The Flower Shop on Foxley Street. Rachel Dove
or two of stubble on his chiselled chin. She forced herself to look away before she peeked at his adorable lips. She could already feel her cheeks burning with heat.
She concentrated on wrapping the bouquet with ribbon, taking care not to curl her fingers instead whilst using her scissors with shaky hands.
‘All done,’ she said, relieved, and she passed them over the counter. He was looking at her, not moving, and Lily frowned. ‘You okay?’
He started, reaching for the bouquet clumsily. His fingers brushed hers, and Lily felt the roughness of them against her own. She shivered a little, and from the look on his face, he saw it. Damn.
‘Sorry,’ he said, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, ‘half asleep today. How much?’
‘Twenty pounds as normal, please,’ she replied, looking intently at the bouquet in his hands, rather than at him. ‘You need coffee. There’s a little café next door, with some seating. It’s nice and quiet.’
He raised his eyebrows a little as he handed over the notes. ‘Really?’ Something tugged at the side of his mouth, like a smile trying to escape.
‘Yes, it’s nice. I love their caramel latte. Do you like coffee? Or tea? They have tea.’
‘Do you mean now? I just, I have to go to work –’
‘Oh no! I didn’t mean with me, oh God no. I just mean you could have a rest before work, wake up a bit.’ She was panicking now, and she knew it. She had just accidentally kind of asked the man out! He looked at her open-mouthed, as though he was struggling to think of something to say. No doubt trying to make a swift escape from the crazy florist. Damn, a regular customer she couldn’t afford to lose either.
She looked behind her frantically, to see Roger staring at her, a ridiculously large grin on his face. She motioned behind her back for him to come and rescue her, but he just shook his head as if to say nope, you dug this hole, you dig yourself out.
He spoke again, his deep voice cutting through the high-pitched squeaking in her head. Here it comes, she thought. The embarrassing it’s not me, it’s you – crazy loony woman I have no wish to spend time with. She had to will her own eyes to stay open. She almost wished her parents were here. A good bicker would defuse the tension.
‘I could do tomorrow, same time. I have a late start but I would like to chat with you, actually.’
Lily’s mouth would have dropped to the wood floor if her lower face wasn’t frozen in a terrified lock-jaw grimace. She willed herself to speak. The first attempt came out as a whisper, so she cleared her throat and tried again. This time she sounded like Joe Pasquale, but she ran with it. ‘I, I don’t think …’
He looked straight at her, probably seeing a slight sense of panic crossing her features as she fumbled her refusal. The look on his face was so confusing that she couldn’t finish her sentence.
‘Go on,’ Roger said into her ear, his body suddenly so close she could feel his cardigan buttons digging into her spine. ‘For once in your life, take a chance.’ Lily was still staring, stuttering at the man before her, but Roger’s words stopped her dead.
‘Yes, tomorrow’s great,’ she said in a flourish of bravado.
‘Lovely! She will see you then!’ Roger stepped even further forward, giving her a sneaky poke in the back with his finger. She managed to smile at the customer, or at least that’s what she thought it was. She might have looked constipated, at best. He smiled and nodded.
‘Great,’ he said easily, as though he made coffee dates all the time (he probably did, to be fair – the man was sex on a stick) and giving her a little wave and a smile that melted her heart, he left. Turning at the door, he looked at her again, a deep look that nearly knocked the feet from beneath her. For a second she thought he was going to come back, change his mind, but he just looked at her as though he was asking her a question she didn’t know the answer to.
She looked right back at him, wondering what he was thinking, and why she asked herself this question every time she saw him. He smiled again, a tiny twitch on his lips, and then he strode away. It seemed that no answers would come today.
Lily stood at the counter, frozen solid, his cash still clenched tight in her hand. Her face felt as though it was on fire, and her whole body tingled. Roger had gone in the back and came through with the finished wreath, heading to the van. He gave her a tap on the arm that threatened to topple her mannequin challenge pose off balance.
‘Wow, girl, I should give you a pep talk every morning! That, my dear, took balls. Not tiny balls either!’ He tittered at his own joke as he set off on his delivery.
***
Just outside the shop, after walking to his flatbed truck, Will Singer opened his door, jumped in, and laid the blooms carefully on the passenger seat. He wondered to himself at how his morning had turned for the better. Monday mornings were not so bad after all – it seemed this one at least had improved. He looked at the carefully put together blooms and thought of the girl behind the counter. He’d had no intention of asking her out; he just knew that this was something he could never do. When she had talked about the café, something in him had just woken up, seized the day. Carpe diem and all that. Before he had engaged his brain, his tongue had made a move.
He shook his head at himself in the central mirror. He put the key in the ignition and, placing his hands on the wheel, he realized he had forgotten again, and his heart dipped back into his boots.
Reaching over into the glove box, he pulled out a small cardboard box, the size of a brooch box. It rattled as he pulled it open. His smile faded, and he frowned. Back to reality, he thought, sliding the gold wedding band back onto his ring finger. The ring felt like a brand of hot iron around his skin, and not for the first time, he wondered how long he could keep juggling the people in his life.
Sometimes, when he lay in bed at night, listening to the silence around him, he tried to put the pieces together, but they would never fit. He could never make everyone happy at the same time. Whatever he did next, he would end up hurting someone along the way.
Now, with this latest morning event, he had a whole new piece to fit into the map of his life. This piece was brand new, shiny. It made him happy to think of it. He made a promise to himself there and then. He would keep this piece separate. He wouldn’t even try to blunt the edges to make it fit. He would keep it to himself, just for a little while, and then he would sadly let it go.
‘Morning, Mrs Evesham, looking good with that swing!’ Stuart shouted as he flew past the blonde on the green. She waved at him, wiggling her bottom as he drove past. He was in his element, riding his personalized golf cart like it was a Maserati around the Willard Westfield Golf Club and Spa. Spencer Willard was the founder, long departed, and apparently a bit of a character.
Stuart liked to think he was keeping the spirit alive, giving the people who subscribed to the place the authentic Willard experience. Being the resident golf pro and sports manager, it was his prerogative that the business did well. He was always on the lookout for new talent, longing for the day a pampered child would walk in and be the next Tiger Woods, under his expert tutelage. Then he would be off, back on the tours, manager to the stars. Or his father would finally relent, give him the much-needed money and clout to play again on his own talent.
That was the plan anyway. Since his own tours had ended relatively early, and the sponsorship deals had dried up, his father had cut him off, declaring him to be a disappointment. The black sheep in the sporting family. It was only thanks to the nagging and pleading eyes of his mother that her husband eventually pulled a few strings to get him this job, up in the sticks of Yorkshire. Coming up to eight years later, Stuart Woodward was still wondering what the hell had happened to bring him here, and when something would come along to get him out of it. Back to the life that he should have, the existence worthy of a Woodward.