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Within minutes of Matt heading out to get his sandwich there was a sudden lunchtime flurry: a cheerful woman of a certain age who spent 10 minutes looking at each of the bunches of Dutch tulips to check she had chosen the best, a retired gentleman after a bay tree for his garden, an unnervingly over-familiar woman who seemed to relish telling Ava exactly how much she knew about each and every one of the bunches on offer and a brisk, housewifely type who seemed furious that daffodils were no longer in season and out on the pavement for a pound a bunch. Ava did her best to keep everyone happy, while leaning back once or twice to take the odd phone call. Just as she said goodbye to the final customer, she heard the shop door go again. She turned around, mildly frustrated that a Monday lunchtime had turned so chaotic, and saw the back of a man’s head already bent over the lowest row of flowers.
‘Hi there, can I help?’ Fake it till you make it, she told herself. He’ll be gone in a minute.
‘Yes, please – I’d like some roses, please. The most gorgeous you’ve got …’
Smiling, he turned to face her. His eyes naturally turned down on the outer corners, lending them an air of gentle sadness despite his broad smile. Dark brown, the irises melting into the pupils, they were hard to look away from. He was wearing a cornflower blue shirt – un-ironed, but expensive-looking – and navy blue trousers; he also had on a smart pair of brown brogues, well worn but good quality. Ava walked towards him, one hand held to her lips in thought. Once she was standing next to him she realised even over the scent of the flowers in the shop he smelled of a combination of leather, expensive soap and perhaps a hint of vetiver. She took a deep breath.
‘Well, we have some wonderful ones in today,’ she began, pointing at the red roses Matt had been discussing earlier.
‘No, red’s a little … Well, it’s a little Argentine Tango for me.’
Ava blinked. She knew exactly what he meant. For an inexplicable reason she suddenly imagined herself, her fair hair mysteriously dark, tied back in an elaborate, glistening bun. She was wearing a dress the same deep red as the roses, split to the thigh. In between her rouged lips was one of the roses.
‘What else do you have?’ he asked, staring at her curiously.
‘What else do I have?’ Ava nodded seriously, playing for time. Wake up woman, you’re serving a customer!
‘Well, we have all sorts.’
‘What would you recommend?’
‘Me ? Well …’
‘Yes, you don’t look like you really do tacky bouquets …’
‘Thank you.’ Blushing. Again.
‘So why don’t you put together something you’d like to receive.’
‘Me ?’
‘Well, I don’t know what I’m doing and clearly you do, so why don’t you choose something you think someone like you would love to receive.’
The thought of this man bringing her flowers made Ava bite her lip very hard.
‘But it’s my job – no one brings me flowers. Bit of a busman’s holiday, I suppose.’
‘Oh, come on! Surely someone presents you with a bouquet from time to time?’
‘Not really.’ She was blushing again, remembering the delicate and awkward conversation that she had once had with Rob, where he firmly explained that he could never buy her flowers as she would always know better than him what she liked – and get a better price. Suddenly being an agent for the romance of others seemed less enchanting.
‘In that case I’m going to have to rely on your imagination.’
All Ava wanted was for her imagination to slow down a little …
‘Okay, what’s your budget?’
‘Ooh, £40?’
‘I’d choose something less formal than roses – perhaps more rural, local flowers?’
‘That sounds perfect.’
‘Softer …’ Ava’s eyes seemed to have locked with his again.
‘Perfect.’
She smiled, then began making up the bouquet. The man stood against the wall opposite her and watched as she plucked a selection of gentle late season tulips and sweet peas, some of the gorgeous cabbage roses that had arrived earlier in the day, then various foliage and tied them together with plain, straw coloured twine. Both were silent during this process, Ava doing her best to concentrate on her task, all the while conscious of his gaze on her hands and the back of her neck. He seemed comfortable in the quiet, unlike a lot of her customers who so often wanted to talk about the weather, the latest celebrity gossip or how business was going. When she was finished, Ava lifted up the bouquet to show him.
