Wildflowers Read online

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I reach across the table to take one of her hands. ‘How awful – for you both. When did you find out?’

  ‘A few weeks ago… We were in Rio. He was in terrible pain. We cut it short and he was taken into hospital as soon as we got home.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Brighton. Then they moved him to the Royal Marsden. That’s why I’m staying with Angela. She’s been marvellous.’

  ‘Hold on…’ I’m trying to work this out. ‘Are you telling me you’ve been living in Brighton? And you didn’t tell me?’ Why else would Giles have been admitted there?

  She looks sheepish. ‘I was going to tell you, darling. Only you know how it is. Giles bought this little house – about a year ago. But we’re never in the country for long, so there didn’t seem any point in making plans…’

  Or making time to see your own daughters, even though they’re both less than an hour away and you haven’t seen them for years…’

  ‘You do understand, darling, don’t you?’

  No I don’t, I want to shout at her. Can’t she see how wrong it is? That like it or not, she is a mother? But a lifetime of conditioning kicks in and I bite my tongue.

  In the shop, I put my plan of asking for donations into action straight away, just a small, discrete line at the bottom of each and every invoice but of course, it gets a mixed reception. First up, I get a phone call from Mrs Culleton.

  ‘Now, Frankie, I’ve been speaking to Abigail,’ she says in that voice that makes my heart sink. ‘Obviously I’m glad to see you’ve come to an agreement and seen sense about the calla lilies.’ The back of my neck starts to prickle. ‘And I need to come in and see you myself nearer the time, but I suppose you want a deposit.’

  ‘So you’d like to go ahead after all?’ I say sweetly.

  There’s a brief silence before she continues. ‘There is one thing I simply must say. I don’t feel it’s appropriate at all to add a donation to your invoice. I make my own arrangements for charitable giving. I really must say, this is not what I’d expect from a professional. I’ll be sending the deposit, nothing more.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Culleton, so much.’ I put the phone down, thinking the mean old bag. She probably spends more in a month on her gin. Suddenly I’m fuming.

  ‘People don’t stop and think do they,’ I say to Skye, furiously. ‘The tight old cow…’

  Then one of those rare flashes of inspiration comes to me. ‘You know what I’m going to do? Somewhere in Abigail’s flowers, I’m going to cut a corner, invisibly, so she won’t know – or charge her extra somehow, I haven’t decided how yet. Anyway, she’ll be making her donation. Whether she likes it or not,’ I add grimly.

  ‘Blimey Frankie, you’re getting all fired up again and it’s only Tuesday. Chill, man. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Skye’s right. I’m cross – and I shouldn’t be. But until Alex made me see the light, I, too, was a Mrs Culleton, sooner crossing the road than putting money in a collecting box and as for fund raising, it equated to cadging loans off my parents when my overdraft ran out. Well. Not anymore. I am reformed.

  Maria Bristow is the opposite, of course, sending a generous donation with her deposit. I email her to say thank you and her reply pings back at me immediately.

  You’re really welcome – it’s a cause that’s close to home. Maria x

  Wow. Maria must know someone who’s been there. Even in the world of celebrity, there are sick children. A vacuous thought, I know – but one that eats away at me nonetheless.

  When I get a moment, I call Alice and tell her about Julia living in Brighton. For a year.

  ‘What did you honestly expect?’ is all she says but then Alice severed ties with her a long time ago. After all, if your own mother can’t take time out from her glamorous, globe-trotting highlife, even for your wedding, it tells you all you need to know.

  I wish I could feel the same.

  In all the recent excitement though, I’ve been neglecting Honey and on impulse, I email her too.

  Come for dinner. I promise it will be edible. Are you ok? F x

  But when I don’t hear back, which is most out of character, in the end I call her mobile, which again, unusually goes straight to voicemail.

  ‘Honey? It’s me. Call me. Today. I’m worried about you.’

  Then just as I finish the call, Lulubelle walks in.

  ‘Hey Frankie! I’m so glad you’re here… I just wanted to say thank you again! About running the half marathon for Briarwood… I’ve already mentioned it to them and they’re thrilled… In fact, a few of the staff there are doing it too and they thought you should all meet. So how about it?’

