We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  ‘Well he’s French, isn’t he?’ I said, watching the beautiful couple kiss with tongues. I heard my mother’s voice – and hated myself for my small-minded ignorance.

  ‘Is he? He doesn’t sound French.’

  I didn’t know, I still hadn’t heard him speak.

  ‘They say the French are quite wanton,’ I remember saying. I was feigning knowledge of the French I didn’t have and the ‘they’ I was referring to was of course my mother, who didn’t trust anyone outside the British Isles. I look back now and see that mousy Anita wasn’t good for me. She didn’t challenge my views because she shared them. Her world was as small as mine and her sandwich wrappings were as tightly wrapped as she was. I can see now that in this new, exciting, but often scary environment I’d found comfort and safety in the familiar.

  Perhaps I should have stayed safe and not ventured into the unknown territory that was Pierre, but when he dumped Avril and started making eyes at me I was lost.

  After him, beautiful Avril was never the same. The light went from her eyes, her lipstick faded and she smoked a cigarette just like everyone else. It seemed she’d not only lost her lover – she’d lost herself. I still think of Avril and wonder if she ever got over him, and I’m reminded of my mother’s warning: ‘What goes around comes around.’

  Chapter Three

  Along with being back at work, my dog Lily has also given me a new lease of life. She’s a small mutt with a slight limp and a tail that never stops wagging. Anna and Isobel decided to surprise me with Lily as a gift because they were worried I was lonely in the evenings.

  ‘We wanted you to have some company, the house must seem empty without Dad,’ Isobel said as she plonked down several cans of dog food. My granddaughters had chosen Lily’s pink collar, her floral bed and various toys to play with and though I was a little surprised to receive this ‘gift’, when Katie placed her in my arms I knew it was love.

  ‘We got her from the rescue centre,’ Anna said. ‘She’s getting on and she’s got a touch of arthritis, but all she needs is some TLC.’

  ‘A bit like me then?’ I said, cuddling her like a baby.

  ‘She belonged to an old lady who died and the girl at the centre said she’s been pining. Apparently she likes a walk but can’t go for too long or you have to carry her home,’ Isobel said.

  ‘Again, she’s just like me. And with a name like Lily it must be fate. Rosie and Lily, two flowers who’ve lost their bloom.’ I smiled. ‘But we’ll get it back, won’t we, Lily?’

  Since then Lily has settled in very well, as though she’s always lived here with me. I take her out for a short walk at least three times a day, which is good exercise for both of us, and as she spends a lot of time sleeping I can go shopping or pop round to see the girls without having to worry about her. And when I do the garden she likes to help, though I do worry what’s going to come up this year as I suspect she simply follows me and digs up whatever I’ve just planted. In the evenings Lily sits on the sofa with me watching TV, her head in my lap and one eye open. But the best part about sharing my home with Lily is coming home from wherever I’ve been, knowing someone is waiting for me. I’ve never liked walking into the empty house since Mike went, but now I have an excited little mutt waiting eagerly to greet me. It doesn’t matter where I’ve been or for how long, she’s always delighted to see me, rushing around the kitchen, picking up toys to tease me, her little tail wagging so fast I fully expect her to lift off the ground like a helicopter one of these days.

  The shop is always busy and though I only work four days I often come home exhausted, completely drained of every molecule of energy. I love flowers, but the unsettling feeling that I should be doing more with my life seems to be growing stronger every day. I can’t help thinking I’m not perhaps being true to myself and living my life. It’s strange, but Mike’s death has made me think a lot about the things we meant to do but never did. One of those things was to travel; along with New Zealand we had a list of places we wanted to visit, food we wanted to taste, places to see, but with children and a business it wasn’t something we’d had the time or the money to do.

  I often think about what we’d be doing now if Mike was here, the life we’d live. When he died we were just about to enter that third stage; the kids were settled, I was going to retire soon, we’d pass the business to the girls and think about chasing some of those dreams. Now I’m unexpectedly alone I’m a little scared of the future. I never even considered a life without him. He wasn’t the love of my life, yet I believe it was written in those stars that I would spend most of my life with him. Now, after many years and two children together, I know it was right – Mike was the only husband for me and I have few regrets. Yet his death has made me reach into the past and I can’t help but sometimes wonder what if things with my first love had turned out differently?