‘It really is perfect, I can’t thank you enough.’
‘It was nothing – I’m so glad you like it.’ She glanced at him again, then quickly dropped her gaze to the floor, suddenly shy. The man took two £20 notes from his wallet and passed them to her. She put them in the till before presenting him with the flowers.
‘I do hope you receive the bouquet you deserve soon,’ he told her.
‘Honestly, I’m more of a chocolates girl,’ she replied, suddenly tiring of his constant gaze on her, flustered by his assumptions about her life. ‘I am surrounded by flowers all day.’
‘It’s not so much the flowers as the gesture, though, is it?’
He was at the door now and turned as he said this, before winking and heading outside.
Smug, thought Ava. She wondered what sort of man goes to buy romantic flowers and can’t help but flirt with the florist? As for the assumptions he had made about her lack of romance … Charmless. She reminded herself of her romantic Monday-night dinner as she swiped the trimmings from his flowers into the bin: Flowers aren’t the only way to express yourself. As she slammed the bin lid shut, the image of herself dressed for the Argentine Tango once again flashed before her.
Chapter Two
Later – Monday, 22 August
On the dot of 5.30 Ava waved goodbye to a cheery Matt and indulged in some Olympic-level pottering once he’d gone. She gave the easy option – simply locking up thoroughly – a swerve, instead indulging in a little time in her shop. Polishing the brass handle and plaque on the door as if it was a fancy hotel, twisting the coloured twine neatly on its reels and all the while enjoying the silence of a closed Dunne’s the Florist. She made sure all of the paperwork for the next day was in order, closed her laptop properly instead of just hitting ‘sleep’ and slamming the lid, then gave the mugs by the kettle a little tidy. Sure, a women’s magazine would have advised heading home early for a luxuriant, candle surrounded bath, but this level of A-Grade faffing about relaxed Ava and she loved every minute of it. Once more she watered the cornflowers, the tall, lonely-looking bay trees and the herbs now inside on the shop floor. She picked up one of the rosemary plants and inhaled the refreshing scent again, before popping it in her canvas bag to take home. Yesterday’s roast, cooked with rosemary from the same delivery, had been such a success that she decided to take another pot home and plant it. First, a nice terracotta pot on the windowsill to keep an eye on, and then in the garden in the spring, for future roasts. After a day filled with hassle and hustle, anything seemed possible in this stillness.
She felt a sudden surge of affection for Dunne’s. It was her safe place, one created by her, for her. A place where she had made her dreams and those of others come true. The haughty woman from that morning seemed a distant memory, an irrelevance. Ava was happy to have left it to Matt to call her housekeeper, the elusive Mary, and she was right to do so for he had charmed her in no time at all and the order had been smoothly made. The majority of the red roses had been bought by an exhausted and exhilarated new father who turned up towards the end of the day, who clearly hadn’t slept since Saturday night and was covered in a thin sheen of nervous sweat. He stared manically at Ava, while explaining in at least 40 words per sentence more than he needed that he had driven in from the hospital on the recommendation of one of the nurses as his older brother once told him that garage or hospital flowers would be a mistake he’d come to regret for the rest of his life. Ava listened calmly, letting his manic stream of too much information wash over her while Matt smirked to himself in the background. Twenty long-stemmed deep red roses … Exquisite, they had been the high point of her day apart from the doe-eyed flirt, who she hurriedly pushed further to the back of her mind.
Before she put on her coat, Ava texted Rob to tell him that she was now on her way home and to ask if she could pick anything up en route. She knew he’d probably be back by now and would have let himself in. Maybe he’d even got to work on her meal. As partner in a small local web agency, his work was largely portable, which meant that he usually finished work very promptly. When she first met him, she had recoiled at the mention of him working for a web agency, imagining soul-sapping London-based companies named ‘Obtuse’ or ‘Slap Tha Truth’. But Rob’s agency was considerably less cutting edge: named after himself and his business partner Laurence, it was simply Collins & Cook – creators of websites for local businesses, data companies and a couple of regional artists and authors. The whole thing sounded mind-numbingly dull to Ava, but as he had pointed out to her when they were still friends: ‘It’s how I make my money, not who I am.’ To be fair, he had gone on to win her over in that first year of friendship with trips to the local playhouse, the cinema or museums. He liked to read, he enjoyed similar TV shows (within reason) and he was also enthusiastic about discussing all of this, as well as her growing business.
