Wildflowers (5 page)

‘Oh – ok
ay, then.  I suppose.’

Which isn’t the best way to start an evening
.  Even as I change and touch up my makeup, for some reason my heart isn’t in it and things go rapidly downhill when he arrives. 

Instantly I know something’s happened. 
His eyes don’t quite meet mine and his cheek is bristly with stubble when it fleetingly brushes against my own.  Then collapsing on my sofa, he sighs. 

‘So what has been
going on
?’ I ask, sitting down next to him.  ‘You look terrible, Greg.’ 

He
really does.  His thick, chestnut hair needs washing and he looks as though he hasn’t shaved for days, while the huge grey circles under his eyes look more like bruises than tiredness.

He sighs again, clasping his hands and staring at the floor in front of him.  ‘I lost my job
, babe.  Just like that.  Then my landlord kicked me out.’ 

Oh
.  I feel a small flicker of alarm.

‘… and I’ve got nowhere, Frankie.  Honest, there’s only you…
I can stay, can’t I?  Just till I get myself sorted out?’

Two months, even two weeks ago, I’d have welcomed him with open arms, offering to share my food, my bed, my body with him.  But since then,
it’s like the ground has shifted.  Invisibly, undetectably – but enough, though I haven’t a clue why.  For the first time in our relationship, I hesitate.

But then the old Frankie logic kicks in.  Instead of working out
that he’s only here because he’s clean out of options, all I can think is that this man I’ve been seeing has fallen on hard times and it’s
me
he’s come to.  Only the most hardened woman could turn him away.  Right now, he
needs
me.  It’s what relationships are about – isn’t it?  Taking the rough with the smooth, the good with the bad?

M
uch as I want to believe this, annoyingly I can hear Honey’s voice in my head. 
You have to say no, Frankie, he’s using you – again.  Chuck him out, now and tell him you never want to see him again.

I don’t exactly say yes.
  Not in so many words.

‘For a bit,’ I say slowly, watching
relief wash over his face.  ‘But only for a day or two, okay?  And as long as you pull your weight, Greg…because I am not washing your underwear.  Not ever. 
Comprende
?’

He mumbles something indecipherable, then pulls me towards him and plants a kiss somewhere near my lips.  But it’s just a kiss, nothing more.

And s
o, just like that, after a year of being elusive, Greg is here in my flat.  The man whose calls I’ve waited in for. Whose body I’ve fantasised about.  His trainers are just inside the door, his toothbrush in the mug next to mine.  I make two cups of tea in the morning instead of a solitary one.  It’s the moment I’ve dreamed of - for ages.  But if I’m honest, now he’s here, I’m less than ecstatic. 

A
s the week progresses, I turn my attention to work.  We have two weddings this weekend and so for the rest of the week, Greg is somewhat neglected as my life becomes a nonstop whirl of flowers, flowers and more flowers. As I double triple check the orders, I make Milo promise on pain of death not to send me any more wrong colours. 

Then
comes the part I love most, as I take delivery of box upon box of the palest scented roses, antique hydrangeas, lime green fluffy alchemilla and white peppery phlox, with a garden’s worth of every herb under the sun until the inside my shop is filled with summer.  It’s the lull before the storm that’s looming, of manic stress and tearing around, ensuring everything’s done to perfection.   

By chance, both weddings have vintage themes and s
oft, faded-looking flowers, which has turned me into my most paranoid, obsessive self.  There are lists stuck up everywhere to make absolutely, positively certain that the right flowers end up with the right bride.  Anything else is unthinkable.

It’s one of those weeks when I truly love what I do.  We’re busy, but not ma
dly so, though that will follow.  These flowers are really gorgeous and as we work in the cool of the shop, the sun beams in through the windows.  The only blot on the landscape is the lazy male one in my flat.  Called Greg. 

O
n Thursday, while Skye nips out for her lunch break, I have a visitor – a rather tall, smartly dressed one.  A groom?  Potential business?

