Wildflowers Read online

  ‘Calla lilies, Mrs Orange,’ I tell her. ‘With meadow flowers and roses on the tables. Country style, but not too informal. They’re going in stemmed glass bowls.’

  She nods wisely. ‘Colours?’

  ‘Crystal blush callas, ivory roses, cornflowers, daisies, cow parsley…’

  To my amazement she doesn’t say anything, just lets a broad smile stretch across her weathered face.

  ‘What?’ I ask her, nonplussed.

  ‘I see you’re finally learnin’, ducks,’ is all she says, before shuffling out again.

  As I tidy up, singing along to the radio, I don’t hear the car that pulls up and with my back to the sink, as I’m most elegantly scrubbing buckets, a voice makes me leap out of my skin.

  ‘Frankie? Frankie…’

  I turn round and feel a smile plaster itself across my face. It’s him. The policeman. Alex, in plain clothes which means he’s obviously on some top secret mission.

  ‘Hello… You on surveillance or something? Staking out Dexter’s Green for lunatic ex-boyfriends or something?’ I grin at his clothes.

  He looks puzzled, then frowns. ‘Oh – off duty. Actually being a policeman is mostly about standing with a mobile speed camera or filling out paperwork – not half as exciting as you seem to think… I – er – came to make sure you found your vase…’

  Ha. Right. Of course. As if there were any doubt, what with it being left in a box labelled to Frankie, at Valentine’s Flowers, placed in the middle of my door step.

  ‘I did, thank you so much. It was very kind of you to drop it back. Would you like a cup of tea?’ Now he’s finally here, I can’t let him get away too easily.

  ‘Thanks.’ He looks around. ‘Actually…’

  He pauses – and then I realise. He’s just being polite and is thinking of an excuse so that for a swift getaway.

  ‘Or coffee?’ I say quickly. ‘Or I think there’s juice in the fridge…’ Sounding ever so slightly mad again.

  ‘Actually,’ he looks at me. ‘If you’re finished in here, do you fancy going for a proper drink – not that there’s anything wrong with tea…’ he adds quickly. ‘But I meant at the pub. Maybe get some food?’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘That would be lovely.’

  But after a hectic day, I really do need to change so I persuade him to call by mine first.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ I tell him, hoping he’ll say he’ll wait in his car. It’s a mess up there because I overslept this morning and everything is strewn where I left it. ‘It’s very tiny…’ I glance at his head. ‘With low doorways…’

  But he isn’t put off. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ll be careful... Unless you’d rather I didn’t, of course.’

  ‘Oh. No – of course not.’ God. Now he thinks I’m hiding something. He’s a policeman, I have to remember that. Naturally suspicious and watchful, not like Greg. Come to think of it, not remotely like Greg at all. ‘Follow me.’

  I step inside ahead of him and after grabbing handfuls of clothes off the floor and shuffling magazines into a neat pile, it’s not as bad as I’d imagined.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Alex ducks his head on the way into my tiny sitting room. ‘But it’s cute, Frankie.’ He wanders over to the window. ‘Great views.’

  My heart warms to him. It’s exactly why I love it here. ‘Would you like a drink? While I change? A beer, maybe?’

  ‘That would be great.’

  I leave him sitting on my sofa, hugging myself with glee as I dance around my room ripping clothes out of my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. Not too dressy, just relaxed, and of course, just a little bit sexy.

  I find a cotton dress in a faded shade of pink, which I love because I always feel like me in it. With my flip flops that are a little too blingy to work in and a spritz of my seductive perfume. I look in the mirror. God. Lovely birds-nest hair. I deal with that, slap on some mascara and my favourite lipstick, take a deep breath and sashay out to find him. His eyes grow ever so slightly round.

  ‘You look great.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say demurely. ‘Shall we go? Only if you’re ready, that is…’ In case he thinks I’m rushing him for nefarious reasons of my own. As I’m finding, you can’t be too careful with policemen.

