Wildflowers

by Debbie Howells

  ‘Hey - Greg.’ My voice is sharper than it usually is, as I open windows to let some air in. If he’s used that many plates, I’m guessing the fridge is empty – unless, of course, he’s been shopping. My hopes rise, just fleetingly, but the kitchen is a mess too and when I check the fridge, he hasn’t.

  ‘Huh?’ He barely stirs.

  I grab the TV remote and switch it off.

  ‘It’s horrible in here,’ I tell him, starting to pile up the plates and resenting every single one of them. ‘The least you could do is your own washing up - and you’ve eaten all the food.’

  ‘Chill, babe. I’ll do it later.’

  Okay. Taking a deep breath, I decide I’ll give him a chance to do just that. Maybe I’m being a tad unreasonable. It’s only a few plates, after all.

  He eventually does it – after about three hours, leaving the floor covered in water. But it’s three hours I spend fuming with anger, my supper beans on toast not the chicken and pasta I’d been planning, because Greg’s already eaten it.

  This, I can’t help thinking, is the direst of warnings about marrying the wrong man. Not just the mess, domestic slavery and the empty fridge, but that feeling I’m being taken for a ride…

  Far from spending a romantic evening together, I go to bed early - and alone. When Greg joins me a little later, I’m lying with my back to him, feigning sleep. I feel the bed move as he gets in, then rolls towards me, and without any preamble, reaches under my pyjamas for my nipples.

  Before, it would have been enough to light the touchpaper. But even when he slowly edges lower, I don’t respond. His touch has become intrusive, unwanted, like that voice in my head which is more like Honey’s voice, telling me that once again, I’ve played right into his hands.

  On the edge of the bed, as far away from Greg as I can get, needless to say I don’t sleep well. Next morning, things get worse. I wake up early and creep out of the flat without disturbing him. The longer he spends in bed, the less mess in the flat, I reckon. As I walk through the village enjoying another sunny morning, my spirits can’t help but lift and I begin to feel more like me again. It’ll be fine, I tell myself. After yesterday, Greg will tidy up and even have dinner ready for me. He really isn’t so bad…

  But when I get to the shop and open the door, thoughts of Greg are the last thing on my mind. A wave of that noxious smell almost knocks me out and the most terrible sight awaits me.

  On the workbench, all the table arrangements so carefully prepared yesterday are wilted and brown. Ten vases for one wedding, twelve for the other – all sad and wilted and decaying – and utterly ruined.

  My screams are heard across the green. Mr Crowley comes scooting over from Demelza’s and bursts in wielding a large hammer.

  ‘Blimey, girl! Thought you’d been murdered or something!’

  ‘I will be!’ I tell him, looking slightly alarmed at the hammer and gesticulating wildly at the flowers. ‘In twenty four hours, my life will be over! Someone’s trying to destroy me! Look…’

  He comes over to the table. ‘Blimey!’ He sniffs, then recoils. ‘You best open your windows, girl. Someone’s poisoned your flowers! It’s weed-killer, girl! You can smell it a mile off!’

  I hear another unmistakeable set of footsteps – and I know immediately what’s coming.

  ‘I told you, my lovely! Them were the wrong colours for them brides! You didn’t listen, ttch ttch…’ Even Mrs Orange looks shocked.

  ‘It’s not the brides, Mrs Orange! Someone’s sabotaged them! What am I going to do?’

  ‘Call the police, girl,’ says Mr Crowley, getting into his stride. ‘Get that lazy bludger from Old Hallows off his fat arse. Our taxes pay his wages,’ he starts. ‘Get yer money’s worth while yer can…’

  ‘I still say it’s the brides,’ says Mrs Orange stubbornly.

  ‘Never mind all that!’ I wail. ‘I don’t care. What about the weddings?’

  At which point both of them melt away, leaving me standing there on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  As I contemplate the apocalypse that awaits me, fortunately sanity arrives in the form of Skye, in rainbow striped leggings and a polka dot dress with her hair freshly dyed cerise pink. She goes straight to the flowers and leans down, peering at them.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘Shit is an understatement,’ I say, tears streaming down my face as another rant comes bursting out of me. ‘Oh fucking hell is more like it. Oh Skye, what are we going to do?’

