Wildflowers

by Debbie Howells

  ‘Ha! What about Alan…’ I remind her.

  ‘And Neil,’ adds Nina. ‘Remember him? Poor guy, you broke his heart.’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ says Charlie dismissively. ‘Like you said, they don’t count. Actually, they were a load of stuffy old farts in suits and someone who reminded me of our old geography teacher. Remember Mr Williams, Frankie? God, wasn’t he boring? Anyway, just like him… All they do is sleep these days, girls. I might as well work in a bed shop – now sir, this button reclines the seat… You won’t believe how many times I get to say that. Seriously. It’s not really what I signed up for.’

  ‘Oh, poor you.’ But I have a serious problem feeling sorry for her. ‘My heart bleeds. Never mind all those days lying on a Caribbean beach or drinking rum punches in the pool bar…’

  ‘Okay. So what about you?’ says Charlie, changing the subject and fixing her eyes on me, the length of our friendship granting her the right to complete honesty. ‘At least I have relationships, which is more than I can say for you. And when you’re surrounded by everyone else’s romance and wedding talk… don’t you fancy a taste of it yourself? And please, don’t even mention Greg…’

  She sticks two fingers down her throat and I glare at her. He’s one subject my friends are united on.

  ‘Actually? No,’ I say, meaning every word - almost. ‘You should see what weddings do to the most normal people. The sweetest, mildest bride becomes an axe murderer, a quiet saintly mother of the bride grows fangs and a third eye. It’s completely hideous. Girls, if you have to get married, please keep it small and simple, or elope. Las Vegas would be perfect. And I won’t mind in the slightest if you don’t invite me.’

  ‘You won’t catch me getting married,’ says Charlie. ‘Knowing me, I’d change my mind. God, imagine, planning a big white wedding only to wake up a year later to find you can’t stand him…’

  Does that happen? But then I know it does. How many of my brides have been there before? Not that it seems to put them off...

  ‘If it were me, I’d want a small, intimate gathering,’ says Nina, looking dreamy. ‘With no fuss, no politically contrived table plans… Just a gorgeous dress and my family and you two, obviously…’

  I snort. ‘Don’t kid yourself that any wedding is simple,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a myth. Anyway, millions of people – including moi – depend on all the madness to make a living. No, simple’s a terrible idea.’

  Charlie looks disgusted. ‘Weddings in general are a terrible idea. Well, for me anyway.’ Then her eyes swivel round, fixing on me. ‘But, you know, Frankie… I could imagine you, maybe. Not yet, obviously, but one day, doing the big dress and the whole thing…’

  I’d like bridesmaids too. Just one or two, teeny ones like Martha. Or maybe a page boy… Like Cosmo…

  ‘Not a chance,’ I tell her, shaking the image of me in a meringue from my head. ‘Especially not while Honey keeps trying to fix me up with total losers. Though actually, the last one, he was quite hot…’

  ‘AND…’ I feel two pairs of eyes boring into me.

  ‘Well, he’s Johnny’s brother in law and I snogged him once – ages ago - and he’s quite dishy. Anyway, it’s pointless because whether I like him or not, I am still with Greg…’

  Charlie rolls her eyes at me. ‘Look, I’ve got nothing against Greg. He’s a perfectly reasonable guy. He has a nice car, and his jeans are quite cool. It’s just…’ She frowns, lost for words. ‘He has the emotional depth of an earthworm. He shouldn’t be anyone’s boyfriend - especially not yours. Can’t you see that, Frankie?’

  ‘He really isn’t like that,’ I tell her, suddenly feeling cross. I’m getting fed up with my friends’ criticism of him. He may not be particularly exciting or fascinating or rich, but those types are distinctly lacking round here, in case Charlie hadn’t noticed. Plus, Greg really likes me.

  But suddenly the spotlight’s on Nina, who’s being uncharacteristically quiet this evening, just sitting there, slightly flushed and glowing, smiling a knowing little smile as though she’s hiding something precious. It’s a look we’ve both seen before.

  ‘Nina?’ I quiz her. ‘Is there something you’d like to share with us?’

  ‘I don’t think so...’ But her brown eyes are full of laughter and happiness and instantly I know. Wow… This girl’s in lurve…

  ‘Who?’ demands Charlie, who’s seen it too. ‘Come on girl. Spill.’