‘Can I help you?’ I ask politely. 
As he turns towards me, I stiffen.  There’s something about him I don’t like.  I know for a fact he hasn’t been in before. I’ve a memory for faces, especially weasley-looking ones like his. 

‘
Yes, you’re doing the flowers for the Clifton wedding, aren’t you?’  He has one of those haughty, strangled-vowel type of voices that sounds like a foreign language, looking down his nose at me with cold eyes. 

‘Bernice and James?
  Yes.  That’s right - we are…’

‘James
. Yes.  Of course.’  A black look crosses his face.  ‘Only I er, wanted to know what flowers they were having so I could choose a gift.  Maybe a vase, or a plant - or something like that.’

‘Oh
, I see.’  He really is one shifty looking guy, but when it comes to business, I learned a long time ago to put personal feelings to one side.  ‘I’m afraid I can’t really say – you see, the flowers are always a secret…’ 

But too late, his eyes linger on the workbench
where I’ve laid out the vases for both weddings.

‘Well, perhaps you could suggest something.’  He stands, hands in
the pockets of his big coat, which strikes me as weird on a day as warm as this.

Suddenly I remember. 
I do have something - a plant that might just do… ‘Um, well – actually, I might just have a hydrangea the right colour.  But it’s outside.  If you wait a second, I’ll get it for you.’

Nipping out of the back door to the small courtyard behind,
I’m gone for about two minutes but when I come back, there’s no sign of him.  It strikes me as odd, but I give it no further thought – until a few hours later, Mrs Orange walks in. 

‘There’s a
right funny smell in here, my lovely.’  Her wiry hair is stuck out at all angles and there’s a smudge of paint on her cheek.

‘It’s the flowers, Mrs Orange.  Look.
’  I wave one under her nose.  ‘This little sepia rose has a strong scent – I expect it’s that.’

‘
Oh no, duck.  I know what them roses smell like…’  She wrinkles up her nose and prowls around the workshop, sniffing the air.

‘They were crop spraying
the fields out the back earlier.  Maybe that’s what it is.  Or paint.  You’ve been painting, I can tell…’  I tease her.

She gives me one of her looks. 
‘Don’t smell like crop spraying to me…’  She shambles over and studies the workbench, where every last inch is covered with the table arrangements for the weekend.  ‘You know, it’s coming from over by this table.’  Then she frowns.  ‘What colour hair has this bride got, my lovely?’

‘Brunette,’ I say heavily, knowing what’s coming.
  ‘Both of them, as it happens.  There are two brides.’

She frowns, shaking her head. 
‘Should be purples, pet.  Or reds -  not these bloomin washed out fripperies. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

As she stomps out again,
needless to say, I ignore her warning.  Antique coloured flowers weren’t the fashion in her day and this hokum about colour and brides’ hair is tosh.   But a little later, as I’m adding some finishing touches, I get another visitor.

‘Hello!  You busy?’
  Lulubelle’s head appears at the window.  Her long hair’s in a messy knot and even in shorts and a T-shirt, she looks as effortlessly lovely as she always does.

‘Lulubelle!
  Come on in!  How’s Cosmo today?’

‘
Slowly feeling better, I think.’  She pushes him into the shop.  Cocooned in his buggy, I’m pleased to see a hint of colour in his cheeks.  ‘He’s quiet, but he always is after chemo.  Only this time, it does seem to be taking longer…  Frankie, there’s a really funny smell in here.’  She sniffs the air.  ‘Sorry – I’m just careful – you know, with his health…’

‘
Actually, you’re not the first person to mention it.’ I open the remaining windows.  ‘I think they’ve been crop-spraying and it’s blown in from the fields.  You know, he does look a bit better,’ I add, gently ruffling Cosmo’s hair.  There’s a flicker of recognition, but I can’t help comparing him with Martha, who’d squeal indignantly.

