Wildflowers (3 page)

My good intentions to embrace abstinence and be a model of sobriety remain just that – good intentions.  In celebratory mood, I’m
swigging back my third glass of champagne which on my empty stomach is already going to my head, when I hear a cough coming from behind me.  I turn round to see Josh, a little fuzzy round the edges but every bit as hot as I remember. 

‘Joshy!  Have some champers!  We’re shelebrating!’

‘Hello everyone… what am I missing?’ He kisses Honey on the cheek, then looks quizzically at all of us. 

‘Oh, Frankie’s got some celebrity client, that’s all.  B-list, no-one that famous,’ says Honey crushingly, handing him a glass and topping mine up.

There’s a faint look of interest on his face and needing little in the way of encouragement, I open my mouth to tell him - but then shut it again, because the very lovely Elise arrives with lovely, sensitive Ryan surgically attached to her side. 
They’re
s
o lovely
, I think, gazing enviously at how his eyes follow her adoringly.  Completely forgetting how nauseating all this loveliness is.   

By the time we sit down at Honey’s beautifully set dining table, I’m already slurring my words.  It’s slipped my mind that I have a four o’clock start in the morning
.  That I need steady hands and a clear head to produce a flawless bouquet for Lizzie and five more for her bridesmaids, as well as twenty buttonholes, each with a twiddle of beaded wire.

‘Now Josh,’ I lean towards him and whisper conspiratorially, annunciating slowly and carefully, between mouthfuls of Honey’s risotto.  ‘I really must explain about last time…’  I give him my best intelligent look followed by a loud hiccup, which somewhat spoils the effect.  He manages to wipe the smile off his face but it’s still there in his eyes. 
Lovely eyes
, I think, feeling my own go a little blurry as my head fills with ludicrous, poetic adjectives -
deep and blue like the Atlantic, like the sky in July, like a mountainous Hawaiian wave
…

My head nods forwards and I jerk upright.  I just used the word ‘like’ three times in one sentence. 

‘Have some water,’ says Honey firmly, passing me a pint glass.  ‘Drink it, Frankie.  All of it. 
Now
…’

Obediently I take it, but I’m too pissed to register her disapproval.  And I’m having far too much fun to stop now.

Elise and Ryan nod and smile politely while Johnny and Josh exchange looks.  Josh’s shoulders seem to be moving on their own.  Not one of them takes my side against her, the cowards.

‘I think we should shing a little song…’  I beam round at them all.  In full-on party mode, there’s no stopping me.  ‘
There’s a stranger in my bed, there’s a pounding in my head
…’ I start warbling and Honey gets up.

‘Right.
  That does it.  Frankie - you’re coming with me.’

She takes me to their spare room and sits me on the bed, where she does her best to lecture me, about how my non-existent self-discipline is the reason I’m stuck with a loser of a boyfriend like Greg, along with my excessive propensity for alcohol – or maybe it was my propensity for excessive alcohol – I forget.  Anyway, I was headed for the queue for a liver transplant if I didn’t stop.  Plus I’d ruined her dinner party.  Not for the first time, either.  But it was all a complete waste of breath because as I fall back on the bed, for some reason my eyes keep closing and as Honey’s voice fades into the distance, that’s the last thing I remember.

Of course I oversleep on Saturday morning.  Honey comes and wakes me at seven thirty with a cup of tea, much less bossy in Cath Kidston flower-sprigged pyjamas.

‘Here.  Drink this.  Oh, and your mobile was making a noise earlier but I couldn’t find it to turn it off.’

As I ease my head off the pillow, it explodes with pain just as I remember.  ‘God.  Oh shit.  Honey.  Lizzie’s wedding.’

While Honey fetches all the analgesics I can safely take in one go, I stagger with my poor head to the bathroom and stick it under the cold tap.  Then I borrow her toothbrush.  She’ll kill me if she finds out, but that’s the least of my worries.  I’m still wearing
yesterday’s clothes and pulling on a pink cardigan I find hanging in her wardrobe, I swig half the tea, burning my mouth in the process and sprint out of her house to my van.

After the amount of alcohol I consumed last night, I must still be over the limit.  My head throbs horribly as I drive and for a brief moment my heart’s in my mouth as a blue light
comes flashing up behind me.  Luckily it’s got more urgent matters to attend to than hungover florists but all I’m thinking is
I’m finished, I’ve stuffed up and all because I can’t say no to a drink...