  We wander down the road together. Every so often my arm brushes against his, and I feel little electric shocks zipping between us. In the pub, we find a quiet table and Alex orders a bottle of Chablis, then surprise, surprise, we both choose the fish, which is delicious. It’s a promising start to the evening.

  ‘So how did you get into wedding flowers?’ he asks between mouthfuls, looking at me with dark eyes I could stare into for hours. In fact I’m so busy staring at them, for a moment I don’t realise he’s asked a question.

  ‘Frankie? Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes… Fine. Thank you… It all began with Honey’s wedding. She’s my friend,’ I explain. ‘Quite bossy lawyer with heart of gold. I love her,’ I add, in case he thinks I’m being nasty. ‘Her florist let her down and yours truly stepped into the breach.’

  ‘What – just like that? With no training?’

  ‘Believe me, it was far from just like that. It kept me awake at night. I had to practice every bit of it and it was a nightmare. Did you know for instance, that different roses open at different rates, that they’re not always the colour they’re supposed to be and that to rabbits, they’re the most delicious thing in the world?’

  ‘Rabbits?’ He looks confused.

  I continue, getting more and more heated for some reason. ‘I had one – in my shop. Don’t worry - it’s gone now. Anyway, the point is, flowers are not a nice little job for a girl, they’re jolly stressful and hard work and if you get it wrong, you can completely ruin someone’s wedding…’

  He’s looking at me as if I’m mad and then my cheeks flame as I realise what I’ve said.

  ‘If it’s so stressful, why do you do it?’

  ‘per aspera ad astra.’ Then I add helpfully, ‘through difficulties to…’

  ‘….the stars,’ he says, then sits back and frowns. ‘So that’s what you want, is it? Fame?’

  Gosh. So he knows Latin too. This is better than I hoped. ‘Well, I quite like the idea of just a teensy little celebrity wedding – for advertising, really.’ Not because I have egocentric tendencies. Moi? Egocentric? I change the subject, to prove it.

  ‘So, tell me about you. When did you join the police force?’

  ‘After I’d grown up enough to realise there was more to life than getting drunk and working in a bar. I thought about uni, but after school, I just wanted to have a good time. But you kind of grow out of that – don’t you think?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I nod intelligently. ‘Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘How’s your marathon training going?’ he asks. ‘You didn’t tell me who you were raising money for.’

  ‘Well, I’m not – exactly. It started as a bet. My friend Honey got fed up with me getting pissed at her dinner parties, so she challenged me. And I’m never one to shy away from things. And it’s going well. I’m running ten k easily these days. It should be a walk in the park.’

  But as I watch, he folds his arms across his chest and the frown intensifies and unless I’m imagining it, there’s the slightest hint of irritation on his face.

  ‘You do know, don’t you, that for a lot of people, it’s a way of raising money? They collect hundreds, if not thousands of pounds in sponsorship.’

  ‘Is that what you did?’ Suddenly I feel rather small.

  ‘Yes,’ he says simply. ‘I raised three grand. For MacMillan.’

  ‘Gosh,’ I say, shrinking lower in my seat, feeling small-minded, shallow and a whole host of other, inadequate adjectives and thinking shit, I’ve majorly screwed this up.

  ‘I’ll definitely be doing that too - I just haven’t made up my mind who for, yet…’

  But I’
m not convinced he believes me. Come to think of it, Honey did mention about raising money for worthy causes – how could I possibly have forgotten?

  It goes rather quiet after that and a short time later, he gets the bill.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, when I get home, there’s a message on my mobile. From Julia.

  15

  As far as men are concerned, you can’t win them all, I decide. As for mothers… I didn’t call her back, though at some point I know I’ll have to. But I haven’t got time to feel sorry for myself and anyway, a couple of hours in the company of divinely scented flowers, how could I possibly not be smiling.

  ‘You look happy,’ says Skye vaguely, as we assemble the bouquets for the bridesmaids.

  ‘I am,’ I tell her. ‘Even after a disastrous date with a gorgeous man who thinks I’m an airhead, I feel fine. I really do.’

