It All Started With You, page 8
‘I’ll hold you to that! Anyway, gotta keep running! See you!’
As I pound the footpaths for a few miles, not for the first time I wonder at her courage. Then on my way home I call into the shop briefly – to check for natural disasters or any other variety after the events of last week. Carefully, I look around, but amazingly all is as it should be. Nothing’s been devoured or sabotaged and the rabbit hole is still blocked. I’m just about to lock up, when I hear a car pull up, then a door shut as someone gets out. A male someone, judging from the footsteps, followed by a voice just outside.
‘Hello?’
Well, if I’m not mistaken, it’s a policeman. A particularly tall, good-looking one, with curly hair and a warm smile I’ve seen before.
‘Morning, ma’am. I hear you’ve been having a spot of flower trouble…’
I smooth my hair and grin back at him.
‘Is this for real or are you dressing up?’
It’s wedding-flower man, AKA Bernice’s brother from Saturday and the best man from the week before. In my shop for the third week in a row. And yet again I’m looking far from my best. He’s already seen me with the most disgusting hangover, but hot, pink and sweaty in my skanky old trainers isn’t much better.
‘Why? Does it look fake or something? I thought you girls loved a man in uniform.’ He pretends to look miffed.
I gape. ‘You mean you really are?’
‘Yep. Alex.’ He holds out a hand.
I take it, liking the feel of it holding mine. ‘Frankie… But I expect you know that, don’t you, if you’re really a policeman. You know, with access to all sorts of secret information…’
He looks mildly amused. ‘I didn’t, actually.’
‘Anyway, you’re lucky you caught me – I’ve just come back from my run.’ I drop it in casually, just in case he thinks I always go around looking like this.
‘I see. How far d’you go?’
‘Not far. I’ve only just started. I’m planning to run a marathon.’ Wanting to impress him, I exaggerate. And though it’s only a half-marathon, he doesn’t need to know that.
‘Wow.’ He looks impressed. ‘I did one once. It was tougher than I thought, but yeah, it was good. Good discipline. Not sure I could do it again, though.’
This man is getting more and more interesting, but much as I’d like it to be, I’m guessing this isn’t a social call. ‘I hope I haven’t committed an offence, officer?’ I flirtatiously bat my eyelashes at him. ‘Or is there a reason for this call?’
He nods. ‘Actually, can I come inside? Only, it’s about those flowers of yours – the ones that were murdered.’
As we go in, he points to this assembly of deadness at the back by the sink, still immersed in its herbicide.
‘Is that one of the vases?’
I nod.
‘Can I take it with me? I’ll bring it back, obviously…’
Now, I quite like the sound of that, especially if he gives me sufficient warning, so that for once I can make sure I’m looking presentable. Then he rummages in his pocket and brings out a folded-up photo.
‘Is this the bloke you think did it?’
My eyes nearly pop out of my head at the sight of that mean, weaselly face. ‘That’s him! Wow! How did you find out?’
‘His name is Tim Smith-Whitbread. He’s a stuck-up little arse, off the record. Likes his own way. Used to go out with Bernie and was none too pleased when she dropped him for James, who I might add, is twice the man he’ll ever be.’
Ohhh… A light’s pinged on in my brain. I’m starting to get the picture. ‘And he didn’t like the idea of her getting married, so he decided to sabotage the flowers.’
‘Oh, he did more than that,’ says Alex. ‘He cancelled the wedding cars and called the venue and told them the wedding was off. They were about to book it out to someone else, only by chance, he was discovered. So this is valuable evidence. Thanks.’
‘Oh… That’s fine.’ But my brain is all over the place because it isn’t fine at all. ‘D’you know, he’s cost me a load of money. Hundreds, actually.’
‘Hopefully you’ll get it back. Actually, unofficially again, I’m sure you will – I think my mother’s coming to see you about it. She’s awfully embarrassed about the whole thing.’
‘But it’s hardly her fault. I shouldn’t have been so… trusting. It’s just, it’s not every day you find a vengeful ex in a flower shop. How was the wedding, by the way?’
