It All Started With You, page 1
IT ALL STARTED WITH YOU
DEBBIE HOWELLS
For Georgie and Tom
Earth laughs in flowers.
HENRY DAVID THOREAU
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Acknowledgments
More from Debbie Howells
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1
It began with a bossy friend and a small word. Two letters. Rhymes with Joe, but no matter what’s in my head, what comes out is always ‘yes’. And in the case of the well-meaning, about-to-be-married friend whose florist let her down at the last minute, it didn’t matter I’d never put together a bouquet, let alone worked as a florist. My fate was sealed.
Honey has a lot to answer for, but as I soon discovered, there’s something seductive about flowers. Not just the luscious scents and vibrant colours, but it’s the symbolism. The hidden sentiment; the love, passion and beseeching, artistically arranged and gift wrapped in crunchy brown paper. The ultimate gesture of romance – but so much more.
I’d always loved flowers. But. Put simply, being a wedding florist was an accident. It just happened – but then that’s the story of my life.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ Honey begged me. Actually begged rather than ordered, which wasn’t Honey-like at all, but desperate times called for desperate measures, plus she’d morphed into a hideous bridezilla by then. It’s to be expected, I’ve learned since – only some are worse than others and Honey never does things by halves.
‘Fricking woman’s let me down. You’re creative aren’t you? And it’s just plonking a bunch of flowers in a vase… Please, Frankie, pleeease… I’ll pay you…’ She mentioned a sum that would keep my bank manager off my back a little longer. ‘Otherwise it’ll be the most miserable wedding ever…’
Not for nothing is Honey a successful lawyer, though put on the spot, I always forget this. She had me cornered and she knew it. I thought about it – but not for long. Only the hardest-hearted person could bear their best friend’s big day to be anything less than perfect, and if I’m honest, a tiny, insecure part of me liked the idea that just for once, I could do something she couldn’t. Before I knew it I’d muttered those immortal words.
‘I suppose…’ At which point she’d whooped triumphantly and flung her arms round me, leaving me spluttering in a cloud of Chanel.
If only I’d stopped to think, even fleetingly, that this was a wedding. Worse, it was Honey’s wedding, and no matter how hard I wanted to trivialise it, I wouldn’t be able to, because make no mistake… it mattered.
Try taking your worst nightmare and multiplying it a hundredfold, because as I’ve learned since, with weddings, there are no second chances. No saying it’s okay, we’ll sort it out tomorrow. Everything has to be perfect – on the day.
This wedding brought out the very worst in my friend, because as well as manipulative, she’s a control freak. Finding the right flowers in precisely the right colours and degree of openness kept me awake at night. Imagine – sleepless nights over bunches of flowers. It’s about as insane as the bride who measures the diameter of roses, and believe me, Honey did that, just as she insisted they match the bridesmaids’ dresses which were a washed-out grubby shade of lilac.
Antique, I was told, sternly, as I stared in horror at the fabric swatch she’d waved in front of me. Did flowers that colour even exist?
When I expressed my concerns, Honey was dismissive. ‘Look online. It can’t be difficult to find them.’
Whatever, I thought.
And it wasn’t just plonking things in vases, either. Oh, no… There were fifteen of them, to be all identically just so and exactly like the picture she gave me, with sticky out bits and twiddly things – this was Honey, after all. Not to mention the small matter of the church.
‘Just pretty it up a bit, Frankie, I’ll leave it to you… only can you make sure you do the windowsills and a big thingy by the altar and pew ends and confetti cones with real rose petals and…’
Pew ends, schmew ends. I didn’t know how to make them back then, so I tied bunches of flowers on with long trails of ribbon. It was pretty – but if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have sneaked lavender in there for constancy, and exquisite stars of stephanotis for a long and happy marriage. And hazel twigs of course, because no wedding’s complete without them.
But then, none of this mattered, because hazel twigs or not, it was a romantic, magical day as all weddings should be, with Honey dazzlingly adorned in Caroline Castigliano, her beloved Johnny on her arm and a scattering of tiny bridesmaids following behind. And as I eavesdropped shamelessly on the many admiring comments, I couldn’t help but feel a small, secret glow of pride that a tiny part of this was all mine.
As it turns out, Honey loved what I’d done, so much that when my latest job collapsed in tatters around me, fresh back from Honey-moon, she came to see me. Tanned and glowing after a fortnight in the Caribbean, bridezilla had gone and my old friend, the ball-busting lawyer, was back. ‘You can’t seriously have thought you’d spend the rest of your days being a waitress? I mean, really…’
Of course, I’d seriously thought no such thing. ‘I just needed money and took the first job that came along.’