Rob’s punctuality was a real bonus when it meant long romantic evenings in together while his portable, self-employed ways seemed a modern, cutting-edge way to live but it was less enticing when he started tinkering around with his phone late at night, checking up on things in the second half of a film, suddenly jabbing at the touch screen in a frenzy. In fact, it pushed Ava to the very limits of her patience and reminded her of how glad she was to have a shop whose well-polished brass plated door she could firmly shut at the end of the working day. She smiled to herself as she locked up, feeling a small, almost smug glow about heading home to such dependability and love, before crossing the market square towards her car.
Ava walked past the cinema, the butchers and her favourite shoe shop, pausing to admire a pair of strappy sandals that she was hoping to find the excuse to buy any time soon. After crossing the cathedral square just as the bells were briefly pealing, she walked beside the river, whose banks were delicately lovely in the hazy evening light. She stopped to buy a bottle of crisp white wine at an off licence not far from the river and as the shop owner handed it to her, she could feel the condensation from the fridge chilling the paper he had wrapped it in. She pictured herself peeling off the paper, pouring two glasses and handing one to Rob at the hob. Maybe she could persuade him to give her one of his shoulder massages, too. She was almost hugging herself with contentment by the time she reached her car and began the 10-minute drive to her little house. The roads were clear and she was home in no time, pleased to see that the roses she had spent years encouraging around the front door were now as English and elegant as she had always hoped. Now the sun was dipping over the horizon and Ava could hear a cuckoo in the distance as she reached for her handbag and the wine from the passenger seat, then shut and locked the car door. She peered into the front window – her sitting room was neat, untouched since last night.
On turning her key in the front door Ava gave it a shove, but it was slow opening, edged on a heap of post beneath the letter box. For the second time that day she picked up an uninspiring clump of bills, direct mail and flyers. She dumped it on the hall table, with the wine and started to take her coat off.
‘Hellooo! I’m home!’
Silence. She paused. The house was clearly empty. After hanging her coat on one of the pegs above the table, she walked through the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. The evening light made the room look so pretty, but it was unavoidably empty. There was a used mug on the wooden surface next to the sink. It was the same one that Ava had left on Rob’s bedside before heading to work that morning. Next to it was a half-full milk bottle, gently warming in the sun’s rays. And in the sink itself was a used cereal bowl containing the dregs of some old, once-damp muesli, slowly cementing itself to the edges. Ava turned and went back to the hallway, where she placed a hand in her coat pocket to retrieve her mobile phone. She glanced at the screen: nothing. Following this, she placed it on the hall table next to the wine, which was now in a small puddle of condensation, its tissue paper sodden. She picked up the bottle and put it in the fridge. As she did so, she heard the buzz of a text on her phone and went back to look at it.
‘Sorry darling forgot I had squash with Laurence. Promise dinner tomorrow? At mine?’
Ava glared at the screen, as if she might develop special powers – the ability to rearrange the letters into something a little less rage inducing, perhaps. Stepping into the sitting room, she hurled the phone and then herself on to the soft leather sofa. She slumped, staring into space, with nowhere to vent her frustration. In seconds her evening had transformed from the kind of perfection that justified her every adult choice to an anxiety-inducing pity-party for one. How could he be so casual about it? Why had he only thought to tell her now? Surely they were already at the courts? So why hadn’t he suggested coming over afterwards? Why did he care about none of this, and how was it that she suddenly felt so desperately flat?
She took her shoes off, rubbed her feet and then rubbed her shoulders. All alone, an evening in … Maybe she was the woman no one bought flowers for, after all.