‘Oh – it was a good one, really good. My little sister looked gorgeous – as did the flowers. She was very pleased with them. The sun shone and nobody behaved too dreadfully, so all in all, a success. I’m sure my mother will give you the details.’
‘Um – yes, mothers quite often do…’
He hesitates for a moment. ‘Okay – well, I’ll take this back with me. I’ll, er, see you later in the week – I’ll bring the vase back when we’ve finished with it. And thanks.’
9
It’s an exciting start to the week, one in which things just keep getting better, as at last, I get to meet Maria Bristow.
After I told her how terrible I was at navigating, she sent me extensive and detailed directions, which is just as well, because Maria and Pete live way off the beaten track in the middle of beautiful nowhere.
The drive is picturesque, along a country lane flanked by ancient trees and wildflowers, as I pass huge old manor houses at the end of long driveways, with manicured fields of large, shiny horses.
After a couple of miles, eventually I find Maria’s drive. There’s no name on the solid, wooden gates, which are no different to numerous other sets I’ve driven past. The only distinguishing feature is an owl perched on the fence post. At first sight, you could mistake it for a real one, but to those of us in the know, it’s a sign.
My nerves are aquiver as I press the buzzer. Then as the gates swing open, my heart skips a beat and my jaw drops. I crawl my van slowly forward, taking in the long sweeping drive of crunching gravel, the spotless green fields either side, and yes, there are horses here too. Pretty, curvaceous ones with long flowing manes, who lift their heads from grazing as I pass them. One raises its tail like a flag and prances over for a closer look. And as I pull round and park in front of the sprawling house, it’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven.
I get out of my van, feeling like I’ve been teleported into another world. Ever the florist, the first thing to catch my eye are the roses. Proper old-fashioned, voluminously petalled ones, smothering the front of the house. Some pale pink, some white, the smell is heavenly. The parking area is edged with lavender beds, all in flower and buzzing with hundreds of bees. In fact it’s the only sound there is, along with that of a distant tractor. Proudly I glance at my van, wishing I could take a sneaky photo to post on Instagram, proof that Valentine’s Flowers was really here. But as a soon to be celebrity florist, it’s vital that I’m discreet.
I could stand here forever, just soaking this up, but suddenly I feel like I’m snooping on Maria’s life. And I’m not here to ogle, I’m here to work, so I head for the porch. There’s a heavy metal knocker on the wooden door, which looks ancient. Taking a deep breath, I knock twice.
Nothing happens for ages, and then all of a sudden it’s opened by a small girl of about my age, who looks rather damp – as though she’s just got out of the shower.
‘Are you the florist?’ she asks.
‘I am. Frankie Valentine, to see Maria.’
‘Hi, Frankie! It’s great to meet you at last!’
As she offers a beautifully manicured hand, I realise my faux pas. ‘It’s lovely to meet you too,’ I say hastily. In jeans and her face bare of makeup, she just looks like any other girl, except she’s far more at home in this mansion than anyone I know could ever be.
‘Please do come in.’ She steps aside. ‘And do excuse me, I’ve just had a swim. I couldn’t resist – it’s such a glorious day and so often I don’t have the time.’
‘Your horses are lovely,’ I say, making polite conversation and trying not to stare as I follow her through the vast hallway, panelled with oak.
‘They’re Pete’s,’ she says. ‘Arabs. They’re worth a fortune, that’s why we have all these cameras and security all over the place.’ She sees the look on my face. ‘Oh, he worries far more about them than he does us! I thought we could sit in the kitchen. Is that all right? Only it’s cosier in there.’
Cosy? I’ve never seen ‘cosy’ like this. The L-shaped kitchen is three times the size of mine, and I don’t mean just my kitchen, I mean the size of my entire flat. It’s absolutely my perfect room. Someone really clever has designed an ultra-modern, state-of-the-art kitchen that somehow works with beams that must be centuries old. Pale wood units adorn one end with the ubiquitous granite worktops, chosen with great care to pick up on the colour of the flagstones, which I’m practically drooling over. The other end, there’s a heavy refectory-type table with wooden chairs, which would seat, I’m guessing, about twenty.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asks Maria. ‘Water? Iced tea? Lemonade?’
