Welcome to Ferry Lane Market - Nicola May Page 0,14
the other flats along Ferry Lane, Lydia’s had an exterior metal fire escape. Handy if she ever changed her mind and did decide to rent it out.
The front room of Lydia’s flat upstairs was carpeted in a deep cream shagpile and housed a big, comfy crimson-velvet sofa with matching satin cushions. An impressive bay window overlooked the market area. There was a huge free-standing, shabby chic French mirror leaning against one of the clinically white walls, and the open Victorian fireplace with its ornate tiled surround was in full working order. Star had gone up there once when Lydia had been on holiday and had likened it to a whore’s boudoir. It was Lydia’s ‘breakout room’, if she was feeling a little tired. A luxury that eluded the over-worked Kara, whose suggestion to take on an extra member of staff at busy times like Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day consistently fell on her boss’s deaf ears.
‘Oh, Kara, you’re here early too. Good.’ Lydia Twist started as she generally carried on. ‘We’ve had loads of orders for Easter flowers, so it’s going to be a busy day, not helped by you not being around yesterday. I can make the bouquets up, so you can stay out front on the stall and then I’ll give you a list so you can deliver them all later. That will allow you to make up some time, won’t it?’
Fuelled by her anger from the day before, Kara stood up for herself. ‘Make up what time? I took yesterday as holiday.’ Then, cementing her own lie, she added, ‘And James Bond is fine, thanks for asking.’
‘Well, of course he is. He’s a cat,’ Lydia replied dismissively, hurrying back into her tiny office to answer the phone.
Lydia Twist rarely appeared to experience moments of real happiness. In fact, Kara didn’t think she’d ever heard the woman laugh. Her boss did manage a Mona Lisa-type smile when taking money from customers, but that was about it. Her frame and features defied her fifty-year-old age ticket and she had a toned, boyish figure aided by her yoga practice and vegan diet. She was particularly proud to announce that she hadn’t eaten a refined carbohydrate for twenty-five years. Her black jeans fitted her tight little bottom snugly and her small but perfectly formed breasts sat upright in her pink Passion Flowers T-shirt. Her hair was dark brown, styled in a neat elfin cut, and today she wore a sticky red lip gloss. Old Twisty Knickers was so ordered and officious that Kara often had the urge to stick a thickly buttered French baguette down her throat, to forcibly remind her of what having a large dose of carbohydrate felt like. Bloody wonderful. This also led Kara to ponder what life would be like without eating another carb ever again. A serious nightmare!
Lydia’s grown-up son, Felix, lived in Berkshire, where Lydia had originally come from, and even after working for her for the past fifteen years, that was all Kara knew about the Twist family. Well, apart from the fact that Lydia lived in one of the posh houses on Hartmouth Hill, overlooking the mouth of the estuary – alone, most people assumed, as there had never been any sight nor mention of a man, aside from her son.
‘Probably buried a few blokes under the patio,’ Charlie Dillon had once guffawed, making Kara wonder for a split second if maybe he was talking from experience.
Lydia appeared from the office and began issuing instructions in her faux posh voice. ‘We need to shift those yellow roses today and I got extra tulips and daffodils. A pound a bunch on the daffs and three for two pounds fifty. Keep a fiver on the tulips, regardless of colour. No offer on those today. Plus, put all the spring planters out that we made up last week – they should go today. Oh, and we’ve got a wedding next Sunday. Evidently the bride was using a freelance florist who’s had to pull out due to illness.’
When Lydia paused to take a breath, Kara whispered, ‘Please and thank you,’ under her breath, whilst thinking: Why not stick a broom up my backside so that I can sweep the floor at the same time?
‘I know Sunday is your day off, but I thought you wouldn’t mind picking that up for me. It’s just the bride’s bouquet and the seven white birdcages we’ve got upstairs stuffed with gypsophila for the tables. Oh, and ten buttonholes, but they just