The Flower Shop on Foxley Street

by Rachel Dove

  Her phone rang in her bag, but she made no moves to answer it. It rang with a tune that he couldn’t quite place. He looked across at her, one brow raised. She looked ahead, staring out of the window as though she was trying to shatter the glass.

  ‘It’s Joni Mitchell,’ she said. ‘My favourite song.’

  The phone rang off, leaving the space in the vehicle devoid of sound. He nodded.

  ‘It’s nice, sad, but nice.’

  She looked at him, smiling a little. ‘Stuart says it’s suicidal garbage.’

  Will’s brows shot up as he drove but he said nothing.

  ‘He likes hip-hop, and rap. He can’t even pronounce half the names – he just listens to playlists other people make online.’

  Will nodded, casting the odd glance over at her as she talked.

  ‘We have been together for eight years. When I met him I was twenty-one. He swept into Westfield, all flash car and big talk, and I was just a girl in a flower shop, in this little village in Yorkshire. He was something different.’

  Will’s jaw clenched, and he swallowed hard. Hearing her talk about the man in her life was torture. Hearing her talk about herself in such a low way was even worse. He could guess that Stuart had something to do with that. He knew the type: taking something beautiful and tearing it down to hide his own ugly.

  ‘And now?’

  She motioned for him to take a left, and he took it smoothly. He glanced back at her, and saw she was looking at the ring on her finger. The movement made his own ring finger tingle, and he felt relief when he checked and saw it was bare.

  ‘Now I am not the girl in the little village flower shop any more.’

  Will said nothing, and they pulled up to the Ness house soon after.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Days had gone by, and Lily was finally starting to feel comfortable in her new life. She woke up in the flat that Friday morning to music playing softly. She smiled, stretching out in her bed as she looked at the early morning fog outside. She frowned, as the music stopped and started again.

  ‘Bollocks!’ she realized it was her mobile, and she threw herself across the side of the bed where her phone was on charge.

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘Lily, are you all right? Not sleeping were you?’

  ‘Dad?’ she said, pulling the phone from its charging wire and stumbling to get out of bed. She was wearing an oversized nightgown, and she shivered as she left the warmth of the duvet. The heating wasn’t on; it was on a timer. It must be bloody early, she thought to herself. She heard her dad sigh down the phone.

  ‘Yes, love, it’s me. I just wanted to ask, that Spanish dictionary and stuff you had in high school, do you still have them, or did you leave them here?’

  Lily chucked on her slippers, clicked on the kettle as she went to the thermostat. She whacked the heat up.

  ‘Spanish textbooks? What do you want with them?’ She moved around the flat, opening curtains as she went. A glance at the clock told her it was half six in the morning. ‘Dad, what are you doing up at this time? Where’s Mum?’

  ***

  Irvin Baxter was in his den, phone cradled in his shoulder as he looked through the bookshelves that filled one wall. He had been up since half four, and was sweaty from his pre-dawn run with Taylor. He felt like his body was on fire afterwards, but he did notice that it got a little easier every day.

  Most of the family’s books were housed here, their differences as vast as could be. Irvin loved the thrillers and crime novels, spy capers, and whodunnits. For Lizzie, it was fact over fiction. Her shelves were filled with autobiographies, cookery books, home interior tomes, and coffee table books. Lily’s shelves charted her life through books, from her first Peter Rabbit, to Roald Dahl, and the more grown-up reads she enjoyed now: romance books, dramatic love sagas, the classics, Brontë, Austen. On one shelf were the textbooks from school, but he saw no Spanish books.

  ***

  Back on Foxley Street, his only daughter was thumbing through her bookcase, one that Will had put up for her. She spotted her Spanish books at the back of the lower shelf, and she grabbed for them, almost dropping the phone in the process.

  ‘I’ve got them here, Dad. I must have packed them by mistake. I could do with some more books from home actually. Want to bring me some?’

  Her dad hesitated, and she sensed a bargain coming.

  ‘I tell you what: I will box up your books, if you bring your Spanish books round after work. I’ll cook if you like.’

