It All Started With You, page 5
‘He really hasn’t,’ I tell her, suddenly feeling cross. I’m getting fed up with my friends’ criticism of him. He may not be particularly exciting or fascinating or rich, but those types are distinctly lacking round here, in case Charlie hadn’t noticed. Plus, he does actually like me.
But suddenly the spotlight’s on Nina, who’s being uncharacteristically quiet this evening, just sitting there, slightly flushed and glowing, smiling a knowing little smile as though she’s hiding something precious. It’s a look we’ve both seen before.
‘Nina?’ I quiz her. ‘Is there something you’d like to share with us?’
‘I don’t think so…’ But her brown eyes are full of laughter and happiness and instantly I know.
‘Who?’ demands Charlie, who’s seen it too. ‘Come on, girl. Spill.’
‘He’s a physio,’ confesses Nina, burying her head in her hands. ‘Damn it, Charlie! I so wasn’t going to tell you!’
‘Ooh, lucky you. Think of all those deep tissue massages,’ says Charlie, drooling. ‘Does he have any friends?’
Nina ignores the comment. ‘His name is Will. He’s thirty-five, single, completely gorgeous and he’s taking me out for dinner. And that’s all I’m telling you!’
‘So where’s he taking you?’ Charlie asks casually, but Nina just shakes her head at us.
‘Do you really think I’m stupid enough to tell you?’
‘It’s so cool,’ I tell her, really pleased for her. Nina’s sweet – you could never say that about Charlie. ‘Ignore the wrinkled old cow – she’s just jealous.’
‘I so am,’ says Charlie, resignedly. ‘But never mind. You and me, Frankie, we’re two of a kind, aren’t we? Us party girls have to stick together.’
Out of habit I nod, but the idea doesn’t thrill me as much as it used to. Charlie loves her high-flying life. And ground-based as it is, mine isn’t much better, consisting as it does of mad brides, a flaky assistant and a distant boyfriend. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s ever so slightly beginning to lose its gloss.
I raise my glass and propose a toast. ‘To Will!’
‘Will…’ we all chorus, chinking our glasses noisily.
As I lie in bed that night, I’m struck by the strangest mix of emotions as I think about Nina and Will. I don’t know why, but I get the feeling that this is about as far from casual as you can get. Early days or not, deep inside, don’t you know? When you meet the man you’re destined to be with?
But it’s more than that. The truth is, I’m finding it hard to put Lulubelle and Cosmo out of my head. I know that age has nothing to do with it, but it’s so unfair that someone so young should suffer such a debilitating illness. He should be running around, shrieking and giggling – just like Martha. With pink cheeks and tangled hair, not pale and frail in a wheelchair.
Not being a mother, it’s hard to imagine how hard it is for Lulubelle, but when I think of how I’d feel if it was Martha, the lump in my throat almost chokes me.
I was speechless when Lulubelle told me. After she’d dropped her bombshell, she’d apologised, explaining how her version of normal was a million miles from other people’s.
‘I don’t usually tell people quite so bluntly. I know it’s a shock,’ she’d said, suddenly looking weary again. ‘Only when it’s part of everyday life, you get so used to talking about it.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I’d said. ‘I mean, don’t worry. I’m glad you did – tell me, I mean.’
As she went on to tell me about his illness, my head emptied of thoughts of anything else. Apparently he has acute myeloid leukaemia and he’s just finished a course of chemotherapy. Alien words I don’t fully understand the implications of.
It explains why Lulubelle looks as though she carries the cares of the world on her shoulders. Narrow shoulders that belie her incredible strength.
Statistically, the chances of Cosmo being cured are good, she told me. But like with anything, there are no guarantees, and so every day, Lulubelle watches him like a hawk, knowing it could go either way.
The following evening, after a busy day of getting into buckets what feels like hundreds of boxes of flowers, Greg’s number flashes up on my phone. In ten days, he hasn’t even bothered to reply to my texts, so I’m justifiably a little shirty.
‘Greg who?’ I say sniffily.
‘Don’t be like that, Frankie. You know how it is. I’ve been busy, babe. And it’s only been a few days.’
‘Ten, actually, Greg. Which is a week and a half,’ I add. ‘That’s a third of a month, Greg. Not that it matters, because, you know what? With all this time to think about it, I’ve realised something – I quite like being on my own.’
There’s a brief silence at the other end. ‘I’ve had a few things going on, babe, that’s all. I was hoping I could come over later.’
My resolve to make this difficult for him wavers. Instead of flirting and making a joke about his absence, for once he sounds vaguely apologetic, enough for me to cave in without a fight.
‘Oh – okay, then. I suppose.’
Which isn’t the best way to start an evening. Even as I change and touch up my make-up, my heart isn’t in it, and when he arrives, things go rapidly downhill.
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.
‘I’ve got nowhere, Frankie. Honest, there’s only you. You don’t think I could stay? 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, while I wasn’t looking, the ground has shifted. Invisibly, undetectably – but enough. For the first time in our relationship, I hesitate.
I don’t contemplate that he’s 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?
Much 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. 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 so, 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.
As 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 non-stop whirl of flowers, flowers and more flowers. As I double- and 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 of 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 soft, 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 madly 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, that goes by the name of Greg.
On 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 that makes me uneasy. I know for a fact he hasn’t been in before. I’ve a memory for faces, especially weaselly-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, as he looks 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 with the plant, there’s no sign of him. It strikes me as odd, but I give it no further thought – until a few hours later, when 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 is 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.’ She looks around. ‘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 have squealed 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 feel a thrill of excitement every time I think 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 to 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.’
‘Thanks, Frankie, so much! Hey, you should come to it! I’ll organise you some tickets.’
‘Wow! I’d love to!’
This is even 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, his eyes fixed on the TV.
Grabbing the remote, I 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 they’re three hours I spend fuming with anger, my supper beans on toast not the chicken and pasta I’d left in the fridge this morning, because Greg’s got to it first. 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 the knowledge I’m being taken for a ride. It can’t go on.
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. Once, it would have been enough to light the touchpaper. But even when he slowly edges lower, I don’t respond. His touch feels 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 to go for a run, creeping out of the flat without disturbing him. The longer he spends in bed, the less mess in the flat, I reckon. As I jog 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, imagining Greg will tidy up and even have dinner ready, in an effort to make up for yesterday.
But after a shower and a change of clothes, when I get to the shop and open the door, thoughts of Greg are the last thing on my mind. A wave of that noxious smell almost knocks me out and the most terrible sight awaits me.
On the workbench, all the table arrangements so carefully prepared yesterday are wilted and brown. Ten vases for one wedding, twelve for the other – all sad and wilted and decaying – and utterly ruined.