She stared disbelievingly at me. ‘Frankie. We’ve known each other for years, haven’t we? In all that time, the longest you’ve stuck at any one thing is about, what, eight months?’
‘More like six,’ I told her miserably, feeling a pit of despair open up in front of me. At times, she really could be brutal.
‘It’s time for a change, don’t you think? Take something seriously, for once.’
Easy for her to say. I sighed. I knew what she was doing. Honey’s philosophy with everyone, friends included, is to break them down to build them up – sympathy doesn’t come into it. Naturally, I didn’t argue.
‘I get by. And it’s not like I don’t try,’ I objected, trying to justify myself. ‘Really I do. It’s just, well, you have to agree, I am quite unlucky…’
But as I topped up her glass of Pinot Grigio, even I knew how lame that sounded.
‘Thank you. Well, go on a course. Get a qualification. But get off your arse and do something, or you’ll be squatting in this flat of yours forever.’
That last bit needled me, because I love living here. Dexter’s Green is one of those picture-postcard villages, consisting of a handful of pretty old cottages which are home to an assortment of equally colourful residents, with the ubiquitous village pub and the most lethal cider for miles, and Demelza’s, handy for emergency supplies of chocolate and not much else.
My flat’s tucked away above the post office, with a front door off a quiet road and a personality all of its own. The ceilings are crooked and part of the floor creaks ominously, and if it rains overnight the roof leaks, but the views are to die for. And it’s cheap.
Suddenly Honey leaped up, looking delighted with herself. ‘Frankie! I’ve got it! Flowers! You did mine, didn’t you? Go back to college and learn to be a proper florist. I’ll write you a testimonial if you need one.’
As if my future could be decided as simply as that.
But Honey likes to channel her bossiness into worthy causes and as true friends always do, she had my best interests at heart. Over the years I’d resisted her attempts to interfere, but this time, I had to concede she had a point. I’d worked in coffee shops and care homes and garden centres, which meant I scraped by, but only just. Part of me craved more. Why shouldn’t I have a flashy car and expensive clothes, instead of simply admiring those everyone else had? I pictured my own neat little house, the mortgage paid each month on the button instead of muddling along struggling to pay my rent.
The long and short of it was, she got me thinking, because somewhere along the way, I’d missed that elusive something that all my friends had figured out. There was a future out there, I was sure of it, no less, no more than anyone else’s. And I’d wasted enough time, taking the path of least resistance while I waited for life to happen.
It was as a glimmer of an idea was taking seed that one gloriously sunny morning a few days later, I was walking around All Hallows, a town about five miles away, window shopping because it was the only kind of shopping I could afford. Then, as I turned up a cobbled side street, right at the end, I saw it. The most humble of florist
If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have probably carried on walking. You see, there are florists and there are florists… about as many worlds apart as McDonald’s and The Dorchester. However, this was then, and without a second thought, I went in.
Okay – so it wasn’t The Dorchester, but it was a proper old-fashioned florist shop and actually, it was sweet in there, with lots of traditional flowers like carnations and chrysanthemums and frothy white clouds of gypsophila. Of course, there were tasteless add-ons and plastic tat in abundance, but then a short, rotund figure popped up amongst the buckets, her salt and pepper hair stuck out at shoulder length. It was my first glimpse of Mrs Orange.
‘Can I help you, pet?’
‘I don’t know. I… I’m looking for a job. You see, I want to learn to be a florist.’ My earlier confidence seemed to wither up and die as her beady eyes scrutinised me.
‘Work experience, duck?’ she said, raising an eyebrow, which I took to be encouraging. At least it wasn’t a straight ‘no’.
‘Um, well, sort of,’ I said. ‘But I do need paying.’ Which was a bit cheeky, considering.
She made a strange sound – ttch, ttch – with one eye squinting at me and then I noticed the hands poking out of her shirtsleeves. They were shrivelled looking and dry. Old hands. It didn’t put me off.
‘You can have a trial, my lovely. One week. I ain’t payin’ you for it, mind. But if you turn out to be useful, we’ll see. Monday morning. Eight o’clock sharp.’
I was in no position to argue – anyway, as I saw it, this was my chance! I danced out of her shop and made for the library, where I picked up as many books as I could carry on flowers for the home, from round the world, tedious textbooks and gloriously photographed coffee table books – getting some funny looks from the librarian as I piled them onto the desk.
‘I’m training!’ I told her, needing to share it with someone before I burst with excitement. ‘My new career! I’m going to be a florist!’ Completely missing the nervous looks they exchanged as I staggered out carrying them all.
But as soon as I was home, I started reading.
