by Alexis Hall
19
Next morning, he was woken up by a flail and a shriek. He rolled over to discover a very tousled Fen sitting up in bed.
“Oh my God, what time is?”
He groped for his phone. Squinted at the little green numbers. “Uh, nearly eight?”
“Fuck. The shop. Why didn’t you . . . You should have—” Fen slipped out of bed, pale and lean and lovely in the early-morning light. “I mean, it’s not your fault. But fuck.”
“You needed the sleep. We didn’t get back till three or summin.”
Fen was wrestling with his clothes, hopping absurdly on one foot as he tried to get his jeans on at the same time as his T-shirt. “Yes, but I have things I have to do. You know I can’t afford to . . . to . . .”
“Sleep?”
“Yes. I mean. No. I mean. Fuck.” Fen emerged from his T-shirt. He was glaring. “Look, you made things pretty clear last night. I know what you want, but I’m not giving up on Pansies for you.”
“Wow, no.”
But Alfie wasn’t even sure Fen heard him—he was already disappearing down the hall. Alfie rolled out of bed, scrambled for his clothes, and followed.
Fen was in the back room, dragging flowers out of cold storage. He glanced up only briefly. “I don’t have time right now.”
“I want to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
Alfie sighed. “Yeah, you do.”
“We’ve had this conversation.” Fen’s eyes flashed at him behind the heavy black frames of his glasses. “I know having you boss me around is cute sometimes, but respect a fucking boundary, okay?”
“I would if . . .” Wait, no. That sounded bad. Why did everything always sound bad when you needed it not to?
“If what?”
He tried again. “Fen, I . . . y’know . . . I . . . cried in front of you last night. I fucking cried. And you told me it was okay, and I believed you.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, I don’t get how it’s okay for me to do that. But it’s not okay for me to help you.”
Alfie thought it was a pretty decent argument. Except he hadn’t quite expected Fen to suddenly look so . . . squashed. Or to go sliding to his knees among the flowers. Which, in a different context, would have been just about the prettiest thing Alfie had ever seen.
Fen blinked up at him, his eyes intensely green in the middle of all that colour. “I’m fucking everything up, Alfie. You had it right yesterday. I don’t want to run a flower shop. I don’t know how. I’m so far in debt and all I do is lose money.”
“We can fix this.” Alfie dropped to his haunches. Reached for Fen’s hand. “I know it probably seems impossible, but I promise . . . money’s easy. It’s just numbers.”
“That’s the thing, though. Part of me doesn’t want it fixed. Part of me just wants it to be over so I can get on with my life.”
“Well, you don’t have to run it into the ground. We could close in a controlled and careful way. Take care of the assets and all that.”
Fen’s hands clenched into fists. “I know, I know. But it feels . . . really bad, throwing away my mother’s legacy. Whereas just losing it because I’m crap feels bad in a more bearable way. It’s not sensible. I can’t explain it.”
“No, I get it. It’s always harder choosing, right?”
A nod.
“Well. First thing’s first, eh? Let’s get the shop open.” Alfie pushed himself back to his feet. “Tell me what to do.”
Fen drew in a shaky breath. “Okay. Yes. Okay.”
It wasn’t the most glamorous morning Alfie had ever spent. But it wasn’t the worst either. The work was mainly physical—and quite demanding at that—but he actually kind of enjoyed it. Being useful in such a straightforward, slightly primitive way. Also he got to show off to Fen, doing quite a bit more bending and flexing than was strictly necessary.
He washed and sorted flowers, hauled them about—surprising how heavy the flimsy buggers could be en masse—cleaned buckets and the coolers and anything else that looked messy, including the leaves and packaging left over from Fen’s baskets and bouquets. Fen also taught him some basic flower care, which was so far outside anything he would have felt okay with a few weeks ago that he was slightly surprised by how comfortable he was. How much he liked looking after flowers, getting rid of the dead and wilted ones, making sure they were properly fed and watered, and that their leaves were neatly stripped. You had to be firm but gentle too, which Alfie reckoned played directly to his skill set.