And of course, when I make it to the shop, Skye and Mrs Orange are both standing there, waiting for me.

‘What are you thinking!’ says Skye as I fumble to unlock the door.  ‘I’ve been ringing you for ages!  I got ‘ere an hour ago!  Them bouquets are due to be collected and we haven’t started on ‘em!  Never mind the buttonholes…’

‘I’ll do your pins for you,’ says Mrs Orange, using the old fashioned word for the buttonholes. 
‘Long as they’re not them twiddly ones.  I don’t do twiddly.  Come on now girl, get a move on....’

I love Skye today.  I want to kiss her.  I even love Mrs Orange.  Everything’s neatly laid out in presentation boxes just in time, twiddly bits and all, thanks to the oracle that is Mrs O who can do them after all when she puts her mind to it.  The iceberg roses are just beginning to open – soft, petally blooms, their gentle scent mingling with the mint and lavender.  If only flowers could cure my hangover.

‘You best have one of these, my lovely.’ Mrs Orange nudges my elbow, fishing in her pocket and pulling out a peppermint covered in tiny bits of paper.  ‘Only you don’t want to go breathing over folks smelling like that.  And sort your hair out while you’re at it.  I’ll be putting the kettle on if you don’t mind.’

It’s my Cinderella moment gone wrong when at ten o’clock on the
dot, a man walks into the shop.  A very nice looking man, I notice, squinting through clogged eyelashes, regretting last night even more as the analgesics wear off and my poor head starts to throb again. 

‘Hi!  I’ve er, come to pick up the wedding flowers…’  He gives me a smile, which fades slightly as he looks more closely at my face.

‘Oh yes – for Lizzie!’ I say, far more brightly than I feel.  He’s still peering strangely at me.

‘Um, yes – and Clive.’

‘They’re over here.’  I lead him over to the work bench.  Even with my hangover, I notice he’s quite gorgeous, with curly dark hair and brown eyes.

‘Are you Lizzie’s family?’ I ask, desperately trying to drum up conversation before he disappears out of my life and I never see him again.

‘No.  Best man, actually.  This is just one of my duties before I deliver the groom to the church.’

Shit.
The church.
The freaking pew ends
…

‘Oh yes, we’re heading there in a bit,’ I say casually, wishing my heart would still, just a bit.  ‘Finishing touches, you know...’

‘Ok.  Good.  Thanks for these.  Er, well, we might see you there.’

He gives me another odd look as he turns to leave.

With a crisis averted I head for the loo at the back of the workshop and behold a sight that horrifies me.  Never chic at the best of times, my hair looks like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, but that’s the least of it.  Last night’s make up is smeared round one of my eyes like I’ve been punched.  My eyelashes aren’t just clogged, there’s what looks like deformed black spiders perched on the edge of my eyelids.  It’s worse than hideous.  And actually, added to the hair, the crumpled clothes I slept in, my puffy face and bloodshot eyes and what I remember of last night, suddenly I’m not very proud of myself.  It doesn’t take much to work out, that maybe, where alcohol’s concerned, Honey’s right.  I have a problem.

As a soon-to-be celebrity florist, temperance and moderation are my new watchwords if I’m to be entrusted with mega weddings and gazillions of expensive wedding flowers.  This is a stark warning, I tell myself much later, after the last of Lizzie’s flowers is safely installed.  I sent Skye to check out the church first to avoid embarrassing encounters with gorgeous best men. All that’s left now is the part I’ve been dreading.

‘You were completely shitfaced again,’ Honey says to me when I call her to grovel.  I’m cowering on my sofa while she tells me exactly what she thinks, no holds barred.  ‘It’s lucky Elise and Ryan know what you’re like.  And Josh, of course – especially after the last time.  Seriously, Frankie.  You have to stop doing this.’

‘I know,’ I say miserably.  ‘And I will.  I’m so sorry, Honey.  I won’t embarrass you like that
ever
again.  From now on, I’ll be a reformed character and behave exactly how a best friend should behave.  You’ll see.’

‘You know what?’

My heart sinks even further.  There’s more?  Nothing can make my shame and misery worse than it already is. 

‘I’m signing up to run the Brighton half marathon.  Why don’t you join me?  You’ll need to get properly fit for it – which means cutting back on the booze - and training.  It’s not until next year and you could raise some money for charity. 
How about it?’

‘I don’t know.  Right now, I don’t think I could run down the road, let alone fourteen blinking miles… but I will think about it.  I promise.’

