Wildflowers (9 page)

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 to someone else, 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...’

‘Ok – well, I’ll take this back with me. 
I’ll er, see you later in the week.  And thanks.’

It’s an exciting start to my week, one in which things just keep getting better.  And 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 in the middle of beautiful nowhere.  

It’s very beautiful, along a country lane flanked by ancient trees and wildflowers.  It’s also way
off the beaten track – with huge old manor houses at the end of mile-long driveways and manicured fields of large, shiny horses tossing their manes and snorting.  

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, which lift their heads from grazing to look at me.  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 in to another world.  Ever the florist, the first thing to catch my eye are the roses. Proper, old-fashioned, petally ones, festooning 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, proof that Valentine’s Flowers was really here.

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 shade of the porch. 

I lift the
heavy metal knocker which looks as old as the wooden door, then taking a deep breath, I knock.

Nothing happens for ages
, and then all of a sudden it’s opened by a small girl who looks about eighteen wrapped in a towel, her face bare and her long hair dripping down her back - 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.
Without expensive clothes and layers 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.

‘
Do come in,’ she steps aside.  ‘And please excuse me, I’ve just got out of the pool.  I couldn’t resist – it’s such a glorious day and I completely lost track of 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 babies, I’m afraid,’ 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 about us!  I thought we could sit in the kitchen.  Is that alright?  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 work tops, chosen with great care to pick up on the colour of the flagstones, which I’m practically drooling at.  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 part of the house.  But this is the best…’

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 far away it simply merges into the landscape.  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 a florist’s dream.  She wants, literally, tons of flowers everywhere.

‘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 fairytale forest with trees, just like Will
s and Kate had, only lit by candles and nothing else.  And a major snag is you can’t drive to it like you can Westminster Abbey – you 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.’

But
I’m just staring at it.  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 ok?’

‘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 weed-killer container in his car.’

‘On no!
  No, I couldn’t…’ 

‘He deserves it, Frankie.  It could have been far more serious, like if the weed
-killer 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.  Ok, 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 he drives away.

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.  That weren’t for the likes of me.’

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 get the better of her.

‘Are…you …ok?’ 
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. 

‘Johnny and I – we’re having problems, Frankie. 
Serious problems.  It’s really bad… I’m not sure we’re going to get through this...’

I’m completely s
tunned.  Ever since they got together, anyone could see that Honey and Johnny are made for each other.  Okay, so she’s bossy, but only on the surface and Johnny knows that. 

But then s
he covers her face with her hands and her body starts to shake.  Suddenly I ache with sadness for her.  Contrary to appearances, I happen to know she adores Johnny with every cell of her being.   She’s just not very good at showing it.  But he
knows.
  He must do.

‘
Oh, Honey
… Johnny loves you really.  Of course you’ll get through it.  All couples have these little phases.  It’s part of being married, isn’t it?’  Even with my track record, I believe every word I’m saying.

She wipes her eyes and sighs
.  ‘D’you really think so?’

‘I know so.  Come on. 
Dry your eyes and find me your big lily vase.  I’ll arrange these for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she says, as she watches me.
  ‘They’re beautiful.’ 

They’re magnificent
, the longest stemmed lilies each with about seven blooms - Milo’s finest.  And as well as reconciling our friendship, perhaps the hazel twigs will work their magic on her marriage.

‘
Oh Frankie, you probably think I’m still mad at you, but I’m really not.  It’s none of my business who you go out with.  I just think someone as lovely as you deserves a nice man – that’s why I keep fixing you up at dinner parties.’ 

Golly. 
Once again, I’m completely flabbergasted.  But then her voice cracks, filling me with alarm. 

‘Actually, it was after last time, that’s when Johnny and I…’

‘Oh no, it’s
all my fault
…’ I cry, running over to put my arms round her.  I can’t bear this.

‘Oh no, Frankie, it
really isn’t… He just had a go at me for giving you a hard time.  He was right.’  She sniffs pathetically into her soggy tissues.

‘But I
so
deserved that, Honey… You did exactly the right thing…’ I tell her.  I cannot be responsible for her marriage failing.

‘Johnny wouldn’t agree…’  She shakes her head miserably.  ‘He says I treat him the same way.  I’m bossy.  I’m not loving and fun and soft, like you are…’

‘He’s wrong!’ I cry savagely.  I want to get my hands on Johnny and give him a good talking to.  ‘You’re you!  You’re amazing!  And brilliant!  And incredibly clever and you
are
loving, Honey, I know you are…’ 

‘Please stay,’ she begs.  ‘And have a drink.  God – I
really need one.’

And so the tables
are turned.  The same friend who’s been on my case for months to give it up, is now
begging
me to stay and have a drink with her.

‘
But only one,’ I say.  ‘Because you should probably keep your head straight and talk to Johnny.’

We sit opposite each other at her huge beech table. 
She knocks hers back before I’ve barely started mine and pours herself another, but only minutes later, I hear a key turning in the front door.  Honey stiffens, the anxious look back on her face.

‘Look, I’ll stay a few minutes so he can see we’re buddies again,
then I’ll go.  Ok?’  I whisper, just as Johnny comes in. 

I have to say, h
e’s not looking so hot.  He’s less burly than usual and his air of bonhomie doesn’t quite ring true.

‘Frankie! 
Lovely to see you!  And I’m glad you put my little brother in his place, by the way.  He’s an arrogant little prick.  This new job of his isn’t helping, hanging out with the rich and famous and writing about all their secrets…’

I feel a shiver go down my spine. 

