The Little Flower Shop by the Sea (12 page)

‘Really?’ Jake teases. ‘I would never have guessed.’

‘I’m not today though, am I?’ I protest, gesturing at my painting overalls.

‘Yes, I have to give you that – a pair of white dungarees is quite the rainbow of colour,’ Jake says, grinning. ‘So how does it feel to liberate yourself from your cloths of mourning?’

I wince at his joke. ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’ I reply, shaking it off. Jake has no idea how close to the truth he is.

‘You’ve been here in St Felix how long – a couple of weeks?’

‘About that.’

‘And the only colour I’ve ever seen you wear, apart from black, is your burgundy boots.’

He noticed?

‘I like black, so what? Is it a crime to wear black clothing in this town?’

I expect Jake to come back with one of his usual witty retorts. I’ve been enjoying our banter, sitting out here in the dazzling Cornish sunshine. The town looks like a vibrant, colourful oil painting today – vivid shades and bold brushstrokes masking any dullness that a plain white canvas underneath might betray.

‘No, of course not,’ he says awkwardly, fiddling with his sleeve and attempting to roll it up his arm. ‘It’s just… well, you don’t drown out the perfection of a pale, delicate lily by surrounding it with something heavy, you let its beauty shine through for everyone to see.’

I’m pretty sure my skin isn’t pale and delicate right this moment; it’s most likely red and ruddy, as I feel my cheeks flush hot at Jake’s words. What does he mean? He can’t be referring to me, can he, with his flower analogy? No, surely not. It must be the way these flower types talk – using flowers instead of normal words.

Except none of my family ever talk like this – so why does Jake?

Jake’s cheeks, I notice, are doing something very similar to mine. They’re pink and he looks flushed as he proceeds to roll the same sleeve back down his tanned arm.

‘I appreciate the advice,’ I tell him awkwardly, uncertain how to deal with this side of Jake. ‘But I think I’ll just stick with black for now. I’ve kind of got used to it over the years. It suits me.’

‘Fair enough,’ Jake says, shrugging amiably. He crosses one long leg over the other, so his large tan Timberland boot rests on his knee, and he visibly relaxes as he leans back against the bench and looks out to sea. ‘If you want to look like an ageing Goth,’ he says, the merest hint of a smile spreading over his lips, ‘then that’s up to you.’

Phew, I breathe a sigh of relief. Jake’s back to normal. I can handle his banter, but compliments, they’re a different matter.

‘I think you’ll find I’m
not
a Goth, ageing or otherwise,’ I reply, able to look at him properly again. ‘Being a Goth is about more than wearing dark clothes. I don’t wear heavy make-up, or listen to that sort of music. I don’t do colour, that’s all. It’s just not my thing.’ I lean back against the bench and fold my arms, happy that we’ve returned to behaving naturally with each other.

‘What about your attitude, though?’ Jake asks sombrely, still looking ahead, apparently intrigued by the exploits of a very large seagull ripping up the remains of an unsuspecting tourist’s ice-cream cone.

Miley also watches, probably wondering if she can get in on the action.

‘What do you mean, my attitude?’ I snap, a little too fast.

Jake holds out his hand in a ‘there you go’ gesture. ‘We had a similar conversation in the Mermaid the first evening I met you, if I remember rightly. You called yourself an awkward bitch.’

‘I
may
have said that,’ I reply, remembering. ‘I’m just not a people person, that’s all.’

Jake turns and looks at me in part amusement, part confusion. ‘How can you even say that with a straight face?’

I look at him, not understanding.

‘Do I really have to explain?’ Jake asks.

I nod.

‘Right, examples… OK, here’s one: Since you’ve been here, you’ve welcomed our American friend Amber into your home. And from what I can tell, she seems to love living with you.’

I smile at the mention of Amber; she’s been like a breath of fresh air in my life since she arrived at the cottage. I’m almost jealous of her sunny disposition and unfailingly positive nature.

