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‘I mean, I am young; just not that young. And I’m partly trained. I haven’t finished all my exams yet.’ Abigail suddenly realised she was rambling and shut her mouth.
He threw her another disarming smile, flashing his perfect teeth in her direction. If she wasn’t in a flower shop in deepest rural Suffolk, but in a posh area in London, she would have pegged him for an American movie star. Which he wasn’t – not American, at any rate. Although he could be famous. Perhaps he was, but it wasn’t something she was about to come right out and ask him. Next, she’d want his autograph – and she didn’t even collect autographs. She wondered what his name was, though.
‘Well, as I’m here, how can I help?’ She really hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to make up a bouquet. There was no way she could do that, although if he placed an order to collect the next week, she could run with that.
‘I’ve come to pick up a bouquet.’
‘You have?’ That was easy enough. She could see the old-fashioned ledger on the worktop. Fortunately, Lili had given her a tour and showed her where the bouquets were waiting to be collected or delivered. There was a small ante-room behind the counter where things were stored. Abigail opened the heavy ledger. ‘What was the name? I’ll see if it’s ready.’
‘Oh, you misunderstand me. I’ve just come in to buy a bouquet.’
‘I see.’ Abigail closed the ledger so hard the heavy pages made her jump when it thudded shut. A bit of dust tickled her nose, making her sneeze.
‘Here.’
When she looked up, the young man was holding out a white handkerchief with two letters,OS, as a motif in one corner. She wondered if they were his initials.
At first, Abigail didn’t know what she was meant to do with it. The last time she’d seen a cotton, reusable one was when her grandfather was alive. She tentatively took it and wiped her nose, feeling self-conscious once more. Normally, she threw used tissues away. She couldn’t hand it back, so slipped it in her jeans pocket.
‘Will you help me pick one?’
Abigail shrugged. ‘I’ve got no more experience than you do at this sort of thing. In fact, if you have been in here before, then you’ll know more than I do.’ Abigail knew that sounded petty, but she felt a little annoyed that just because she was a woman, guys assumed she’d know everything there was to know about flowers. She knew as much about flowers as the next man, who wasn’t a mechanic, knew about cars. She had no idea what was appropriate for what occasion, although if it was for a girlfriend, an engagement, or a marriage, she thought roses never went amiss. She was about to ask the occasion, when he said, ‘What would someone buy you? Come on, you must have had flowers bought for you recently.’
Unfortunately, he’d asked the wrong question. It brought to mind the worst day of her life, and all those flowers at Toby’s funeral. She’d never seen so many. In hindsight, she wished she’d asked people to donate to a charity instead.
Abigail looked at the man sharply for making her relive that memory. Now she wished she’d shown him the door. In fact … ‘Look, this was a mistake.’ Abigail walked to the door and opened it. ‘I suggest you come back when we’re open. Didn’t you see the ‘closed’ sign?’
‘Well, no … I just walked right in.’
‘That was dumb.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ His ready smile vanished. ‘Are you calling me dumb?’
‘I want you to leave now.’
‘I didn’t come here to be insulted.’
‘Well, neither did I.’
‘I didn’t insult you.’
‘Yes, you did. You said I didn’t look like an accountant.’
‘Well, excuse me for dropping a compliment. I only meant—’ By this time he’d stepped out of the door, which Abigail had promptly slammed in his face before he’d finished his sentence. She knew what he was going to say, about middle-aged pot-bellied men in suits with thinning hair; what she guessed most people imagined when you said the word ‘accountant’. Shewas petite and dark-haired, and she didn’t look a day over twenty-five to most people – sometimes a lot younger, depending on what she was wearing. It could be a problem when she wanted to buy some alcohol, like now. She locked the door. Properly, this time.
He was still standing there, staring at her through the glass panes, the pearly white smile gone. ‘I’m taking my business elsewhere from now on.’
Abigail shouted back. ‘Fine – do that!’ She turned her back on him and stalked towards the stairs, her gait slowing when she saw the ledger. She’d just gone and lost Lili one of her customers. She hoped to goodness he didn’t complain, or that a complaint didn’t find its way into a local paper. The trouble was, she didn’t know who he was. Abigail felt inside her pocket for the handkerchief. She was about to dump it in the bin when she caught sight of the initials, OS, again.
Abigail was staring at the letters, wondering who he was, when her phone buzzed with a text message, making her jump. She put the handkerchief back in her pocket and got out her phone. She replied to her stepdad’s text. He’d arrived and parked in the High Street, and was wondering where she was. She frowned. It was that man’s fault for holding her up.
Rushing upstairs to turn off the computer, Abigail glanced out of the window and saw her stepdad entering the yard. She leaned over and opened the window, calling out,‘Gerald,I won’t be a moment.’ She’d already told him in her text that she was in the shop called The Potting Shed in Cobblers Yard. He wasn’t familiar with the little yard off Aldeburgh’s main shopping street, either.
He waved back, calling out, ‘Take your time.’
She saw him wandering around the yard, looking in windows and smiling. He was a short, burly bear of a man, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and with a beard to match. What he lacked in stature, he made up for with a big personality. A fisherman by trade, he’d always be the first to buy a round for his mates in their local, The Anchor Inn, also a small hotel. It was a stone’s throw from the little wooden black huts sitting on the beach where they sold their fresh catch of the day. If anyone passed by The Anchor Inn and heard a deep baritone voice singing, that was him. She swore he could have been an opera singer in another life. He liked nothing more than belting out a tune, with a pint of Guinness in one hand and an affectionate arm wrapped around the shoulder of one of his shipmates, his round, chubby cheeks flushed red.
As Abigail walked down the stairs, making sure she’d switched off all the lights before she left, she recalled the times he’d taken her to Aldeburgh and let her climb up into his fishing trawler that sat on the beach in between the huts. They always brought the boats to shore. There was no harbour, wharf, or Quay at Aldeburgh, unlike Southwold. That was why they parked them on the beach, protected from the elements. If they lost their boats in a freak storm, they all lost their livelihoods.