Fen, meanwhile, did all the arrangements and set up the shop displays. And Alfie had to struggle to stay focused because he was very distracting. Not just in an obvious way, like his arse being all perky and tempting in his tight jeans. But the way he moved, with a dancer’s effortless grace, the strength of his arms and his supple wrists, the dexterity of his tough, callused fingers. He was singing too, along with whatever music he was playing—something about blueberry pies and being corny like Kansas.
They made it though. And were open exactly on time. It was honestly a bit of an anticlimax because it wasn’t like there was a queue or anything—only incredibly guilty people were going to be on the doorstep of a flower shop at 9 a.m.—so all that happened was Fen flipping over the sign. And then they went straight back to what they were doing.
By about eleven, Fen was wrapping up the last of the orders, his creations lined up along the counter in the back room. He looked absorbed in his work, hands moving expertly among the flowers and greenery, tweaking and coaxing them into position.
“You’re really good at that,” Alfie said, coming up behind him and drawing him into an embrace.
Fen leaned back, snuggling his hips in tight. “Thank you. Mum taught me. So it’s like . . . Oh, this is so cheesy . . . but it’s like she isn’t gone.”
“That’s not cheesy. I think it’s nice.”
“She loved flowers.” Fen stroked a rose petal with the pad of his thumb. “The way they live their whole lives for a moment of beauty.”
Alfie wrinkled his nose doubtfully. “I think I’d rather last a bit longer, myself. Like one of those bushes you can’t get out of your patio.”
Fen turned so he was pressed up against Alfie’s chest, where he hid his face. “Oh, Alfie, I hate basically everything about running this fucking shop, but I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to stop doing the thing she taught me.”
Alfie didn’t really know what to say, so he just held Fen tightly, curving his body round him.
“There’s magic in it. Making flowers for people. It’s full of stories: births and deaths and marriage, love and guilt and gratitude, everything we are, good and bad and in-between.” Fen sighed. “She was better at it than me, though. Everyone wanted to talk to her.”
“People’ll get used to you.”
“I’m not sure I care. I gave up wanting acceptance from this place a long time ago.”
Alfie remembered the slinky-hipped lad he’d danced with a few nights ago. “You never know. Things change.”
“Maybe. But I don’t know if I can.”
“Wouldn’t want you to.” He kissed the edge of Fen’s brow. “So are you going to let me see your books or what?”
For a moment he thought Fen was going to refuse again, but then he flapped a hand towards the corner of the room. “Fine. Go ahead.”
Alfie tried to see what he was being directed to. “That’s a wall, mate.”
“Beside the wall.”
“I thought that was a bin.”
“Um. No. That’s just where I . . . put things. You know, papers and things.”
“That’s where you put papers and things,” Alfie repeated.
Fen cringed. “I’m sorry. I know, it’s a disaster. But dying is really expensive, especially when you have a bunch of legal costs on top of it. And then there’s the mortgage on my London place, which I should really let David buy me out of, except then I really will be stuck
here forever, and I won’t even have a home of my own anymore.”
“I told you. We’ll sort it out. It’s going to be fine.”
“Alfie, it’s not fine. It’s really not fine.” Fen’s voice rose and broke. “Basically, I have no money. I am running this shop on nothing. And the bank is about two red letters from taking everything.”
Alfie ran his hands soothingly down Fen’s back, trying to still his trembling. “Did your mam keep an accounts book or summin?”
“Yes, she had lots of shop stuff. I copied it all to my laptop when I sold mum’s computer.”
“Okay so. Give me that and the rest of the day, and I’ll see what I can do.”
The practical approach seemed to calm Fen a little bit. Which was good because Alfie was way better at doing things than he was at saying things. Fen gave him a mock glare. “You’d better not look at my porn.”
“I promise. But, er, what kind of porn do you like? Just out of curiosity, y’know?”