  Lily stood up fast, twirling and stubbing her foot on the case.

  ‘Ouch! Damn it!’ She cradled her throbbing toe as she hopped over to the sofa.

  ‘Lily, you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay. You, cook? It must be bad there.’

  ‘Hey!’ Irvin said in mock offence. ‘I can actually cook, you know. I’ve been taking a few classes at the community centre. That’s if your mother will relinquish the ruddy kitchen for more than an hour. Be here about seven, okay?’

  She sighed. Friday night with her folks did not sound appealing, but she had been staying away from Stuart, avoiding him as best she could. It might be good to have a real excuse this time. He wouldn’t be in a hurry to sit round a dinner table with her folks.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, slipping into sullen teen mode. ‘One condition though: I bring alcohol.’

  Her dad laughed down the line, and she smiled at the sound she heard so rarely these days, whereas it had been part of the soundtrack of her growing up.

  ‘Kid, bring some for me too.’

  He rang off, and Lily stared at the phone for a long time after. Her dad sounded really upset, and she still hadn’t spoken to her mother, so she was guessing that they were still not right. The Spanish books could be a good sign though; perhaps they had finally booked a trip to celebrate their retirement. They had planned to see all the sights, make the most of their fit and healthy free time with each other, but it hadn’t gone down that way so far. Perhaps if they went to Spain, they could finally sort things out. Her parents loved each other so much, seeing them like this was awful.

  She put the books into one of her cloth book bags, leaving it by the door so she wouldn’t forget it that evening. She went and added a couple of her Lonely Planet guides too, to really give them the travelling bug. Lily herself had bought them on a whim, but they had sat unread on the shelf so far. Last week, she had ordered one about Goa, and was waiting for it to arrive. She knew it was probably a waste of money, but hearing Will talk about the place had stuck with her, got her curiosity going.

  Friday morning was always something to look forward to, when Will would come into the shop for his order, but she was even more excited than usual today, because she had the day off. Roger was holding the fort, and she was due to go and spend the day at the Mayweather Estate. Will had asked her to go with him, and she had jumped at the chance.

  They had been spending more time together, and after the awkward meeting with Stuart, she had texted him and told him that she needed some space to think about things. If Stuart wasn’t happy about it, he never let on. She got a text back telling her to take all the time she needed – he loved her and knew she would do what was right.

  Lily had no idea what that meant. Did he mean Will? Did he still think she was cheating? Lily wanted to text him back and ask why, but she realized that in a way, he had given her just what she wanted. Some space to just be for a while, and she chose instead not to pick at the thread. It hadn’t even been a week yet, but already she was feeling better than she had in a long time.

  She also knew what that meant, and it wasn’t good. Sighing, she pulled on some denim jeans and a pale pink sweater. Bundling her feet up in a pair of thick wool socks, she slipped on her new fur-trimmed green parka. Looking at herself in the full-length mirror, she smiled. She looked like slightly ridiculous, but at least she would be warm. She wasn’t the type for heels and glitter, but a good pair of jeans
and an outdoor coat and she was happy. Reaching under her bed, she pulled out a large shoebox. Opening it up on the bed, she grinned. Just the ticket.

  After pulling off the tags, she grabbed the contents of the box and headed downstairs. She was going to make an early start, get the day going.

  When Roger came in at 9a.m., laden with bacon butties and coffees from next door, Lily was sat at her desk in the back, an array of various watercolour drawings drying on the back work surfaces around her. He came in, singing Adele at the top of his lungs, and Lily smiled at him.

  ‘Morning, sunshine!’ she said, going to help him with his packages. Roger took a sip out of his coffee, but stood stock-still instead.

  ‘Lily,’ he said, his eyes wide open in horror. ‘What are you wearing on your feet?’

  Lily beamed, showing off her new wellington boots. They were pastel pink to match her sweater, covered with pictures of beautiful flowers. ‘Like them? I figured I would start dressing how I like more, rather than how I think I should.’

  Roger emptied his hands onto the counter, and then clasped his hands together against his chest. ‘Lily, you look lovely. Like a pink marshmallow, but lovely.’

