It satisfies him and this time I’m a little more subtle with my sniffing and he doesn’t notice, just smiles into my hair and holds me tighter.
The song comes to an end all too soon and everyone breaks into loud applause as Pete and his guys take a bow. Then he does something else that amazes me.
‘We’re going to take a break,’ he announces over the applause, ‘before we’re back for part two. Don’t go away!’
I can’t believe he’s doing the rest of the evening. What he’s done already is totally awesome. But I realise too, I owe him an apology.
Reluctantly I pull away from Alex, who keeps hold of my hand as if he doesn’t want me to go anywhere. ‘I’m really sorry, Alex, but there’s someone I really need to talk to. Would you excuse me, just a moment?’
And with that, leaving him standing there for the second time this evening, I go to look for Pete.
Pete’s halfway through a pint of lemonade when I catch him up by the bar and to my embarrassment, he sees me before I reach him.
‘Hey! Frankie! Come and meet the guys!’ he bellows, grabbing me in a bear hug. ‘We’re having a blast – playing like this is just like the old days, I can’t tell you!’
‘Pete, I need to talk to you – somewhere more quiet,’ I say urgently. ‘Just quickly…’
‘See! Just as in demand as I ever was,’ he chortles at his mates. ‘Be right back!’
I take him backstage.
‘I’m so sorry, Pete – but I had absolutely no idea that Lulubelle was your daughter… You have to believe me.’
His air of bonhomie fades and his face becomes serious. ‘Is she here?’
But as I open my mouth, a voice behind me speaks clearly. ‘Hello, Daddy.’
I stare from one to the other. ‘Look, I’ll just get back to the others,’ I say hastily. ‘I’m sure you two have plenty to…’
But as I walk past her, Lulubelle touches my arm. ‘Frankie, stay… please…’
I feel terrible - that I’ve forced them both into such an awkward situation. But Pete only has eyes for his daughter. Sorrowful, bright eyes, I notice, brimming over with regret.
‘How’ve you been?’ His voice is gruff.
‘Fine.’ She nods.
‘And your nipper?’
‘Better at the moment – he has leukaemia.’
But far from being shocked, he just nods. Then I see – all along, he’s known. He’s quietly kept tabs on her. He’d known when I asked him what it would mean if he came and played tonight. That was the reason he hesitated. He’d been forced to choose between his daughter and the charity that means so much to them - both. And all because of me.
It’s why Maria made such a huge donation to Briarwood. All without Lulubelle knowing, and like a thunderbolt I realise, that fame and celebrity are not what it’s about. That things done in secret with the best of intentions mean so much more.
‘That’s good,’ Pete nods. He studies her. ‘Look, I better get back to the others, but later on…’
But Lulubelle walks towards him, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek. ‘Thank you, so much, for doing this.’
He nods silently, then walks away.
33
When I eventually awake on Sunday, I lie in bed a moment, remembering the most wonderful, fabulous evening with good friends and fantastic food and dancing. Apart from sitting next to Ryan, which was as pleasurable as pulling teeth.
But I can honestly say dancing with Alex numbed the pain of Ryan into oblivion.
It’s funny how things turn out. Who’d have thought Lulubelle was Bella Mac, teen rock princess, daughter of the famous Pete? When she told me, I thought I’d burst if I didn’t tell someone but actually, in the cold light of day, I totally get it. Because once the world catches on that she’s that elusive thing called celebrity, suddenly her life won’t be her own. Everywhere she goes, she’d be recognised – and the other downside is snakes in the grass like Josh, who’d sell their Granny to the Germans for a story.
But last night was fun… Seeing Honey and Johnny together - nifty dancers they are too. Almost, but not quite, as good as Nina and Will. I yawn. And dancing with Alex was very nice… Only I did play rather hard to get. Too hard to get? Does it even matter? I already know what he thinks of me, except I’m beginning to wonder, if just maybe, he’s changing his mind for some reason. After all, would he have spent all evening with me if he didn’t like me, just a bit...
And then my ponderings are interrupted by my mobile, which means I have to drag myself out of bed to go and find it.
