Wildflowers Page 9

  My next thought is I need someone with a head for figures. But first, I’ve got some serious humble pie to eat. Having made up a huge bouquet of Pompeii lilies (which I’ve noticed, always make people very smiley) and hazel twigs (for reconciliation, Mrs Orange would be proud), and in my favourite summer dress, I take a deep breath and drive round to Honey’s.

  She answers the door immediately. ‘Oh - it’s you.’

  But I was expecting this. ‘Can I come in? Please, Honey…’

  She marches back in leaving the door open, which I take as a ‘yes’ and I venture after her, holding my peace offering between us to protect myself.

  ‘These are for you.’ I lay them on her kitchen table. ‘Honey. I’m really sorry I’ve upset you. Really. You’re my best friend and I’ve been shockingly ungrateful.’

  I gaze at her pleadingly, then suddenly, I notice how pale she’s looking. Defeated too, which isn’t like Honey, because in all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never known anything get the better of her.

  ‘Are…you …ok?’ Wincing as I wait for the explosion.

  She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. When she speaks, it’s a small quiet voice that’s most un-Honey-like. Her words shock me.

  ‘Johnny and I – we’re having problems, Frankie. Serious problems. It’s really bad… I’m not sure we’re going to get through this...’

  I’m completely stunned. Ever since they got together, anyone could see that Honey and Johnny are made for each other. Okay, so she’s bossy, but only on the surface and Johnny knows that.

  But then she covers her face with her hands and her body starts to shake. Suddenly I ache with sadness for her. Contrary to appearances, I happen to know she adores Johnny with every cell of her being. She’s just not very good at showing it. But he knows. He must do.

  ‘Oh, Honey… Johnny loves you really. Of course you’ll get through it. All couples have these little phases. It’s part of being married, isn’t it?’ Even with my track record, I believe every word I’m saying.

  She wipes her eyes and sighs. ‘D’you really think so?’

  ‘I know so. Come on. Dry your eyes and find me your big lily vase. I’ll arrange these for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, as she watches me. ‘They’re beautiful.’

  They’re magnificent, the longest stemmed lilies each with about seven blooms - Milo’s finest. And as well as reconciling our friendship, perhaps the hazel twigs will work their magic on her marriage.

  ‘Oh Frankie, you probably think I’m still mad at you, but I’m really not. It’s none of my business who you go out with. I just think someone as lovely as you deserves a nice man – that’s why I keep fixing you up at dinner parties.’

  Golly. Once again, I’m completely flabbergasted. But then her voice cracks, filling me with alarm.

  ‘Actually, it was after last time, that’s when Johnny and I…’

  ‘Oh no, it’s all my fault…’ I cry, running over to put my arms round her. I can’t bear this.

  ‘Oh no, Frankie, it really isn’t… He just had a go at me for giving you a hard time. He was right.’ She sniffs pathetically into her soggy tissues.

  ‘But I so deserved that, Honey… You did exactly the right thing…’ I tell her. I cannot be responsible for her marriage failing.

  ‘Johnny wouldn’t agree…’ She shakes her head miserably. ‘He says I treat him the same way. I’m bossy. I’m not loving and fun and soft, like you are…’

  ‘He’s wrong!’ I cry savagely. I want to get my hands on Johnny and give him a good talking to. ‘You’re you! You’re amazing! And brilliant! And incredibly clever and you are loving, Honey, I know you are…’

  ‘Please stay,’ she begs. ‘And have a drink. God – I really need one.’

  And so the tables are turned. The same friend who’s been on my case for months to give it up, is now begging me to stay and have a drink with her.

  ‘But only one,’ I say. ‘Because you should probably keep your head straight and talk to Johnny.’

  We sit opposite each other at her huge beech table. She knocks hers back before I’ve barely started mine and pours herself another, but only minutes later, I hear a key turning in the front door. Honey stiffens, the anxious look back on her face.

  ‘Look, I’ll stay a few minutes so he can see we’re buddies again, then I’ll go. Ok?’ I whisper, just as Johnny comes in.

  I have to say, he’s not looking so hot. He’s less burly than usual and his air of bonhomie doesn’t quite ring true.

