It All Started With You, page 21
I yawn. And dancing with Alex was very nice… Only I did play rather hard to get. Too hard to get? Does it even matter? I already know what he thinks of me, except you don’t spend all evening dancing with someone you don’t like, just a bit…
And then my mobile rings, which means I have to drag myself out of bed to go and find it.
‘Frankie?’ Lulubelle sounds anxious.
‘Yes? What?’ I say, thinking what the blazes is it now.
‘We raised fifty grand! I had to tell you! I’ve been up for hours counting! Isn’t it brilliant? Of course, it’s not completely finalised, but that’s what’s been pledged…’
‘Wow! That’s just…’ Words fail me and then I remember I haven’t told her.
‘Your flowers are on the house too – one of my brides did a runner and told us to do what we wanted with the flowers, so Skye flogged them and the proceeds paid for last night’s flowers.’
‘Oh Frankie…’ She sounds overcome. ‘I can’t believe it. You… everyone’s… been so generous.’
‘Oh, we all had a ball,’ I tell her. ‘It was a fab evening, it really was.’
‘That’s down to you, Frankie. If you hadn’t called my father, I don’t know what we would have done. Look, last night – I know I was a bit…’
‘Upset?’ I offer.
‘I was going to say ungrateful,’ she says. ‘But really, I’m not. You saved the day. And maybe, it was good. Daddy and I will talk at some point now. So from the bottom of my heart, thank you.’
But she needn’t have said that. Just being part of raising all that dosh for Briarwood is the best feeling in the world. I know I’ll burst if I don’t tell someone so I call Alice, who brings me down to earth with a bump.
‘Guess what?’ I say when she answers.
‘You’ve got a hangover or shagged a new man,’ she says ungraciously.
‘You okay, Al? Only you sound a bit…’
‘Hormonal?’ She positively screams down the phone at me. ‘Go on, say it, Frankie, just like everyone else.’ And with that, she slams the phone down.
I sit there, slightly shell-shocked, wondering if she’s had an argument with Julia, leaping out of my skin when the phone rings again, almost immediately.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Alice, humbly this time. ‘I’m having a shit day – want to come over?’
There’s nothing quite like an invitation to share somebody else’s shit day, but I go, anyway. She’s on her own – it seems Dave has whisked Martha away on an outing.
‘Whatever is it?’ I say, handing her the bunch of daisies and herbs I picked up from the shop on the way. It’s carefully chosen too – if I don’t watch myself, I’ll be turning into another Mrs Orange.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘They’re pretty.’
‘Rosemary,’ I tell her, ‘for remembrance, daisies for loyal love and purity, and mint for…’
‘For what?’
‘Can’t remember,’ I lie. Mint is for suspicion, but it’s a pretty shade of green and it smells nice. ‘Happiness, I think? I’m not sure.’
Actually, I’ve started getting quite into flower meanings – though clearly, I need some practice. After all, I’ve seen what happens when you get it wrong… I sneak the mint out when she’s not looking – just in case.
‘So what’s up? You still haven’t told me…’
‘It’s Dave. Or me. Both of us.’
‘You’re not getting divorced?’ I cry, horrified. ‘Al! You can’t possibly! Think of Martha – and you and Dave… you were made for each other.’
She frowns at me. ‘Who said anything about divorce?’
‘Thank God. I just put two and two together and thought because everyone else is.’
‘Dave and I are not everyone else, Frankie. God, I can’t believe you even thought that. Divorce! Honestly.’
‘Then for goodness’ sake tell me what it is.’ I’m getting exasperated.
‘It’s just that I want another baby and Dave isn’t so sure. And in a way, I do understand. You know how practical he is – and children are expensive. It’s just that I’d like Martha to grow up with a little brother or sister. And you know how impulsive I am. Anyway, I threw my pills away, which caused a row.’
‘Oh. Can’t you just fish them out of the bin? They’re in foil – they’ll be fine.’
‘They’re not in the bin. I popped them out and flushed them.’ She goes a bit pink, then giggles.
