by Ali Harris
I explain to him. ‘I made a decision, Ad. Going back on my word would be like . . . it’d be like . . . retracting my wedding vows. You know: Oh sorry, Ad, here’s your ring back, I’m afraid something better has come along!’
He shakes his head firmly. ‘It wouldn’t, Bea. It would be grabbing the chance you deserve. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day – and they happen for a reason.’ He takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘To good people.’
I look at him longingly. I want to believe him so badly, but . . .
‘If he hasn’t already made a decision, change your mind. Talk to Nick. Arrange another meeting. Tell him how perfect you are for the job. Don’t run away from this opportunity.’
I stare at Adam and can feel myself filling with not just resolve, but confidence. Adam always does this for me. His faith in me makes me feel able to do anything.
‘You really think I can do it?’
He nods. ‘I think you’re meant to do it.’
August
Dear Bea
August is a time of transition. It provides the link between the secure days of summer and the onset of unpredictable autumn. Temperatures often remain high and inevitably some plants (and people) will show signs of stress. Often this is nothing that a holiday can’t cure. But sometimes more drastic moves are required to ensure plants flourish.
No matter where I may be in the world and what beauty lies before me, I know I will always think of the majestic sight of the Norfolk coastline at this time of year. I’ll only have to close my eyes to picture the purple halo of sea aster and lavender surrounding Holkham Bay, the spiky patches of shrubby sea-blite so characteristic of our coastline, and the bright yellow horned poppies, scarlet pimpernel and sea campion in full bloom. Norfolk will always be my home. And I will never forget it . . . or you.
Love, Dad x
Chapter 29
Bea Bishop is all over the shop!
‘How are you getting on with those bouquets?’ Sal calls from the shop front where she’s getting all the buckets and displays ready for opening. I’m surrounded by stems, busily beribboning the last of the bouquets that are due to be delivered this morning.
‘Just got one more to do!’ I call.
It’s amazing how I’ve settled into the swing of my new job. Sal has quickly given me more responsibility and I often arrive at the crack of dawn to receive and unpack nursery deliveries which then have to be conditioned, watered and arranged – or put in the refrigerator at the back of the shop. I print out the online orders that have come in overnight, jotting them down on our white board along with ideas to update floral plans and notes on any big events we’re providing flowers for. Several corporate events companies in the area use us – as well as a local design company we have a close relationship with, not to mention catering companies and wedding planners who recommend our bridal bouquets and displays. So we’re always busy, even when there are no customers in the shop.
I continue cutting back some yellow irises and thinking that, with her bright, bleached blonde hair and friendly, driven personality Sal’s very much like this flower that symbolises passion. She loves her job and is brilliant at it. She attacks every single chore like she attacks the prospect of single motherhood, bravely and confidently and decisively. I think of Dad and how he used to explain to me in detail each flower, plant and shrub that grew in the garden, giving each one a story and a personality – and I remember my hunger to learn as much about them as possible. It’s probably why I’ve always compared flowers to people. It’s ironic that the only person I can’t compare one to is Dad. Apart from the diary he’s a stranger to me now. But I feel closer to him, doing this job, than I have for years. In unlocking my passion for plants and flowers after years of trying to do an office job, I’ve unlocked my memories of him too. It’s starting to feel like fate that I found his diary and then this job.
I place my final bouquet carefully in a bucket of water and take my tea gratefully from Sal, who’s on the phone to her dad. I stare at her for a moment as she tells him all her news. Maybe I find myself thinking of my dad more because Sal’s is so present in her life. He rings her every day, no matter where he is. Sal said that he’s been her rock ever since her mum died when she was fourteen. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for her. I mean, Dad leaving was tough but I was young and I had time to get used to it before I hit my teens. Plus, I always had someone to blame. Myself, mostly, Loni sometimes and, very occasionally, Dad too. But who can you blame when someone dies? I clutch the counter, feeling my legs weaken as an image of Kieran walking away from me, pushing his way through hospital doors and then disappearing into the black, black night, comes into my mind. I can’t stop it, just like I couldn’t stop his brother Elliot from jumping – or drowning.
