“Cordelia was thinking a lily-of-the-valley bouquet, which is beautiful, but I think has been overdone since Catherine’s wedding,” she told me yesterday over the phone. “I suggested we consider a few ideas, perhaps something a bit more unique and unusual, before making a final decision and she snapped my head off. We could do with a voice of reason.”
Feeling puffed up that Lady Meade thinks I’m a voice of reason, I told her I’d be delighted to attend. It took me a while to realize that the Catherine she’d mentioned was the Duchess of Cambridge.
“Thank you, Emily.” She sighed. “Cordelia says that a white bouquet will match the swans, but I’m not sure what she’s talking about. I hope she’s not planning on bringing swans anywhere near my house.”
“No, I’m sure she’s not,” I assured her, laughing nervously.
It wasn’t a lie. Cordelia had only talked about swans going down the aisle in the church. I thought it best to stay quiet about the peacocks.
I left the flat feeling positive and in control. If I could land a meeting with a top photographer, maybe I had a chance of ticking off some of the other outrageous demands on Cordelia’s list. I get a coffee on the way and sit on the tube, looking at my fellow Londoners cheerily.Today is a good day,I think.
The florist’s studio is a ten-minute walk from the station, andwhen I arrive, I’m not sure I’m in the right place. I check the address again. I’m definitely at the right one, but it looks like a normal house on a residential road. I ring the bell.
“Yes?” a voice crackles through the intercom.
“Oh, hi! I’m Emily Taylor. I’m here to see—”
The door buzzes and I push it open. I’m stunned by the interiors, which are all very modern, in stark contrast to the pretty Victorian style of the outside, and I’m slightly freaked out when I’m greeted by a young man in his twenties, dressed from head to toe in black and wearing a pair of white gloves. Although he’s clean-shaven, the pronounced stubble above his top lip reveals he is currently attempting to grow a mustache.
“Welcome, Miss Taylor,” he says in a clipped accent, gesturing up the stairs. “Please follow me.”
Concerned as to why he’s wearing a pair of gloves, I head up the stairs, taking in the photographs lining the bright white walls, all arty shots of various flowers on a black background. As we near the top, I hear muffled voices. It sounds like an argument and I notice the gloved man shudder as he stops before a door on the landing. He opens it to reveal a large studio space, brightly lit by the sun shining through the huge windows. In the middle of the room is a long table with bright yellow stools.
A small middle-aged woman with curly platinum hair, purple lipstick, and statement gold hoop earrings is sitting with a weary expression on one of the stools at the end of the table in front of what looks like sheets and sheets of bouquet designs. Lady Meade is sitting near her, rubbing her temples, with Jonathan perched next to his future mother-in-law. Cordelia is pacing by the windows.
“Hello, Emily,” Jonathan says brightly, appearing grateful for a distraction from the conversation they were having before I walked in.
Cordelia scowls when she sees me. I’m getting used to it.
“What have you done to your hair?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.
“Dyed it. Temporarily,” I add.
She tilts her head. “Why?”
“Emily, hi,” Lady Meade jumps in, looking as though she’s only just keeping it together. “This is Nicole Percy.”
The purple-lipsticked woman stands up to shake my hand. “You’re the bridesmaid.”
“Yes. Sorry, I hope I’m not late.”
“Cordelia insisted on being early,” Lady Meade explains. “I wanted to call you to let you know, but she didn’t give me much notice.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” Cordelia says to me, in a sickeningly sweet tone, walking over to her handbag, which is resting on the table. She pulls out a packet of cigarettes. “You’ve got so much to be getting on with already.”
“Yes, and I’ve made good progress actually. I’m looking forward to discussing it with you.”
I can see she’s taken aback, but hides it by concentrating instead on getting a lighter out of her pocket.
“You cannot smoke in here,” Nicole says suddenly, as Cordelia puts a cigarette between her lips. “You’re welcome to go outside, but please do not light that in my studio.”
“Fine,” she says, as Nicole glares at her. “I’ll save it for later.”
“I didn’t realize I was meeting you today, Nicole,” I say, trying to break the tension in the room. “I’m a big fan. I saw the arrangements you did for Melissa Fuller’s wedding last Christmas. Absolutely beautiful.”
Nicole’s expression softens. “You were at that wedding?”
“I saw it on Instagram. I follow her. She’s one of my favorite actors.”