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I’ll call Milo for you.’

  I let her and in spite of the chaos around me, dimly I register that I’ve never heard her call him before. She doesn’t even know his number. And there they are chatting like old mates.

  ‘S’okay,’ she says, when she’s hung up. ‘Sorted. You’ll be getting them new ones, like in the morning. Says he’ll be over at three. I’ll come over early too. ‘Kay?’

  I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a risk, but with just one day before the weddings, my choices are limited and a three in the morning start is infinitely preferable to explaining to two highly strung brides that their flowers have been destroyed. Then I remember.

  ‘Skye! I’ve remembered something! They’ve definitely been sabotaged!’

  Skye looks at me dubiously. ‘People don’t sabotage flowers, Frankie…’

  ‘But there was this shifty guy in here yesterday! In a big coat, I remember now! I left him alone for about two minutes… and when I came back, he’d gone! It was him! It had to be! But why would he do this to me?’

  By the time I get home, I’m exhausted. So stressed I feel ill. I’m far too worried about these weddings to think about anything else. But instead of jumping up and making me a nice, soothing cup of tea, Greg shows precisely zero interest in my day. He’s lying on the sofa again, his bare feet hanging over the end as he watches a re-run of something loud and manly on Quest.

  ‘Get us a beer, babe…’ He doesn’t even tear himself away long enough to look at me.

  I stare at his toes, amazed that I’ve never noticed how hairy they are. Really hairy, like a chimp’s and that’s when I know. On someone else, on the right man, I’d love those hairy feet. But with a sinking heart, I know I definitely don’t love Greg’s.

  All along, Honey was right and I was wrong, though I won’t be telling her that. But I’ve done what I always do, falling for an idea in my head, not the real, live person like the one who’s loafing in my flat, expecting me to wait on him hand and foot. Who doesn’t care about anyone except himself. Suddenly, it’s incredibly easy.

  ‘Sorry mate, time’s up,’ I tell him, and I’m not talking about the television. As I switch it off at the mains, his eyes swivel from side to side as it slowly sinks in that I’m serious. ‘You need to find somewhere else.’ Just in case he’s thicker than I think.

  ‘I thought you were cool with us living together, babe,’ he says. This time I’ve got his attention and his eyes meet mine. I can’t believe he just said that.

  ‘Now hang on just a moment. We’re not living together, Greg. Not in that sense. Living together implies a partnership that’s mutually supportive…’ I speak slowly to allow my words to take effect. ‘I simply offered you a bed for a day or two, if you remember, while you organised something more permanent. I’d say you’ve done quite well out of me. I mean, think about it. You’ve lived here all week, eaten my food, drunk my beer, watched my telly from my sofa… and you’ve contributed absolutely nothing. Not so much as a single pint of milk.’ I pick his feet off the sofa and drop them on the floor.

  ‘We could have had sex if you weren’t so frigid,’ he says huffily, completely missing the point.

  Actually, I’m glad he said that. It really is the final nail in the coffin. But it’s been a long day and I’m too exhausted to fight. I just feel overwhelmed with a weary kind of sadness as I realise this really is over.

  ‘I don’t suppose you even have a dinner jacket, do you?’ But I don’t need to hear the answ
er.

  He just shifts uncomfortably and belches.

  ‘You can stay one more night – here, on this sofa – and that’s it,’ I tell him firmly. ‘It’s over, Greg. Tomorrow, you’re out of here.’

  6

  Not surprisingly, I sleep restlessly again, drifting off to sleep just as it’s time to get up. An alarm clock ringing in your ear at half past two in the morning is one of the harshest sounds known to mankind, but as soon as I remember we’ve two sets of wedding flowers to magic up and only a few hours to do them in, a tidal wave of adrenaline surges through me.

  As I leave my flat, I pause just long enough to hear the familiar porcine snores coming from my sofa – for the last time, I’m hoping. Then tiptoe out without waking him.