That won the faintest of smiles, and Fen scurried upstairs to get the laptop.
Which meant Alfie was left alone in the flower shop. And, of course, despite the place having been deserted all morning, now a customer wandered in. An anxious-looking woman, about Alfie’s dad’s age, with iron-grey hair and a stern, hawk-nosed face, who stared at the displays with obvious bewilderment.
“Alreet there?” said Alfie awkwardly.
She nodded.
There was a long silence.
“Just came in for some flowers like,” she offered eventually.
“Oh aye?”
“Aye.”
Alfie peered down the corridor. No sign of Fen. What the fuck was he doing? Using the porn?
“Were you looking for anything in particular?” he asked.
“Just some flowers like.”
This was . . . not going so well. If Fen’s mam was best at this and Fen was good enough, then Alfie was bottom-of-the-pile clueless. He knew fuck all about flowers except what Fen had told him. Could probably just about recognise a daffodil if pushed. But, then, what was that other thing Fen had said? That flowers were about people.
“I mean,” Alfie tried, “were you looking for anyone in particular?”
The woman prodded at something Alfie had no chance of recognising. A fancy lily maybe, with big curling petals? “Just . . . a friend.”
“Yeah?” Alfie had no idea. “So, er, how is she? Your friend?”
“Bit doon, truth be told.” The woman sighed. “It’s the chemo. It’s tough on her. Just thought I’d get summin to cheer her up.”
“That’s a good idea. She’ll like that.” Alfie got out from behind the counter and tried to look even a little bit like he knew what he was doing. “So, do you know what kind of flowers . . .”
Panic flashed across the woman’s face. Followed by a hot blush. “I’ve nivver bought her flowers before. Norrin forty years.”
“Well.” Alfie wasn’t entirely oblivious to subtext, but he wasn’t very good at dealing with it. He tended to blunder right through the middle and turn it into . . . text. “It’s never too late to start.”
“I was always too afraid what people would say.”
“I bet girls can get away with buying each other flowers.”
She shrugged.
And Alfie felt sort of weird and itchy. It was the wrong answer and he knew it was. “And, anyway, fuck ’em. It’s nobody’s bloody business who you buy flowers for. Or what it means if you do.” He grinned. “So we going for it? We doing this?”
“Yes.” The woman took a deep breath. “Damn right we are. Except I divvent have a clue what she’d like.”
“Erm,” said Alfie.
“I can’t be doing with anything lovey-dovey. Red roses and whatnot. And I don’t want dead-bugger flowers either.”
“Dead-bugger flowers?”
“Ye knaa, the flimsy white nonsense people give you when you’re sick. Like they’re already planning the funeral. Nobody’s burying Maureen on my watch.”
“Right. No roses. No dead-bugger flowers. Gottit.”
She gazed at him expectantly. And with so much hope it was bollock-freezing.
“So, summin cheery, mebbe?” he suggested, desperately. “I bet she’s tough as nails, your Maureen?”
“Aye.” That got him the faintest hint of a smile. Brightened her tired eyes. “That she is.”
Alfie scanned the flowers for a moment or two before his practical side intervened. “Oh. Erm. How much d’ye wanna spend?”
“Twenty quid mebbe?”
“Sounds good.” This was the moment of truth. He took a deep breath. Pointed at what was one of the few flowers he knew, apart from the ones his mam liked, roses because everyone did, and the ornamental cabbage thing Fen had given him. “So, wharraboot sunflowers? They’re bold and happy like?”
“That’s a really wonderful idea.” Fen, at last, stepped into the shop, laptop under his arm, smiling.
Alfie was incredibly glad to see him. And at the same time he wanted to shake him. Don’t you ever abandon me in the flower shop again!
“Sunflowers don’t need much to set them off. Just some nice greens.” Fen gathered up a mass of them from the bucket, his hands full of gold. “Something like this?”
The woman nodded. “Aye, that’d do nicely.”