And I will, only I feel no better after that conversation.  So Elise and Ryan knew what I was like, did they?  And Josh?  What exactly was that?  Jolly old tanked up Frankie, always good for a laugh?

Is this how I want to be thought of?

What do you think?

That night, I punish myself by going cold turkey, even though there’s a half bottle of wine in my fridge.  I deserve pain after last night and I suffer every twinge with forbearance as I sit in front of my TV with a cup of tea, watching in awe as the immortal Bear Grylls tackles an impossible rock overhang and Robson Green goes wild swimming in sub-zero temperatures.  These admirable achievements – and the remnants of the alcohol still circulating in my system - clinch it.  I’m going to get myself fit and run that blasted marathon and show
everyone
.

There’s no time like the present is there?  I leap up from my sofa, blinking as what’s left of this morning’s headache throbs dully in my temples and go to my bedroom, where I rummage around in my wardrobe.  They’re here somewhere, I know they are.  Eventually I find them
, buried under some boxes and covered with a thin layer of dust.  My trainers.  A little old, but they’ll do until I get some new ones.

I’ll start tomorrow, I decide. 
Day one of my new health-and-fitness regime.  Hot water and lemon for breakfast followed by a brisk jog, then a shower and a healthy lunch of raw vegetables.  I can’t wait.

Honey’s talking-to sobered me in more ways than one, but I never stay down for long.  On Sunday morning, I get up bright and early with a remarkably clear head and pour hot water on my lemon slices, unable to stop thinking about my celebrity wedding and my dreams of fame and fortune as slowly I sip it.  After all, I’ve worked hard for this.  I’m going to enjoy every second of it.

With my hot water and lemon happily detoxing away inside me, I pull on my trainers, which are actually surprisingly comfy considering how long it is since I’ve worn them.  And off I go.

It’s a perfect summer’s morning.  The sun is shining and the air bursting with the scents of freshly cut hay and honeysuckle, laced with cows.  I breathe it in and high above, catch sight of the swallows that usually I’d stand and watch for ages.  Only not this morning.

Something about warming-up pops into my head, so I walk for a minute or two before lurching into a jog, feeling muscles in places I didn’t know had them. 
Do people actually enjoy this
?  They’re lying, I decide, after about five minutes.  I’m hot, my boobs are flopping around and I’ve got a stitch.

Ok.  Would Bear Grylls or Robson Green give up?  I don’t think so.  Therefore,
I will not be defeated.  After all,
nihil temptatum, nihil adeptum -
nothing ventured, nothing gained, so I walk until the stitch goes, which in due course it does, at which point I jog again, only not looking where I’m going, I narrowly miss a girl pushing a pushchair.

‘Mind out...’  The girl - his mother, I’m guessing
, looks about the same age as me - and less than pleased.

‘Oops!  Sorry!’  I glance at the child strapped into it, who seems relatively unconcerned at colliding head-on with a sweaty red person.

Only then do I notice that the heavy looking buggy she’s pushing is more like a wheelchair, its small wheels jammed against the roadside and pointing any direction but forwards.  As I look at her, her face is vaguely familiar, with clear hazel eyes and smooth dark brown hair halfway down her back.

‘Er – do I know you from somewhere?’

‘I don’t think so…’  Flustered, she pulls at the buggy which is by now wedged firmly against the kerb, refusing to budge.

‘I think one of the wheels is stuck
- want a hand?’

‘Thanks.’

As she lifts the back and I lift the front, I can’t help but notice the child’s eyes, pale and blue and somewhere far away. 

‘Thanks,’ she says, sounding marginally less irritated.  ‘Sorry I interrupted your run.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that… I don’t think running’s for me, actually.  I’m awfully unfit.’

‘I used to run.  Before…’  She nods towards her son
, who seems oblivious to what’s going on around him.  ‘Don’t give up.  It’s worth it - just takes a while to get into it!’

She continues pushing him down the road and
I carry on along the pavement before turning down a quiet lane where I try again.  And after a few minutes, it seems she’s right and as I fall into more of a rhythm, find my stride.  Stupidly I burst into a full blown run.  This feels great!  But my elation is short lived.  My ankle gives way and I crumple in a heap on the verge.

After hobbling uncomfortably home, I shower away my aches and pains, then wrap myself in a towel just in time to take a call from Lizzie’s ecstatic mother, who wants to tell me in painstaking detail all about yesterday’s wedding.  And about how particularly
thrilled
with the flowers she was, she tells me.  How producing those cream roses at the eleventh hour was nothing short of a miracle… She was going to tell absolutely everyone she knew how clever we’d been.

