Flora's Lot

by Katie Fforde

  In the kitchen, Flora had all the makings of a wonderful supper. Two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand, as recommended by the nice man in the off-licence, were in the fridge. To have with it, she had made lacy parmesan wafers, which had involved a lot of testing, they were so delicious. Smoked salmon on blinis with sour cream and pancetta were laid out on a very pretty platter, another car-boot find, and she had even sprinkled a few beads of lumpfish roe, in lieu of caviar, on the top, for decorative effect. As a main course they were going to have a William-inspired salad, enhanced with bits and pieces from the garden, chicken breasts poached in white vermouth with a lemon sauce, and accompanying it, in case it looked too much like diet food, was potato salad with home-made mayonnaise sprinkled with chives. For pudding she had made a raspberry pavlova, using the egg whites from the mayonnaise and raspberries given to her by Geoffrey and Edie when they heard her mother was coming. Everyone was looking forward to meeting her.

  Restraining the kittens with difficulty, Flora climbed back out into the garden. It was such a beautiful evening she thought it would be nice to eat at the little table and chairs Charles had brought her, when she first moved here. It seemed a lifetime ago, and in a way it was - her life had changed so irrevocably since.

  At last Flora saw a car appearing along the lane and rushed out so she was there the moment her mother got her first foot out of the car.

  ‘Sorry, darling, I got a bit lost,' said her mother and crushed her daughter so tightly she couldn't breathe.

  ‘Mummy!' said Flora, reverting to a form of address she hadn't used for years. 'It's so lovely to see you!' Flora hung on to her mother a little longer than she would have normally because she found herself weeping a little, and didn't want her mother to see. She wanted to be the adult daughter one hundred per cent.

  ‘Let me take your bag. Oh, it's so nice having you here!’

  Hermione Stanza looked about her. 'Isn't this pretty! Darling, no wonder you're so happy here.' She gave her daughter a quick glance and frowned a little.

  Flora hoped her mother couldn't tell she hadn't been sleeping properly. She'd made such an effort to sound totally enthusiastic about everything in her emails and phone calls, she didn't want to reveal anything untoward when face to face. After all, her vague, underlying unhappiness was totally illogical. It wasn't fair to worry her mother with it when she couldn't do anything to help.

  ‘Come on in. I've got a bottle of wine in the fridge. Goodness, this bag is heavy! What have you got in it?'

  ‘A bottle of vodka, some gin and sweet Martini so we can cobble together some Pimm's and some lemonade, in case you didn't think to buy any. Oh and a dessert wine - Muscat and Flora, because it had your name on it.'

  ‘Oh Mum, you're a star!’

  Hermione needed a guided tour. She loved her bedroom, which Flora had made very pretty, and she adored the posy. She approved of the various unguents Flora had put in the bathroom, as well as the huge jug of cow-parsley that Flora put at the end of the bath.

  ‘And this is my bedroom. And that's the cupboard where Imelda had her kittens.'

  ‘But, darling! It's full of shoes!'

  ‘I know. Imelda likes shoes. I had to clean out each one afterwards.' Her mother made an uncomfortable noise. 'Let's go downstairs and have a drink.’

  *

  They were both quite tipsy and had eaten the parmesan wafers and the smoked-salmon blinis when they saw a vehicle come down the lane. It was Charles.

  ‘I'm so sorry to interrupt,' he said as he got out and saw them sitting in the garden, surrounded by plates and bottles, 'but I wanted to come and say hello to Hermione. It's been a while since we met.’

  Flora's mother got to her feet in order to embrace Charles, who leant down and hugged her.

  ‘It's been years, Charles,' said Hermione, 'but I'm going to resist the temptation to tell you that you've grown. Have you eaten? Come and join us. There seems to be masses of food.’

  Flora smiled, feeling suddenly very shy. 'The trouble is, I can only do recipes for four people or over. I've never got the hang of half measures. There is loads.’

  Charles looked at his watch. 'Well, I haven't eaten. I'll just give Annabelle a ring and see if she's cooked. If she hasn't, I'm sure she'll be glad not to have to.'

  ‘I'll get some things,' said Flora. 'Will you have a glass of wine, or a home-made Pimm's?'

  ‘The Pimm's is a bit strong, I'm afraid,' said Hermione.

