This is a lie. I saw Nicole Percy’s flower arrangements for Melissa Fuller’s wedding on the #weddinginspo feed that I checkmany times a day. Before then, I didn’t have a clue who Melissa Fuller was.
“Thank you. Melissa and I shared a magical vision. Most brides I work with appreciate that they are working with anartist,not just a florist.”
Cordelia ignores her pointed comment, going back to staring out of the window.
“Yes,” I say, hopping up onto one of the stools. “Your space is lovely. It feels like a painter’s studio.”
The man who led me to the room—I discover he’s Nicole’s assistant, Francis—steps forward and inhales dramatically, commanding our attention. For a terrifying moment, I think he’s about to launch into some kind of performance piece but, thankfully, I’m wrong. He’s merely taking the stage for a speech it sounds like he has made many times.
“Nicole is a leading artist of the floral London scene with a unique, impassioned, and ardent approach to floral design. Inspired by the world around her, the soil on which she steps, the air she breathes, and her untamed connection to nature, she produces floristry the like of which has never been seen before. Her tools are but flowers, her brushes are the petals parading the planet’s organic colors, and her canvas is all we see before us. It is her duty and honor to connect with you, to interpret your desires and create a concept of sensational harmony.”
He finishes with a great flourish of his hands and Nicole bows her head in gratitude as the room falls into silence. Jonathan looks at a loss as to the politest way to react to this unexpected speech, and lifts his hands to clap, then seems to think better of it, settling for an enthusiastic double thumbs-up instead.
I purse my lips, my eyes watering as I attempt not to laugh.
Then something extraordinary happens. I glance at Cordelia and she happens to look at me at the same time. Our eyes meetand the corner of her mouth twitches as she tries very hard not to burst out laughing either. We’re thinking the same thing and we share a smile, which prompts Cordelia to let out a giggle that she attempts to cover with a coughing fit.
“Sorry,” she says, clearing her throat. “Tickle in my throat.”
“Very interesting words, Francis,” Lady Meade says, shooting her daughter a warning look.
I have never been more grateful for such absurdity. Thanks to Francis and his Shakespearean turn, Cordelia and I had aconnection.A fleeting one, but a connection all the same.
There’s hope yet. Iknewtoday would be a good one.
“Perhaps we should begin to discuss ideas,” Lady Meade prompts, as Francis glides to the stool next to me and takes his place. “I know Cordelia—”
“Please.” Nicole raises her hand.
Lady Meade is not used to being interrupted and a flash of irritation crosses her expression, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“First, we need to rid the studio of the negative vibes,” Nicole says sternly. “I cannot work in this atmosphere.”
“I don’t feel any negative vibes,” I say, with a look of approval from Lady Meade. “I feel extremely grateful to be here and uplifted by the prospect of working with such a renowned florist. I mean,artist.”
“Before you arrived, Miss Taylor, there was a feud,” Francis informs me, in an audible whisper. “Nicole cannot create a vision of harmony when such tension exists. She needs to begin with peace. That’s why she starts the process here in this vast, empty studio and not in her shop, among the flowers.”
“Flowers aren’t… peaceful?” I ask innocently.
Cordelia has another tickle in her throat, sharing a bemused look with Jonathan and moving away from the window to sit down next to him.
“Not before they are placed within the art form,” Francis explains.
“Oh, I see. Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say, nodding. “When they’re all in those pots, they can look a bit messy.”
“I do not like mess,” Nicole informs me. “I do not like a messy studio and I do not like a messy ambience. A feud creates a mess.”
“There’s no feud, I assure you,” Lady Meade tells Nicole, with a touch of impatience. “Cordelia and I merely had a small difference of opinion, but we will come to an agreement, won’t we, Cordelia?”
“I doubt it. But I don’t really care.” Cordelia shrugs. “It’s my wedding and if I want the theme to be gold and black, that’s what we’ll be doing.”
“Ourwedding,” Jonathan corrects, with a knowing smile.
“Sorry,” Cordelia says, rolling her eyes and grinning. “Ourwedding.”
It sounds like he’s had to make that correction a few times.
“I thought you wanted a lily-of-the-valley bouquet,” I say, confused.