  If you’d told me at seventeen that I’d marry someone like Mike Carter I would have refused to believe you. He worked at the local factory, he had no wild dreams of ever living anywhere but here and his life was mapped out for him. Mike was a friend of my brothers and was often at our house but I didn’t see him. There were a million boys like Mike – or so I thought – but Pierre, on the other hand, was a boy in a million.

  One day after class Pierre asked if I liked his drawing.

  ‘What do you think, Rosie?’ he said, as I wandered over to his easel.

  I was shocked to see a beautiful drawing of a girl with big eyes and long hair.

  ‘Is that . . . me?’

  He nodded, looking from me to the picture.

  ‘It’s good, but I’m not that pretty.’

  ‘You are.’ He leaned back with a half smile playing on his lips, his eyes never leaving mine.

  ‘I . . . I thought we had to draw the model, I didn’t know we were allowed to draw just anyone,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure of the exact rules on these matters,’ he said with a grin, at which point I could have kicked myself. I must have sounded like a seven-year-old who wouldn’t dare defy the teacher, not a young and happening art student.

  ‘Anyway I didn’t draw “just anyone”, I drew you,’ he said, still looking at me, a smile twinkling in his eyes. He wasn’t French, I thought, he was posh and must be from London. I’d never been to London.

  I flushed, flattered to think he’d been looking at me for a whole two-hour session.

  ‘Well, thanks. No one’s ever drawn me before.’

  ‘Look at the way your cheekbones stand out, beautiful,’ he said softly, almost under his breath.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish,’ I said, my heart jumping as his fingers ran along the cheekbone in the sketch.

  ‘It’s not rubbish,’ he laughed, mimicking my accent affectionately.

  His lovely voice sounded clean and clear and made me even more aware that mine sounded like someone off Coronation Street. But the way he looked at me made me feel like a fashion model on a catwalk in Paris.

  ‘You have a lovely face.’ He lifted the canvas, holding it near me. ‘In fact you’re lovelier than my drawing . . . I’d like to photograph you.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t, I look awful in photos. My dad took some of me in Blackpool last summer and I’ve got a moon face.’

  He laughed again and while looking at me he ran his forefinger slowly along the drawing of my face. ‘You really can’t see it, can you?’

  I felt a frisson go through me. I didn’t speak because I couldn’t. I was tongue-tied.

  Eventually I packed up my stuff and was just leaving through the door when I bumped into a teacher. ‘Is Peter Moreton in there?’ he asked.

  I turned to gesture towards Pierre. ‘No . . . just Pierre. I don’t know a Peter Moreton.’

  ‘Pierre?’ he said, walking past me. ‘When did you change your name?’ He was smiling good-naturedly, and so was Pierre, but I also sensed some embarrassment.

  Now I can smile at the gauche eighteen-year-old who smoked French cigarettes and called
himself Pierre – but on hearing this I liked him even more. He wasn’t quite as perfect as I’d feared, and he wished he was someone else too. Just like me.

  ‘Don’t you like your real name?’ I asked him the next day.

  ‘No, I don’t, so I changed it.’ He looked directly into my eyes challengingly; he wasn’t asking anyone’s permission, he was Pierre because he wanted to be. At almost seventeen I liked that he did as he wanted, but as an older, wiser woman I question the commitment of a man who can walk away from his own name.

  ‘I thought I’d start being Pierre for when I live in Paris. They call it the City of Light, but until then I’ll have to live in Salford – the city of grey factories and smoke . . . ’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where or how you live, you can imagine another life in another place,’ I said, taking out my pencils.

  ‘And what about you, Rosie? Who will you be?’