‘Frankie?’ Lulubelle sounds anxious.
‘Yes? Oh no! What is it?’ I say. Oh no! What have I done now...
‘We raised fifty grand! I had to tell you! I’ve been up for hours counting! Isn’t it brilliant? Of course, it’s not completely finalised, but that’s what’s been pledged…’
‘Wow! That’s just…’ Words fail me and then I remember I haven’t told her.
‘Your flowers are on the house too – one of my brides did a runner and told us to do what we wanted with the flowers, so Skye flogged them and the proceeds paid for last night’s flowers.’
‘Oh Frankie…’ She sounds overcome. ‘I can’t believe it. You… everyone’s… been so generous…’
‘Oh, we all had a ball,’ I tell her. ‘It was a fab evening, it really was.’
‘That’s in no small part down to you, Frankie. If you hadn’t called my father, I don’t know what we would have done. Last night… I know I was a bit…’
‘Upset?’ I offer.
‘I was going to say ungrateful,’ she says. ‘And really, I’m not. You completely saved the day. And maybe, it was good for me too. Daddy and I will talk at some point now… so from the bottom of my heart, thank you.’
But she needn’t have said that. Just being part of raising all that dosh for Briarwood is the best feeling in the world. This time I know I’ll burst if I don’t tell someone so I call Alice, who brings me down to earth with a bump.
‘Guess what?’ I say when she answers.
‘You’ve got a hangover or shagged a new man,’ she says ungraciously.
‘You okay, Al? Only you sound a bit…’
‘Hormonal?’ she positively screams down the phone at me. ‘Go on, say it Frankie, just like everyone else…’ And with that, she slams the phone down.
I sit there, slightly shell-shocked and leap out of my skin when the phone rings again, almost immediately.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Alice, humbly this time. ‘I’m having a shit day – want to come over?’
There’s nothing quite like an invitation to share somebody else’s shit day, so I go. She’s on her own – it seems Dave has whisked Martha away on an outing.
‘Whatever is it?’ I say, handing her the bunch of daisies and herbs I picked up from the shop on the way. It’s carefully chosen too - if I don’t watch myself, I’ll be turning into another Mrs Orange.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘They’re pretty.’
‘Rosemary,’ I tell her, ‘for remembrance, daisies for loyal love and purity, and mint for…’
‘For what?’
‘Can’t remember,’ I lie. Mint is for suspicion, but it’s a pretty shade of green and it smells nice. ‘Happiness, I think? I’m not sure.’
Actually, I’ve started getting quite into flower meanings – though clearly, I need some practice. After all, I’ve seen what happens when you get it wrong... I sneak the mint out when she’s not looking – just in case.
‘So what’s up? You still haven’t told me…’
‘It’s Dave. Or me. Both of us.’
‘You’re not getting divorced?’ I cry, horrified. ‘Al! You can’t possibly! Think of Martha – and you and Dave… you were made for each other.’
She frowns at me. ‘Who said anything about divorce?’
‘Oh… I just put two and two together and thought because everyone else is…’
‘Dave and I are not everyone e
lse, Frankie. God, I can’t believe you even thought that. Divorce! Honestly…’
‘Then for goodness sake tell me what it is.’ I’m getting exasperated.
‘It’s just… well, I want another baby and Dave isn’t so sure. And in a way, I do understand. You know how practical he is – and children are expensive. Just, well, I’d like Martha to grow up with a little brother or sister. And you know how impulsive I am. Anyway, I threw my pills away, which caused a row.’
‘Oh. Can’t you just fish them out of the bin? They’re in foil – they’ll be fine.’
‘They’re not in the bin. I popped them out and flushed them.’ She goes a bit pink, then giggles.
‘That’s not very mature of you,’ I tell her, thinking golly, maybe the mint wasn’t too far off the mark after all… ‘No wonder Dave’s cross. It’s a big decision, Al – one you should make together. I think you owe him an apology.’
‘I know. You’re right. I don’t know what came over me. Actually, I think I feel a bit dizzy…’ She sighs deeply and sits on one of the chairs.
