by Sarah Morgan
Clare had carried that letter back to the house and set it down on the kitchen table. An hour had passed before she’d finally opened it, and now she wished she hadn’t. Letters got lost in the mail, didn’t they? But not this one. She already knew what it was going to say, but somehow having it in writing made it worse.
She’d almost sworn when she’d read it, but she tried never to swear aloud.
As she held the letter in her hand she could hear Becca’s voice: Say fuck, Clare! Go on! If ever there was a time for you to vent, it’s now.
“You’re getting wet.” She kissed her mother on the cheek, sure now of what she was going to do. “Let’s go indoors. Hot tea and toasted muffins, and then I’ll book my flight.”
Her mother looped her arm into hers. “It’s all horribly sad. You were a good friend to her, Clare, remember that.”
Was that true? Did a good friend tell the truth no matter what the cost? Or did a good friend offer support even when she considered the action to be heinously wrong?
They reached the house and scrambled indoors out of the rain.
Her mother left the dripping umbrella on the stone floor and walked toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I’ll be there in a minute. There’s something I need to do.” Clare hung up her coat, retrieved the letter from the pocket and walked into the living room where a fire was blazing. In the evenings the whole family gathered here to talk, play games or watch TV. Charmingly old-fashioned, Becca had called it in that same ambiguous tone she used for compliments and mockery.
Clare paused for a moment, thinking about her friend and the times they’d sat in this very room and laughed together.
Then she took a deep breath and dropped the letter into the fire, watching as the edges turned black and curled under the heated lick of the flames.
Becca was dead, and the letter and its contents should die with her.
That was her decision, and she’d learn to live with it.
1
Flora
The first time she saw him, he was standing outside the store staring at the flowers in the window. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his coat, the collar turned up against the savage bite of a New York winter. It was the type of raw, freezing day that turned each breath into a white puffy cloud, the sky moody and heavy with menace. People scurried past, heads down, going about their business with grim determination.
Not this man. He didn’t push open the door and seek refuge from the cold as so many had done before him that morning. Instead he lingered, a blank expression on his face as he scanned the array of blooms that splashed color over the monochrome of winter.
“Guilt flowers.” Julia plucked twelve long-stemmed roses from the bucket and placed them on the workstation. “He’s going to buy guilt flowers. I bet you ten dollars he’s had an affair, and he’s looking at those flowers trying to figure out which of them says sorry in a way that isn’t going to get him kicked out of the house.”
Flora didn’t take the bet, and not only because she knew Julia didn’t have ten dollars to throw away. Maybe the man hadn’t had an affair, but he certainly wasn’t celebrating anything. His features were strained, and the fixed line of his mouth suggested he’d forgotten how to smile.
“Why does it have to be an affair? Maybe he’s in love, and she doesn’t return his feelings. Maybe he’s going to buy love flowers. He’s going to put them in every room.”
It was an exchange they had all the time, a to-and-fro about the motivation of the buyer.
When it came to explanations Julia veered toward the dark, which Flora never understood because her colleague and friend was happily married to a firefighter and was the mother of three loving, if demanding, teenagers.
Flora was more hopeful in her approach. If it rained in the morning, it didn’t mean it was going to rain in the afternoon.
“Does he look like a man in love to you?” Julia sliced through the stems at an angle, the way Flora had taught her. “It’s minus digits out there. People are only outdoors if they have to be. If they’re buying things essential to life. Like chocolate.”
“Flowers are essential to life.”
“I’d risk frostbite for chocolate. Not flowers. Flowers are not essential.”
“They’re essential to my life. Strip off those leaves. If you leave them under the water they’ll rot, then the bacteria clogs the stems and the flowers die.”
“Who knew it was so complicated.” Julia removed them carefully and then glanced at the window again. “He’s messed up, don’t you think? Made a major mistake, and he’s figuring out how big the bouquet has to be to make it up to her.”
“Or him.”
“Or him.” Julia inclined her head. “He looks tired. Stressed. He’d rather be at home in the warm, but instead he’s freezing to death outside our window, which tells me it’s something big. Maybe his partner found out about his affair and he’s wondering whether it’s throwing good money after bad to try to change their mind.”
“Maybe he’s been married for thirty years and he’s marking the moment.”
“Or maybe,” Julia said, “he’s buying flowers to try to fix a day he’s ruined for someone. What?” She paused to breathe. “You’re the one who taught me that flowers tell a story.”
“But you always see a horror story.” Flora rescued a rose that was about to fall and breathed in a wave of scent. She tried not to touch the buds, but she could imagine the velvety softness under her fingers. Where other people used meditation apps to promote relaxation, she used flowers. “There are other types of story. Happier types.”
Celia, the store owner, tottered past in ridiculously high heels, her arms full of calla lilies. She had a florid complexion and a slightly flattened face that made Flora think of dahlias. Her personality was more thorny than a rose, but her brisk, no-nonsense attitude made her particularly good at dealing with dithering brides.
“You need to hurry up with those roses if we’re going to get them delivered in time for Mrs. Martin’s dinner party tonight. You know how particular she is.”