The doorbell tinkles and I wipe my eyes on my pink apron and try to compose myself.
‘Sal?’ I call out, hoping that she can go. But she doesn’t answer. I take three deep breaths before walking out into the shop with a welcoming smile on my face.
I let the customer browse the buckets and displays for a minute but I can tell he has no idea what he’s looking for.
‘Can I help?’ I say in a warm voice and he turns and looks at me. I’d say he’s in his early forties. He’s tall and has that air of importance, of someone used to being in charge. I reckon he works in the City – he looks like someone Milly might work with. His watch is expensive and his suit looks it too. His face is drawn – maybe from tiredness, or misery, or both. His shoulders are steeply sloped and he looks thinner than he should. This is definitely a man under quite a lot of stress.
‘It’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow and I – I need to come up with something pretty special. It’s – it’s not been a very good year for us.’
I nod. On my first day Sal told me all about the art of listening to customers. ‘We’re not just dealing with bouquets,’ she’d explained. ‘We’re dealing with love and grief and thanks and joy and guilt.’ Then she’d added, ‘Remember, it’s always easy to spot a man who’s in trouble. The trick is to work out how much he’s in and what you need to do to get him out of it.’
‘I understand,’ I say soothingly now. By the look of the man I’m fairly sure he’s got something pretty big to apologise for. But I can’t judge him. I have to remain neutral, friendly. ‘Flowers are the perfect way to express emotion—’ I put my hand over my mouth as he bursts into tears. ‘Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, did I – did I say something wrong?’
He rubs his eyes and shakes his head. ‘No, no, it’s not that, it’s just that’s exactly what I want to be able to say to her but I can’t. Ever since we got her diagnosis, she won’t let me tell her how much I love her, or let me care for her. She’s just carrying on like everything’s normal and I can’t deal with it!’ I glance anxiously at Sal who has peered out from the back. I can’t believe I got this poor guy so wrong. I presumed he’d had an affair or something when he’s actually just trying to care for his sick wife. I feel terrible.
I gently lead him by the arm to our consultation area, sit him down and prepare to listen.
‘So why don’t you start by telling me everything you feel about your wife,’ I say softly. ‘And together we’ll find the right flowers . . .’
Chapter 30
At 7.30 p.m. I walk into Quo Vadis and head up to the elegant, art deco-style private room that’s been booked for Milly and Jay’s leaving party.
I hover by the doorway for a moment now, feeling overwhelmed by the throbbing mass of people here and wishing that Adam was by my side. I’ve never liked big crowds and never more so than now. Tonight I have to face up to the people I haven’t seen since the wedding, Adam’s colleagues who will all be here for Jay, friends of Milly’s. Mutual friends of Adam and Jay’s. Possibly George. After all, Adam’s dad is known to never say no to a work night out.
I’m not going to feel sorry for myself though. Not after my humbling experience at work today. After
all, who am I to wallow in my own mistakes when there are people in this world dealing with problems that they have no control over? Grief, illness, break-ups . . . Fleetingly, I wonder what Adam’s doing right now. I still can’t believe he’s taken a sabbatical from Hudson & Grey. It seems so out of character. Milly told me that he’s doing a road trip across America, taking time out to work out what he wants from life now the future he’d imagined has changed so drastically. I think of her and Jay’s move to New York; it looks like things have changed for all of us.
I take a deep breath, think of Loni and try to channel some calming, yogic energy. But it doesn’t help. I’m dreading this party and much as I would prefer to be anywhere but here, at the same time, I wouldn’t miss Milly’s leaving party for the world. She’s my best friend and I’m doing this to support her. For once in my life I’m not taking the coward’s way out.
I walk into the throng and quickly end up in the centre of the room, swallowed up by bustling, beautiful people. I edge over to the bar and stand on tiptoe for a moment to see if I can see Milly’s bobbing sleek black hair amongst the crowd. I feel like I will be safe when I reach her, but all I can see are a mass of expensive handbags, sparkling jewellery and men in slick suits. I squeeze my slightly sweaty palms together and wish that I had seriously considered Milly’s offer to borrow something from her wardrobe. I’d felt smart and summery and kind of . . . well, ‘me’ when I left the flat in faded jeans, a floaty top and gladiator sandals. I tied my short hair in stubby French plaits that I thought looked nice for a night out. I realise now that I seriously underestimated the dress code – and the guest list – for this occasion. Because all the great, good and glamorous of London’s advertising, media, business and finance worlds appear to be here.