  Lily laughed, beckoning him over to her desk. ‘I did these this morning too.’

  Roger looked from one picture to another. He smiled as he recognized himself in a couple: some were of scenes of Westfield; others had a distinct theme.

  ‘You drew all these?’ He turned to her, wide-eyed. She was standing next to him, nervously biting a thumbnail.

  ‘Yeah, I know they’re rough, but I was thinking that I could maybe sell them as cards in the shop eventually. Maybe even do some bigger ones to sell?’

  She was nervous, and Roger hugged her. ‘Well, I think that they are wonderful.’

  He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and passed it to her. Picking up a picture she had drawn of him and James, he patted her shoulder.

  ‘First sale, right here. James will love it.’

  Lily looked at the cash in her hand. ‘Thanks, Roger!’ She walked over to her desk, picked up an empty jam jar from her desk, and put the note in. She put it into her drawer, locking it.

  ‘That’s my elephant fund started.’

  Roger turned, confused, the bacon sandwich halfway to his mouth.

  ‘I thought you had a lot saved already, for the wedding?’

  Lily nodded. ‘I have. I can afford the shop and the flat, and I have my wedding savings, but this is for something different.’ Roger looked at her, waiting for her to continue, but she tapped the side of her nose.

  ‘It’s a secret – you will see soon enough.’

  Roger stuck his tongue out at her. She scrunched her nose at him, rolling up a large A3 drawing he had not noticed on the desk before.

  ‘What’s that?’ Roger asked, thumbing through the order book. ‘Secret blueprints for the bank? Sketches of the bat mobile?’

  ‘Nope,’ she said, wiggling her eyes devilishly. ‘This is for Will. It’s the plan we talked about for Mrs Ness. I drew it for him. I think I might even draw a community garden.’

  She ignored his knowing glance. ‘It’s strictly for work. It’s not a love letter, Roger.’

  ‘If it was a love letter, what would you write?’

  Lily tied a piece of off-cut ribbon around the paper.

  ‘I honestly don’t have a clue. At this point, it would be a suicide note.’

  ‘Dear Diary, I have a gorgeous gardener stalking me,’ Roger said in a singsong voice. Lily stuck her tongue out at him. The shop door opened and in walked Will, looking as handsome as ever.

  Lily felt the flutter of butterflies once again in the pit of her stomach as she took him in. He was wearing his trademark beanie hat, which looked as though it had never actually seen the inside of a washing machine, with his black curls creeping out under the edges. He had his big jacket on, zipped up halfway, showing a dark blue jumper underneath. His face was flushed pink from the cold outside, his manly chin cleanly shaven.

  ‘Morning,’ they said in unison.

  ‘I am ready to go,’ Lily said, waving to Roger on the way out. ‘I’ll be back before closing – thanks again, Rog.’

  Roger waved them away, a tulip in his delicate hands.

  ‘Have fun, and watch out for that needle when you are rolling in the hay!’

  Lily looked at Will in horror, but he just laughed as they walked out.

  ‘A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,’ he said over his shoulder. They walked over to his jeep, and Will went to open the door for her. She rolled her eyes at him.

  ‘You really are a gent,’ she said, tapping him on the arm. He pulled his beanie hat off and took a bow, stopping dead with one hand on the door when he saw her footwear.

  He knelt by her feet, putting his hat back on, and Lily looked around nervously. Having a handsome hunk on his knees in front of her was just the thing to get people talking around here. She looked through the window at Roger, and he was pointing his phone at her, snapping a photo. She waved him away. Roger and his bloody phone. The man was surgically attached.

  Will was oblivious, and was busy turning her right foot this way and that, chuckling. He looked up at her, and she almost sank to her knees to meet him.

  ‘What,’ he said in between guffaws, ‘are they?’

  ‘Wellies! Why?’ She looked at her boots, scowling. ‘I like them. They are good quality, not cheapo ones.’

  He laughed again, nodding. ‘No, top of the line, I can tell. Not an inch of mud on them either!’

  She huffed, stamping one foot near his toes.