  The date wasn’t a complete disaster – but after I’d revealed my reasons for running the half-marathon, on top of my boasting about being famous, I got a distinct feeling Alex hadn’t been impressed. Instead of buying me another drink, he’d got the bill and offered to walk me home, refusing my invitation to come in for coffee – which kind of says it all.

  Skye frowns at the bouquet I’m putting together. ‘Frankie… for fuck’s sake. You’ve got them colours wrong. The pink ones are for the bride and the white ones for the bridesmaids…Give it here.’

  She grabs it away from me. ‘I’ll finish these. You go and load the van.’

  Well, it’s why I pay her, isn’t it. To be useful – only a mistake like that isn’t like me at all.

  As I carefully place the flowers in the van, it comes to me. Even more than the thought of talking to my mother, I’m distracted because of what Alex said. There’s more to me than he thinks and there’s only one solution. I have to do something to prove it.

  ‘You can be in charge today,’ I tell Skye. ‘Think of it as practice for the day of a monster wedding when I keel over and die and you have to do everything, absolutely everything, on your own.’

  ‘Yeah – right,’ she says, but looks pleased. ‘Okay, in that case, give me the list. You got the addresses for the buttonholes? Shit, Frankie – where are they?’

  I bustle around at my desk and produce a manky piece of paper.

  ‘Right. We can go.’

  With Skye at the helm, all goes swimmingly and I decide then, I really must do this more often. Quite simply, she refuses to get stressed and oddly, I don’t either, because today, I’m not in charge. Even when she hands the bouquets to the bride, who says ‘but I wanted silver ribbon, you promised me silver ribbon’ in a manic, high-pitched sort of voice, she just calmly goes back to the van and rummages around for a few minutes, then returns with the bouquets tied with silver, at which point the bride flings her arms round her and bursts into tears.

  In my oddly switched-off state, I go for a long run that afternoon. It soon clouds over, followed by spots of rain which soon become a torrent, but the weather isn’t going to stop me. I really need this.

  I’ve discovered that running clears my head and it’s only now, dripping wet with my feet pounding along the footpath, that I understand what Alex was getting at. And that actually, last night didn’t go well at all.

  In fact, I’ve written off expecting to hear from him ever again. And I don’t blame him, because I didn’t do myself any favours and instead just illuminated the most shallow, pointless facets of my personality. And deep inside, I have to believe there’s more to me.

  But as I rack my brains, I struggle to come up with a single thing. Everything I like doing seems suddenly frivolous. Shopping, parties, drinking too much, having a laugh with friends… Even wedding flowers. It’s all good fun but where’s the meaning in any of it? And this marathon too – I could be raising funds for the worthiest of causes and look at me. Running just to prove a point.

  Alex was right. The thought that I’ve already blown it with the nicest man I’ve met in years, brings self-pitying tears to my eyes, which roll down my cheeks until they’re washed away by the rain. Then like a bolt of lightning it comes to me.

  I do a detour so that the last half mile of my run takes me past Lulubelle’s house. Not caring that I look like a drowned rat, I stop and hammer on her door.

  Fortunately she’s at home, looking as casually beautiful as she always does, peering at me with a frown.

  ‘Frankie?’ she says incredulously. ‘Sorry – I didn’t realise it was you.’ She peers more closely. ‘Are you ok? You look soaked. Do you want to come in?’

  But I can hear voices inside and anyway, I hadn’t planned to stay.

  ‘No, thanks – it was just I wanted to ask you something. Only do you think it would be ok? If I ran the half marathon for Briarwood?’ Out of breath from running it all comes out in a rush.

  Something odd happens to her face, then she takes a deep breath and looks at me and when she smiles, her eyes are bright.

  ‘It would be more than ok,’ she says softly. ‘Thank you, Frankie.’

  I stand on her doorstep grinning back feeling inordinately pleased with myself.

  ‘Excellent! That’s settled then. Well, I better get back to my running… See you soon!’

  And as I run off down the lane, I feel full of bounce and happiness. Much more than that, I have a purpose.

  Then as I shower and pull on warm, dry clothes, my mobile rings. I glance at the screen, then take a deep breath.