‘BEA!’ Milly calls. ‘You’re here!’ I wave joyously as I see her pushing through the crowd, glass of champagne in hand. She looks beautiful in a billowing, empire-line maxi dress with gold jewellery and sparkling gold heels. It’s not her usual style: she wears much more structured stuff, but it really suits her. I’m so relieved to see her that it takes me a moment to realise that the room has hushed and the atmosphere has grown what can only be described as hostile. That’s when I see the staring faces, familiar faces I’d last seen smiling and wearing fabulous fascinators and top hats on my wedding day.
Milly envelops me in an embrace. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispers. ‘I know how hard this must be for you.’
‘Hard?’ I whisper back. ‘I’m Loni’s daughter, remember? Attention-seeking, public-laundry-washing runs in the family!’ I swallow, my fake bravado suddenly gone as I stare over her shoulder at the guests, most of them whispering loudly to each other.
Milly squeezes me and guides me over to the bar, away from her three female work friends who look like they are about to burst with undisguised glee that finally they’ll get the gossip on what happened to my wedding. All of them are single and never went to the trouble of hiding their annoyance that someone like me – a lowly, unimportant, plain-looking temp – could bag a man like Adam Hudson.
‘Just ignore them all,’ Milly advises. ‘You’re here with me. Come on, let’s get you a drink. Bubbles?’ she says and I nod gratefully, thanking her with a smile for her kindness.
Five minutes later, Milly and I are safely ensconced in the corner of the room on a sofa. I can hear a conversation between two women standing to the left of us in which the words ‘runaway’ and ‘bride’ seem to be coming up regularly. I sink further down in the seat.
‘They’ll get over it if they see you’re not bothered,’ Milly says quickly and pulls me up. I remember her saying the same to me when she was trying to get me to go back to school to finish my A levels after my breakdown.
‘Is Adam coming?’ I ask as I rearrange myself on the seat.
Milly shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t do that to you both. Besides, he’s still travelling, but he promised Jay he’d come and visit us in New York.’
‘Oh,’ I say, feeling my heart sink unexpectedly. I have to remind myself it is a good thing that I don’t have to face Adam tonight in such a public place. But I realise that it was him I was thinking of when I got dressed for the party. You don’t spend seven years with someone and just switch off your feelings, even if you were the one who walked – sorry, ran away. ‘You’ll all be in New York together,’ I point out to Milly miserably.
‘So come over too,’ she says impatiently. ‘After all, there’s nothing keeping you here now. You could still get Adam back, you know, it’s not too late . . .’
‘I don’t want him back,’ I say with an assurance I don’t feel. ‘I need to move on with my life.’
‘If you say so,’ she shrugs. ‘But how exactly are you going to do that?’
‘With my new job!’
She looks at me sympathetically. ‘You don’t have to pretend to me, Bea. I feel awful about leaving you like this. I know you’re still having a hard time. I wish I could be here for you. Help you get back on your feet . . .’ She studies me for a moment with her sharp gaze and her features soften. Milly is different with me than she is with other people. I know she’s considered a bulldog at work – and with friends. She’s impatient, stubborn, direct and yet with me – and Jay, in fact – she is softer, more forgiving, always prone to protection rather than attack. I don’t know what sort of pathetic image I must display to incite this treatment – that’s a lie, I do. But nevertheless I’m determined to prove to her – and myself – that I can go it alone.
‘Milly, you have already done way more than I deserve. You’re letting me stay in your old flat rent-free. Seriously,’ I say tearfully, clutching her hand, ‘I don’t really know how I can ever thank you . . .’
‘Don’t!’ Milly says, waving her other hand in front of her face.
I catch her hand and hold it as I look into her eyes. ‘I’m going to miss you so much but I promise you, I am going to be all right.’