  ‘Of course not, they’re new! I work indoors for my flowers, not knee-deep in dirt like some, and you can’t tell what’s fashion. Where do you get your shopping tips from, Geriatric Gardener monthly?’ He started to stand up and she seized her chance. She grabbed the hat off his head, but he went to grab it back, and after a couple of fumbles over the wool garment, they both stopped scrabbling just in time to see the item drop straight into the puddle at the bottom of the kerb. They both stood looking at it at first, and then at each other.

  Will looked cross and Lily bit the corner of her lip, trying not to laugh. He bent down, picking the sodden hat up between finger and thumb.

  ‘You do realize, Baxter,’ he said as he motioned for her to get in. ‘This means war.’

  Lily made a show of getting into the jeep daintily, pointing her toes at him as she stepped into the cab. ‘War eh? Bring it on, Singer.’

  ***

  A few short miles away, further battle lines were being drawn. Westfield Community Centre felt like the O.K. Corral, and Irvin had visions of himself wearing chaps and a Stetson as he swaggered from his car to the automatic front doors. They swished open, and Irvin walked in, looking from side to side at the scene before him. He could hear the exotic music coming from the dance studio, and he swallowed hard. He wiped his clammy palms down the length of his trousers as he approached the reception desk.

  The girl behind it looked up at him in question, and he did his best to speak, despite the fact that his tongue was so dry it was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

  ‘Bervin Faxter,’ he said, and the woman looked confused. He licked his lips, trying again. ‘Irvin Baxter, I have a class?’

  The girl’s face lit up in recognition. ‘Ah, Mr Baxter, good morning! You are right on time; it’s in room three this morning. Do you have your registration form and payment?’

  Irvin nodded, handing over a sealed envelope. The girl checked the contents before clipping it to a board on her desk.

  ‘That’s great, Mr Baxter. You go on through.’

  Irvin nodded, looking down the corridor. ‘Room three?’

  ‘Room three,’ she said again, pointing. ‘Down to the bottom, on the right.’

  Irvin nodded, pulling his dry lips back over his teeth in his attempt at a thanks. He probably looked like a terrified gerbil, but the girl jus
t waved back at him.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked down the corridor, knocked on the door and entered. He had half expected to find the jaws of hell behind the doorway, but he found it was set out like an ordinary classroom. No roar of flames. There were desks and chairs laid out in rows, a whiteboard and computer at the front of the class, a bookcase along one wall. Everything smelled new, fresh. There were a few people at the very back of the room, pouring themselves hot drinks and chatting over the biscuits. They all turned and smiled when he walked in.

  ‘New to the class?’ a man asked, suddenly appearing at the side of him. ‘You will love it – it’s a lot of fun.’

  Irvin nodded numbly, not sure what to say. The man tapped a jar of coffee. ‘Fancy a brew? The teacher’s not here yet.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, moving forward to grab a cup. ‘I’m Irvin Baxter.’

  ‘Hi, Irvin,’ the man said, holding out his hand, which was encased in a Def Leppard sweatshirt. ‘John Jones. Don’t ask, my parents had no vision.’

  Irvin laughed, and felt himself relax a little. He shook the man’s hand, hoping his hand wasn’t still sweaty.

  ‘You been coming long?’

  John shook his head. ‘Nah, man, not too long. This class is quite new. I do a couple of others, bit of retraining since I lost my job last year. He looked glum. ‘Last of the mines closing down. Job centre have been shipping some of us here, but it could be worse. At least they do it on a Sunday here, frees up the week for temp work.’

  Irvin nodded, suddenly grateful that the job he had trained for as a boy had sustained him through to retirement. No jobs for life these days, and the thought of passing their legacy on to Lily had seen them through the stressful days and quiet times.

  It made him think of his Lizzie, who at this moment was in another room in the community centre. So near and yet so far away. He was contemplating chickening out, leaving with his tail between his legs, but then the door opened and Irvin realized he was stuck.

  The lady swept in, her long gypsy skirt swishing around her as she deposited a pile of books on the table and turned to face the room.