‘That’s not very mature of you,’ I tell her. ‘No wonder Dave’s cross. It’s a big decision, Al – one you should have made together. I think you owe him an apology.’
‘I know. You’re right. I don’t know what came over me. Actually, I think I feel a bit dizzy.’ She sighs deeply and sits on one of the chairs.
‘Al? Stay there – I’ll get you some water.’ She has gone rather pale. She sips it slowly and then, turning a chalky shade of grey, bolts for the loo.
She’s gone a while and as I sit there it dawns on me. Flushing the pills away, the row with Dave, it’s like shutting the stable door when the horse has bolted.
‘Are you ill?’ I say pointedly, when she comes back into the kitchen.
She shakes her head.
‘Boobs?’ I ask her and she nods, looking confused.
‘Pregnancy test?’
Her jaw drops.
When she comes back in, her face is even paler. ‘He’ll think I did it on purpose.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ I say gently. ‘I mean, you’ve only just flushed the pills away. This…’ I glance at her tummy. ‘It must have taken a little longer than that.’
‘I suppose.’ She sighs. ‘It’s just rubbish timing, isn’t it? Telling him something so incredible when we’ve just had a blazing row.’ She sighs again. ‘Sorry for dragging you into this.’
‘You haven’t dragged me into anything,’ I tell her. ‘I’m your sister. We’re here for each other.’ I can’t help smiling. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
In spite of herself, she nods. ‘Anyway, you called to tell me something, didn’t you?’
I’ve completely forgotten it was me who called her. ‘It was the ball,’ I tell her, a warm feeling filling me. ‘It was the biggest success, Al. It was the most amazing evening – and best of all, it’s made fifty grand for Briarwood.’
‘Wow.’ She looks impressed. ‘That’s brilliant.’
‘It is.’ I pause, wanting to tell her about Lulubelle and Pete and the band last night. But it isn’t my place to do that. Instead, I tell her about Alex. ‘We’ve run into each other so many times. I always thought he had the wrong idea about me.’ I frown slightly. ‘Turns out, I was wrong.’
My sister raises an eyebrow. ‘You mean, he likes you?’
I nod, feeling my cheeks warm. ‘I think he does.’
I leave her, still slightly concerned about what Dave will say. But that evening, when she calls me, she sounds her normal self again – well, as normal as is possible for Alice in the early stages of pregnancy. The trouble is, I remember her last pregnancy only too well. Worse than the worst bridezilla, her mood swings were a total nightmare, which was probably the real reason Dave didn’t want another one.
‘It’s OK,’ she whispers down the phone. ‘When he and Martha got home, he didn’t let me speak, just told me he’d been a prick and that another baby would make our family complete. So I told him…’
‘Oh my God!’ I squeak.
‘He was gobsmacked – but pleased, Frankie. Really pleased. We haven’t told Martha, just in case – you know – early days and all that. I just wanted you to know. Thanks for coming over earlier. And sorry for being so horrible.’
‘Get lots of rest,’ I tell her. ‘And try to relax – you know – chamomile tea, aromatherapy massages, long walks. You need to keep the stress down, Al.’
‘Funny,’ she says. ‘That’s exactly what Dave said.’
30
So starts the busiest week of my life. No lazy Monday for me this week and by eight in the morning I’m in the shop to check there won’t be any problems with my flower order.
‘Chill,’ says Milo. ‘Everyfing’s fine. Even got that honeysuckle and what with it being October, like…’
‘Thank you,’ I say, with relief. ‘Very much.’
Across the road, Mr Crowley’s opening up and I nip over to buy myself some breakfast. After all, to get through this week, I need to fuel myself. Collecting a hot bacon roll and some fruit, when I go to pay, there’s a new girl sitting behind the till.
I wait while she finishes filing her nails, then she fixes me with a hostile stare.
‘Got your own bags today or are you carrying?’ she says with no preamble, daring me to give her the wrong answer.
‘Er, carrying?’ I stutter, because she’s quite scary. Knowing Mr Crowley and his obsession for saving the planet, she’s probably on some reverse commission for every bag she doesn’t use.