‘She didn’t have that much choice who she lived with,’ I try, but Jake is having none of it.

He shakes his head. ‘Uh-uh. Don’t even go there with that self-deprecating attitude of yours. I have seen you actually talk to people since you’ve been here. And not only that, you seem to have a knack for it. You were even chatting to my son earlier, and it takes some effort to get more than two words out of him these days.’

‘Charlie’s a nice lad,’ I tell him. ‘He reminds me of someone I used to know.’

Jake waits for me to explain, but I don’t.

‘Well, maybe there’s a few exceptions,’ I admit. ‘But believe me, Jake, I’m better left on my own most of the time. People,
in
general
,’ I add when he opens his mouth, ‘annoy me. I rarely annoy myself.’

‘Rarely?’ Jake enquires, and I notice a slight twitch at the corner of his lips.

‘Only when I try and wear colour!’ I announce, and to my relief this time he smiles.

Then I notice the chip shop.

‘Oh, there’s a light on in Mickey’s,’ I say with delight. ‘Look’s like it’s lunchtime for everyone!’

We carry as many portions of fish and chips back to the shop as we can manage, and I’m relieved and happy to feel relaxed in Jake’s company once more.

However much I protested, I knew he was right: I had interacted with people more in the two weeks I’d been here than I would in two months in London. And more significantly, I’d enjoyed it.

Back at Daisy Chain our paper parcels of lunch are well received, and after everyone has eaten their chips sitting on the floor, in the doorway, or propped up outside in the sunshine against the wall of the shop, we resume work.

‘Poppy!’ Late in the afternoon, Woody, who looks very different wearing casual clothes, calls me over. ‘We found these earlier when we were changing those rotten floorboards out back. They must have been your grandmother’s.’

He hands me a cardboard box containing some old journals and notebooks.

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking a quick look inside. ‘I’ll take them back to the cottage and keep them safe. They’re probably the shop’s old accounts books.’

Odd that they were hidden under the floor though.

‘How do you think it’s coming along?’ Woody asks. ‘As you’d hoped?’

Jake and Charlie have just finished applying a coat of the bright blue colour to a second wall, and Amber and Bronte are admiring their handiwork, having stained the first of the dressers. It looks like new with its translucent white coating.

‘Yes,’ I say, looking proudly around me at the transformation taking place. ‘I think it’s going to look even better than I’d hoped.’

‘Great,’ Woody says. ‘I think I might have to get this same team in when the station wants a new lick of paint.’

There are shouts of derision at Woody’s suggestion, and a chorus of voices telling him this is strictly a one-off, a special case.

And as I look around me at the St Felix massive, as Bronte had named them earlier, all pitching in and helping me get my grandmother Rose’s shop back in business, that’s exactly how I feel: special.

I really shouldn’t tar all people with the same brush, I think, wincing at my awful pun as I lift the brush that’s in my hand so I can continue painting the window frame in front of me. The people of St Felix have been nothing but lovely and helpful since I arrived.

Being back in St Felix would never feel the way it had when I used to come here with Will, I knew that.

But with the help of my new friends, it was already beginning to feel just that bit special again.

‘I’m just going to hop in the bath, Poppy!’ Amber calls up the stairs. ‘Even without salt crystals, a bubble bath is gonna ease my aching muscles.’

Amber had tried everywhere in St Felix to get some sea salt crystals to add to her bath tonight, telling us all that the salt would draw out our impurities and aches a treat. She refused to believe she couldn’t buy sea salt in a town so close to the sea; she’d even tried Mickey’s chip shop. But the type of salt Mickey used to fill the cellars that stood on his shop counter wasn’t conducive to the sort of spiritual healing that Amber had in mind. So instead she’s having to make do with Radox and some lavender bath salts that I found in my grandmother’s bathroom cupboard.

I’d stepped into a lovely hot shower as soon as we came in from our long day of decorating – which amazingly was nearly finished. I couldn’t believe how much we’d managed to achieve in one day. I guess the saying many hands make light work really is true.