Fen made his way back to the counter. Started performing his usual miracles with scissors and paper and bits of ribbon. Which liberated Alfie to scoop up the laptop and flee into the workroom.
There was actually a desk lurking in the corner, half-buried behind buckets and under papers. He got settled and began the painstaking task of untangling nearly two years of neglectful accounting.
And it was only when Fen touched him gently on the shoulder that Alfie realised that his neck was cricked and his eyes were gritty and that a lot of time had passed.
“Brought you something.” Fen put a paper bag down beside him, a neatly wrapped circle of greaseproof paper inside. “I hope you still like these.”
Alfie tore at the wrapping, inhaling blissfully the scent of floury bread and sweaty cheddar. “Fuck yeah. My favourite.”
“When you used to come in with your mum, you were always on at her to let you get a stottie.”
Alfie mumbled something with his mouth full.
“I made you some tea as well. But I don’t know how you like it.”
“Milk, no sugar.”
“Really? A homegrown northern boy like you doesn’t take sugar?”
“Don’t want to get podgy.”
Fen smiled at him. “You’d look good. As long as you were happy.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe when I’m old and I’ve got no chance of ever getting laid again.”
“I’d still want to sleep with you. You won’t ever not be gorgeous to me, Alfie Bell. Whatever age or size you are.”
Alfie was still blushing into his rapidly disappearing stottie when Fen came back with a mug of tea. Proper tea, made with what was obviously a tea bag. Not the leafy stuff they liked down south. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, I had a baguette. But I ate it on the way back to the shop because I was starving. It’s nearly three.”
“Shit, really? Well, thanks for lunch.”
Fen cleared a little space on the desk and squeezed himself onto it. “I’m not much for the domestic, but I can buy my man a sandwich and make him a cup of tea.”
“Good enough for me.”
“So.” Fen swung his feet a little. “I feel brave. What’s the damage?”
Alfie stuffed the last piece of stottie into his mouth and swallowed. Dusted off his hands. “It’s not . . . it’s not good, pet.”
“Yeah, I don’t need a master’s from the LSE to figure that out.”
“Something’s got to give. Even if you let David buy you out of your London place, you’re still not going to make the rent on Pansies. And even if you did . . . your business model is, well, it’s nonexistent, mate. You’re running at a prett
y substantial deficit here.”
Fen squeezed his eyes shut. “I know.”
“It’s not unsalvageable though.” Alfie reached out and patted Fen’s knee consolingly. “Especially if we start controlling costs again. And thought about suppliers a bit—I mean, local is always best, and you’re importing most of your stock. There’s also a bunch of revenue streams you just don’t seem to be exploiting anymore. Like Teleflora, and you’ve got a really amazing website—”
“David made the website. And I just don’t have the manpower to cope with that volume of orders.”
“What about local deliveries, then? Your mam used to provide flowers for all these local supermarkets and churches and funeral homes.”
Fen mumbled something.
“What?”
“The van broke down, okay? And I can’t afford to get it repaired.”
“I’ll cover it,” Alfie offered.
“I’m not taking your money.”
Alfie gritted his teeth, trying not to let too much of his frustration show. “Look, I get it. My dad’s all no charity too. But this can be a loan or whatever.”
“More debt?” Fen gave him sceptical eyebrows.
“You’re going to have to do something, pet. You’re in a hole here. And, honestly, when you get right down to it, the thing that makes money is . . . more money.”
“This is a flower shop, not an investment bank.”
“A flower shop with most of its revenue streams compromised.” Alfie leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I can run the numbers for you, but I reckon that if we take care of the van, you can pay me back from the increased income and still come out with a bit of profit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
Fen was biting his lip. “Okay, but even if you lend the money, Peter—you do remember him, right—runs the garage now.”
“Peter? You mean Pete? Pete Brown? He used to be one of my best mates, I bet—” Alfie stopped abruptly. “Oh wait, no. I’m gay. I forgot. So I guess that’s out.”