  ‘Love to,’ I tell her. ‘Not tonight though – I’m trying to catch up with a friend. After that, my diary’s empty. You can pick your day.’

  ‘What – no dates, Frankie? I thought you’d be fighting them off…’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong girl, I’m afraid. Greg’s now despatched to the realms of history. Josh – well, let’s just say it was over before it started but I haven’t quite finished with him - and as for Alex, really, really lovely guy but to cut a long story short, I’ve blown it. So there you have it. My big, fat, lovely, empty diary.’

  Lulubelle looks slightly baffled. ‘Ok… well, can I get back to you?’

  ‘Of course – but how’s Cosmo? Is he home?’

  ‘He came home yesterday and he’s doing really well.’ She looks less worried than she has in ages.

  ‘I’m so pleased. Could we have a day out together?’ I suggest. ‘We could go rowing… He seemed to love the boats at Briarwood. Actually, that’s given me the most brilliant idea….’

  She raises her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘You’ll have to trust me,’ I say, starting to feel excited. ‘But I might just have thought of something perfect for him.’

  I’m not sure whether she trusts me or not, but after she’s gone, I make a phone call, because my brilliant idea is actually two-fold.

  ‘Johnny? It’s me, Frankie.’

  ‘Frankie. How are you? Have you heard from Honey?’

  Now, why’s Johnny asking me if I’ve heard from his wife… I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘No, actually. Should I have?’

  He sounds flustered. ‘Erm, well, I thought she’d have called you…’

  ‘Johnny. What are you both not telling me?’ But then his mobile goes all crackly and we get cut off.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say to Skye, suddenly frantic. ‘Something bad’s happened. I know it has. Look, I have to go out for a bit. It’s an emergency. You can cope, can’t you? Milo should be here with the order soon, but I can’t wait that long. Are you sure you’ll be ok without me?’

  Skye shakes her head at me. ‘I think I’ll like manage.’

  ‘Ok. Thank you.’ This time I refrain from kissing her – I don’t want her getting any funny ideas, just leap into the van and go hurtling off.

  As I pull up outside Honey and Johnny’s house, it looks as though my hunch is right. There’s a dim light on in the kitchen which means Honey’s definitely in and on her own, because she’s anal about turning lights off and Johnny leaves everything switched on. Gently I knock on the front door.

  There’s no reply, so I press my face against the window next to it, trying to peer in, but still I can’t see her. Then I hear a noise inside and I dash back to the front door.

  ‘Honey, it’s Frankie. I know you’re there, I heard you,’ I call through the letterbox. ‘Come on, Honey… please let me in...’

  As I wait, I hear footsteps, then the latch clicks and she opens it. And oh my God. She looks terrible.

  I step towards her, holding out my arms. ‘Honey, sweetie, what is it?’

  But my fearsome friend can’t speak, just collapses onto my shoulder, sobbing her heart out.

  ‘Come on,’ I stroke her hair soothingly. ‘Let’s sit down.’

  By the time we make it to the sofa, my shoulder
is sopping wet. I leave her while I go and find a box of tissues, then come and sit back down next to her. After sobbing pitifully for about half an hour, she wipes her face and starts to talk.

  ‘It’s awful, Frankie. We had another row. Johnny hates me, he really does. He says even at home it’s like I’m the lawyer and he’s the minion, because I’m always barking orders and being efficient, and bullying him when he leaves his socks on the floor or the loo seat up. I don’t mean to but I can’t help it….’ she wails. ‘And even worse he says I don’t have time for him. It’s not true, you know it’s not – it’s just that work takes so much of me, when I come home, I’m empty. You understand what I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Sshh,’ I take her hand, feeling words of wisdom come bubbling to the fore. ‘Of course I do. But you have to remember he’s a man, Honey. They all have this little fantasy about being married, you know – about coming home to an adoring wife who puts supper on the table in front of him then gives him a blowjob… or maybe it’s the other way round…’ I screw up my face as I try to think. ‘But the point is, that’s how they’re programmed. Even Johnny,’ I say firmly as she opens her mouth to argue with me.