I flop down on the sofa in my PJs with a mug of hot chocolate and one of the doughnuts left over from the huge box that Ant and Dec had popped round to the shop in the afternoon when spirits and energy had been beginning to lag.

What a day it’s been. Not only the progress in the shop itself, but getting to know the St Felix townsfolk who came along to help with the renovations. Especially Jake’s family. His kids are a real credit to him; Bronte, like he’d said, seems a bit of a tearaway, but nothing compared to what I’d been like as a teenager. Charlie’s a quiet, unassuming, lovely young boy. But what they, and their aunt Lou, quite obviously have in common is their love for Jake.

I think about Jake as I finish off my doughnut and sip on my hot chocolate.

He’s a strange one. One minute he’ll say or do something that seems to imply he sees me as more than just a friend, and the next he’ll make it quite clear that that’s not on his agenda at all. Jake wouldn’t be the first male to confuse me; most relationships with the opposite sex end up leaving me bewildered, but usually I’m the one making things complicated.

Maybe I have been imagining signs because I hoped they were there. I mean, why would Jake be interested in me? He’s a nice guy; he probably wants to help me because he knew my grandmother. Perhaps there really are good guys out there who don’t want anything from you, only your friendship.

I’ve not had that many male friends in the past that were
just
friends, but then I’ve never had that many friends full stop.

It wasn’t always that way. At primary school I had loads of friends; there’d been parties, and play dates, and I was never the last to be picked for anything. Even when I went to secondary school all was fine to begin with. I was on the hockey team, and the netball team, and the school council too. I played the flute in the school orchestra, and appeared in countless school productions. I was quite the swat too – the teachers reckoned I’d get A or A* in every one of my GCSEs. I was the archetype of the perfect pupil.

But then one summer everything had changed…

I go to the French windows and pull back the doors. As I step out on to the balcony a gust of sea air is strong enough to billow my long, freshly showered hair up and around my face. It licks my cheeks, and I have to push it back to restrain it. But I don’t go indoors, I stand there willing the salty air to blow away my memories and remove them from my mind like Amber’s salt bath was going to purge the aches from her body.

‘I won’t go back there,’ I shout into the wind. It immediately whips the words from my mouth and tosses them high into the sky where no one can hear them. ‘I won’t think about how my life changed the day I lost you.’

Angrily, I storm back inside the room, slamming shut the French windows.

‘Everything OK up there?’ I hear Amber call from the bathroom downstairs.

‘Yes, everything’s fine. Just enjoy your bath!’ I call back. Lovely as Amber is, I need some space right now. A breather for a few minutes.

The cardboard box that Woody gave me earlier is sitting on the table next to the sofa. In an effort to steer my mind away from the painful memories that have suddenly resurfaced, I decide to investigate its contents.

As I had thought, the box is full of old financial records, individual customers’ accounts, and lists of flowers supplied for various events. I set the latter to one side in case they might be of use to Amber, and I’m about to give up on the box and get another doughnut, when I spot something lying right at the bottom. It’s a bundle of worn-looking books of varying sizes, bound together by a frayed and faded piece of white ribbon. I fish the bundle out, untie the ribbon, and take a look inside the first book.

It’s an antique hardback called
The Language and Meaning of Flowers
; its dust jacket is so delicate and worn at the edges that I can barely open the cover without the jacket crumbling between my fingers.

It seems to be a glossary of flowers. There’s a very detailed drawing of each flower, plus a description and the growing habits. At the top of each page the name of the flower is given in both English and Latin, along with its symbolic meaning. Daisy, for example, symbolises innocence; Marigold – grief, Iris – message. I laugh at the meaning of Poppy: Fantastic Extravagance.
As if!

I flick gently through the pages, reading each flower’s meaning and the occasions when it should be given, and then I notice a handwritten inscription at the beginning of the book: