The Beachside Flower Stall

by Karen Clarke

  ‘I’ve never had lobster thermidor, so I’ll go for that,’ Toby said, flinging his menu back on the table.

  I chose the first thing I’d looked at, which was something to do with prawns, Megan ordered the chowder, and Tom said he’d have whatever the special of the day was. Grilled sea bass, according to Baby-face.

  Megan picked up a fresh champagne bottle and hovered it over Tom’s glass.

  ‘Water for me,’ he said. ‘I’ve an early start in the morning.’

  Smile undimmed, she diverted the bottle to mine. ‘I’m driving,’ I said.

  ‘You can have one,’ she insisted. Her voice was light, almost playful.

  After she’d filled my glass to the brim I knocked it back in one, shivering as the bubbles fizzed down to my stomach. How was I going to get through the meal when the evening was a big fat lie? Nothing felt quite right, like an out-of-tune cello in an orchestra.

  Toby and I weren’t a couple.

  Tom was only marrying Megan because she was carrying his child.

  Megan’s reason for inviting me out was to showcase her amazing life, and to toy with me. Just as she’d done when we were teenagers, only I hadn’t seen it then.

  Suddenly, I’d had enough.

  ‘I expect you’re planning to get a nanny when you’ve had the baby,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that what you were saying to your friends the other night?’

  A flush ran over her face. ‘It was a joke,’ she said, in a ‘don’t you know what one is?’ tone. ‘Although I don’t see anything wrong with having a nanny.’ Her eyes were on maximum power. ‘It’s the twenty-first century, women can go back to work when they’ve had children.’

  ‘But aren’t you planning to give up working once you’ve persuaded Tom to run the company, after his father retires, so you can play at being lady of the manor?’ I affected an upper-class voice, like the one she’d used at The Anchor. ‘I’m going to throw amaaazing dinner parties, and invite magazines to photograph me being gorgeous.’ Okay, maybe she hadn’t quite said that in so many words.

  Her face had blanched. ‘You jealous little—’

  ‘My father’s retiring?’ said Tom, giving Megan a puzzled look. ‘He didn’t say anything to me.’

  ‘Why would he, when you barely talk to him?’ The dazzling smile she switched on was so at odds with her tone that Tom blinked a couple of times.

  ‘But—’

  ‘I wouldn’t want my child raised by a nanny,’ said Toby in a doom-laden voice. His eyes were glazed with tears. ‘Shit, I want a baby so much.’

  I gave his forearm a little squeeze, alarmed by how different he was from our date at The Anchor. But he hadn’t had much to drink then, and champagne clearly wasn’t his friend. ‘There’s plenty of time to think about that.’

  He nodded and sniffed. ‘Sorry my little fruit-bat,’ he said, scrabbling for my fingers. ‘I’m a bit ’motional tonight.’

  ‘Clearly,’ said Megan, her colour returning to normal now the spotlight had shifted off her.

  ‘You don’t look at all pregnant,’ Toby said loudly, just as the rousing piano concerto that had been playing in the background ceased.

  Several people craned their necks to look.

  ‘Well, I can assure you I am.’ Megan had flicked from annoyance to mild amusement now, glancing from Toby to me as though we were exasperating toddlers.

  ‘She looks pregnant from where I’m sitting,’ said a woman with cobweb-thin blonde hair. Her over-mascaraed eyes were fixed on my stomach.

  This seemed to delight Megan. She raised one finely threaded eyebrow at me, her lips curving into a smirk. ‘Do you remember our last day at Bedworth, when I lent you that Topshop skirt and Alana Morris thought you were pregnant, because it bunched up a bit at the front?’

  ‘Megan,’ Tom said, a warning note in his voice. ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Ooh, get you, sticking up for her!’ Her amusement was undercut with spite.

  ‘Why’s everyone talking ’bout babies?’ Toby pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘S’not fair, when I can’t get pregnant.’

  Megan turned a spurt of laughter into a cough as fresh music started up, and everyone returned to their food. The sun was sinking, spreading a warm glow across the diners, but the atmosphere at our table was frosty.

  ‘How far along are you exactly?’ I heard myself say to Megan, and felt the weight of Tom’s gaze on me. I wasn’t even sure why I’d asked, and in the peachy light, saw that her face had tensed.

  ‘It’s funny you should ask.’ Her eyes blazed into mine.

  ‘Oh?’

  Bending down, she jabbed her hand inside her bag and produced a square of paper. ‘I went for a scan this morning,’ she said. ‘It was meant to be a surprise for Tom later, because I knew he couldn’t make it.’

  ‘I didn’t know about it,’ he said, taking the piece of paper. He studied it, and his expression flooded with pleasure. It was like seeing the sun come out, or a fire blaze into life, and I briefly closed my eyes because it hurt to look at it.

  ‘It’s very early, less than three months,’ Megan said, watching his face. ‘Due next February.’

  ‘Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?’ He sounded a little bit choked, and I knew I’d lost him again – not that I’d ever had him.

  ‘I want it to be a surprise, don’t you?’ She plucked the picture from his fingers and passed it to me, a satisfied smile creasing the edges of her eyes, and as I looked at the ghostly image – reminiscent of Sarah’s scan photo of her twins – I realised I’d badly misjudged her.

  Worse than that, regardless of whether Tom loved Megan, finally seeing their baby as an actual human being was bound to cement their bond – a bond that would never be broken.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I mumbled, feeling sick to my stomach as I handed the photo back after Toby waved it away, looking devastated. ‘I’m sorry if I forced your hand.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She gave a quick, efficient smile that didn’t reach her eyes this time. ‘I know this must be hard to take, if you and Cooper are trying for a baby.’

  ‘God’s sake,’ he muttered.

  ‘Maybe we should call it a night.’ Tom looked suddenly shattered and couldn’t – or wouldn’t – meet my eye.

  ‘Fine with me,’ Megan simpered. ‘Let’s have an early night.’ She touched his hand, then dipped to her bag once more and took out her purse. ‘I’ll go and tell the chef, and settle up,’ she said. ‘Give him a little extra for his trouble.’

  None of us spoke as she strode towards the kitchen, and we were sitting in the same position like mannequins when she returned.

  ‘Come on, then!’

  Tom rose, like an automaton, and gave me an unreadable look before following her out of the restaurant.

  ‘How did I do?’ said Toby, propping his chin on his hand. ‘Do you think they bought it?’ His eyes had such a teary brightness, I felt charged with sorrow.

  ‘You did fine,’ I said, a headache starting to squeeze behind my eyes. ‘Let’s go.’

  I slipped my bag onto my shoulder and stood up.

  ‘Let’s have a li’l dance,’ said Toby, his voice damp with boozy sentiment as he lurched to his feet. ‘C’mere, babe.’ He grabbed my waist, twirled me clumsily, then bent me backwards to the horrified amusement of the diners.

  ‘Toby, stop it,’ I said in a strangled voice.

  He obediently let go, and I crash-landed on my back.

  A collective gasp went up.

  ‘Oh, no, sorry.’ Toby swayed above me, his face crumpling into concern. ‘She’s not even my real girlfriend,’ he announced to the restaurant at large, then burped.

  ‘I’m OK, I’m fine,’ I said, in a lively way, as if lying on the floor had been my intention all along. As I sat up I spotted a piece of paper under the chair where Megan’s bag had been. The baby-scan picture must have come out with her purse, and despite everything it didn’t feel right to leave it there. Reaching over, I swiped it up and folded
it into my bag, then held out my hands so Toby could haul me up.

  ‘Sorry, love of my life,’ he said, trying to cuddle me to him.

  I wriggled away. ‘It’s fine, you can stop now, they’ve gone.’

  ‘Thanks for your custom,’ someone said sarcastically, as we hotfooted it to the door without looking back. ‘Come back soon. Not.’

  At the car, Toby paused, and gave me a befuddled look.

  ‘That meal didn’t fill me up at all,’ he said plaintively. ‘I’m absolutely starving.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Lashing rain and a howling gale would have suited my mood the next morning, but as usual it was sunny and clear. By the time the stall was up and running, and the flower delivery checked in, it looked like being another flawless day.

  ‘Shame to be working,’ Calum observed, finishing his coffee and the last mouthful of a bacon roll. ‘You OK?’ he said, as I slumped on a pallet and checked my phone for the twentieth time.