As I flicked through page after colourful page, immersing myself in this glorious new world, I completely lost track of time. Forget floristry, this was art. The only the trouble was, the more I read the more I realised there were one or two little things I needed to learn along the way.
So, the very next day found me sitting at my kitchen table with a bunch of Tesco’s cheapest and a textbook. Cursing and swearing and stabbing my fingers, I learned to wire flower heads and invisibly thread leaves so they hold their shape, wondering if I’d ever be brave enough to demonstrate this to the mighty Mrs Orange.
I was beginning to think that perhaps I’d found my calling, or maybe it was sheer desperation at embarking, yet again, on something completely new, but this time I was fuelled with determination.
Those first days in the shop, in that rite of passage that belongs to all fledgling florists, I scrubbed endless numbers of buckets and swept thousands of petals off the floor. Mrs Orange watched me like a hawk and pulled me up on almost everything, but she must have seen a shred of something in me. At the end of the week, I waited with bated breath.
‘S’pose I’ll be seeing you on Monday, my lovely,’ was all she said.
I was tired, and more broke than I ever remembered being, but it was a magical, fairy-tale moment. All I could think was, I’d done it! Slightly disbelieving, as her words sank in, a wave of euphoria washed over me. At last I was on my way to a proper career!
And gradually, after months of slaving away making old-fashioned bouquets and sympathy flowers, my confidence grew. Enough to cockily suggest she should change the name of her shop to Orange Blossom and try to attract more weddings. I’d been daydreaming about how we could draw in the rich and famous from miles around, becoming the florist from whom everyone who was anyone bought their flowers.
But Mrs Orange had no such inclination.
‘Daisy Chain’s done me fine.’ Putting me firmly in my place, in her next breath, she knocked me sideways. ‘And I can’t be doing with any more of them brides. Trouble, the lot of them. Anyway, my lovely, what with me retiring next month, it ain’t worth it.’
At which point, I gasped in horror.
I couldn’t believe this was happening. Again. Just as I’d found my feet, the floor was being whipped away from under them, but I could hardly blame her. At seventy-three, she was looking forward to selling up and finishing with flowers for good.
‘I’ve done with them earlies, my lovely. And me poor hands…’
I could see her point and I had to agree about the hands – they were shocking. But it was a sad day when she closed. The end of an era – and the end of my dream. Her most loyal customers flocked in that evening to drink warm cava and wish her well, and for me, it was back to square one – or so I thought, as I slipped out of the shop for the last time.
But I’d reckoned without Honey’s interfering ways and as I wandered home dejectedly, wondering what on earth I was going to do next, my mobile rang in my pocket. She’d had another of her ideas, but this time, as it happened, a really good one.
2
Starting up on my own was something I hadn’t considered, but the following evening, when Honey took me to see the building she had in mind, I felt the faintest flutter of excitement. Just a few minutes’ walk from my flat, it was, well, scruffy. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of place tagged on the end of someone’s barn – but with weathered timbers and thick, whitewashed walls to keep the most delicate of flowers cool in summer. Honey stepped inside and turned up her nose at it, but then her idea of stylish was modern and minimal with granite worktops. To me, quite simply, it was perfect.
As I walked slowly around, touching the cool stone of the walls and feeling the breeze whisper in through the door, a picture stole into my head. Of every corner crammed with flowers, with colour, the air heady with their scents. Of wedding photos covering the walls. A big painted sign outside and me inside, creating sublime bouquets for a host of grateful, admiring clients…
But the picture faded just as quickly. How could I, Frankie Valentine, actually do this? I’d never organised anything in my life and even if I dared to think I could, there was one teensy little problem.
‘If I were brave enough,’ I told her, ‘which I’m not, it would be perfect, Honey. It really would. But there’s one teeny little problem.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I’ll cover the deposit.’
‘You can’t!’ I told her, horrified and excited at the same time.
‘Think of it as payback for my wedding flowers,’ Honey had said firmly. For all her bossiness, she’s also incredibly generous.
‘But you paid me!’
‘Not enough, and you got me out of a fix. Just bring me a bouquet every week.’
Suddenly, I really wanted this, far too much to let it pass me by.
It happened like lightning after that – Honey saw to it. She arranged the opening party too, complete with champagne and the local press in attendance, who printed a photo of me looking rather squiffy. But she made it clear too, that this is my shop. And she’s as good as her word – mostly she stays out of it, though every so often she can’t help herself.
‘You need to ditch the mad old bat,’ she told me, shortly after I opened. ‘Seriously, Frankie, she’ll put your customers off. It’s that stare…’
I knew what she meant. But Mrs Orange reserves her most evil glare for Honey, who’s too posh and outspoken for her liking.
