop as I sat down and fired it up. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it was off the M40, just outside Oxford.’

  Even as I laughed, I was trying to remember the last time I’d got physical with a man. It was nearly a year ago, with a colleague of Jasmine’s – an IT teacher, who’d turned up looking like Ace Ventura in a Hawaiian shirt, with an oversized black quiff. All that was missing was a capuchin monkey on his shoulder. He’d talked non-stop about his ex, and after walking me back to my car had lunged at me, one hand squeezing my breast like a stress ball.

  Thinking back, it was as if it had happened to someone else, and I realised a lot of my memories of Manchester were like that; a sepia show-reel of driving to work, reconciling columns of numbers, driving home, eating dinner with Jasmine, or Sarah (or Mum and Dad, after they moved from Dorset), and going on dates with interchangeable men. But whenever I thought of my life before, it always appeared in vivid Technicolor.

  I didn’t dare to think too closely about what that meant, and focused on the laptop.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Ruby asked, as if it had just occurred to her.

  ‘No,’ I said shortly, cringing as I recalled my conversation with Megan. Cooper Bradley. What an idiot. ‘What’s your email address?’

  ‘rubysblooms@aol.com,’ she said on a heavy sigh, as if it was all too much trouble. ‘Password, petalz with a z.’

  I typed it in, and felt a squeeze of alarm when Megan’s name appeared at the top of Ruby’s inbox. ‘Would you like to read it?’ I said, without much hope. Ruby was in her default position; eyes shut, hands folded across her chest.

  ‘Not really,’ she said through a yawn. ‘You do it.’

  Playing for time, I glanced through the window instead. The sky had darkened to indigo, and there was a sliver of moon like a fingernail above the rooftops. I looked through the lamp-lit window above the picture-framing shop, and saw that the Hollywood couple were at opposite sides of a table, re-enacting Lady and the Tramp with a string of spaghetti, gazing into each other’s eyes. Candlelight glinted off a wine bottle, and a black-and-white cat jumped onto the windowsill and began to wash its paws.

  ‘For god’s sake,’ I muttered, tu
rning back to open Megan’s email.

  My eyes widened as I read the long list of requirements. ‘What are boutonnières, when they’re at home?’

  ‘Buttonholes,’ said Ruby automatically.

  ‘She could have just put that.’ Apart from those, and the bridal bouquet, which was to comprise roses, peonies, and lily of the valley, there were two bridesmaids’ bouquets, a basket of petals for the flower girl, thank-you bouquets for the maid of honour and her mother, corsages for ushers and assorted male relatives, flowers for a garden archway – preferably roses – a large urn arrangement of scented stock, foliage and seasonal flowers, and posy vases for twelve reception tables.

  I swallowed. It sounded like an awful lot of work. ‘Have you catered for a big wedding before?’ I asked.

  ‘Mmm,’ murmured Ruby, sounding on the verge of sleep. ‘Ellen Partridge’s daughter spent five hundred pounds on her flowers last year. I even had to do the church,’ she said. ‘And she wanted a floral crown, which was a bit of a challenge.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’s got an unusually large head,’ said Ruby. Her eyes were still closed. ‘I got the measurements wrong at first, and you could hardly see it when she tried it on.’

  ‘Well, the budget for this one is two thousand pounds,’ I said.

  Ruby’s eyes snapped open. ‘Two thousand?’

  I nodded, gratified by her response.

  ‘Pounds?’

  ‘Well… yes,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Wowsers.’ She was quiet for a moment. In the flickering light from the television, which was turned on with the sound down, I watched a range of emotions cross her face.

  Finally, all traces of enthusiasm drained away. ‘I honestly don’t think I’m up to it,’ she said, wearily. ‘Perhaps you could email back and say it’s too short notice.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, feeling as if someone had loosened a corset I hadn’t realised I was wearing. At least I’d tried.

  But as I prepared to type a response, my fingers faltered. Jane probably wouldn’t get paid this month, and Ruby’s overdraft was at its limit. As much as I hated it, a commission from Hudson Grange would probably secure more bookings in the future. Ruby’s future.

  The invisible corset tightened once more as I dithered.

  Ruby heaved herself off the sofa and brushed a trail of salt from the front of her dressing gown. ‘I’m bushed,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll go to bed.’

  And without another word she left the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Sure you can manage?’ Calum’s face was concerned. It was a boyish face, at odds with his stocky build. I’d attempted to help him erect the stall, but ended up getting in his way, so had opted to buy him a coffee from Cooper’s instead. ‘I could hang around, again.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, wondering what he would say if I begged him to stay. It was obvious he was more capable than I was.

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’ He downed his coffee in one long gulp and crumpled the cardboard cup. ‘I promised Mum I’d knock off early while she’s away, to help you pack up.’

  ‘That’s kind, but you really don’t have to,’ I said. ‘I’m stronger than I look.’

  He cast a doubtful look at my under-exercised arms. ‘You sure?’ he said, his friendly grin like his mum’s, but with nicer teeth. ‘No offence, but you don’t look like you’re used to physical work.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ Back home, as part of a New Year’s resolution to get fit, Jasmine and I had started going to a climbing wall, which was basically a windowless room in a back street, with club music pumping from a sound system, but it wasn’t the same as being outdoors and I’d dropped out after two sessions.

  ‘I’m more used to sitting behind a desk,’ I confessed, thinking longingly of my old computer, and the neat lines of figures I’d been used to dealing with.

  ‘Just remember, you’re giving people what they ask for,’ he said, like a kindly uncle, despite being ten years younger than me.