  ‘1 couldn't quite remember how my husband makes it. And we've run out of lemonade.'

  ‘A glass of wine would be lovely. Are you sure this isn't all too much trouble?'

  ‘No,' said Flora. 'It's all too much food. You'll be helping us out.’

  Charles came into the house to help. 'There's a chair there you could take,' said Flora, when he asked.

  Charles wasn't showing much interest in chairs. 'I haven't seen the kittens for ages. They've grown up so much!' He picked up the little black one and inspected it while it chewed his finger.

  ‘I thought you'd come to see my mother,' said Flora, feigning indignation. Her heart was warmed by the sight of him with the tiny creatures, although she was still a bit miffed about the black kitten cowering away from her, and yet going to him.

  ‘I did, but the kittens were second on the list.’

  Flora sighed, suddenly wishing she had a place on the list herself. If she had, it was probably about number seven, somewhere after the cottage, the garden and the state of the sitting-room carpet.

  Once they had got back over the barricade with extra things, Flora piled Charles's plate with chicken and potato salad. 'There's another plate there you can put your green salad on if you like,' she said.

  ‘It's wonderful,' mumbled Charles, his mouth full. 'You really can cook, Flora. Or did you do this, Hermione?’

  ‘No, no. It's all Flora.'

  ‘And has Henry sampled your cooking yet?' he asked Flora, once his mouth was empty.

  Flora shook her heard. 'Not yet. We've both been busy. I've been doing a lot of extra rehearsals with choir and with Moira. She's sort of head girl,' she explained. 'Although soon, maybe.' She added this for Charles's benefit as much as anything. Although neither of them had ever referred to it, she was still faintly embarrassed at the thought of the night he'd stayed in the cottage after the storm, and the thought of the long, close hug he'd given her as he'd sent her off to bed made her feel a bit peculiar. All of which meant that, inconvenient as his particular dislike of Henry was, it was far better that he thought she was occupied and in a sort of a relationship than that she was pining for him. Which obviously she wasn't.

  ‘Have some salad, Charles,' said Hermione. 'It's really delicious. Full of all sorts of weeds.’

  Charles heaped some on to his side plate. 'I've experienced Flora's salad before. She gave a dinner party soon after she first arrived.'

  ‘Except William made that salad. I just copied his ideas this time.' She looked at her mother. 'Have you met William? Friend of Emma's?' she asked, wondering whether if you told a lie often enough, it would eventually become the truth, or only for the originator of the lie.

  ‘I don't think so,' said Hermione.

  ‘Oh, well, he's an excellent cook.' Flora went on, 'He's great on cooking food from the wild.' She regarded Charles's side plate. 'You don't have to eat all that if you don't want to.'

  ‘Flora and I will eat the rest of the salad tomorrow. Possibly for lunch, before Flora goes to her concert rehearsal,' said Hermione. 'Are you coming, Charles?'

  ‘Urn . . . I'm not sure I knew about it.'

  ‘Well, you should,' said Flora, suddenly indignant. 'Geoffrey and all your porters, or at least nearly all of them, are in the choir. And there's a huge poster in the window of the office. Anyway I did tell you, ages ago.'

  ‘I've just never had it put in front of my nose, I suppose. And the poster would have its back to me.'

  ‘I think you should go,' declared Hermione. 'Support yo
ur workers. And Flora.'

  ‘Unfortunately, Annabelle and I have been invited out for dinner tomorrow night,' said Charles.

  ‘Oh, OK,' said Flora, disappointed yet relieved. She wasn't really sure she wanted Charles watching her as she stood in the front row, trying to look as if she knew what she was doing.

  ‘Next time, perhaps?' suggested Hermione. 'Definitely next time. You must give me plenty of notice, Flora.’

  Flora indicated she would, knowing it was unlikely she would still be around to be in another concert. This was the choir's last event for a while and by the time the Christmas fixtures started, she would probably have gone back to London. The choir was one of the many things that she would miss terribly.

  ‘Shall we move inside for pudding? I'm getting a bit chilly,' suggested Hermione.

  ‘Good idea,' said Flora. 'I'll get it organised. Bring your chairs and your glasses. We can probably leave the rest.’

  Hermione decided to rescue the salad and a few other bits and pieces as well. By the time they were all back in the house, most of the table outside had been cleared.