  ‘I made a bit of a fool of myself last night.’ Talk about a gross understatement. I itched with embarrassment, recalling Tom’s face when I gave away that his dad was retiring, and Megan’s viperous expression as she produced her baby-scan photo.

  ‘Too much laughing juice?’ Calum waggled an imaginary pint glass.

  ‘Probably not enough,’ I said grimly, shooing away a persistent seagull, intent on scavenging every last crumb that Calum had dropped. ‘I’m expecting a backlash.’

  ‘That bad, eh?’

  ‘It’s this place,’ I said, as Calum paraded around the stall with a rose between his nose and upper lip. ‘I was practically normal in Manchester, but being in Shipley has made me crazy.’

  ‘Maybe the Shipley version is the real you.’ He replaced the rose in its bucket and sneezed dramatically. ‘Anyway, Mum’ll be back next week and then you can leave.’

  As he strode in the direction of work, followed by two hopeful seagulls, I stared at my phone once more, as if it was a crystal ball that might reveal what Tom and Megan were doing.

  When it rang, I dropped it in fright.

  ‘Everything OK, Mum?’ I said, once I’d retrieved it. ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘We’re five hours ahead over here.’ She sounded breathless, and I imagined her haring along. ‘We like to get out before lunch to go walking, and—’

  ‘Have an authentic experience?’

  ‘That’s getting old now, Carrie,’ she said. ‘How are things there?’

  Hmmm, let me see, I thought. I’ve been to see Ruby’s son, who was adopted at birth, the one you and Dad don’t know about, met her granddaughter, Kate, and probably ruined the rest of that family’s summer. Oh, and you remember Tom Hudson, the reason I left Dorset? Well, it turns out he’s still with Megan, and they’re getting married in three days, and expecting a baby.

  ‘I’m keeping the flower stall going, and Ruby’s a bit better,’ I said. ‘Mum, why didn’t you tell me Tom phoned, back then?’ I’d been trying not to dwell on it, knowing ‘what-ifs’ could drive a person mad, but it kept circling my mind. ‘You could have at least mentioned it.’

  ‘Tom?’ Mum sounded thrown. ‘It was ages ago, love, and why would I have told you?’

  ‘Er, because I might have wanted to hear from him.’

  ‘But you’d moved on and were living with that cartoon chap,’ she said reasonably. ‘There was no point stirring things up.’

  I wanted to stay mad at her, but I couldn’t. She’d only done what she thought was best at the time.

  ‘How did you find out?’ Mum’s voice grew suspicious. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘We might have bumped into each other.’

  ‘Oh, Carrie…’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I fibbed. ‘He’s getting married at the weekend.’ I didn’t say who to.

  ‘And you’re okay with that?’

  Not remotely.

  I made a noise I hoped passed muster, and asked how the holiday was going.

  ‘Good, but I’ve had enough now.’ She paused to catch her breath. ‘Kenneth, will you please slow down!’ she yelled. ‘I thought we’d drive down on Friday, after we get back,’ she said in her normal voice. ‘We might even stay the weekend, if Ruby doesn’t mind.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was the last thing I’d expected her to say. ‘I’m not sure there’ll be anywhere for you to sleep.’

  ‘You could always go back to Manchester.’

  ‘Ruby’s spare bed isn’t big enough for two.’

  ‘Well, one of us could sleep on the sofa.’ She paused, as if waiting for an outpouring of gratitude. ‘Look, Carrie, it was mean of us to ask you to put your life on hold to take care of your aunt,’ she said. ‘And to be honest, it’ll be nice to see Dorset again.’

  ‘What does Dad think?’

  ‘It was his idea too,’ she said, and I wondered how that worked. Telepathy? ‘Family’s important in Kazakh life, and they place great value on living together.’ She’d morphed into a guide-book tone. ‘It’s got your dad thinking he’d like to get to know his sister a bit better.’

  Oh dear. ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘We could even stay longer and help with the flower stall until Ruby’s back on her feet.’ Mum was on a roll, my mention of Tom forgotten. ‘It’s not as if we don’t know how to run a business; we did it for plenty of years.’

  I tried to work out what I was feeling. Relieved, that I might be able to wriggle out of helping with the wedding on Saturday? Knowing Mum, she’d be only too keen to muck in, but did I want her to?