  ‘He’s a physio,’ confesses Nina, burying her head in her hands. ‘Damn it, Charlie! I so wasn’t going to tell you!’

  ‘Ooh, lucky you. Think of all those deep tissue massages,’ says Charlie, practically drooling. ‘Does he have any friends?’

  Nina ignores the comment. ‘His name is Will. He’s thirty five, single, completely gorgeous and he’s taking me out for dinner. And that’s all I’m telling you!’

  ‘So where’s he taking you?’ Charlie asks casually, but Nina just shakes her head at us.

  ‘Do you really think I’m stupid enough to tell you?’

  ‘It’s so cool,’ I tell her, really pleased for her. Nina’s sweet – you could never say that about Charlie. ‘Ignore the wrinkled old cow – she’s just jealous.’

  ‘I so am,’ says Charlie, resignedly. ‘But never mind. You and me Frankie, we’re two of a kind, aren’t we? Us party girls have to stick together.’

  Out of habit I nod, but the idea doesn’t thrill me as much as it used to. Charlie loves her shallow, high-flying life. And ground-based as it is, mine isn’t much better, consisting as it does of mad brides, a flaky assistant and a distant boyfriend. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s ever so slightly beginning to lose its gloss.

  I raise my glass and propose a toast. ‘To Will!’

  ‘Will…’ we all chorus, chinking our glasses noisily.

  As I lie in bed that night, I’m struck by the strangest mix of emotions as I think about Nina and Will. I don’t know why, but I get the feeling that this is about as far from casual as you can get. Early days or not, deep inside, don’t you know? When you meet the man you’re destined to be with?

  But it’s more than that. The truth is, I’m finding it hard to put Lulubelle and Cosmo out of my head. I know that age has nothing to do with it, but it’s so unfair that someone so young should go through such a debilitating illness. He should be running around, shrieking and giggling – just like Martha. With pink cheeks and tangled hair, not pale and frail in a wheelchair.

  Not being a mother, it’s hard to imagine how hard it is for Lulubelle, but when I think of how I’d feel if it was Martha, it brings a lump to my throat that almost chokes me.

  It explains why Lulubelle looks as though she carries the cares of the world on her shoulders. Narrow shoulders that belie her incredible strength, because actually, she really does.

  Statistically, the chances of Cosmo being cured are good, she told me. But as with anything, there are no guarantees and so every day, Lulubelle watches him like a hawk, knowing it could go either way.

  The following evening, after a busy day of unpacking into buckets what feels like a gazillion flowers, Greg’s number flashes up on my phone. My heart does a little jump, then I remember. In ten days, he hasn’t even bothered to reply to my texts, which isn’t on and I’m justifiably a little shirty.

  ‘Greg who?’ I say sniffily.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Frankie. You know how it is. I’ve been busy, babe. And it’s only been a few days.’

  ‘Ten, actually, Greg. Which is a week and a half,’ I add. ‘That’s a third of a month. Not that it matters, because, you know what? With all this time to think about it, I’ve realised something – I quite like being on my own...’

  There’s a brief silence at the other end. ‘I’ve had a few things going on, babe, that’s all. I was hoping I could come over later.’

  My resolve to make this difficult for him wavers. Instead of flirting outrageously and making a joke about his absence, for once he sounds vaguely apologetic. It’s
enough for me to cave in without a fight.

  ‘Oh – okay, then. I suppose.’

  Which isn’t the best way to start an evening. Even as I change and touch up my makeup, for some reason my heart isn’t in it and things go rapidly downhill when he arrives.

  Instantly I know something’s happened. His eyes don’t quite meet mine and his cheek is bristly with stubble when it fleetingly brushes against my own. Then collapsing on my sofa, he sighs.

  ‘So what has been going on?’ I ask, sitting down next to him. ‘You look terrible, Greg.’

  He really does. His thick, chestnut hair needs washing and he looks as though he hasn’t shaved for days, while the huge grey circles under his eyes look more like bruises than tiredness.

  He sighs again, clasping his hands and staring at the floor in front of him. ‘I lost my job, babe. Just like that. Then my landlord kicked me out.’

  Oh. I feel a small flicker of alarm.