“We’ll be done in time, Celia, don’t worry.” Flora smiled and soothed. It came naturally to her. She’d calmed more storms in teacups than she’d drunk cups of tea.
“Our mission is to provide the very best customer service and the most beautiful flowers.”
“And we will.” Flora could almost feel Julia grinding her teeth next to her. She willed their boss to move on before her friend exploded.
Celia paused, her demeanor shifting from irritable to ingratiating. “Can you work Saturday, Flora? I know you worked last Saturday but—”
“—but I don’t have family commitments.” Flora still hadn’t got used to the fact that she no longer had to visit her aunt on weekends. Even though her aunt hadn’t even been aware of her presence for the last year of her life, visiting had still been part of Flora’s routine. She’d been surprised by how strange it felt not to go. Equally surprised by the grief she’d felt. She and her aunt hadn’t been close, although Flora had tried to be close. “It’s fine, Celia. I’m happy to work.” She knew Celia was taking advantage. She probably should have said no, but then Celia would have been in a mood and Flora couldn’t handle it. It was less stressful to work. And she didn’t mind that much. Weekends were always the hardest time for her, and she didn’t fully understand why.
Moving into an apartment of her own had been the culmination of a dream. It was what she’d wanted, and she’d been shocked to discover that getting what you wanted didn’t always make you happy. Her life didn’t look, or feel, the way she’d thought it would. It was like arriving in Rome, only to discover that your guide was for Paris. She wasn’t sure whether it was the apartment itself that was at fault, or her expectations.
Her mother had always emphasized that life was what you made of it, but Flora couldn’t help thinking that what you made depended on the raw ingredients you were given. Even the best chef couldn’t
do much with moldy vegetables.
Having ticked that problem off her list, Celia strode off and Julia snipped the ends off a few more roses with more violence than before.
“I thought you were going to stop people-pleasing?”
“I am. Obviously it’s a gradual thing.”
“I don’t see gradual. I see you letting her bully you into working the weekend. Again.”
Julia was the first person to comment on that particular trait, and the first person to challenge her to tackle the issue.
“I don’t mind. I’m saving being assertive for something big and important.”
“You need to start small and build up. Why are you so afraid to stand up to her?”
Her heart thumped harder at the mere thought. “Because then she’ll fire me. I’m not good with conflict.” Or rejection. That was her big one.
“She is not going to fire you, Flora. You’re her biggest asset. Half the customers only come here because of you, so you don’t have to please her the whole time.”
“I think it’s a hangover from constantly trying to please my aunt. My world was a better place when she was happy.” Although her aunt had never been happy as such. It was more that her disapproval levels had fluctuated.
And dealing with her had given Flora useful experience. She was good at handling difficult people. She’d even, on rare occasions, made her aunt smile—the biggest test any people pleaser would face in a lifetime. Causing an upward lift of Gillian’s lips represented the pinnacle of achievement. The people-pleaser’s equivalent of the summit of Everest, the four-minute mile or rowing the Atlantic. Given that the world was full of difficult people, Flora had decided she might yet have reason to be grateful to her aunt for providing her with so much practice.
Julia didn’t agree. “I teach my kids to stand up for what they want and believe in. Also that they’re responsible for their own happiness.”
“Exactly. And I’m at my happiest when the people around me are happy.”
“Saying yes doesn’t make you happy. It just makes the other person happy and removes you from conflict. And you feel bad about yourself for not having enough courage to say no.”
“Thanks Ju. I didn’t feel bad about myself, but now I do.”
“I’m being honest. If I’d ever met your aunt I would have told her what I thought of her.”
Flora winced as she imagined that particular confrontation. “My aunt wasn’t exactly warm and affectionate, that’s true, but she was my only family. She took me in when I had no one. She felt that I owed her, and she was right.”
“I’m not sure there should be ‘debt’ between family members, but if there is then you paid that debt a thousand times over. Okay, I get it, she gave you a home, but she gained a live-in carer. And Celia is not your aunt.”
“If I’d said no she would have asked you, and you have Freddie’s indoor track event this Sunday, and Geoff isn’t working so you’ll be having his mother over and doing Sunday lunch, and you promised Kaitlin you’d take her to buy a dress for that family thing you have at Easter.”
Julia gasped as a thorn pierced her finger. “How come you know my schedule better than I do? Hearing you say it aloud makes me realize how crazy my life is.”
Flora said nothing. She’d do anything, just about anything, for a slice of what Julia had. Not the craziness—she could reproduce that easily enough—but the closeness. The interwoven threads of a functioning, healthy family created something bigger than the individual. Something strong and enduring. To her aunt, Flora had been a loose thread. Something to be brushed off.
“You have a beautiful family.”
“Are you kidding? My family is a pain in the neck. Freddie has a girlfriend so now they’re sprawled on the sofa every night holding hands and gazing at each other, and Eric keeps teasing him so you can imagine how that pans out, and Kaitlin—well, I could go on. Let’s just say I envy you not having to share your space with anyone. You go home, and it’s just you.”
