audition, I’d move to London, I’d ignore the word no, I’d keep trying, I’d win people over, I’d screw people over if I had to. I’d do it all.
4. Fern
Flowers are romantic. That much is accepted by everybody, whether it’s a newly engaged woman wondering about the structure of her bouquet or some sorry-assed adulterer that’s been caught with his willy out and wants to try to make amends with his missus. Everyone knows flowers are a good place to start when dealing with matters of the heart.
That’s why I’m delighted to be surrounded by them in the shop every day, especially at the moment. Adam and I are barely speaking to one another. I worked all day Saturday. He spent Sunday fixing up a gig somewhere, I forget exactly where, I’m not sure he even told me. Rationally, I know that he’d already confirmed this work before we had our row; irrationally I feel he’s avoiding me. To be accurate, we’re avoiding each other. Even when we finally fall into bed at the end of our gruelling days we do little more than exchange monosyllabic polite questions and answers, designed to learn precisely nothing about one another’s state of mind.
Since Friday night the flat has been full of stress and silences, so I’m happy to rush to work and let the fragrances which perpetually float in the air soothe me. Ben’s Bunches and Bouquets is my sanctuary. My haven. Flowers can be calming, reassuring, joyful and sexy. Currently, they provide me with everything Adam isn’t.
I never wanted to do anything other than be a florist. I started working at Ben’s B&B four years ago, just before I met Adam. I love my job. The shop is just a ten-minute walk from our flat and Ben is just a few years older than me and a fun boss who gives me plenty of creative scope and independence; he’s become more of a friend than a boss over the years. Even as a tiny tot I used to love to bury my nose in the bright roses blooming in my gran’s garden. I’d inhale the silky, sensuous scent the way some starlets inhale cocaine in the loos at China White; I couldn’t get enough. My gran had a keen creative and romantic streak. She lived before web design or adultery became acceptable conduits for these character traits and so, as she had always been especially green-fingered, she found a more genteel outlet – she arranged flowers.
Gran grew lots and lots of flowers in her garden. Mostly I remember roses and sweet peas but I know that she grew delphiniums, lavender, marigolds and nasturtiums too, to name but a few. It was my habit to trail her as she mooched around the garden. Clippers in one hand, wooden trug in the other, she’d set off in search of the most beautiful stems available. She never rushed. She’d amble along the borders, stopping from time to time to stand in front of a bush, carefully considering which bloom to choose. It was painstaking. I almost pitied the flowers that Gran overlooked, the ones that she didn’t think were quite perfect and beautiful enough for her arrangement; the ones insects had gnawed through or more devastatingly had been blighted by some plant disease. Then, finally, she would select one. Snap, the stem would be severed in a swift sure cut, the bloom picked up and laid with reverence in her basket. Move on.
I found the process at once strangely thrilling and heartbreaking; which, I’ve come to realize, is true of everything to do with flowers. A bouquet sent to a birth is definitely to celebrate but also to acknowledge that the poor mum has a bruised vag; a wreath at a funeral is sent to express extreme sorrow but sent with love and respect.
Flowers are big, you see, complex.
As a kid there was nothing I liked to do more than watch my gran arrange the flowers she’d chosen. I spent hours watching her weave her magic, trimming the leaves from the lower half of the stem (or they would rot in the water, leading to a hideous smell), fearlessly snapping off sharp thorns from roses with her hardy, plump thumb (see, a rose can be improved upon, take away the thorns), swapping honesty for baby’s breath to create balance and harmony. Her displays were always moving. Some were refined, poised and taut. Others were jolly, vibrant and wild. They all seemed wonderful to me.