  ‘I’ll be me, thank you very much. I don’t have to be someone else to think about Paris, it can just be in my head,’ I said, honestly. I was flattered by his interest and admired his ambition but for me, at that point, living in Paris was just a dream I slipped in and out of to get me through. And after that my dreams of Paris included a glimpse of Pierre, or should I say Peter?

  He’d taken the time to sketch me, he made me feel like no one ever had before – I felt beautiful, special. I didn’t know it then, but my fate was sealed; even if I’d wanted to, it was already too late to turn back, and I wonder now what might have happened if we’d played things differently.

  Would I have lived a more adventurous, glittering, exciting life of parties and travel and artistic success? Would I be a different person living a bohemian life in Paris, my days spent painting in a studio in Montmartre – nights filled with absinthe and passion? I have often wondered if I’d have been happier, but who can ever say? There might also have been days when I gazed over Parisian rooftops from our artist’s garret, longing for the comfort of a safe but happy life here in my home town with someone like Mike.

  Going back to work means I don’t have too much time to go over the past, which is probably as well. I need to think of the future now and concentrate on making sure the girls are okay and the business is doing well. When it’s time to hand the flower shop to the girls I want it to still be a good little business, able to support them and their families.

  The big Parker wedding is imminent and Anna is highly stressed. She almost resents my calm and complains bitterly that Isobel and I aren’t wound-up balls of anxiety like she is.

  ‘God, can you two please just hurry up with those bouquets?’ she screams from the front of the shop, while Isobel and I work quietly in the back.

  Disillusioned with teaching, Isobel has decided to join us and is now working full-time at the shop which is lovely. Along with Mrs Jackson, who, when managed, is very productive, we now have four members of staff and we work well together, each one’s strengths complementing the others’. When Anna isn’t stressing we have fun, chatting to customers, laughing at customers when they’ve left the shop and sharing hurried lunches while working on orders.

  ‘I thought that was a salad leaf, but it was a flower one,’ I laugh, taking a non-edible leaf from my mouth as we hunker down together over buttonhole detritus to eat pre-packed salads.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re complaining about a flower leaf,’ Isobel says. ‘Our packed lunches at school always had oasis foam in them.’

  ‘Oh yes, everyone knew our mother was a florist,’ Anna adds, laughing at the memory. ‘And while other kids had cheese and pickle, we had cheese and bits of spongy green stuff and even the odd petal!’

  ‘Oh that’s right, pile on the guilt. I am a terrible mother,’ I giggle.

  ‘It could have been worse – it could have been florist’s wires,’ Isobel says.

  ‘Yeah, and I’d rather have her as our mum even though she did make rubbish sandwiches.’ They smile at each other and I feel warm and wanted. It’s good to be back with my girls in the shop – I’m beginning to feel a bit like me again.

  As for the big wedding, I’ve yet to meet Mrs Parker, she only seems to come into the shop on days when I’m off, but apparently she’s very glamorous and pops in to either add more to the order or share a picture of a celebrity wedding she wants us to reproduce.

  ‘It’s George Clooney and Amal this week. Apparently they said their vows under a white archway of imported roses . . . and Madam now wants one of those,’ Anna says with frustration.

  ‘Imported from where?’

  ‘God only knows, but she’s read about it and she wants it.’

  ‘Then she shall have it,’ I say. One of the reasons that the shop has done so well over the years is that I never say no, and though I laugh along with Anna about these outlandish requests, I’m actually enjoying the creative challenge.

  ‘Who does she think she is?’ Anna mutters. ‘It’s less than two weeks and now she wants “something fabulous” but she doesn’t know what!’

  ‘Suggest a field of red poppies as Poppy’s the bride’s name and because that would be “fabulous”,’ I joke, wrestling with a huge bunch of carnations.

  ‘Don’t laugh! I’ll give her a fabulous kick up the backside and see if she likes that.’

  ‘Charming,’ Isobel giggles.

  ‘It’s okay for you two but I’m the one who has to smile politely while she gets all stroppy when I don’t come up with something,’ Anna sighs.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling, we can do it.’ I smile, putting the kettle on, hoping a cup of camomile will calm her. ‘I know she’s annoying but it’s her granddaughter so she wants something special. So what can we produce that’s really stunning and will make her granddaughter’s wedding stand out?’

