How good it felt to be back in Manchester for the day, in a buzzy bistro with bare wooden tables and bright Sixties graphic prints on the walls. Andrew and Nadeen, Lucy’s best friends from her old workplace, had finally persuaded her to drive over for a long lunch. Although they had always kept in touch, it had shocked Lucy to realise that it had been months since she’d ventured further than Heathfield. The trip had required lipstick, plus a thought-about outfit including her low-heeled patent shoes that hadn’t seen the light of day since she’d left the city. In Burley Bridge she was welded to her walking boots, Birkenstocks and wellies and, admittedly, sprucing herself up again had felt pretty refreshing.
She had bought Marnie’s birthday presents in town – Sam’s eighth birthday had passed the previous week – and now she and her friends were catching up, talking over each other, repeatedly having to apologise to the waiter for not even having looked at the menu yet. ‘You kept this talent quiet,’ Nadeen exclaimed as Lucy showed them pictures of her latest floral displays on her phone.
‘I always dabbled,’ she said with a grin, ‘but I kept it under the radar at work.’
‘Like a dirty secret,’ Andrew sniggered.
Lucy nodded. ‘I didn’t think flower arranging would rank that coolly as a hobby.’
Nadeen laughed. ‘You thought it sounded a bit nana-ish, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ She chuckled. ‘And I knew MC had me down as being a bit traditional anyway. Anyway, how are things there—’
‘We’ll come to that later,’ Andrew said impatiently, peering at her screen. ‘Look at that gorgeous shop display, Nads. God, Lucy – it’s so professional!’
‘I am professional,’ she teased him. ‘At least, I try my best to appear so.’
‘Talk about multi-tasking,’ Nadeen murmured approvingly. ‘Any more jobs coming up?’
‘Funnily enough, my hairdresser called to say someone wants me to do some wedding flowers. Phyllida-someone. It’s her daughter’s wedding next month and apparently the florist has let them down so they’re pretty stuck.’
Nadeen’s dark eyes widened. When she’d arrived, Lucy had noticed how pulled-together her friends looked: Andrew in his box-fresh pale blue T-shirt and black skinny jeans, his dark hair immaculately cropped, and Nadeen in a snug-fitting pink sweater and denim skirt, her glossy, jet-black bob looking perfect as ever. Both child-free, her friends had always exuded glamour at work, as had most of Lucy’s other colleagues; it was just the way things were at Claudine, and back then, she had probably stopped registering it. Although she knew Nadeen and Andrew would never judge her, Lucy was thankful now that she had made a special effort with her appearance today.
‘Are you going to do it?’ Andrew asked after their orders had finally been taken. ‘This wedding, I mean?’
‘I haven’t heard anything yet,’ Lucy said. ‘My hairdresser just wanted to check it was okay to pass on my number.’ She paused. ‘So, come on. What’s the latest at work?’
Andrew glanced at Nadeen and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a car-crash, Luce. You know Claude was supposed to be a separate brand, so it didn’t affect the main lingerie lines?’
She nodded. ‘So MC’s still going ahead with that? I thought it might be just a whim.’
‘A flash in the pants?’ Andrew quipped, and they all sniggered before he turned serious. ‘Unfortunately not. Those elephant briefs are already out there in loads of stores. Have you seen the press coverage?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Not really, no.’ She felt lamentably out of touch with the fashion retail world these days.
‘Well, we’ve pretty much lurched down the stag party route now,’ Nadeen said with a grimace. ‘It’s awful, Luce. You wouldn’t recognise the place.’
‘What made him do this?’ Lucy asked, baffled. ‘It seems mad. It’s not what Claudine’s known for at all. It’d be no weirder if he suggested launching a range of, I don’t know – air fresheners or biscuits. It just doesn’t fit.’
Nadeen shrugged. ‘I guess he assumed the party thing’s a massive market, and we all know that kind of tat costs pennies to produce. It’s his background, apparently – stag and hen novelties. He made a huge success of it in his last job.’
‘But so far, not with us,’ Andrew added. ‘It’s completely bombed, as far as we can tell. We’ll probably all be out on our ear soon. Don’t suppose you need a gardener at Rosemary Cottage?’
Lucy gave him a pained smile. ‘You can’t even keep a cactus alive,’ she reminded him, ‘and the countryside makes you feel weird.’
‘No, I like it – to visit.’ He grinned.
‘Anyway, you’re lucky to be out of it all,’ Nadeen added, then caught herself: ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘No, I know I’m lucky in a lot of ways,’ Lucy said quickly.
‘You’re amazing,’ Nadeen added. ‘You seem so … together these days. So positive again.’
‘You really do,’ Andrew said, squeezing her hand.
Lucy chuckled. ‘Don’t make me cry, you two. Let’s not get emotional—’
‘Check out this then.’ Andrew whipped out his phone and brought up a picture to show her. ‘This is what you’re missing at work.’
‘What is it?’ Lucy leaned forward.
‘More creatures have been released into the wild,’ he sniggered.
‘Tiger pants!’ Lucy gasped, peering at the screen.
‘Yep, they’re the newest,’ Andrew explained. ‘And look – there are bears, hippos, a cuddly koala …’ The three became hysterical as Andrew scrolled through the new additions.
‘Just in case you ever find yourself missing the place,’ Nadeen said with a smirk.
Lucy smiled. ‘I miss you two but I don’t miss, you know – the job.’
‘Well, you have a job anyway,’ Andrew reminded her. ‘Two, in fact. You run a thriving B&B and you’re a top florist now.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, ‘but, you know, I am thinking, maybe I could step things up a level.’
‘What d’you mean?’ he asked.