‘Water would be lovely, thanks. This is a great room.’
‘Thank you. It’s my favourite. But you haven’t seen the best part…’
I follow her round the corner of the L. Okay, now this you could call cosy. The walls have been left untouched so you can see the detail of the old narrow bricks. There’s a huge, soft cream sofa and light pours in through the doors at the end, flung open onto the garden. I force myself to close my mouth.
‘Would you like to see outside?’
I’m starting to goggle at just how much money Pete and Maria have between them. I follow her onto a stone-paved patio, stunningly planted with quite funky plants – banks of oranges and lime greens, spiky phormiums, tall, willowy grasses. Neatly striped grass stretches for ages until somewhere so far away it simply merges with the trees.
Down some steps to one end is Maria’s pool, glistening invitingly in the sun. ‘It’s amazing.’ I’m completely mesmerised. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.
‘Thank you. Now…’ She turns to go back in. ‘I suppose we should talk about my flowers.’
Not surprisingly, Maria has some quite firm ideas about what she wants and because you never know what a bride’s going to come up with, I’m relieved to say, remarkably tasteful ones. They’re getting married in a small local church in October, with a marquee reception at Roselin Castle, which I’ve come to know quite well. It’s all very hush-hush and she wants, literally, tons of flowers everywhere.
‘I don’t want them to look formal. Ever since Pete proposed, I’ve been imagining more of a fairy-tale wedding,’ she says slightly shyly. ‘Especially given it’s in a castle. I know how lucky I am to have found Pete. I just want it to be the most amazing day to remember – not just for us, but for our guests.’
‘Do you have any pictures of what you have in mind?’
‘One or two.’ Smiling, she picks up a folder full of them.
‘I love these.’ Perusing the pictures, I can see what she has in mind. ‘Are you having bridesmaids?’
She nods. ‘Probably just three tiny ones.’ For a moment, her face clouds over. ‘I was hoping Pete’s daughter might be one of them…’ She sighs. ‘She’s not keen on me marrying Pete. But I’m still hoping she might come round.’
The politics of families often features in wedding planning. But it isn’t my place to comment and I steer her onto a happier subject. ‘It’s a beautiful venue.’ As I imagine the possibilities, my creative brain is already running away with me.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ As our eyes meet, I forget that she’s a megastar. In that moment, she’s just another bride in love with a man who means the world to her.
‘I think we’re going to need some extra help.’ Back at the shop, I fill Skye in, after driving away from Maria’s on cloud nine and coming down to earth with rather a thump.
‘Like Mrs O.?’ she suggests.
I’d thought about that. ‘I’m not sure how she’d cope with lugging all that stuff around. Maria wants to turn the church into a fairy-tale forest with trees, lit by hundreds of candles and nothing else. And we have a major snag because we can’t drive to it. We’ll have to walk down a narrow wooded path and over a bridge.’
‘Flaming heck, Frankie… I hope you’re charging her.’
‘I’ll have to. And at the castle, she wants these massive, towering candelabras on the tables, really huge ones, decked with ivy and white roses. Pete’s band are going to be playing… can you imagine? It’s going to be a sensational wedding,’ I tell her excitedly. ‘And outside she wants the grounds lit with huge flaming torches. And flowers absolutely everywhere inside the castle too, even though it’s only for breakfast the following morning…’
‘Blimey,’ says Skye, looking slightly dazed.
‘I know. This is going to be our biggest ever challenge,’ I say theatrically. ‘And the whole world will be watching us.’
It takes me hours just to work out the cost of this wedding. The cost of several thousand white roses is one thing, but it’s all the hire items and the labour that complicate it. Eventually, I arrive at an eye-watering figure and blink disbelievingly at it. I go through it all again and get near enough the same answer. I scribble it down with a sinking feeling. She’ll never want to pay all that.
Just as I finish, I’m interrupted by a visitor. It’s Alex, in jeans and a shirt instead of his policeman uniform, and he gives me a cheque signed by somebody Smith-Whitbread which makes me gasp.