‘I’ll miss you too,’ she says in a choked voice. Then she sniffs. ‘Ugh, I cannot be seen crying in public. It’ll ruin my ball-breaking reputation. And besides, we’ll see each other soon. I’ll pay for you to visit me . . .’
‘I’ll save up,’ I tell her.
‘On your flower shop salary?’ Milly says doubtfully. ‘I mean, I’m not being funny, Bea, but that might take a while.’
I bite my lip before I answer. ‘Listen, I know I don’t have a big salary Milly, but this job feels like the first good decision I’ve made in years. I really think that I might finally be on the right path.’
‘Good,’ Milly says but she doesn’t look convinced. ‘Well, I guess I’d better mingle,’ she adds, standing up. ‘Will you be all right on your own?’
‘Tonight, or always?’ I joke. She doesn’t smile. ‘Of course I will!’ I say brightly. She looks at me, the worry evident in her eyes, then shakes her head and gets swallowed up in her party whilst I stand and look on, alone.
Chapter 31
I sit back on my haunches and gaze around me at Milly’s garden. It’s only been a week since she left but in that time the suffocating heat of summer has hit its height and I’ve made the most of my spare time away from the flower shop by being out here, taking solace in digging and weeding, planting and pruning. I gather up the cuttings and survey my work. I’ve fed the roses, pruned the early-flowering geraniums and pulled out loads of black vine weevils. I’ve hoed bare patches of soil, cut back overgrown bushes and perennials and tended the flowering clematis – I couldn’t help but think of our roof terrace, and wonder if Adam had remembered to do the same. Then I remembered he wasn’t even there. He’d gone.
I’m soccer-punched by a memory.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone!’ Kieran sobs as I stroke his hair, my own tears and the sterile hospital smell almost choking me.
I blink and come back to the present. In the last few days I’ve been getting more and more of these flashbacks to the night Elliot died. I try to push the memory away.<
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‘Focus on the flowers,’ I murmur to myself. Ever since I moved in three months ago, found Dad’s gardening diary and began digging the earth out here, I’ve felt like I’m digging through my past. I glance down at the little blue book lying by my side, the pages fluttering in the breeze. Dad’s slanted scrawl and diagrams are as familiar as if they were my own, even though I hadn’t seen them for years until I moved back here. I pick up the diary and clutch it to my chest and then to my nose as I inhale the musty scent of memories.
I catch a glimpse of the platinum ring I’m wearing on my right hand. I tentatively put it back on when I found it again in the suitcase along with the diary. It is Loni’s wedding ring. The one I’d stopped her throwing in the sea after she kicked Dad out. The same one I’d worn for a year after Kieran left as part of our promise not to forget each other.
I take it off now and roll it between my thumb and forefinger as I think about Kieran turning up at my wedding. Was I too quick to send him away? Should I have given him more of a chance to talk? Listened to him, like I listened in the shop to the man who was nursing his sick wife?
I put the ring back on, marvelling at how it feels at once unfamiliar yet comfortable, as if it made an invisible impression when I wore it for that year, a groove on my skin that has never gone away, despite the time that has passed. Putting it back on is like opening up the portal to my past. I close my eyes, thinking about the days of that summer that Kieran and I spent counting the many reasons we were meant to be, honing our love story like we would be telling it for years to come.
‘I wasn’t going to come here this summer, you know,’ Kieran had said one afternoon when we were lying on Wells beach, in front of one of the little beach huts, pretending we owned it. He rolled onto his stomach, displaying his oak-brown back, and gazed up at me through his eyelashes. His eyes were hypnotically green; I remember thinking that I could lose myself forever in them. ‘Elliot got us jobs at this pub in Devon but on the day we were meant to drive down from where we were staying in Dorset, I turned the camper round and headed in a different direction. Completely spur of the moment.’ He blinked at me, lashes brushing his dark skin as he lit a cigarette, exhaling the smoke as easily as he’d told the story. ‘It was like I was being pulled by a magnetic force. Then, when I met you, I knew what, or rather who, it was I’d been drawn to . . .’