‘You know, we were
awfully
lucky to get them,’ I say, horrified at the thought that if word gets out, we’ll have dozens of other brides doing the same.

Then as my poor ankle is throbbing painfully, I rummage in the freezer for some ice.  As it works its magic, I contemplate the reality that marathon training isn’t as easy as it sounds. 

That evening, wearing suitably flat shoes, I catch up with Alice, who’s my practical, organised, big sister, a fact which never ceases to amaze me.  Alice lives near Sevenoaks in a spacious Victorian semi, a gorgeous house with wood floors and big windows which could easily look austere, but for the clutter of squidgy, brightly-coloured cushions and piles of magazines scattered everywhere. 

It’s a picture of
perfect domesticity, which is another miracle, especially given our upbringing.  To this day I’m not sure why our mother had children.  I don’t think she knows herself.

Three boyfriends and a social
life  - oh, and two daughters on the side! 

Ju
lia  –
not mother, please darling… such a stereotype - 
would laugh as though she thought it was hilarious.  Being a side dish as Alice and I were, was much less so. 

We were born to live in her shadow.  It’s occurred to me
that’s why I expect so little of myself, though these days, there are no shadows in my sister’s life.  As I watch Alice simultaneously make lemon meringue pie and gravy and hoping she doesn’t get them muddled, I tell her my plan.  Needless to say, she finds it hysterical.

‘You?
  Give up booze and run a marathon?’  She snorts with laughter and spills her drink down the front of her. 

‘Half a marathon actually,’ I say sniffily, handing her a towel.  ‘Perhaps you should try it.’

‘Here, have a glass of wine.  How’s Greg?’ she replies, still sniggering as she pours me a glass.

‘I haven’t seen him.  And
I won’t, thanks.  You’re not listening to me, Al.  Wine equals booze.  No.  Thank you.’

She feels my forehead, a look of fake concern on her face. 
‘You feeling alright, Frankie?’  Then she thrusts the glass at me.

Obstinately I put it down.  ‘I’ll make myself some tea if that’s ok.’  Which for some reason Alice fails to understand so I wave the kettle at her then go to look for
Martha.

Martha is five
, with pink cheeks and little-girl hair that’s a mass of wayward curls.  She’s exactly the daughter I’d love to have myself one day - if I ever meet the right man.  She also loves my stories about fairy-tale brides and evil stepmothers – all totally made up, obviously.  I tell her a new one about the silly florist who ordered the wrong colour flowers and got turned into a bog fairy, which causes much hilarity.

‘Always look out for bog fairies, just in case.  In the bog,’ I whisper
as Martha giggles, just as Alice walks into the room.  ‘Oops…’ I look at my sister who’s shaking her head and beckoning me out of the room.

One of the pitfalls of having a lax parent means you overcompensate.  Alice has strict views on parenting. 
On being an Aunt too, as she’s about to tell me – she’s looking frighteningly stern. 

‘Frankie, please do not say bog in front of your niece.  Last time you were here, I had to explain about shitfaced and the time before it was nipple piercing.   Honestly – words fail me.’

I’d believe her, only words never fail Alice. 

‘Bog is a perfectly innocent word,’ I tell her.  ‘And anyway, a girl needs to know about these things, Al.  It’s my duty as her Aunt.  You can’t tie her to your apron strings forever, you know.’

‘Wait till you have your own.’  She glares at me.  ‘And she’s five, not fifteen – there’s a difference.  Are you staying for supper?’

‘Yes, please.’  I follow her into the kitchen
, feeling more like her elder, errant daughter than her sister.  Then I remember she doesn’t know. 

‘Guess what Alice! 
Something really exciting’s happened!  I’ve got my first celebrity wedding!’

‘No!’  Her eyes are like saucers.
  My sensible, grown-up sister isn’t completely immune to gossip.  ‘Who!  Tell me!’

‘Only Maria Bristow and Pete McNamara,’ I say smugly.  ‘How cool is that!  I’m going to be famous!’

‘I’m not sure you’ll be famous, but it’s dead exciting!  You must take tons of photos Frankie!  And put it on your website...  I know – you could get a local paper to run a feature on you…’

‘I can’t until after the event,’ I tell her.  ‘They’ve sworn me to secrecy.’

‘Then what are you telling me for?  Oh Frankie – I hope you’re not blabbing to everyone…’

‘Of course not.
  Anyway, I know you won’t tell.’