  ‘But I can’t do that,’ she says aghast. ‘I get home later than he does most nights – and we’re both too tired for sex…’

  That age old problem of married couples, or so I’m told. And she’s not keen on blowjobs either – I got that out of her one night after too many Mojitos.

  ‘His friends tease him all the time, for being married to his mother, that sort of thing. You know what a cross old witch she is… I tell you Frankie, I’m not like that. I swear I’m not…’

  ‘I know you’re not,’ I say gently. ‘You’re incredible, Honey. And you have this enviable career, but just sometimes…’ I hesitate, not quite sure how to say what needs to be said. ‘Well, it’s like the rest of us are a bit inadequate in comparison – like we fall short of your expectations. Maybe Johnny feels like that too.’

  ‘You think so?’ She turns a blotchy face towards me and starts to sob again. ‘You really think that? You know, I’m so sick of that word… Expectations…I spend every hour at work living up to other people’s and I’ve had enough – of always having to prove myself, of being better than the men are, smarter than them, letting their two-bit sexist asides wash over my head when really I’d like to slap them. It’s hard, hard work Frankie. I’m not sure I can do it anymore.’

  Oh God. She can’t give up. Being a solicitor is the perfect outlet for all that bottled up efficiency. She needs it.

  ‘Of course you can…’ I say soothingly. ‘You just need a break, Honey, that’s all – and it would be better if you didn’t let it get to you – not so much.’

  ‘Oh, it’s easy for you to say,’ she says bitterly. ‘You don’t have some jumped up little schoolboy looking over your shoulder, whose Daddy’s a friend of the senior partner, and is just waiting for you to stuff up so he can hop into your shoes. I’m not exaggerating. It’s really like that, you know.’

  ‘Perhaps you should go away,’ I suggest, trying to shake the disturbing image of a jumped up school boy in Honey’s five inch stilettos. ‘A dirty weekend, somewhere exclusive and luxurious, where you and Johnny can enjoy uninterrupted hours of sex in a huge four-poster bed.’ Which sounds perfect to me but it brings on another bout of sobbing.

  ‘I know you won’t believe me, but I actually suggested it, Frankie. He doesn’t want to go… He said he doesn’t want to be with me. Not at the moment.’

  I try not to let on how shocked I am. It seems that far from being a heat of the moment decision, Johnny’s actually thought this through.

  ‘Oh Honey, he’ll come round. Of course he will.’ I hand her more tissues. ‘He loves you, he really does…’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it,’ she says miserably. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ve told work I’m ill – I can’t possibly go in at the moment, not like this. Oh Frankie, what am I going to do?’

  I’m stumped. Honey’s the most together person I’ve ever known – until now. Rashly, I say the first thing that comes into my head.

  ‘Well, to start with, you’re coming to stay with me…’

  17

  If I’m honest, I’m regretting it even before she’s finished packing. Can I really share my tiny flat with such a formidable person, even if she is my best friend? Of course I can, I tell myself firmly. She needs me. And hopefully it won’t be for long.

  ‘Honey? You are sure about this?’ I ask her. ‘You do remember how tiny it is? No power shower – and I don’t have granite worktops.’

  But she just nods her head and keeps packing, as if she’s moving out for good. Oh my God – where are we going to put all this stuff? In the end I have to intervene.

  ‘Right. That will have to do, I’m afraid. Remember my wardrobe, Honey? How tiny it is? We’re sharing it, my friend, so be frugal.’

  ‘I am,’ she says huffily, closing suitcase number three. ‘Oh, hell… I haven’t got half of what I need but I suppose it’ll have to do.’

  After we’ve heaved them into her car, she stands defeatedly, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen her look. ‘Thank you so much for doing this, Frankie. I promise I won’t be a nuisance.’

  ‘Oh, of course you won’t,’ I tell her. ‘And anyway, once Johnny’s worked out how much he misses you, he’ll be round in a flash, begging you to come home. You’ll just have to be patient.’