‘These are beautiful.’  Lulubelle looks at the displays for the weddings.  ‘Amazing colours…
Actually, I wanted to ask you a favour.  And if it’s too difficult, you must say so… Only I’m organising a charity dinner.  It’s to raise funds for the children’s hospice in All Hallows.  Briarwood – you may have heard of it…’

I shake my head.
  Hospices have never been on my radar – after all, they tend to be somewhere you don’t think about unless you need them.

‘It’s
the first weekend in October - which I know isn’t for a while and you must say if you’re too busy, but I wondered if you’d do some flowers for the tables?  Just little vases would be fine, nothing fancy but it’s black tie and we want people to think they’re getting their money’s worth…’

‘I’d love to!’ I tell her.
  October’s usually a quiet month though this year, there’s my celebrity wedding at the end of it.  I’m excited just thinking about it!

‘Our budget is very small
, though,’ she continues.  ‘It won’t be like one of your big weddings… We want as much money as possible to go Briarwood.’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ I tell her, still imagining raking in a healthy profit and better still, all these well-heeled dinner guests seeing Valentine’s wonderful flowers
.  ‘I’ll definitely be able to do something for you.’

‘
Oh thanks, Frankie, so much!  Hey, you should come to it!  I’ll organise you some tickets.’

‘
Wow
! I’d love to – thanks!’ 

This is e
ven better… I picture myself in a long, gorgeous dress, demure and extremely sober, hobnobbing with wealthy benefactors, arm in arm with Greg, tall and so handsome in his dinner jacket, while all around people are whispering about the flowers…
Such a find, you know… Frankie Valentine, her name is!  They say she’s the next celebrity florist…

With my head in the clouds,
I float through the rest of the afternoon, but my bubbly mood doesn’t last. When I trudge home and up the stairs to my flat, Greg’s exactly where I left him – on the sofa, television blaring, dirty plates spread on the floor beside him.  He’s so engrossed in what he’s watching, he barely notices me come in.

‘Hey
- Greg.’  My voice is sharper than it usually is, as I open windows to let some air in.  If he’s used that many plates, I’m guessing the fridge is empty – unless, of course, he’s been shopping.  My hopes rise, just fleetingly, but the kitchen is a mess too and when I check the fridge, he hasn’t.

‘Huh?’ He barely stirs.

I grab the TV remote and switch it off. 

‘It’s
horrible in here,’ I tell him, starting to pile up the plates and resenting every single one of them.  ‘The least you could do is your own washing up - and you’ve eaten all the food.’

‘Chill,
babe.  I’ll do it later.’

Okay. 
Taking a deep breath, I decide I’ll give him a chance to do just that.  Maybe I’m being a tad unreasonable.  It’s only a few plates, after all. 

He
eventually does it – after about three hours, leaving the floor covered in water.  But it’s three hours I spend fuming with anger, my supper beans on toast not the chicken and pasta I’d been planning, because Greg’s already eaten it. 

This, I can’t help thinking, is
the direst of warnings about marrying the wrong man.  Not just the mess, domestic slavery and the empty fridge, but that feeling I’m being taken for a ride… 

Far from spending a romantic evening together,
I go to bed early - and alone.  When Greg joins me a little later, I’m lying with my back to him, feigning sleep.  I feel the bed move as he gets in, then rolls towards me, and without any preamble, reaches under my pyjamas for my nipples.

Before, it would have been enough to light the
touchpaper.  But even when he slowly edges lower, I don’t respond.  His touch has become intrusive, unwanted, like that voice in my head which is more like Honey’s voice, telling me that once again, I’ve played right into his hands.

On the edge of the bed, as far away from Greg as I can get, needless to say I don’t sleep well. 
Next morning, things get worse. I wake up early and creep out of the flat without disturbing him.  The longer he spends in bed, the less mess in the flat, I reckon.  As I walk through the village enjoying another sunny morning, my spirits can’t help but lift and I begin to feel more like me again.  It’ll be fine, I tell myself.  After yesterday, Greg will tidy up and even have dinner ready for me.  He really isn’t so bad…