  ‘Bloody hell,’ I said, rubbing my forehead, as if the action might repair my thoughts.

  ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’

  I realised I’d sworn out loud. ‘Oh, some flowers have died,’ I said quickly.

  ‘What, just like that?’

  ‘They’re old ones.’ I didn’t give her time to respond. ‘Give my love to Dad, and I’ll tell Ruby you’re coming on Friday.’

  ‘I’ll assume it’s OK if I don’t hear from you,’ she said. ‘And you should make sure the flowers are fresh when they’re delivered, Carrie.’

  As we said our goodbyes a woman approached, eyes darting over the buckets. ‘Do you have anything like this?’ She showed me a photo on her phone of a jug full of what looked like Doris’s lilies. ‘My sister bought them here, and they looked so lovely I thought I’d get some too.’ She glanced around, face falling. ‘Have they sold out already?’

  ‘I can give my supplier a call, if you’d like to pop back later.’

  ‘OK.’ The woman smiled. ‘I’m having a dinner party tonight and they’ll look lovely on the table.’

  Doris sounded pleased to hear from me. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ she promised, and sure enough she appeared as I was wrapping a bunch of white carnations in lieu of a wreath, for a man on his way to a funeral.

  ‘You should really send people to mine and let them pick their own,’ she said, decanting an armful of lilies into a bucket I’d got ready, and a couple of dozen more roses into another. I wondered if her garden regenerated overnight, like something from Dr Who.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea.’

  ‘It’s a terrible idea,’ she said, as if I’d suggested it. ‘I don’t want a load of strangers in my garden, planting their big feet all over my borders.’

  ‘O-kay.’

  ‘So, have you got everything you need for this wedding on Saturday?’

  I couldn’t remember even mentioning it to her. ‘Ruby’s going to order the flowers to be delivered to her flat,’ I said, having remembered to speak to Jools about it earlier. ‘We’ll probably have to go to Hudson Grange on Friday to dress the doobrey—’

  ‘Doobrey?’

  ‘The archway, pergola thingy, and drop off the table arrangements…’ My words trailed off as I remembered that this time next week, Megan would be Mrs Hudson – unless she decided to keep her surname, though I doubted she’d pass up the opportunity to be officially recognised as part of a hote
l dynasty.

  ‘Shame you went away and let her get her claws in,’ Doris said, tartly.

  ‘How did you even know?’

  She gave a careless shrug. ‘His mother knew Ellen Partridge back in the day, and she mentioned a young woman called Carrie, who her Tom thought the world of.’

  I remembered Mr Hudson saying that Tom had mentioned me to his mother. Not that it had done me any good. ‘There’s too much gossiping around here.’

  Doris crossed to the workbench and flicked through the order book as if she worked there. ‘It’s not in my nature to gossip,’ she said, with a perfectly straight face. ‘I’m just telling you what I heard.’

  ‘Well, it’s all too late now,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you be so sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I was as keen for her answer as if she was the Dalai Lama.

  ‘I mean, if something’s meant to be it’ll be, and if it isn’t it won’t.’

  I couldn’t help feeling let down. ‘Thanks for those pearls of wisdom.’

  ‘It’s not over till the fat lady sings,’ she said, with a knowing nod as she slammed the order book shut. ‘Or, as Roger used to say, till the bugger gets caught and I can give him a good kicking and lock him up.’ I wondered what sort of police officer her husband had been.

  ‘I’m afraid it is well and truly over.’

  ‘And I think someone wants to talk to you.’ As she looked past me my heart seized.

  Tom.

  But it wasn’t Tom. It was Toby, in paint-spattered overalls, looking sheepish.

  ‘I behaved like a babbling baboon,’ he said, ducking under the canopy out of the glare of the sun.

  ‘That’s a bit strong.’

  ‘I can’t believe I got plastered.’ He scrabbled a hand through his hair. ‘I’m just on my way to a job, but wanted to apologise if I let you down last night.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’ I decided to gloss over him directing me to the house he’d shared with his wife, because he’d forgotten he was staying at his parents’, then trying to get me to come in, and share a plate of chicken risotto because he was hungry.

  Ruby had laughed when I got in and told her, making a funny story out of it like I usually did for my family. Another of Carrie’s disastrous dates.