They broke off as a selection of small plates were brought to their table: delicious tapas-style dishes of the kind that Lucy hadn’t encountered since she left the city. Lucy considered Andrew’s question for a moment. She would always love and miss Ivan, of course she would; her life had changed forever on that Euston-to-Manchester-Piccadilly train. Likewise, she would forever be Mum to Marnie and Sam, and remember the baby that might have been. Those aspects were all vital parts of her, but they weren’t all that she was. She was only forty-three years old – since when did forty start being preceded by ‘only’, she wondered? – and, hopefully, there were decades ahead of her.
‘I’m thinking,’ she said, ‘there are a few old-fashioned florists in Heathfield, the kind that do bog-standard bouquets and centrepieces, that kind of thing. If I was more proactive in actually attracting work, then I’m sure I could be a lot busier.’ She paused as they all started to tuck in. Lucy had already decided she would avoid offering funeral flowers; she couldn’t face being involved in anyone’s loss, even from a distance. For Ivan’s cremation service – operating on autopilot, really – she had ordered a casket spray, and along had come a stiff arrangement of lemon and cream roses, which hadn’t seemed right at all.
‘D’you think you’d manage,’ Andrew asked, spearing a marinated pepper, ‘on top of the B&B and the family …?’
‘Rikke helps out,’ she said. ‘I’m sure I could handle it if I was organised. I’ve been thinking about dropping off cards at local businesses,’ she went on, ‘and setting up a website and social media accounts. What d’you think of “Sweetpea Special Occasion Flowers” for my business name?’
‘I love it,’ Andrew enthused.
‘It’s perfect,’ Nadeen added. ‘Honestly – I know you can do it.’ By the end of their lunch, Lucy did too, and as they hugged goodbye she had already made up her mind that she was ready to take things to the next level. The day had done her so much good, she decided as they parted company.
Lucy was climbing into her car when her phone rang in her bag. The children were at Carys’s for the day – school had broken up for the summer – and instinctively, she snatched it in alarm. But it wasn’t Carys. It was a number she didn’t recognise.
‘Lucy? It’s Phyllida Somerville,’ the woman said. ‘Nicola was kind enough to give me your number. Is this a good time?’
‘Yes, it’s fine,’ Lucy said brightly as she buckled her seatbelt.
‘Great. So, I gather you do flowers for all kinds of occasions?’ Her accent was clipped upper class; she said ‘flarze’ rather than ‘flowers’.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lucy said.
‘I’ve phoned a couple of times,’ Phyllida added, in a tone that suggested to Lucy that she was being told off. She realised now that the missed calls she’d noticed yesterday must have been from her too. Lucy really would have to become more organised. She was terrible at remembering to check her voicemail messages.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Not to worry. I have you now. It’s just, my daughter’s getting married in three weeks’ time and our florist has pulled out.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible.’
Phyllida sighed loudly. ‘She says she’s taken on far too much and sounds like she’s having a bit of a breakdown – but honestly, she’s really let Emma and Dylan down. I’d have thought we’d be a priority, seeing as we booked months ago. So, anyway – I’m really hoping you can help.’
Lucy wondered if Phyllida was always this unsympathetic when it came to other people’s mental health.
‘What kind of thing are you looking for?’ she asked.
‘Something natural and fresh,’ Phyllida explained. ‘We don’t want imported flowers and we certainly don’t want any of those nasty, artificially dyed monstrosities. I’m thinking a casual, country look at the church. Just garden flowers, a few sweetpeas and whatnot …’
Lucy smiled at her brusqueness. ‘Well, I only use natural materials I’ve gathered locally,’ she explained. ‘I don’t buy in any flowers at all. In fact, at the moment, most come from my own garden.’
‘Oh, that sounds perfect,’ Phyllida announced, sounding relieved, as if Lucy had agreed to take on the job already. ‘I’m thinking a casual, country look. You’re highly recommended around the village – but have you done any weddings before?’
‘No, not exactly …’
‘What have you done?’
Lucy frowned. Was this a phone interview? ‘Various shops in the village,’ she started. ‘The bookshop, hair salon, bakery, gallery – that kind of thing. And the foyer at Lupin’s Hotel.’
‘Hmm.’ Phyllida paused. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t mean to be pushy or rude. My daughter is adamant that it doesn’t matter, but of course it does. She’s young, you know. She thinks it’s cool to not care, to be ever-so-casual – but I know she’ll regret it later if we don’t pull something spectacular together.’ Her voice had softened. ‘Would you mind terribly if I asked you to come over for a chat?’
‘Phyllida—’ Lucy hesitated. ‘I’d love to help out but a whole wedding, by myself—’
‘We’re only talking flowers at the church, then the reception here at my home,’ she said firmly, which didn’t sound quite like a few sweetpeas and whatnot. But now Lucy remembered how full of enthusiasm she’d felt in the restaurant with Andrew and Nadeen. Hadn’t she just said she wanted to step things up? ‘Do you know Fordell House?’ Phyllida went on. ‘That’s where I live.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Sam and Marnie had been fascinated by the grand, turreted house when they had passed by on one of their walks recently. Who lived there, they’d asked? Would they have servants?
‘Emma always planned to make the bouquets for her bridesmaid and herself,’ Phyllida went on. ‘So you wouldn’t need to worry about those.’ Oh, that’s okay then! Lucy smiled, warming to Phyllida now the curtness was starting to fade away.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I could pop over tomorrow, if that suits you, and bring a list of suggestions—’
‘That’s wonderful, thank you,’ Phyllida cut in, sounding immediately relieved. ‘I’m very much looking forward to meeting you, Lucy. It’s been a terrible worry and you really are helping us out.’
As if everything was agreed already, Lucy thought with a smile as she pulled out of the parking space. Clearly, Phyllida Somerville was a woman used to getting her own way.