  Hermione sat down on the sofa and picked up the nearest kitten. 'Aren't these just adorable?’

  Charles found the black one. 'They are.'

  ‘I haven't managed to stroke that one yet. He's very shy, but he seems OK with you.' Hermione frowned. She was good with cats.

  Charles continued to stroke his kitten. 'It's very unfortunate that Annabelle, my fiancée, has an allergy to them. But I'm still hoping we can have one in the office.'

  ‘You couldn't leave it alone at night while it's still young,' said Flora protectively, clearing a space on a little table.

  ‘Oh, that's all right. I could stay in the flat for a while, until it's a bit older.'

  ‘There's a flat in the office building?' asked Hermione.

  ‘Yes. It's an old town house. We're thinking of putting it on the market, to realise some capital. Or possibly part of it, converted into flats. It was Flora's idea,' said Charles. 'She's been really innovative since she's joined us.'

  ‘Flora always was an ideas person,' said Hermione, glancing at her daughter with pride.

  ‘We were expecting a ditsy blonde,' explained Charles. 'Who knew nothing about auctions and antiques.’

  Flora laughed, and handed him a plate of meringue, raspberries and cream. 'Well, you were right. I am blonde and I did know nothing about antiques or auction houses. I know a bit more now, though. And you hate my teapot.’

  Everyone inspected the ball-of-wool-shaped pot, covered in ceramic kittens.

  ‘Oh, darling, I'd thought you'd given up collecting those,' said Hermione, obviously wishing that Flora had.

  ‘I have to confess I prefer the real thing to the china variety of kitten, but those teapots do have a certain market,' said Charles.

  Flora chuckled softly at this display of tact. He glanced at her and carried on, 'But generally you picked it up very quickly, and you have a great gift with people.'

  ‘There!' said Hermione triumphantly. 'I told you that personal skills were more important than academic qualifications!'

  ‘Thank you, Mother' – Flora handed her mother a loaded plate – 'for more or less telling Charles I didn't do too well in my exams.'

  ‘Exams aren't everything and I'm sure Charles knows that.' Hermione smiled and Flora could almost see Charles softening under the warmth of it.

  ‘Well, I do now,' he said.

  Flora perched on the arm of the sofa where her mother sat. 'These are Geoffrey's raspberries. Dig in.'

  ‘Delicious!' Hermione got to her feet after a short time when the scraping of plates replaced conversation. 'Can I get you some more, Charles?' She took his plate. 'Are you sure? I'll just tidy up the edges and start my diet tomorrow. Have you heard about it? You don't measure calories, just G. I.s or something.' She frowned. 'I haven't finished reading the book, but it's really good! Not that you need to think about anything like that, Flora. I'll go and put the kettle on.'

  ‘Your mother is very like you,' said Charles.

  Flora was used to hearing this. 'Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Very good. She's delightful.’

  Flora smiled. 'She's a fun mother to have, I must say.' She fell silent, suddenly shy. Then she spotted the kitten, curled up on his neck, fast asleep. 'He really likes you. You must have him.'

  ‘Annabelle might become accustomed to him. I've heard of people who are allergic to cats but are all right with their own.’

  Flora sighed. 'But she wouldn't like the process of getting used to him.' She wondered if part of her sub-clinical misery was worry about how well Annabelle and Charles were suited. The thought of Charles spending the rest of his life with the wrong woman was deeply depressing. He deserved to be happy. He worked so hard.

  As if agreeing with her, Charles sighed. 'No, I suppose not. I'll work something out.’

  Flora slid off the arm and on to the sofa. She felt very tired. What she wanted more than anything else in the world was just to fall asleep, next to Charles. She let her eyes close.

  Hermione came in with coffee and peppermint tea. Flora opened her eyes and accepted a mug. Her mother arranged the little table and put Charles's coffee near him.

  ‘I need a shot of caffeine to wake me up,' he said. 'I was getting really drowsy just now. This is really good.'

  ‘I brought the coffee with me. Flora said it isn't always easy to get good coffee down here.'

  ‘Oh, you can't know the proper shops!' said Charles. 'There's a wonderful coffee shop. I must take you there.' 'That would be nice,' said Flora, in a small voice. Why did this casual, almost meaningless invitation mean so much to her? It was ridiculous. After all, Henry would take her to the coffee shop if she asked him.