‘Al? Stay there - I’ll get you some water.’ She has gone rather pale. She sips it slowly then turning a chalky shade of grey, bolts for the loo.
She’s gone a while and as I sit there, it dawns on me. Flushing the pills away, the row with Dave, just maybe, it’s like shutting the stable door when the horse has bolted.
‘Are you ill?’ I say pointedly, when she comes back into the kitchen.
She shakes her head.
‘Boobs?’ I ask her and she nods, looking confused.
‘Pregnancy test?’
Her jaw drops.
When she comes back in holding the little stick that says she’s pregnant, her face is even paler. ‘He’ll think I did it on purpose.’
I leave her, ever so slightly concerned she might be right. But that evening, when she calls me, she sounds more like her normal self again – well, as normal as is possible for Alice in the early stages of pregnancy. The trouble is I remember her last pregnancy only too well. Worse than the worst bridezilla, her mood swings were a total nightmare, which was probably the real reason Dave didn’t want another one.
‘It’s ok,’ she whispers down the phone. ‘When he and Martha got home, he didn’t let me speak, just told me he’d been a prick and that another baby would make our family complete. So I told him…’
‘Oh my God!’ I squeak.
‘He was gobsmacked – but pleased, Frankie. Really pleased. We haven’t told Martha, just in case – you know – early days and all that. I just wanted you to know. Thanks for coming over earlier. And sorry for being so horrible.’
‘Get lots of rest,’ I tell her. ‘And try to relax – you know – chamomile tea, aromatherapy massages, long walks… You need to keep the stress down, Al…’
‘Funny,’ she says. ‘That’s exactly what Dave said.’
34
So starts the busiest week of my life. No lazy Monday for me this week and by eight in the morning I’m in the shop to check there won’t be any problems with my flower order.
‘Chill,’ says Milo. ‘Everyfing’s fine. Even got that honeysuckle and what with it being October like…’
‘Thank you,’ I say, with relief. ‘Very much.’
Across the road, Mr Crowley’s opening up and I nip over to buy myself some breakfast. After all, to get through this week, I need to fuel myself. Collecting a hot bacon roll and some fruit, when I go to pay, there’s a new girl sitting behind the till.
I wait while she finishes filing her nails, then she fixes me with a hostile stare.
‘Got your own bags today or are you carrying?’ she says with no pre-amble, daring me to give her the wrong answer.
‘Er, carrying?’ I stutter, because she’s quite scary. Knowing Mr Crowley, she’s probably on some reverse commission for every bag she doesn’t use.
Clutching at my apples and pears, I stumble back to the shop and inside the door, drop them all just as Skye walks in.
‘Here – like what you doing?’ she asks.
‘There’s a bag-hitler,’ I say rattily, because my pears are already turning brown and my apples will be ruined too. ‘Behind the till in Demelza’s, filing her nails to scratch your eyes out if you don’t carry, as she puts it.’
Skye shakes her head. ‘Sod that for a game of soldiers. Want a cuppa?’
Honey comes in just after nine looking all dreamy and far away, which irritates me. What I need is hard work and efficiency.
‘Honey!’ I snap. ‘You’re late.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ she says. ‘What would you like me to do?’
‘Buckets,’ I tell her. ‘Skye – can you unpack the candelabras?’
‘What are you doing?’ says Honey. I know she’s fed up with doing buckets and I know she’s awfully clever, but she has to understand that it’s a rite of passage. If she doesn’t do them until she’s dreaming about them, she can never, ever be a florist.
‘Lists,’ I say promptly. ‘Okay? Any questions? I think we should get to work…’
It’s only Monday, but a huge delivery of foliage and herbs arrives after lunch, from a local grower who sells to select florists, like me. And it’s grown in a proper garden instead of a glasshouse or a polytunnel, so it looks completely natural.
But as we unpack it, Honey stares in horror.
‘You can’t use that for a wedding,’ she tells me. ‘The leaves are different sizes. And they’re messy. Don’t you want ruscus or something a bit tidier? Those have come off trees…’
She’s got more to learn than I realised.