  ‘Sounds easy when you put it like that.’ I smiled properly, but watching him stride away with a bit of a swagger, like a pop star greeting his fans, I remembered the upcoming wedding and my doubts came racing back.

  I’d been certain Ruby was feigning sleep as I crept out of the flat, earlier. There’d been something forced about the snores coming from her room, and they’d stopped altogether when I’d approached her bed with a mug of coffee. I’d whispered her name, but she didn’t stir, so I’d headed into the golden morning, trying to ignore the fact that I still hadn’t responded to Megan’s email.

  As I checked the flowers, making sure no stems were broken, and removing any stray thorns, I thought about how the stall hadn’t taken much money over the last two days – mostly thanks to me.

  Money was no object for Megan’s family, if her father was paying for the wedding, and it definitely wasn’t an issue if the Hudsons were footing the bill. If the cocaine-smuggling florist had been doing the flowers at a discount, could they afford to pay even more?

  The square was still quiet, apart from a trickle of customers in and out of the newsagent’s, and some runners on the beach, making the most of a light breeze coming off the sea. I took out my phone and tapped ‘Jay Simmons Florist’ into Google, hoping to find some prices on his website. None were listed.

  Contact me for a private consultation, and to discuss your theme.

  On a whim, I pressed in the shop number. As it rang, I realised it was barely eight thirty, but reminded myself that a florist’s day – not that I was calling myself one – started early. That’s if Jay Simmons’s business was still going, after his arrest. There was probably a manager in charge—

  ‘Hello?’ The voice was male, snappy, and ever-so-slightly camp. ‘Jay Simmons, florist to the stars,’ it added, as an afterthought.

  My heart gave a thump. Like Tom the other night, I hadn’t expected the man himself to pick up. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hellooo.’ I’d never heard a word imbued with such sarcasm. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude,’ I said, stung out of my usual politeness. ‘I could be a potential client.’

  ‘Are you?’ The voice remained frosty. ‘A potential client?’

  ‘Well, I was hoping you could quote me for some wedding flowers, so yes,’ I said, heart racing. I hadn’t thought it through, but could hardly say I was pumping him for information. I tried to remember the list of things in Megan’s email. ‘I need an urn arrangement, some posies in vases, corsages… that kind of thing.’

  ‘I know what wedding flowers are,’ he said, still leaning heavily on the sarcasm. ‘Is it for you, or your daughter?’ I frowned. Did I sound like somebody’s mother? ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  I fleetingly toyed with the idea of making up a character. Fifi La-Belle, reality star? Or an actress in an upcoming film. Ashley… Maddox?

  ‘I haven’t got all bloody day,’ said Jay, interrupting my swarming thoughts.

  Got a court appearance to go to by any chance? I jibed. In my head. ‘My name’s Carrie Dashwood,’ I said. ‘I’m nobody important.’

  ‘Then I doubt you can afford my services.’

  ‘A… friend recommended you. I was looking for a quote, that’s all.’

  ‘Friend?’ His voice sharpened into suspicion. ‘What friend?’

  Shit.

  ‘Name please, or I’m hanging up.’

  ‘Megan Fox,’ I blurted.

  There was a stunned pause. ‘You know Megan Fox?’ His voice rose with excitement. ‘The actress? Oh my god!’

  Shit, shit. ‘Sorry, I meant Megan Ford.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  Startled, I let out a short, sharp scream.

  ‘The Megan Ford who’s marrying Tom Hudson?’ His voice dipped, hovering around glacial. ‘The one who ditched me?’

  Why, oh why, had I blabbed her name? ‘She said you’d let her down.’

  ‘Oh, did she now?’

 
I nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see me.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m here,’ I whispered.

  ‘Why would Megan recommend my services when she ditched me?’ He sounded furious.

  ‘It was because of the cocaine,’ I blabbed. ‘She said you’d been arrested.’

  ‘It was all a misunderstanding,’ Jay said, through heavily gritted teeth. ‘I would have explained if that mother of hers had given me a chance.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, miserably. Sorry? What was I talking about?

  ‘Who are you really?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re not looking for a quote,’ he said, his voice hardening. ‘Are you a reporter?’

  ‘No, no,’ I said. Hang up, for Christ’s sake. ‘I just wanted to know how much you normally charge for a wedding of that scale.’

  ‘It depends,’ he said, snarkily. ‘On what you want and how famous you are.’

  ‘I’m not famous at all.’ As if that wasn’t obvious. ‘And I want the usual, I suppose.’

  ‘I doubt you could afford me, sweetheart,’ he sniped. ‘Unless you’ve got five grand. London prices, sweetie.’

  Five grand? ‘OK, thanks,’ I said, about to hang up.

  ‘You’re not a client, or a reporter, you’re a florist,’ he said silkily. ‘She’s asked you to do her wedding flowers, hasn’t she?’

  My shoulders slumped. Even as a child I’d been rubbish at lying, confessing immediately when confronted by an empty biscuit tin.

  My silence said it all.

  ‘You’re going to have a fight on your hands, Carrie Dashwood,’ Jay Simmons said. ‘My reputation’s been tarnished, thanks to a gross miscarriage of justice, and I need all the business I can get.’

  ‘Well, we need it too.’ An instinctive urge to fight had reared its head. Going against Ruby’s advice from the night before, I said, ‘And we’ve as good as got the job already.’ The words ‘so there’ dangled in the air.

  ‘Not in writing, I hope.’ Jay Simmons had a grating ‘that’s hilarious’ sort of laugh that set my teeth on edge. ‘I’m used to charming my way out of difficult situations,’ he said. ‘I’m going to call Megan now, and I can guarantee you by the end of the day she’ll be my client again.’