Clutching at my apples and pears, I stumble back to the shop, and inside the door, drop them all just as Skye walks in.
‘Here – like what you doing?’ she asks.
‘There’s a bag Hitler behind the till in Demelza’s,’ I say rattily, because my pears are already turning brown and my apples will be ruined too. ‘She’s filing her nails to scratch your eyes out if you don’t carry, as she puts it.’
Skye shakes her head. ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers. Want a cuppa?’
Honey comes in just after nine looking all dreamy and far away, which irritates me. What I need is hard work and efficiency.
‘Honey!’ I snap. ‘You’re late.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Buckets,’ I tell her. ‘Skye, can you unpack the candelabras?’
‘What are you doing?’ says Honey. I know she’s fed up with doing buckets and I know she’s awfully clever, but she has to understand that it’s a rite of passage. If she doesn’t do them until she’s dreaming about them, she can never, ever be a florist.
‘Lists,’ I say promptly. ‘Okay? Any questions? I think we should get to work…’
It’s only Monday, but a huge delivery of foliage and herbs arrives after lunch, from a local grower who sells to select florists, including me. Grown in a proper garden instead of a glasshouse or a polytunnel, they look completely natural.
But as we unpack it, Honey stares in horror.
‘You can’t use that for a wedding,’ she tells me. ‘The leaves are different sizes. And they’re messy. Don’t you want ruscus or something a bit tidier? Those have come off trees…’
She has more to learn than I’ve realised. ‘Today, Honey, in fact this whole week, we’re not on a floristry course,’ I tell her. ‘Think of it like this. You are going to be an artist, painting a scene with beautiful leaves and flowers – with a church and marquee as your canvas. No rules, no neat posies and absolutely no wiring at all. Comprende?’
But she still looks baffled.
‘Come with me,’ I tell her. I pull out my huge Daniel Ost book, which cost me a fortune, and is one of my most treasured possessions, turning the pages to show her what I mean. His work is pure genius – he sculpts and weaves and styles, and though I don’t have a fraction of his skill, I have a vision in my mind of what I’m trying to do, and at last, I find the picture.
‘See?’ I say triumphantly, as Honey peers more closely. It’s a stunning vista, using moss, autumn leaves, twigs, acorns, berries – and just a few flowers, here and there.
‘See?’ I say again more loudly. ‘They don’t teach you that in floristry school, but you don’t need flowers at all.’
She’s quiet after that and does as she’s told, and with everything safely in buckets, we’re on target. The next two days follow a similar pattern. It’s the lull before the storm that is every big wedding, except this is the biggest wedding yet; where suddenly there aren’t enough hours and you wonder what made you think you could ever do this.
On Thursday we assemble the table arrangements – big, metal urns overflowing with the riches of nature – little crab apples, dry fronds of bracken, scented roses in shades of pink and orange, leaves starting to take on the hues of autumn… There are twenty of them in all – one for every table.
Then on Friday, into the fray we go. For the first time in my life, I thank God for inventing the work experience student, because this lot are really useful, though probably because they’re scared to death of Honey.
‘Juno! Minty!’ she positively bellows at them. ‘Get a move on,’ which makes me cringe.
‘Excuse me,’ I remind her. ‘They may be your classmates, but I’m running the show, okay? Now go and help them.’
It takes two hours of blood, sweat and toil to lug everything through the woods and into the church before we even start the decorating, but many hands really do make light work and it’s like a speeded-up film, as before my eyes, our transformation takes shape.
But not without interruptions, because no matter where you happen to be, if you’re arranging flowers, people always stop and talk to you – especially in churches. Especially when they’ve done flowers themselves. And today is no exception.
The first time it’s a bumptious black Labrador followed by a small noisy woman wearing tweeds. The dog sniffs around and cocks its leg on one of the buckets.
‘Jolly good thing that was empty,’ I point out to the owner, who looks quite unabashed.
‘Reminds of when I used to do flowers at All Hallows,’ she tells me rather knowingly. Here we go. ‘Had this ghastly bride who wanted all these fancy things. I can never understand why they don’t make do with chrysanthemums.’