  ‘Hello, Julia.’

  ‘Frankie, darling…Don’t sound so pleased to hear from me…’

  ‘Of course I’m pleased.’ I do my best to drum up some enthusiasm. Only from experience I know, contact from my mother comes at a price. I’m just wondering what it is this time. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In London, darling. With Giles’s sister. She’s awfully sweet. I was hoping you and I could get together.’

  For my mother, she’s slightly less breezy than usual, which worries me.

  ‘I could do tomorrow?’

  16

  Such is life, I decide. Just as you get one part of it sorted, another part goes into meltdown.

  And now I have the grand process of fund raising to address, which is somewhat daunting, until Skye has a brilliant idea.

  ‘Them brides,’ she says slowly. ‘They spend a blinking fortune, don’t they? Freakin’ stupid money - on flowers, which are only going to die, let’s be honest… Don’t you ever wonder, Frankie, why they do it?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I say impatiently. ‘But the point is, they want to. It’s one of those wedding rules – read the magazines. They need on-trend flowers like everyone else’s - or their wedding will be doomed to disaster. It’s total rubbish of course, but if they don’t get them from us, they’ll get them from another florist. You’re not going to change the world, Skye.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’ She puts down the bouquet she’s making. ‘What I’m thinking is… what if you – we – have a collecting box? For Briarwood… And we tell all the clients what you’re doing? And you could donate a bit from the shop…’

  I’m ashamed to say that my first thought is I can’t just give money away. This is a business and I still haven’t paid Honey back her deposit, but there might just be a way round it.

  ‘What if, on every invoice, I add a small donation to Briarwood?’ I say slowly. ‘The clients can cross it off if they want to – like a service charge in a restaurant… But I bet you, Skye! You’d have to be a real hard-nosed old trout to begrudge a donation to a children’s hospice when you’re shelling out a fortune on a wedding.’

  My voice is getting squeakier and squeakier. ‘It’s a fantastic idea! You’re brilliant!’ I waltz over and kiss her on the cheek.

  ‘Yeah. Okay.’ But she looks pleased.

  I’ve arranged to meet Julia in London, at a bar not far from the station. It’s a safer option than her coming to me. Last time she popped in for lunch, she was still there three weeks later.
r />   Of course, she’s late. She always has been, always will be, for everything. I order a coke and sit in a quiet corner. The lull before the storm in my life that’s Julia.

  Twenty minutes later, she bursts in and for the briefest moment, I see her as anyone else would. A middle-aged, too-thin, trying-too-hard woman who’s still desperately holding on to her youth. In spite of everything, it fills me with sadness.

  ‘Mum?’ I drop the Julia, getting up to walk over and put my arms round her.

  ‘You look beautiful, darling.’ There’s a tremor in her voice.

  ‘Thanks. Shall I get us a drink?’

  Hers is vodka and slimline tonic. I order the same. I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it.

  ‘So tell me about your little shop,’ she says, as if indulging a child about their favourite toy. ‘It sounds awfully exciting…’

  ‘If you’re interested, you should come and see it,’ I say calmly, knowing that I haven’t been summoned for small-talk. But it’s classic Julia to talk like that – she’s forgotten her babies have grown up. ‘How long are you in London?’

  ‘Truth is, I’m not sure,’ she tells me, a frown furrowing her smooth brow. ‘It really depends on Giles, darling.’

  Oh God, I can’t help thinking. Please not another broken love affair. If she can’t sort her life out by her age, there’s not much hope for me.

  ‘What’s he been up to?’ I ask, on my guard, because without Giles, I’m not sure she has anywhere else to go.

  She hesitates, then the jolly façade vanishes and there’s just a sad, frightened person sitting in front of me.

  Her voice drops. ‘Giles has cancer, Frankie. We’re not sure how long he has.’ And then her shoulders begin to shake and her face crumples.

  My reaction is unemotional. I’ve never met Giles. But as I sit there, I try to compute what this means because in all the time I’ve known her, ever since our father died, Julia’s never been without a man. But whatever our relationship, it’s a horrible situation for anyone.