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Not this man. He didn’t push open the door and seek refuge from the cold as so many had done before him that morning. Instead he lingered, a blank expression on his face as he scanned the array of blooms that splashed color over the monochrome of winter.
“Guilt flowers.” Julia plucked twelve long-stemmed roses from the bucket and placed them on the workstation. “He’s going to buy guilt flowers. I bet you ten dollars he’s had an affair, and he’s looking at those flowers trying to figure out which of them says sorry in a way that isn’t going to get him kicked out of the house.”
Flora didn’t take the bet, and not only because she knew Julia didn’t have ten dollars to throw away. Maybe the man hadn’t had an affair, but he certainly wasn’t celebrating anything. His features were strained, and the fixed line of his mouth suggested he’d forgotten how to smile.
“Why does it have to be an affair? Maybe he’s in love, and she doesn’t return his feelings. Maybe he’s going to buy love flowers. He’s going to put them in every room.”
It was an exchange they had all the time, a to-and-fro about the motivation of the buyer.
When it came to explanations Julia veered toward the dark, which Flora never understood because her colleague and friend was happily married to a firefighter and was the mother of three loving, if demanding, teenagers.
Flora was more hopeful in her approach. If it rained in the morning, it didn’t mean it was going to rain in the afternoon.
“Does he look like a man in love to you?” Julia sliced through the stems at an angle, the way Flora had taught her. “It’s minus digits out there. People are only outdoors if they have to be. If they’re buying things essential to life. Like chocolate.”
“Flowers are essential to life.”
“I’d risk frostbite for chocolate. Not flowers. Flowers are not essential.”
“They’re essential to my life. Strip off those leaves. If you leave them under the water they’ll rot, then the bacteria clogs the stems and the flowers die.”
“Who knew it was so complicated.” Julia removed them carefully and then glanced at the window again. “He’s messed up, don’t you think? Made a major mistake, and he’s figuring out how big the bouquet has to be to make it up to her.”
“Or him.”
“Or him.” Julia inclined her head. “He looks tired. Stressed. He’d rather be at home in the warm, but instead he’s freezing to death outside our window, which tells me it’s something big. Maybe his partner found out about his affair and he’s wondering whether it’s throwing good money after bad to try to change their mind.”
“Maybe he’s been married for thirty years and he’s marking the moment.”
“Or maybe,” Julia said, “he’s buying flowers to try to fix a day he’s ruined for someone. What?” She paused to breathe. “You’re the one who taught me that flowers tell a story.”
“But you always see a horror story.” Flora rescued a rose that was about to fall and breathed in a wave of scent. She tried not to touch the buds, but she could imagine the velvety softness under her fingers. Where other people used meditation apps to promote relaxation, she used flowers. “There are other types of story. Happier types.”
Celia, the store owner, tottered past in ridiculously high heels, her arms full of calla lilies. She had a florid complexion and a slightly flattened face that made Flora think of dahlias. Her personality was more thorny than a rose, but her brisk, no-nonsense attitude made her particularly good at dealing with dithering brides.
“You need to hurry up with those roses if we’re going to get them delivered in time for Mrs. Martin’s dinner party tonight. You know how particular she is.”
“We’ll be done in time, Celia, don’t worry.” Flora smiled and soothed. It came naturally to her. She’d calmed more storms in teacups than she’d drunk cups of tea.
“Our mission is to provide the very best customer service and the most beautiful flowers.”
“And we will.” Flora could almost feel Julia grinding her teeth next to her. She willed their boss to move on before her friend exploded.
Celia paused, her demeanor shifting from irritable to ingratiating. “Can you work Saturday, Flora? I know you worked last Saturday but—”
“—but I don’t have family commitments.” Flora still hadn’t got used to the fact that she no longer had to visit her aunt on weekends. Even though her aunt hadn’t even been aware of her presence for the last year of her life, visiting had still been part of Flora’s routine. She’d been surprised by how strange it felt not to go. Equally surprised by the grief she’d felt. She and her aunt hadn’t been close, although Flora had tried to be close. “It’s fine, Celia. I’m happy to work.” She knew Celia was taking advantage. She probably should have said no, but then Celia would have been in a mood and Flora couldn’t handle it. It was less stressful to work. And she didn’t mind that much. Weekends were always the hardest time for her, and she didn’t fully understand why.
Moving into an apartment of her own had been the culmination of a dream. It was what she’d wanted, and she’d been shocked to discover that getting what you wanted didn’t always make you happy. Her life didn’t look, or feel, the way she’d thought it would. It was like arriving in Rome, only to discover that your guide was for Paris. She wasn’t sure whether it was the apartment itself that was at fault, or her expectations.
Her mother had always emphasized that life was what you made of it, but Flora couldn’t help thinking that what you made depended on the raw ingredients you were given. Even the best chef couldn’t
do much with moldy vegetables.
Having ticked that problem off her list, Celia strode off and Julia snipped the ends off a few more roses with more violence than before.
“I thought you were going to stop people-pleasing?”
“I am. Obviously it’s a gradual thing.”