Only for once, I cut her short. I have to. ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry but we have simply tons to do and I really must get on.’
It’s back-breaking, hard work, but when we’ve finished, it’s everything I’d hoped it would be, and in the rays of evening sun through the stain glass windows, it’s as if an enchanted forest has grown up inside, creeping up the walls and columns. It looks so wild and alive in there. If only I could Instagram it, I think regretfully for a brief moment. But I don’t need the rest of the world to see it. All that matters is that Maria loves it.
As we finish clearing up, my mobile rings. It’s Lulubelle.
‘Sorry, Frankie. I expect you’re really busy, aren’t you?’
‘No – just tidying up actually. Everything okay?’
‘Yes – actually. I’ve made a decision, though.’ I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.
‘About tomorrow…’ she adds, which doesn’t leave me any the wiser.
‘I’m going. To Daddy’s wedding.’
Enlightenment dawns on me. ‘Ohhh… I see. That’s so good. It really is,’ I say, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic. It’s early days, after all.
‘Only, I was wondering – would you come with me? I was going to ask Matty, but then I thought I’d rather not – not until Daddy and I have properly talked – so I suddenly thought I’d ask you. But you don’t have to,’ she says in a rush.
Not go? Is she mad? Oh my giddy aunt. Me, Frankie the humble florist going to Pete and Maria’s wedding? I can’t believe it.
‘But won’t they mind? I mean – I’m their florist, Lulubelle…’
‘They said they’d love you to come. So would I. So, will you?’
I can feel a Cheshire cat smile plastering itself across my face. ‘Yes!’
I wander back into the church in a daze.
‘Shit, Honey – I don’t have an outfit… What will I do?’
‘Don’t swear,’ she says. ‘You’re in a church. Wear the dress you wore to the dinner. It’s perfect. Honestly, I can’t believe you wangled an invite. I’m so jealous.’
‘I didn’t wangle anything…’ I say indignantly. ‘It was all Lulubelle’s doing – but I’m so excited, I can’t wait!’
31
It’s one of those restless nights where I awake every hour in a cold sweat at the thought of sleeping through my alarm clock. Tossing and turning, at three o’clock I give up and get out of bed, deciding if I’m not going to sleep, I might as well go to work.
As if in a dream, I twist together Maria’s bouquet. Sweetly fragrant roses in cerise pink and rusty orange are mixed with all these other wonderful things – little bits of red hydrangea, odd sprigs of lavender and rosemary with wild trails of honeysuckle and fern which give it an ethereal air. There are weeds carefully picked from the roadside, berries from the hedges. Just in case, I add a hazel twig. And when I hold it up and look at it, something funny happens. I don’t feel neurotic or anxious, nor am I fretting whether I’ve got it exactly right – I just know, deep inside me, it’s perfect for her.
I make a further seven – yes, seven, for each of the bridesmaids, filled with the same inexplicable sense of calm. Each one is different, each one made of herbs, berries and leaves, edged with little pieces of bracken. They’re proper woodland posies – Honey will be horrified – but that’s irrelevant because I know Maria is going to love them.
I’m halfway through the buttonholes when Honey and Skye arrive, followed minutes later by the floristry students, who are slightly shocked at what I’ve done and then we load up the van again and head for Roselin Castle.
No one talks, we just work. And when we’ve finished swathing the teepee with ivy and scattering the tables with leaves and roses, I tiptoe away to take Maria her bouquet.
Hidden away up a twisting stone staircase, I find her room and knock.
‘Hello? Maria? It’s Frankie – with your flowers…’ In case she’s forgotten who I am.
The door creaks open and there she is, looking more like a little girl than ever in this massive room.
‘Your bouquets,’ I tell her, then watch.
When you design a wedding bouquet, you’re working with the stuff of dreams. And today, though I’m almost a hundred per cent certain I’ve got this right, there’s still the tiniest of doubts – until I see Maria’s eyes widen and her mouth open with astonishment, then as I lift it out of the box, her entire face lights up.