  It seems the entire village is asleep as I make my way to the shop. The sky is black and studded with stars, and in the distance, an owl hoots. As I unlock the door, Skye appears and Milo, bless his heart, arrives just before three and even stays to help us for an hour. I’m convinced there’s a little microspark flitting between him and Skye, but I’m far too preoccupied to carry out normal levels of interrogation. It’ll wait.

  By half past three, we’ve unpacked everything into buckets of water and we’ve started. What is usually pleasurable becomes a race against time as we snip and tweak like fury, too engrossed to even notice the sun coming up. But amazingly, incredibly, we manage it. Not only that, but it’s only seven o’clock when we finish. We even have time to spare.

  Feeling slightly disembodied, I look across the road, as the lights flicker on in Demelza’s, and Mr Crowley goes through his daily ritual of putting out the sandwich board, filling up the newspaper rack, sweeping the doorstep and firing up the oven. It’s always in that order so I give him exactly ten minutes before I go over and pick up some bacon sarnies. Incredibly, for once, Skye and I actually sit down and eat them instead of gulping them on the hoof as we usually do. With the pressure off – temporarily - I seize my moment.

  ‘So Skye… you and Milo… is there – er – something, only I – er – noticed…’ Tiredness has this effect on my verbal capacity, reducing my speech to stuttering monosyllables. Fortunately Skye’s used to it.

  Skye’s beetroot blush to the tips of her ears gives her away. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Oh,’ I try to reassure her, not-so-subtly digging for more. ‘Erm, he’s rather nice, isn’t he? Fun, I should think?’

  ‘Want more coffee, Frankie?’ She stomps off in her DM’s to fill the kettle, thereby ending our conversation.

  The coffee break over, we’re just about to start loading up the van for our deliveries, as a man walks in. At first, I can’t place him but something about him is familiar.

  ‘Hi! Again!’ I’m certain I know him – though I can’t remember where from, unless it’s one of Honey’s dinner parties, memories of which tend to be somewhat distorted.

  He has warm eyes which seem to linger on me and unlike most men in flower shops, doesn’t look the slightest awkward. And that’s probably, I’m guessing, because a gorgeous guy like him probably has an adoring girlfriend he regularly buys flowers for. What other reason could there be?

  ‘Hi…’ He peers at me curiously. ‘It is you – I wasn’t sure for a moment.’

  At the sound of his voice, my memory kicks in. It’s the hot best man from last Saturday. The one who’s only seen me at my worst.

  ‘Looking slightly better than last weekend, I’m pleased to say. No spiders…’ I say in a jolly voice and pulling a face, point to my eyelashes.

  ‘Spiders…’ He looks confused.

  Nice, Frankie. I try to dazzle him with my wit and he ends up thinking I’m deranged. I resort to being business-like.

  ‘Anyway, how can I help you?’

  ‘Well, believe it or not, I’m here for the flowers – again.’

  ‘Oh – not the best man again?’ Is that kind of like being always the bridesmaid? Only it can’t be – he’s far too good looking. As he looks around the shop, I take a sneaky glance at him. Lovely shirt, ironed but not too perfect, top button undone. Lovely jeans, just faded enough so they’re soft looking. Lovely tanned hands…

  ‘No – I’m the bride’s brother, this time. And seeing as I knew where you were, I offered. Hey, I do like your shop…’

  ‘Thank you. Um – which bride?’ I ask, forcing myself to focus.

  ‘Bernice. Clifton. Why? Are you doing more than one?’

  ‘Oh, just two…’ I say airily. ‘It’s nothing… All part of a week’s work.’

  But then Mr Crowley comes blundering in. ‘I ‘ope you called that police bloke, girl – that lazy so and so…’

  The bride’s brother pricks up his ears. ‘Police? What’s been happening?’

  ‘Someone poured weed-killer on her flowers, that’s what. Could smell it a mile off. Screaming like a banshee, she was. You never heard anything like it. Thought she’d bin murdered. Told her to call the police, though that bloke at All Hallows is a lazy good for nothing…’

  ‘Mr Crowley,’ I say sweetly, before he adds bludger. ‘I think I saw some customers in your shop.’

  ‘Eh?’ he grunts and mercifully leaves, just as Mrs Orange walks in.