‘What did you just say?’ I ask carefully.

‘He’s working for High Society magazine! 
Surely he told you?  You know, it’s that tacky one – about celebrities having boob jobs and who’s shagging who.  He keeps hinting he’s onto something big, but he won’t say what.  Most annoying of him.’

‘
That’s funny,’ I say slowly.  ‘He didn’t mention anything to me.’  And I’m trying to remember just how much I tattled on, about Maria’s wedding.  Slowly I’m realising that yet again, I’ve been played for a complete fool.  It wasn’t my womanly charms he was after at all. 

But there’s a wedding at stake here. 
I have to do something – and fast.

‘Guys, I have to go.
’  I kiss my friends, thinking I hope it’ll be each other they’re kissing when I’ve gone.   ‘Was really lovely to see you –
both
,’ I add pointedly, ‘but I’ve some unfinished business to attend to…’

As I
drive home, I’m deep in thought and by the time I’m back in my flat, I have a plan – and this time, I know what I’m doing.

I’m as
disorganised with my mobile as I am with relationships so I still have Josh’s number with the hot lips text.  I pause as I contemplate my dilemma. 
To text or not to text,
is the question.  I decide in this case, definitely
not
.  I call him.

‘Frankie…?’  The voice is quite surprised and a little cagey.

‘Hello Josh, yes it is.  Look, this is a little awkward after the other night, but I thought, well, I owed you an apology.  You deserve better than that.  And well, er…’  I ditter just enough so he thinks I’m nervous, then come out with it.  ‘I thought perhaps I could cook you dinner…  As a peace offering.  Here…  On Thursday?’ 

How can he possibly say no? 
My voice is the perfect balance between contrite and regretful.  I even manage to make it waver, just a tiny bit, crossing my fingers - but I already know the answer.  Therein, my friend, lies the beauty of the call as opposed to the text.  If you get in there quick and sling it at them, they just don’t have time to think.  The male brain isn’t complicated. 

‘Er…ok…
Great.’  He sounds like it would be anything but.

‘Excellent.  Well, I’ll see you on Thursday.’

quod erat demonstrandum
.  Works every time.  He’s probably thinking it’s him that’s put the smile in my voice.  He should be so lucky.

But by the following morning, I’m wondering if some divine retribution’s be
ing meted out because I meet the bride from hell and the mother of all mother of the brides.  They’re barely through the door before alarm bells start ringing.

‘It’s just a small affair,’ says Mrs Culleton
brusquely.  The word brusque was invented for people like her, with their cold unsmiling eyes and turned down lips.  

‘A service at All Hallows Cathedral followed by a marquee for
two hundred and fifty.  It would have been another hundred but Abigail’s father says he can’t afford it, even though he and his…’  She sniffs disparagingly.  ‘Well, they’ve just spent a fortune on their new house, which is frightfully selfish so now poor little Abigail has to suffer…’

That would explain the brusqueness. 
The girl sitting beside her pouts.  On the dumpy side, with mousey hair and pasty skin, she looks, dare I say it, like a girl who should take up running and eat more healthily. 
Should I suggest it
?

‘I want really
nice country style flowers,’ she says blankly.  ‘Like out of a meadow.’  

And that’s, in a nutshell, the crux of the problem, because firstly, if you want a simple, country wedding you don’t get married in a blinking cathedral and secondly, ditto with the marquee for two hundred and fifty. 
Simple doesn’t come into it.

‘I see.’  I
nod knowingly, trying to sound as though I know exactly what she’s talking about.  ‘Do you have a colour scheme?’

‘Blue.’ 
Abigail fixes blank eyes on me.  ‘And I want those big tall vases with lights inside and calla lilies in everything.’

Oh fuck.
  Big tall vases in a marquee are trouble unless the floor is perfectly level and added to that, they’re about as simple and country-style as the Waldorf.  I take a deep breath.  One step at a time...

‘Have you thought perhaps, of having calla lilies in your bouquet, then other flowers for everything else, so it looks really country and simple
, like you suggested?’

This time two pairs of eyes glare at me.  How do I explain? 
That calla lilies just never, ever, ever grow in a country meadow. 

‘Well, I only said that because if you want wild meadow flowers, they don’t really go… but I’m sure it will look lovely if we put it all together…’  I say
haltingly.  Honestly, the tosh I come up with sometimes. 

‘
Abigail’s having ten bridesmaids,’ says Mrs Culleton most huffily.  ‘And her dress is Vera Wang,’ she almost snaps.  ‘Off white, tulle, with layers – here’s a picture.’

‘Oh,’ I say
, perusing the photo she hands me.  ‘Wow.  It’s the most stunning dress.’ 

Which i
t is.  Totally.  But on an eighteen year old stick insect or Sienna Miller, not on Abigail.  There are all these frills and flounces which lend it an ethereal air, like the wearer floats rather than walks like a mere mortal.  Or maybe Vera Wang dresses do that to all their brides regardless, but the trouble is I can see it now. Abigail’s pasty face above the cloud of floating tulle, like a walking tent.  A very pretty one, but still definitely a tent.

‘I think your bouquet should be simple,’ I say firmly and her face falls yet again.

‘But I want this.’  She hands me a picture of a huge, frilly bouquet which is wrong for the dress, wrong for her shape, just wrong on every level.

I sigh
, half expecting her to stamp her foot like a five year old and in my head repeating that old mantra that on many similar occasions has kept me sane.

Smile sweetly and t
hink of the money.