  ‘Frankie! Lovely to see you! And I’m glad you put my little brother in his place, by the way. He’s an arrogant little prick. This new job of his isn’t helping, hanging out with the rich and famous and writing about all their secrets…’

  I feel a shiver go down my spine.

  ‘What did you just say?’ I ask carefully.

  ‘He’s working for High Society magazine! Surely he told you? You know, it’s that tacky one – about celebrities having boob jobs and who’s shagging who. He keeps hinting he’s onto something big, but he won’t say what. Most annoying of him.’

  ‘That’s funny,’ I say slowly. ‘He didn’t mention anything to me.’ And I’m trying to remember just how much I tattled on, about Maria’s wedding. Slowly I’m realising that yet again, I’ve been played for a complete fool. It wasn’t my womanly charms he was after at all.

  But there’s a wedding at stake here. I have to do something – and fast.

  ‘Guys, I have to go.’ I kiss my friends, thinking I hope it’ll be each other they’re kissing when I’ve gone. ‘Was really lovely to see you – both,’ I add pointedly, ‘but I’ve some unfinished business to attend to…’

  As I drive home, I’m deep in thought and by the time I’m back in my flat, I have a plan – and this time, I know what I’m doing.

  I’m as disorganised with my mobile as I am with relationships so I still have Josh’s number with the hot lips text. I pause as I contemplate my dilemma. To text or not to text, is the question. I decide in this case, definitely not. I call him.

  ‘Frankie…?’ The voice is quite surprised and a little cagey.

  ‘Hello Josh, yes it is. Look, this is a little awkward after the other night, but I thought, well, I owed you an apology. You deserve better than that. And well, er…’ I ditter just enough so he thinks I’m nervous, then come out with it. ‘I thought perhaps I could cook you dinner… As a peace offering. Here… On Thursday?’

  How can he possibly say no? My voice is the perfect balance between contrite and regretful. I even manage to make it waver, just a tiny bit, crossing my fingers - but I already know the answer. Therein, my friend, lies the beauty of the call as opposed to the text. If you get in there quick and sling it at them, they just don’t have time to think. The male brain isn’t complicated.

  ‘Er…ok…Great.’ He sounds like it would be anything but.

  ‘Excellent. Well, I’ll see you on Thursday.’

  quod erat demonstrandum. Works every time. He’s probably thinking it’s him that’s put the smile in my voice. He should be so lucky.

  But by the following morning, I’m wondering if some divine retribution’s being meted out because I meet the bride from hell and the mother of all mother of the brides. They’re barely through the door before alarm bells start ringing.

  ‘It’s just a small affair,’ says Mrs Culleton brusquely. The word brusque was invented for people like her, with their cold unsmiling eyes and turned down lips.

  ‘A service at All Hallows Cathedral followed by a marquee for two hundred and fifty. It would have been another hundred but Abigail’s father says he can’t afford it, even though he and his…’ She sniffs disparagingly. ‘Well, they’ve just spent a fortune on their new house, which is frightfully selfish so now poor little Abigail has to suffer…’

  That would explain the brusqueness. The girl sitting beside her pouts. On the dumpy side, with mousey hair and pasty skin, she looks, dare I say it
, like a girl who should take up running and eat more healthily. Should I suggest it?

  ‘I want really nice country style flowers,’ she says blankly. ‘Like out of a meadow.’

  And that’s, in a nutshell, the crux of the problem, because firstly, if you want a simple, country wedding you don’t get married in a blinking cathedral and secondly, ditto with the marquee for two hundred and fifty. Simple doesn’t come into it.

  ‘I see.’ I nod knowingly, trying to sound as though I know exactly what she’s talking about. ‘Do you have a colour scheme?’

  ‘Blue.’ Abigail fixes blank eyes on me. ‘And I want those big tall vases with lights inside and calla lilies in everything.’

  Oh fuck. Big tall vases in a marquee are trouble unless the floor is perfectly level and added to that, they’re about as simple and country-style as the Waldorf. I take a deep breath. One step at a time...

  ‘Have you thought perhaps, of having calla lilies in your bouquet, then other flowers for everything else, so it looks really country and simple, like you suggested?’

  This time two pairs of eyes glare at me. How do I explain? That calla lilies just never, ever, ever grow in a country meadow.

  ‘Well, I only said that because if you want wild meadow flowers, they don’t really go… but I’m sure it will look lovely if we put it all together…’ I say haltingly. Honestly, the tosh I come up with sometimes.

  ‘Abigail’s having ten bridesmaids,’ says Mrs Culleton most huffily. ‘And her dress is Vera Wang,’ she almost snaps. ‘Off white, tulle, with layers – here’s a picture.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, perusing the photo she hands me. ‘Wow. It’s the most stunning dress.’

  Which it is. Totally. But on an eighteen year old stick insect or Sienna Miller, not on Abigail. There are all these frills and flounces which lend it an ethereal air, like the wearer floats rather than walks like a mere mortal. Or maybe Vera Wang dresses do that to all their brides regardless, but the trouble is I can see it now. Abigail’s pasty face above the cloud of floating tulle, like a walking tent. A very pretty one, but still definitely a tent.

  ‘I think your bouquet should be simple,’ I say firmly and her face falls yet again.

  ‘But I want this.’ She hands me a picture of a huge, frilly bouquet which is wrong for the dress, wrong for her shape, just wrong on every level.

  I sigh, half expecting her to stamp her foot like a five year old and in my head repeating that old mantra that on many similar occasions has kept me sane.

  Smile sweetly and think of the money.

  11

  Before I know it, the big day has loomed. Not Abigail’s wedding – that’s eighteen months away which is as well, not just so she can lose some weight but because it’s going to be a slow, painful process reaching any kind of agreement that doesn’t compromise my creative integrity. No, tonight’s the night that Josh is coming for supper and I’ve one or two careful preparations I need to make.

  And on this occasion, I’m not talking about leg-shaving and bikini waxing. Firstly, there’s the food and I call on Honey’s expertise, checking too that all is quiet on the marital front – which it is, for now. I’m not sure what they’ve actually resolved, but at least they’re speaking to each other. She’s mystified when I tell her about Josh. It’s seems he hasn’t mentioned my invitation.

  ‘But why?’ she asks. ‘I don’t understand. You don’t even fancy him. Why?’ For someone so clever, she seems inordinately short of words.

  ‘It’s all in the interest of interfamilial relations,’ I say carefully.

  There’s silence. ‘But, you’re not related, Frankie.’

  Duh… ‘Yes, I know that, but you are and you’re my best friend. I’m doing it for you.’ Then I add, ‘there might be one little tiny other reason but I can’t say over the phone in case it’s bugged. But that’s not why I’m calling you. I need a recipe, Honey. A nice, easy one that looks as though I’ve gone to so much trouble and will impress him.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. I still don’t understand but I’ll email you something.’

  I have one more thing to prepare, which takes half an hour of poring over my computer and one or two slight amendments, after which I carefully print Maria’s wedding details, leaving them casually on the side of my desk.

  Then there’s just me to think about. I dress up a just a little, careful not to overdo it because I don’t want to give him the wrong idea – a touch of makeup, my light daytime perfume not the seductive, sensual one I wear when I mean business. And jeans and a flirty top. Perfect.

  With food smells wafting deliciously from the kitchen, I look carefully around – yes, everything’s in place.

  Josh arrives on the dot, complete with bottle of wine. Middle of the range, I notice. Obviously not expecting too much, then.

  ‘You know, I have to say you surprised me,’ says Josh. A glass of wine later, we’re both starting to relax.

  ‘Well, I know I left in a hurry that night. It was a lovely evening but I really was exhausted, Josh and I just thought I owed you an explanation.’

  He leans back in his chair, a self-satisfied look creeping over his face. I manage to resist the urge to slap him.

  ‘You see, it really wasn’t you, it’s me…’ That old chestnut – will he fall for it?

  And he does, just as I knew he would. His head swells visibly and he nods patronisingly.

  ‘You see, I’m just so busy… I don’t really have time for a relationship,’ I continue. ‘I’m sure you know how it is, in your line of work….’