‘My mother paid his parents a visit. She’s quite a force to be reckoned with, Mum, when she’s stirred up. Anyway, they got a no-holds-barred account of what their precious little darling had been up to. They were horrified, apparently. When Mum told them about the flowers, she showed them your bill and told them that’s what you were out of pocket by, times two – thanks to Tim. She feels terrible, by the way. She was going to come over, but I told her I was coming to bring your vase back and I’d explain.’ He frowns. ‘Except I forgot the vase.’
Never mind the vase. Instead, I’m just staring at the cheque. I’d written off the labour costs. At best, I’d hoped to claim the cost of the flowers on my insurance – but this… I’m flabbergasted.
‘Thank you… I don’t know what to say. Um, are you sure this is okay?’
‘Of course it is! By the way, you can prosecute him if you want to. His fingerprints were all over the vase and we found the empty weedkiller container in his car.’
‘On no! No, I couldn’t…’
‘He deserves it, Frankie. It could have been far more serious, like if the weedkiller had come into contact with one of your staff, or a customer – you, even. It’s nasty stuff.’
Am I making this up, or does he actually sound concerned? About me?
‘Well, nothing bad actually happened. I’d imagine he’s in enough trouble as it is. Plus he’s lost the girl of his dreams. You have to feel sorry for him, don’t you?’ I add, feeling quite magnanimous with the large cheque buried safely in my pocket.
‘I wouldn’t take it that far,’ says Alex. ‘He deserves everything he gets. That’s the trouble with some people. They think a privileged upbringing means they can do what the hell they like, instead of getting on with some honest graft like the rest of us. Okay, well, if you’re really sure, I’ll make it known you won’t be pressing charges.’
‘Thanks, Alex. For coming to my rescue – and for this.’ I fish out the cheque and wave it at him.
‘You’re welcome.’ He pauses. ‘Look, it’s none of my business, but were you really prepared to write off what that cost you?’
I nod uncertainly.
‘Frankie. Your time is everything. All those hours you put into your work, no money in the world can get those back for you. And it’s what turns your flowers into such a desirable commodity. You shouldn’t undervalue yourself.’
Which leaves me standing there, confused, as I watch him turn around and go back out to his car, before getting in and driving away.
10
But back to business, namely Maria’s wedding. If I’m not going to screw it up, I need some help.
‘Have you ever done the flowers for a celebrity wedding?’ I ask Mrs Orange, who’s obviously the first person to ask and who happens to walk in as I’m thinking about it.
But she chuckles. ‘Had the mayor’s daughter come in the shop once. Years ago, it was. She were getting married and all… Soon got rid of her, my lovely… Told her I was booked solid the whole summer.’
‘Gosh. Were you that busy in those days?’
She roars with laughter. ‘Were we heck! But who wants all that poncing around for a fancy wedding… Oh no, duck. I couldn’t be doing with that malarkey.’
My next thought is I need someone with a head for figures. But first, I’ve got some serious humble pie to eat. Having made up a huge bouquet of Pompeii lilies (which I’ve noticed, always make people very smiley) and hazel twigs (for reconciliation, Mrs Orange would be proud), and in my favourite summer dress, I take a deep breath and drive round to Honey’s.
She answers the door immediately. ‘Oh – it’s you.’
But I was expecting this. ‘Can I come in? Please, Honey…’
She marches back in, leaving the door open, which I take as a ‘yes’ and I venture after her, holding my peace offering between us to protect myself.
‘These are for you.’ I lay them on her kitchen table. ‘Honey. I’m really sorry I’ve upset you. Really. You’re my best friend and I’ve been shockingly ungrateful.’
I gaze at her pleadingly, then suddenly, I notice how pale she’s looking. Defeated too, which isn’t like Honey, because in all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never known anything to get the better of her.
‘Are you okay?’ Wincing as I wait for the explosion.
She shakes her head, her brow furrowed. When she speaks, it’s a small quiet voice that’s most un-Honey-like. Her words shock me.