As a result of massive amounts of willpower and my new regime, I’m feeling extremely virtuous.  Yet again, not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips.  When I awake on Monday, my precious day off, just like yesterday, I have a clear head and eyes that shine back at me as I brush my hair into a ponytail.  I make my hot water and lemon but my ankle’s still puffy from yesterday so I skip the run and switch the telly on instead.

As I watch Jeremy Kyle, I’m struggling to ignore the Mars bar which I know is in the fridge, hidden between the low fat yoghurts and the slice of cheesecake.  I eat it.  I eat the cheesecake too, so it’s no longer a source of temptation.  And it’s hardly a problem – I’m not trying to lose weight, it just rather negates the hot water and lemon. 
Never mind Jeremy Kyle.  What I need, I decide, is a fridge full of healthy food to fuel my new, super-fit body toward my half marathon and looming stardom.

For a small village like Dexter’s Green, Demelza’s isn’t all bad.  It sells cheap washing up liquid and that budget loo paper that isn’t budget at all because end up using twice as much of it. There’s wine too – the kind that’s strictly for emergencies only.  I
hobble carefully over there, heading for the grocery section, ignoring the delicious smell of hot sausage rolls and the rows of chocolate bars hurling themselves off the shelves at me. 

Mr Crowley serves me at the checkout.  He
’s stern and bald and has an opinion on most things, and just like Honey, likes to give me his two pennies worth.

‘My new healthy diet, Mr Crowley,’ I tell him proudly. 

‘You need some meat, young lady.  All those veggies aren’t no good for a growing young lass like yourself…’  He shakes his head as he painstakingly counts out every last coin of my change.  Honestly, there’s no pleasing some people.

I’m still zipping up my purse as I walk out and collide with someone coming in, then I notice it’s the same girl I bumped into yesterday.  The one with the awkward pushchair, only this time she’s without it.

‘My fault again,’ I say to her.  ‘Sorry - on your own?’

‘Yes,’ she says curtly.  ‘He’s not that well, actually.’  She’s pale under her tan, I notice and there are
dark circles under her eyes, only she still manages to look completely stunning. 

‘Oh,
I’m so sorry,’ I say, realising I’m blocking the doorway.  ‘I really hope he’s better soon.’

She hesitates for a split second.  ‘Thanks.’

I stroll home feeling virtuous and arrange my vegetables decoratively, admiring how much healthier I already feel.  Then Honey calls me and as always, gets straight to the point.

‘Now Frankie, have you thought any more about the half marathon?’

‘I’ve done more than think about it,’ I tell her smugly.  ‘I’ve started training!  You, my friend, are talking to a fellow runner!’

There’s a stunned silence at the other end.

‘Only snag is I bust my ankle.  It’s only twisted and I’ve iced it and all that.  But I think I might have overdone it the teensiest bit…’

Cue another lecture. 

‘You need to build it up slowly,’ says Honey bossily.  ‘I can’t believe you don’t know that.  Get a training schedule off the internet for God’s sake, or join a club or something.  Sorry, just seen the time.  I’ve got to get to a meeting.’

Phew. 
Got off lightly there then.  I check my emails and in among the special offers for Viagra and penis enlargements, and the one from Katyusha from Poland, who likes sex and wants to be my wife, at last is the email I’ve been waiting for.

Dear Frankie

I’d be grateful if you’d come to my house to discuss arrangements for my wedding flowers.

Yours

Maria x

Her address is at the bottom.  My heart pounds excitedly.  This is it!  It’s happening!  My dream is about to come true…

I indulge myself for a moment with fantasies of elaborate, towering flower arrangements and a tiny little mention in Hello magazine.  However, it’s June and the thick of wedding season and there simply isn’t time to daydream.  This coming weekend we have two weddings which will only happen if I plan with military precision.  But when I open up my shop the next morning, there’s a problem. 

Everywhere I look, it’s like someone’s been in with a strimmer.  The floor is strewn with the dead heads of flowers nipped off in their prime and after conducting a brief search, I find the perpetrator, who’s brown and furry with long ears and lurking in the dark behind the lilies.

‘Get out!’ I shriek, flailing my arms, which sends the little bastard into overdrive.  I’d no idea how fast they can be.  Eventually it ricochets off a bucket and legs it at warp speed. 
Which is fine – only as I don’t how it got in here in the first place, in the immortal words of Arnie, it’ll be back...