“Yes.” Flora watched as Julia placed the roses carefully, shaping the bouquet. “Just me.” This was the life she’d dreamed of living when she’d been sharing a house with her aunt. She had an apartment of her own. Small, lacking in charm, but all hers. She had friends. Her diary was filled with activities and invitations. She should be grateful and happy. She was lucky, lucky, lucky.
“When you go home at night everything in your apartment is exactly the way you left it. No one has moved stuff around, or buried it under piles of their own crap. You don’t have a dozen pairs of sneakers tripping you up when you walk through the door, no one banging on the door yelling ‘Mom!’ when you’re trying to use the bathroom, no one sprawled over every inch of the sofa.”
“No one bangs on my door, that’s true, and it’s just me on the sofa.” Flora removed a couple of stray leaves that Julia had missed. “Brilliant really, because I can stretch my legs out and flop like an octopus and no one complains.”
“I’m surrounded by chaos. You have blissful silence.”
“Blissful.”
“When you choose flowers for yourself, they’re always beautiful. If I’m lucky, Geoff sometimes buys me a bunch from the convenience store.”
But at least he’d bought her the flowers.
No one had ever bought Flora flowers. She spent her days producing stunning arrangements for other people, but was never the recipient.
“I read the other day that single women with no children are the happiest of anyone.”
“Mmm.” Who had they asked?
“You have the perfect life. Although I still want to fix you up with someone. You need a man.”
Flora was less convinced. All the men she’d dated had only been interested in one type of intimacy. And that was fine. More than fine on occasion, but it was like gorging on ice cream when your body was craving something nutritious and truly nourishing. Satisfying in the short term but offering no long-term sustenance.
No, what she really wanted was to matter to someone, the way she’d mattered to her mother. She wanted to be important to someone. Connected, the way Julia was. She wanted to have someone’s back, and know they had hers. She wanted someone to know her and she wanted to be needed. What was the point of being here if no one needed you? If you didn’t make a difference to someone’s life?
She had so much to give, and no one to give it to.
She was lonely, but she’d never tell anyone that. If you admitted you were lonely, people assumed there was something wrong with you. The media talked about an epidemic of loneliness, and yet admitting that you felt that way was a statement of failure. She was thirty, unattached and living in the most exciting city in the world. People assumed her life was like a day on the set of an upbeat sitcom and from the outside it probably looked that way, apart from her apartment, which was more like the set of a murder mystery. On the inside? On the inside, deep in her heart, she was crushingly lonely but if she told people they’d judge her and tell her all the things she was doing wrong. Or they’d invite her out, and she knew that wasn’t her problem. It wasn’t the number of connections she made in her social life that mattered, it was their depth.
When people asked, she told them what they wanted to hear because anything else would make them uncomfortable.
Yes, I stayed in last night and it was great. I had a chilled evening and caught up on phone calls.
My social life is so crazy it’s good to have a night in doing nothing.
Weekdays were easier than weekends when time seemed to move at half pace, and whatever she did she was aware she was doing it alone. Running in the park meant witnessing the intimacy of other people. Dodging mothers with children, couples holding hands, groups of friends laughing and drinking coffee on a bench. Shopping meant rubbing shoulders with women choosing outfits for an exciting night out.
Flora did everything she could to avoid confronting that silence that Julia seemed to prize above everything else. She went running with friends, call
ed friends, had meals with friends, joined a pottery class, an art class, listened to music and podcasts, streamed movies. In the bathroom she sometimes turned on her electric toothbrush just for the noise, but eventually she had to lie down and close her eyes and then the silence enveloped her like a smothering cloud. Not that her apartment was quiet. Far from it. Above her was a big Italian family who thundered their way from one room to another and argued in voices designed to break the sound barrier, and next door was a couple who indulged in noisy sex sessions into the early hours. She was surrounded by the sounds of other people living full and happy lives.
“I’ll be fine. My weekend plans are relaxed. Yoga. Brunch with a friend. It’s not a problem. You know I love working here.”
“You love Celia?”
“I love the flowers.”
“Phew. For a moment there I was going to suggest you got professional help. And you’re right that if you’d refused to work this weekend I would have ended up doing it, and thanks for that, but one day I want to hear you say a big loud ‘no’ to her.”
“I will.” She was well aware of the downsides of people-pleasing. In the few relationships she’d had, she invariably spent so much time pleasing the other person she forgot to please herself. That was usually the point where she ended it, in a charming it’s not you it’s me kind of way that left no hard feelings.
Julia watched Celia haranguing another member of staff. “What is her problem?”
Flora took advantage of her lapse in concentration to make a few swift adjustments to the arrangement. “She’s anxious. She owns the business and these are challenging times. We worry enough about our own jobs. Imagine if we were responsible for everyone else’s, too.”
“I don’t think it’s concern for us that’s keeping her awake at night. No wonder she lives alone. She probably ate her first husband. Or maybe he dissolved when she dripped acid on him. If she was a flower, she’d be hemlock.” Julia had a flare for the dramatic. She’d had dreams of being an actress, but then she’d met her husband. Three children had followed in quick succession. She’d done various jobs in her time, and Flora was forever grateful for the day she’d walked through the doors looking for work.