  Isobel shrugs, she’s more academic than creative and any thoughts Anna might have are blinded by a red mist. ‘It might be a big wedding, Mum, but she needs to understand it’s not exactly Kim and Kanye’s, is it?’

  ‘Oooh, Kim Kardashian’s wedding, that’s given me an idea,’ I say, reaching under the counter for a magazine and flicking through. ‘Now, this is from a couple of years ago, but I recall seeing “something fabulous and floral” at that wedding. Look.’ I point to a spectacular wall of white flowers.

  ‘A floral wall?’ Anna is saying doubtfully as I show them the beautiful photos. ‘You have to be kidding . . . ?’

  ‘Why not? Mrs Parker wants fabulous and this could be it. Especially if she’s got Kim’s money!’ I smile, keen to take on this new challenge.

  Chapter Four

  On the day of the wedding not only have we spent almost a week making the rose archway, the bouquets, the buttonholes, corsages and table arrangements, we are also creating a seven foot square wall of spectacular white flowers.

  Anna’s never quite been on board with ‘the bloody wall’ as she refers to it. She’s not good with change and this is certainly different from anything we’ve done before, but I’m really proud of it.

  ‘I swear I’ve been having nightmares about this,’ she’s saying as we all lift the frame of the wall into the van. ‘Mother, I blame you, Kim and Kanye – in that order,’ she says to me. ‘And as if making it hasn’t been nightmarish enough, I just know it’s not going to fit in the van – I know it won’t,’ she says, as the rest of us stay calm and haul together, lifting it in smoothly and easily. At this, even Anna has to laugh at herself.

  ‘Okay, so it fits.’ She puts her tongue out at me and Isobel who are standing with hands on hips and an ‘I told you so’ look on our faces.

  ‘Oh no . . . everything’s going smoothly, what’s our Anna going to complain about now?’ Isobel calls after her. Anna’s response is to stick up two fingers good-naturedly.

  ‘I hope you won’t be doing that at the society wedding venue?’ I laugh. ‘I doubt Mrs Parker would approve.’ Mrs Parker’s demands have now taken on mythical proportions with her enormous guest list, outlandish requests and endles
s budget.

  ‘How the other half live,’ Anna says as we drive through the Cheshire lanes, sweeping into the grounds, the van filled with the last of the flowers. The setting is magnificent, a beautiful Georgian house surrounded by acres of green, rose gardens in watercolours and a shimmering ornamental lake.

  The weather is perfect too. ‘Oh, just look at that sky,’ Isobel says as we climb out of the van.

  ‘Yes, when you’re rich even the sun shines on your wedding day,’ Anna sniffs. ‘It rained on my wedding, must have been symbolic.’

  I put my arm around her. ‘Darling, I hate to break it to you, but it wasn’t the weather – it was the groom. Dad and I married in the depths of winter, bloody freezing it was, and we were happy for over forty years.’

  ‘Ahh. Dad would have loved it here. I bet at night you can see every single star,’ adds Isobel, the romantic.

  Before unloading the van, we decide to make our arrival known to Mrs Parker. We head for the reception where the manager leads us to the party room so we can bring in the table arrangements and add the final touches. The room is sparkly white with huge silk blossom trees dotted here and there. On their delicate white branches hang little favours wrapped in tulle and on the tables are our white lily and rose floral arrangements, made late last night and spritzed to within an inch of their lives so they will live through the big day. Each chair has a huge white chiffon bow tied perfectly around it and the tables are set with shiny white crockery and crystal glass. I wander around checking the oasis is damp and the flowers are in optimum condition and realise in this moment I am happier than I have been since before Mike died. I stop a moment and savour it, watching everyone bustling around and remembering a phrase Mike often used. ‘Stop and smell the roses,’ he’d say. ‘Stop rushing around, Rosie, relax, take time to appreciate the world and the good things in it.’

  Yes, I’m happy. I’m smelling the roses, Mike.