  ‘… and I’ve got nowhere, Frankie. Honest, there’s only you…I can stay, can’t I? Just till I get myself sorted out?’

  Two months, even two weeks ago, I’d have welcomed him with open arms, offering to share my food, my bed, my body with him. But since then, it’s like the ground has shifted. Invisibly, undetectably – but enough, though I haven’t a clue why. For the first time in our relationship, I hesitate.

  But then the old Frankie logic kicks in. Instead of working out that he’s only here because he’s clean out of options, all I can think is that this man I’ve been seeing has fallen on hard times and it’s me he’s come to. Only the most hardened woman could turn him away. Right now, he needs me. It’s what relationships are about – isn’t it? Taking the rough with the smooth, the good with the bad?

  Much as I want to believe this, annoyingly I can hear Honey’s voice in my head. You have to say no, Frankie, he’s using you – again. Chuck him out, now and tell him you never want to see him again.

  I don’t exactly say yes. Not in so many words.

  ‘For a bit,’ I say slowly, watching relief wash over his face. ‘But only for a day or two, okay? And as long as you pull your weight, Greg…because I am not washing your underwear. Not ever. Comprende?’

  He mumbles something indecipherable, then pulls me towards him and plants a kiss somewhere near my lips. But it’s just a kiss, nothing more.

  And so, just like that, after a year of being elusive, Greg is here in my flat. The man whose calls I’ve waited in for. Whose body I’ve fantasised about. His trainers are just inside the door, his toothbrush in the mug next to mine. I make two cups of tea in the morning instead of a solitary one. It’s the moment I’ve dreamed of - for ages. But if I’m honest, now he’s here, I’m less than ecstatic.

  As the week progresses, I turn my attention to work. We have two weddings this weekend and so for the rest of the week, Greg is somewhat neglected as my life becomes a nonstop whirl of flowers, flowers and more flowers. As I double triple check the orders, I make Milo promise on pain of death not to send me any more wrong colours.

  Then comes the part I love most, as I take delivery of box upon box of the palest scented roses, antique hydrangeas, lime green fluffy alchemilla and white peppery phlox, with a garden’s worth of every herb under the sun until the inside my shop is filled with summer. It’s the lull before the storm that’s looming, of manic stress and tearing around, ensuring everything’s done to perfection.

  By chance, both weddings have vintage themes and soft, faded-looking flowers, which has turned me into my most paranoid, obsessive self. There are lists stuck up everywhere to make absolutely, positively certain that the right flowers end up with the right bride. Anything else is unthinkable.

  It’s one of those weeks when I truly love what I do. We’re busy, but not madly so, though that will follow. These flowers are really gorgeous and as we work in the cool of the shop, the sun beams in through the windows. The only blot on the landscape is the lazy male one in my flat. Called Greg.

  On Thursday, while Skye nips out for her lunch break, I have a visitor – a rather tall, smartly dressed one. A groom? Potential business?

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask politely. As he turns towards me, I stiffen. There’s something about him I don’t like. I know for a fact he hasn’t been in before. I’ve a memory for faces, especially weasley-looking ones like his.

  ‘Yes, you’re doing the flowers for the Clifton wedding, aren’t you?’ He has one of those haughty, strangled-vowel type of voices that sounds like a foreign language, looking down his nose at me with cold eyes.

  ‘Bernice and James? Yes. That’s right - we are…’

  ‘James. Yes. Of course.’ A black look crosses his face. ‘Only I er, wanted to know what flowers they were having so I could choose a gift. Maybe a vase, or a plant - or something like that.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ He really is one shifty looking guy, but when it comes to business, I learned a long time ago to put personal feelings to one side. ‘I’m afraid I can’t really say – you see, the flowers are always a secret…’

  But too late, his eyes linger on the workbench where I’ve laid out the vases for both weddings.

  ‘Well, perhaps you could suggest something.’ He stands, hands in the pockets of his big coat, which strikes me as weird on a day as warm as this.

  Suddenly I remember. I do have something - a plant that might just do… ‘Um, well – actually, I might just have a hydrangea the right colour. But it’s outside. If you wait a second, I’ll get it for you.’

  Nipping out of the back door to the small courtyard behind, I’m gone for about two minutes but when I come back, there’s no sign of him. It strikes me as odd, but I give it no further thought – until a few hours later, Mrs Orange walks in.

