The interior of our shop is more of a workshop. Rustic on the inside, it’s on the edge of town, a short walk from the coast. We design flowers for all those milestone occasions – christenings, weddings, parties. Funerals.
In our tiny kitchen, I put the kettle on, remembering how I used to fantasise about what your wedding day would be like – until you announced emphatically you didn’t want one.
Why get married? I don’t see the point. All that matters is loving someone. You don’t need a piece of paper with your names on.
You believed love was soul deep. Something you felt in your bones, that rattled your existence.
If it’s ordinary, it isn’t special. How can it be?
I pour boiling water into a couple of mugs, remembering at the last minute to add the teabags. I remember trying to persuade you that love was many things; the way you tilted your head on one side, delivered a killer blow, not that you knew it at the time.
Why did you marry Dad?
I take the mugs out to Lucy where she’s finishing a beautiful red bouquet.
‘This wedding on Saturday,’ she says, ‘if you haven’t shaken your cold off, I can set it up.’
‘You can’t do everything.’ I fish a tissue out of my pocket just in time to sneeze into it. ‘I have to get on with things. Life can’t just stop because of a cold.’
‘I know you’re missing Lexie,’ Lucy says gently. She puts the bouquet down. Then, coming over, she hugs me.
She’s right; there are times I feel the distance between us, yet at the same time, it’s as though you’re just a heartbeat away.
As the door to our workshop opens and one of our regulars comes in, Lucy lets go of me. ‘Mrs Peacock,’ she says brightly. ‘Lovely to see you. It’s all ready for you.’ She expertly wraps the red bouquet she’s finished in the nick of time and hands it over.
Mrs Peacock casts her eyes briefly over it. ‘Very nice,’ is all she says, not pausing to really look, to take in the velvet texture of the petals, the long stems of lavender that add depth to the fragrance, the hints of lime green Alchemilla and frothy Ammi majus that set off the richness of the colours, all assembled with Lucy’s impeccable eye for design.
But for all the clients who appreciate the artistry of what we create, there will always be those to whom it’s just another bunch of flowers. I watch Mrs Peacock leave as, sharing my frustration, Lucy rolls her eyes. ‘Shall we get out of here?’
The best thing about friends – really good friends – is that they know how you’re feeling without you telling them. Locking up, we walk the ten minutes to the beach. There’s a fine mist of drizzle in the air and as we reach the end of the street, already I can hear the waves.
We cross the road and as the sea comes into view, Lucy grabs my hand, then breaks into a jog. I start to protest, but she ignores me. Hand in hand, we take the steps down to the sand, half-laughing, half-crying, as we run towards the incoming tide that stops for no-one.
‘Here.’ After, in the pub, Lucy passes me a large glass of wine.
I raise my glass. ‘You’re the best, Luce.’
‘I love you, Edie.’ Lucy’s face is pink from the sea breeze. She hesitates. ‘Dare I ask – how’s Ryan?’
These days, Ryan is unreachable. But he has been for years. ‘The same.’
‘Permanently drunk, you mean.’ Lucy’s face is mutinous.
‘He’s suffering,’ I say defensively. I see it in his drawn face and shrouded eyes, drinking his escape from a world that feels intolerable to him.
‘Don’t make excuses for him,’ Lucy warns.
She makes it sound simple. And in one sense, it is. It’s up to Ryan how he chooses to live his life. But he’s sick. And he doesn’t have anyone else. If he died, it would forever be on my conscience if there was something I could have done to help him; if, for reasons of my own, I’d chosen not to.
3
BEFORE
Dear Lexie,
I went to Mary’s garden this morning. I still can’t believe how lucky we were meeting her all those years ago. How fortuitous the timing was – for her, too. I remember you saying once that sometimes people come into our lives when we need them most. There’s no question in my mind that Mary was one of them.
Mary used to be a customer of ours; her garden exactly what I needed, that had come my way when I wasn’t looking for it. Once neglected, these days it’s anything but and is where I grow much of what we use in our shop.