‘Today, Honey, in fact this whole week, we’re not on a floristry course,’ I tell her. ‘Think of it like this. You are going to be an artist, painting a scene with beautiful leaves and flowers – with a church and marquee as your canvas. No rules, no neat posies and absolutely no wiring at all. Comprende?’
But she still looks baffled.
‘Come with me,’ I tell her. I pull out my huge Daniel Ost book which cost me a fortune and is one of my most treasured possessions. I turn the pages to show her what I mean. His work is pure genius – he sculpts and weaves and styles, and though I don’t have a fraction of his skill, I have a vision in my mind of what I’m trying to do and at last I find the picture.
‘See?’ I say triumphantly, as Honey peers more closely. It’s a stunning vista, using moss, autumn leaves, twigs, acorns, berries – and just a few flowers, here and there.
‘See?’ I say again more loudly. ‘They don’t teach you that in floristry school but you don’t need flowers at all.’
She’s quiet after that and does as she’s told, and with everything safely in buckets, we’re on target. The next two days follow a similar pattern – the lull before the storm that is every big wedding, where suddenly there aren’t enough hours and you wonder what made you think you could ever do this.
On Thursday we assemble the table arrangements – big, metal urns overflowing with the riches of nature – little crab apples, dry fronds of bracken, scented roses in shades of pink and orange, leaves starting to take on the hues of autumn… There are twenty of them in all – one for every table.
Then Friday – into the fray we go. For the first time in my life, I thank God for inventing the work experience student, because this lot are really useful, though probably because they’re scared to death of Honey.
‘Juno! Minty!’ she positively bellows at them. ‘Get a move on,’ which makes me cringe.
‘Excuse me,’ I remind her, ‘They may be your classmates, but I’m running the show, okay? Now go and help them.’
It takes two hours of blood, sweat and toil to lug everything through the woods and into the church before we even start the decorating but many hands really do make light work and it’s like a speeded up film as before my eyes, our transformation takes shape.
But not without interruptions, because no matter where you happen to be, if you’re arranging flowers, people always stop and talk t
o you – especially in churches. Especially when they’ve done flowers themselves. And today is no exception.
The first time it’s a bumptious black labrador followed by a small noisy woman wearing tweeds. The dog sniffs around and cocks its leg on one of the buckets.
‘Jolly good thing that was empty,’ I point out to the owner, who looks quite unabashed.
‘Reminds of when I used to do flowers at All Hallows,’ she tells me rather knowingly. Here we go… ‘Had this ghastly bride who wanted all these fancy things. I can never understand why they don’t make do with chrysanthemums…’
Only for once, I cut her short. I have to. ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry but we have simply tons to do and I really must get on…’
It’s back-breakingly, hard work - but when we’ve finished, it’s everything I’d hoped it would be, and in the rays of evening sun through the stain glass windows, it’s as if an enchanted forest has grown up inside, creeping up the walls and columns. It looks wild and alive in there. I can’t wait for Maria to see it.
As we finish clearing up, my mobile rings – Lulubelle.
‘Sorry Frankie, I expect you’re really busy…’
‘No – just tidying up actually. Everything okay?’
‘Yes – actually. I’ve made a decision though.’ I’ve no idea what she’s talking about.
‘About tomorrow…’ she adds, which doesn’t leave me any the wiser.
‘I’m going. To Daddy’s wedding.’
Enlightenment dawns on me. ‘Ohhh… I see. Well, good for you. I think that’s… really good,’ I say, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic. It’s early days, after all.
‘Only, I was wondering – would you come with me? I was going to ask Matty, but then I thought I’d rather not – not until Daddy and I have properly talked – so I suddenly thought I’d ask you. But you don’t have to,’ she says in a rush.
Not go? Is she mad? Oh my giddy aunt. Me, Frankie the humble florist going to Pete and Maria’s wedding? I can’t believe it.
‘But won’t they mind? I mean – I’m their florist, Lulubelle…’
Wildflowers Page 21