  Conversation ceased. They sat sipping their drinks, sleeping kittens on their laps, all perfectly content with the silence.

  Eventually Charles got to his feet, detached the kitten and placed it where he had been sitting so it wouldn't feel cold. 'I must go. I've had a lovely evening. Thank you both, so much.’

  He kissed Hermione on the cheek. Flora, he just waved at. For a moment, she experienced a horrid pang of jealousy and hated herself.

  When he was gone, Flora's mother said, 'He's gorgeous! I can quite understand why you're in love with him.’

  Flora burst into tears.

  ‘I'm not in love with him!' she hiccuped. 'He's engaged to Annabelle.'

  ‘I know, darling,' said Hermione sympathetically as she put her arms round her daughter, 'but it's not enough to stop you falling in love with him, is it? It should be, I know, but it doesn't work like that.'

  ‘But really – I mean, he's so stuffy and—'

  ‘He's not stuffy with the kittens,' Hermione pointed out sadly, 'and you told me he's really good at his job. There's something about him, Flo, and I can't blame you for responding to it.'

  ‘Is that what's wrong with me, then? I've been feeling so odd, so discontented, when everything is going so well! I love it down here, and yet I know I can't stay here once Charles and Annabelle are married. Is that because I'm in love with Charles? How awful!' Ever since the storm Flora had done such a good job of persuading herself that she felt nothing more than cousinly affection for Charles that suddenly facing up to the fact that she'd accidentally gone and fallen in love with him was quite a shock. Although she realised it had been true for quite a while now.

  Hermione led her daughter back to the sofa and sat down next to her. 'Tell me everything. Things may not be as bad as they seem.’

  Sadly for Flora, once she'd told Hermione the whole story, her mother agreed with her that things were just as bad as they seemed.

  ‘You could seduce him away from Annabelle,' Hermione suggested tentatively.

  ‘No I can't! He might be perfectly happy with her, and even if he isn't, it would have to be his decision or he'd blame me if anything went wrong. No, I'll just have to go away when the business is going really well, a
nd forget him. I can't stay for the wedding, in November. It would kill me.’

  Hermione sighed. 'It seems a shame.'

  ‘It's a tragedy! But there it is.' She blew her nose on a by now much-used tissue. 'Although if I thought he was happy, I suppose I'd be OK about it. Sad for me but happy for him. Perhaps I could just go away for a bit, and come back.'

  ‘Well, I'm bound to meet Annabelle while I'm here. I'll tell you if I think she's right for Charles, ultimately.'

  ‘But even if she isn't, it's up to him to discover that. I can't do anything about it.' She thought back to what Charles had said the morning after the storm, about the grass only appearing to be greener on the other side and about being a man who stuck to his promises, and realised that even if he did have doubts about his relationship with Annabelle, he'd feel obliged to do the honourable thing and at least give the marriage a very good chance.

  Hermione sighed. 'That is a very grown-up way of looking at it. I think if it were me I might just go all out and seduce him. He obviously likes you.'

  ‘No he doesn't, apart from in a cousinly way. He likes the kittens and feels protective of me, like a big brother might. Which is why he doesn't like me going out with Henry.'

  ‘Tell me about Henry.'

  ‘Oh, he's fine. Very good-looking. And free! Which is quite a major plus. I keep trying to fancy him, but somehow I just don't. Now I know why.'

  ‘I think we should both go to bed. Things won't look so bleak in the morning.’

  What Flora didn't tell her mother was that things always looked bleaker in the morning when, after a night of broken sleep, she awoke, and all her depression -now identified as heartbreak - came flooding back to hit her.

  That night, however, whether because of the alcohol or her mother's comforting presence, Flora slept like a baby or, as her mother put it, a teenager. 'Babies don't sleep all that much,' she explained when they saw each other the next day.

  They found themselves invited to have lunch with Edie and Geoffrey. 'It's only a salad and quiche,' explained Edie as she ushered them into the garden at the back of the house where there were chairs to sit on. 'Geoffrey wouldn't let me cook you a proper meal. He doesn't like to eat anything heavy before a concert.' Her glance at her husband implied she thought this was a bit prima donna-ish.