  To my delight, he tenses when I say that – obviously I touched on a nerve.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he says abruptly.

  ‘Well, it’s just that, when you put heart and soul into your work, Josh, as we both do, and it’s so creative, as you were telling me the other night, it doesn’t leave much of you for anything. Or anyone… don’t you find that? And hopefully that’s why we’re both so good at what we do, don’t you agree?’ I wink at him.

  Oh, was that overdoing it?

  ‘Oh gosh, I must check on the food. I’ll be two ticks...’ I smile sweetly at him. ‘You just, er, relax, in here…’

  The food is great, which thanks to Honey, I knew it would be and when I peep round the corner into my sitting room, Josh is walking around having a good old nosy at all my things, the cheeky so and so, looking at my photographs, my books and then… He moves to my desk and picks up Maria’s quote. Bingo!

  I give him a minute to read it, then cough before I walk back in. He leaps out of his skin.

  ‘Gosh, I have such a tickly throat,’ I say, smiling cherubically at him. ‘Anyway, dinner’s served!’

  Actually, we have a reasonable evening after that, with witty and scintillating conversation until I get him onto his favourite topic - himself. From there on, just like the last time, it’s downhill all the way. But the food is tasty – not quite as good as Honey’s but a success, nonetheless and he doesn’t drink more than a couple of glasses of wine so there’s no embarrassing end of the evening conversation. In fact, he can’t get away soon enough.

  ‘Thanks, Frankie. I had a great evening…’ He leans towards me and because I’m sober, I see it coming a mile off, turning, so he gets my cheek.

  I beam back at him. ‘Me too. Well, see you around, Josh! Bye!’

  He wanders out to his car. Actually, he walks quite fast and I spy on him from a window as he gets in and scribbles something on some paper. Good thing he can’t see me pour myself a large glass of wine and dance around my sitting room with glee!

  If my hunch is right and his trashy magazine plans on crashing Maria and Pete’s wedding, I’ve just done something awfully clever. The bait has been swallowed! And if I pull this off, Josh won’t be anywhere near it.

  12

  This weekend is an easy one for me and Skye, with just a small village church to decorate on the Friday, and the wedding bouquets for the Saturday. Our biggest problem is negotiating the sheep in th
e churchyard who’ve decided that they’re bored with eating grass and for a change, they want flowers for their breakfast. They even follow us into the church, but after we shoo them out, it’s a doddle, thank goodness. Not too many arrangements to make up, then back to the shop, the invoice double and triple checked before we start the short drive on Saturday morning. Nothing can possibly go wrong. But I never learn, do I? As we get back from our deliveries, my mobile goes off. It’s the bride’s mother.

  ‘Oh Frankie! Thank goodness I caught you! Only you haven’t delivered the table flowers!’

  My blood runs cold. ‘I’m sure you cancelled them. Don’t you remember? They weren’t on your invoice…’

  ‘I didn’t think that meant you weren’t bringing them…’ she says indignantly. ‘I thought you’d made a mistake!’

  I want to scream so why the bleeding hell did you leave it to now to check? What I actually say, surprisingly calmly, is ‘I’ll just go inside and check your notes. Can I call you back?’

  I sprint inside, stressed out of my brain, fully believing I’ve made the most massive error and wondering how the hell we can scrape together enough flowers in the few hours before the wedding - but in the wodge of notes on my desk, it’s there in black and white. I slump into my chair. Auntie Dora, God bless her. She’s doing the table flowers as her wedding present.

  The relief I feel is indescribable as I call the bride’s mother back and tell her. She doesn’t apologise, nor has she any idea that in just ten minutes she raised my stress levels a thousand fold. All she says is ‘oh.’

  Oh… when I will probably wake up tomorrow with white hair and die years earlier from high blood pressure or from some terrible stress related illness. All because of people like her.

  But I’m a new and reformed me these days, so I walk home, holding myself tall and breathing in lungfuls of grass-scented, meadowy summer air, feeling them soothe me. Then I don my trainers, forget about weddings and run it off. And for the first time in ages, see Lulubelle.