  ‘There’s a right funny smell in here, my lovely.’ Her wiry hair is stuck out at all angles and there’s a smudge of paint on her cheek.

  ‘It’s the flowers, Mrs Orange. Look.’ I wave one under her nose. ‘This little sepia rose has a strong scent – I expect it’s that.’

  ‘Oh no, duck. I know what them roses smell like…’ She wrinkles up her nose and prowls around the workshop, sniffing the air.

  ‘They were crop spraying the fields out the back earlier. Maybe that’s what it is. Or paint. You’ve been painting, I can tell…’ I tease her.

  She gives me one of her looks. ‘Don’t smell like crop spraying to me…’ She shambles over and studies the workbench, where every last inch is covered with the table arrangements for the weekend. ‘You know, it’s coming from over by this table.’ Then she frowns. ‘What colour hair has this bride got, my lovely?’

  ‘Brunette,’ I say heavily, knowing what’s coming. ‘Both of them, as it happens. There are two brides.’

  She frowns, shaking her head. ‘Should be purples, pet. Or reds - not these bloomin washed out fripperies. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  As she stomps out again, needless to say, I ignore her warning. Antique coloured flowers weren’t the fashion in her day and this hokum about colour and brides’ hair is tosh. But a little later, as I’m adding some finishing touches, I get another visitor.

  ‘Hello! You busy?’ Lulubelle’s head appears at the window. Her long hair’s in a messy knot and even in shorts and a T-shirt, she looks as effortlessly lovely as she always does.

  ‘Lulubelle! Come on in! How’s Cosmo today?’

  ‘Slowly feeling better, I think.’ She pushes him into the shop. Cocooned in his buggy, I’m pleased to see a hint of colour in his cheeks. ‘He’s quiet, but he always is after chemo. Only this time, it does seem to be taking longer… Frankie, there’s a really funny smell in here.’ She sniffs the air. ‘Sorry – I’m just careful – you know, with his health…’

  ‘Actually, you’re not the first person to mention it.’ I open the remaining windows. ‘I think they’ve been crop-spraying and it’s blown in from the fields. You know, he does look a bit better,’ I add, gently ruffling Cosmo’s hair. There’s a flicker of reco
gnition, but I can’t help comparing him with Martha, who’d squeal indignantly.

  ‘These are beautiful.’ Lulubelle looks at the displays for the weddings. ‘Amazing colours… Actually, I wanted to ask you a favour. And if it’s too difficult, you must say so… Only I’m organising a charity dinner. It’s to raise funds for the children’s hospice in All Hallows. Briarwood – you may have heard of it…’

  I shake my head. Hospices have never been on my radar – after all, they tend to be somewhere you don’t think about unless you need them.

  ‘It’s the first weekend in October - which I know isn’t for a while and you must say if you’re too busy, but I wondered if you’d do some flowers for the tables? Just little vases would be fine, nothing fancy but it’s black tie and we want people to think they’re getting their money’s worth…’

  ‘I’d love to!’ I tell her. October’s usually a quiet month though this year, there’s my celebrity wedding at the end of it. I’m excited just thinking about it!

  ‘Our budget is very small, though,’ she continues. ‘It won’t be like one of your big weddings… We want as much money as possible to go Briarwood.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I tell her, still imagining raking in a healthy profit and better still, all these well-heeled dinner guests seeing Valentine’s wonderful flowers. ‘I’ll definitely be able to do something for you.’

  ‘Oh thanks, Frankie, so much! Hey, you should come to it! I’ll organise you some tickets.’

  ‘Wow! I’d love to – thanks!’

  This is even better… I picture myself in a long, gorgeous dress, demure and extremely sober, hobnobbing with wealthy benefactors, arm in arm with Greg, tall and so handsome in his dinner jacket, while all around people are whispering about the flowers… Such a find, you know… Frankie Valentine, her name is! They say she’s the next celebrity florist…

  With my head in the clouds, I float through the rest of the afternoon, but my bubbly mood doesn’t last. When I trudge home and up the stairs to my flat, Greg’s exactly where I left him – on the sofa, television blaring, dirty plates spread on the floor beside him. He’s so engrossed in what he’s watching, he barely notices me come in.