closed on a Sunday. It won’t look as lovely as it usually does,’ I warn him.
‘But it will be private,’ he grins.
The word private has exactly the same effect on me as if he were inching down my knickers with his teeth.
During the week Ben’s B&B is one of the most beautiful flower shops in London. I know there’s a serious possibility I’m biased but I think I can safely claim as much. It’s quite small, situated on the corner of a short string of shops, but you can normally spot it at a distance because of the large, over-hanging, stripy orange and pink canvas. This offers year-round shade and shelter to the buckets of various blooms that spill out of the shop and on to the street. It’s a riot of colour. Today it will look less impressive. The canvas will be tied back and the empty aluminium buckets will be stacked inside the shop. Rather than vibrancy and cheer I’m expecting tumbleweed. But, as Scott pointed out, it’s somewhere private we can go. Obviously I can’t invite him back to my flat, for a chat or a coffee (read – damn good seeing to – all I can think of since his lips touched mine). I understand his place is surrounded by press twenty-four-seven, and so that’s out of the question. We’re never alone at the stadium and if we did just want to chat and drink coffee and we nipped to the local coffee shop we’d be mobbed by every woman and girl in the neighbourhood. My florist, even if likely to be bare and damp on a Sunday, is our best option.
The shop keys are on the same ring as the keys to my flat. I dig them out of my bag and dangle them in front of Scott. He treats me to another wide, sexy grin.
‘Let’s go.’
It takes about a minute to get to the shop, as it’s just around the corner from my home.
‘Bloody hell, look, the canopy is down. That Saturday girl is hopeless. She should have tied that back last night. If it had rained heavily it might have been damaged,’ I grumble. ‘Ben left her to lock up as he was rushing to your gig.’ As the car starts to slow I take another glance. ‘The buckets – the flowers –’
I don’t understand. The shop must be open. The buckets are all over the pavement as usual. Although, not as usual. It’s Sunday. Plus there are more buckets than normal and instead of them being full of various blooms – roses, tulips, chrysanthemums – there are only peonies. Big, fat pink peonies. My very favourite flower, as I told Scott only yesterday. Peonies range from red to white or yellow but I love the pale pink peony that reminds me of a ballerina’s classic tutu. They have compound, deeply lobed leaves, long stems and large, fragrant flowers. They are beautiful.
Not quite understanding what’s going on, I clamber out of the car. I turn to Scott; he’s grinning like a cat that’s just eaten a canary. He dangles another set of keys back at me; I immediately recognize the glittery heart-shaped key-ring as Ben’s.
Scott opens the door and we squeeze into the shop. B&B is a small establishment, and today space is at a particular premium as the store is rammed with bucket, after bucket, after vase, after vase, of stunning peonies. I gasp and am bathed in their particular perfume, heady, excessive, tantalizing. I have been plunged into my very own paradise, my very own Garden of Eden. The dank sweetness seduces me.
‘Did you arrange all of this?’ I turn around and around, bewildered but trying to make sense of the excess and beauty.
‘Ben was a fantastic help,’ says Scott with a modest shrug.
‘But, how? I didn’t know you even knew Ben.’
‘There’s always a way. I had the idea and I arranged it via my driver last night. After he’d dropped off you and your mate at your place he got me on the phone and I talked to Ben. He was really gracious,’ says Scott with a shy and self-effacing smile. ‘I explained to him that I couldn’t send a florist a mere bunch of flowers and yet how could I possibly court a florist if I didn’t acknowledge flowers. He understood my dilemma.’
And fell for his charm, clearly. ‘Court’ – what sort of word is that for any self-respecting rock star to use? A cleverly chosen one, that’s what