  I may have misgivings, but as far as Honey’s concerned, it’s the perfect solution to her problem. The practicalities, however, are somewhat different. After dragging her cases up to my flat, we squash some of her clothes into my own wardrobe because there’s only a tiny cupboard in the box room that she’ll be sleeping in, but there’s absolutely nowhere to store the empty suitcases.

  ‘If we clear out under your bed, they could go there,’ she says, reaching under and pulling out one of my boxes. ‘Honestly, Frankie – what do you want all these for anyway?’

  It’s only a box of old Vogue magazines but that’s not the point. They’re mine and it’s my flat – and she’s a guest. I push it back under again.

  ‘Honey, there are going to have to be ground rules,’ I tell her firmly. ‘I know you mean well, but you can’t tell me off for leaving my own underwear on my own floor or washing up in the evening rather than the morning or even for keeping old magazines. Understood?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says in a subdued voice.

  Then I have a brilliant idea. ‘I know my flat is really tiny, Honey – how about having a room at the pub? It’s only over the road and would be much comfier…’

  But no. She’d rather cram herself into my tiny box room, only the trouble is, by suitcase number two, already we’ve run out of room.

  ‘You’ve got enough stuff for now,’ I say in the end. ‘And we’ll put the rest in the boot of your car. It makes perfect sense, because I’m sure it won’t be for long. Who knows – Johnny might be on his way over right now.’

  Between us, we drag the cases back outside again. But when I open the boot of her car, she’s piled more stuff in there than I’d realised. Aside from all her clothes, there are photos, DVD’s, her beloved Expresso machine and super whizzy juicer. I feel myself frown. This looks more than transient. I go back in to find her.

  ‘Honey? Is there more than you’re telling me? About the fight with Johnny?’

  She blushes flame red, then sits down and sighs, heavily. ‘I didn’t tell you the whole story.’

  I raise my eyebrows questioningly at her.

  ‘He threw me out.’

  It turns out that after Johnny had given Honey a verbal lashing, she gave as good as she got. Better, if I know Honey. I don’t like to imagine what she said to him. And I’m annoyed with her. He’s a really good guy, Johnny. One of the best.

  ‘You’re still leaving most of it in the car,’ I tell her. ‘My flat is now officially full – and anyway, you’ve never liked it here
. You can stay, of course you can, until you sort out what you’re going to do long term.’

  Starting with an apology to your husband, I want to say to her – but she needs to work that one out for herself.

  The next morning, she’s still lying in bed when I go to work and sitting pathetically in pyjamas drinking medicinal brandy when I get home again that evening. I know she’s miserable, but I can’t help thinking of Johnny too. I remove the bottle and hide it, then make her a chicken salad. Then I listen while she cries some more and put her back to bed.

  Ditto the next night. I’m starting to realise she needs some help with this, so when I get up on Friday morning, I take her a cup of tea.

  ‘You’re getting up,’ I tell her, pulling back the curtains and throwing the windows wide open, while she cowers under the covers. ‘It stinks of booze in here, Honey. You need to drag your sorry carcass into the shower and then you’re coming to work. With me. I need your help. And don’t give me that look. You’ve said the same, actually, you’ve said much worse to me in the past. Here.’

  I throw her a towel and march out victoriously, fingers crossed. I know she’s suffering, I’m just hoping she’ll respond to a dose of her own medicine.

  From the kitchen, I listen on tenterhooks and after several minutes the floorboards creak and I hear the bathroom door close, then the sound of the shower. I breathe a sigh of relief – at least it’s a start.

  It’s only later, as I unlock the door, I realise this is the moment I’ve done everything in my power to avoid. Honey, here, in my shop, which she paid the deposit on, completely at a loose end. I’m not at all sure how this is going to work, unless once again, I assert myself right from the start.

  ‘First of all, those buckets need scrubbing,’ I tell her, pointing to a pile of them by the sink. ‘Then you need to fill them about one-third full with cold water, ready for the flower delivery.’

  She goes and gets started without a murmur and is still scrubbing when Skye walks in.

  ‘Sshh,’ I put my finger to my lips as I nod towards Honey. ‘Therapy,’ I whisper. ‘Say nothing.’