  ‘Now my lovely, how are them flowers? No more accidents I hope… I did warn you about them brides…’

  ‘Mrs Orange, please can you go and tell Skye I need her… NOW?’

  ‘Is it always like this round here?’ The bride’s brother looks amused, then frowns. ‘What was that about weed-killer?’

  ‘Oh, I may as well tell you, only I’d appreciate you keeping it to yourself because if word gets out, it’ll probably put me out of business,’ I gabble nervously, not at all sure I should be telling him. ‘Only some crazy guy came in and sabotaged the flowers when my back was turned. I’ve no idea who he was or why he had it in for me. I’d never seen him before in my life… Anyway, I ordered a whole lot of fresh flowers which came in at three o’clock this morning, so as far as your sister’s concerned, everything is exactly as she wanted. And very, very fresh.’

  I watch his face for signs of alarm, but there’s not a flicker. In fact, he seems oddly interested. ‘Did you keep any of them?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did, but there’s not much point. It’s not like the police will be interested. I just have to write it off to experience.’ I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, because this episode has cost me hundreds of pounds, not to mention the fallout from the highest levels of stress known to man, as well as lungfuls of noxious chemicals.

  ‘Actually, you know, they might just be interested. Do me a favour and hang on to them, will you? Just till next week?’ Then his mobile trills from his pocket. He reads the message and grins.

  ‘My little sister. Tell me, do all brides go a bit…’

  ‘Mad?’ I say before I can stop myself. ‘I’m afraid, mostly, they do…’

  ‘Right. I better go in that case – and don’t forget to keep those flowers...’

  ‘I won’t...’

  Reluctantly I watch him drive away. Then after he’s gone, Skye and I tear over to the village of Nettledown in the van with our precious cargo of wedding flowers. After dropping off bouquets to the delighted second bride, we’re off to the reception venues. First off is a lovely old barn on a farm, a fabulous setting complete with fields of sheep bleating noisily. The tables are draped with hessian and laid with mismatched glass and china, giving it an olde worlde rustic sort of charm. Placing our flowers in the centre, when all the tiny candles on the tables are lit, along with the fairy lights on all the beams, I know the effect will be magical.

  Wedding number two, however, is another matter. It’s at Barnsley House, a grand and extremely expensive country house hotel. This time, the tables are covered with starched white linen and laid with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. Classy, you’d think. Again, our flowers look great but the effect is totally ruined because every last square inch of the table is covered with the kind of tacky wed
ding paraphernalia that even the sanest people go mad for. On every available square inch, shiny foil stars and hearts are done to death, with the ubiquitous sugar almonds in net bags which no-one touches and those disposable cameras in the wedding colours, even though everyone has a mobile.

  Still, each to their own. But one day, if I get married, and I hope that day will come, it will be a simple, tasteful affair. There’ll be no tat, no fuss, not one tiny heart-shaped glittery bit of plastic, just a massive teepee beside a lake…with me, walking barefoot in a gorgeous, flowy sort of dress and my hair just so, and my handsome husband will whirl me around under the stars and promise to love me forever.

  I’m losing the plot – I must be, thinking about my non-existent wedding, when as of today, I don’t even have a boyfriend.

  7

  It’s only mid-afternoon when we finish, but not surprisingly, I’m exhausted. I haven’t given him a thought until now, but suddenly I remember Greg. As I go up the steps to my flat, I don’t even realise I’m holding my breath, but mercifully, when I open the door, it’s empty. He’s decamped to a mate’s, he tells me in a scribbled note I can barely read, with not so much as a thank you – but then, I did chuck him out and he clearly hadn’t been expecting it.

  I feel a wave of guilt as I look around. There are no dirty plates to be seen. He’s even tidied the kitchen and opened a window. Was I hasty? Maybe, but my overriding emotion is one of relief, because already I’m struggling to remember what I saw in him. I take a deep breath and sit on my lovely, empty sofa - and I smile.

  Then, as my new marathon-training regime seems to have gone out of the window these last few days, which isn’t impressive in such early stages, instead of collapsing there for the rest of the evening, I leap up again and go to get my trainers.

  I step out of my flat into one of those evenings where the air feels alive, softly brushing against my skin and rustling the leaves as I go.