The phone buzzed. Ava wriggled a hand back down behind the cushions and glanced at it again. An apology? Not a chance.
‘Hey hey you. Can we talk later? Major dress stress coming up. Can. Not. Deal.’
Ava winced a second time. It was not Rob, but Lauren. Ugh, an enticing suggestion for what would inevitably be a half-hour conversation about wedding dresses! What a way to finish the day. More ambitious, tougher-skinned and more inclined to relish a confrontation than her sibling, Lauren often seemed to play the older sister role, despite being five years younger. Relishing every life stage, she sailed through them, competence oozing from every pore. Her career as a property finder for Wiltshire’s finest appeared to go from strength to strength, she had a gorgeous and supportive fiancé in Rory and she was also a rigorous athlete, regularly competing in local and regional triathlons. Lauren seemed intimidated by nothing, prepared to take on anything and with the ability to create drama and excitement, wherever and whenever she felt like it. Invigorating as she was infuriating, she had thrown herself into wedding plans with the enthusiasm of a woman accustomed to succeeding.
‘Just got in. Give me 5 mins’ typed Ava, keen to buy herself enough time to open that wine and pour herself a large glass. She’d need fortifying for this particular chat.
To be held at the same stately home in whose adjacent garden centre Ava had been employed when she first returned to Wiltshire, Lauren’s wedding was to be one of Wiltshire’s finest: a full country-house extravaganza, complete with the dress of her dreams. Only trouble was, Lauren’s dream dress wasn’t quite coming into line with her dreams. Where her pragmatism and straightforwardness usually served her well, it now meant she was struggling to explain her ‘vision’ to the dressmaker she had chosen. Tensions were rising. Somehow, Ava had found herself Designated Listener.
Shoulders slumped, she wandered into the kitchen barefoot, casting a dismissive glance at the cereal bowl in the sink on her way to the fridge. She swung open the door, looking for inspiration – or at least a snack. There was a lump of old Parmesan, nearly at the rind, some watery ham in its supermarket packet, the top now curling, and three eggs. Omelette it is, she thought to herself. In the shelf on the fridge door was half a lemon, turning green at the edges: the remnant of a long-forgotten gin and tonic. Next to it was the wine, which Ava opened and tipped liberally into her glass, cherishing the glug that only comes from the first pour. She took a sip and returned to the sofa, where her phone was already ringing.
‘Hi there!’
Momentarily confused, she paused. That wasn’t Lauren’s voice. She glanced at her phone to check: it was Mel.
‘Oh hi there! Sorry about that – I thought you were Lauren for a minute. She was about to ring and now you’ve saved me. Anyway, boring! How are you?’ Ava took another big sip, relaxing into the idea of a good gossip with an old friend.
‘Marcie, NO! Sorry, Ave, just a minute …’ There was a pause. Mel was one of the legion of Ava’s friends from college who was currently knee-deep in homework, scribbled-on walls and bruises from accidents sustained by slipping on Lego. She had two small children: two-year-old Marcie and six-year-old Jake. Ava waited, half-listening to Mel as she reprimanded her youngest, who was at the stage where experimenting with paint while wearing a highly flammable-looking pink princess dress were life’s greatest joys. She was mindful never to judge Marcie, though. After all, she spent several hours a week daydreaming about the infinite romance of owning a proper ballroom dancing gown – one with a train, sparkling diamante straps and a skirt that swished with every movement. She realised she would much prefer to talk to Marcie about her dresses than to Lauren about hers.
‘Sorry, honey, I’m back,’ Ava’s reverie ended. ‘I was just calling for a catch up really, no big gossip. I know it’s easier to email, but I fancied a chat. Jake’s making a cake for the first time and I’m not allowed in the kitchen for another 40 minutes, apparently.’
‘Awwwww, sucks to be you!’ teased Ava. ‘But, um, is he by himself?’
‘Ha, yeah! I’ve just left him to it – Rich is upstairs on the Xbox.’
Their relationship, based on ridiculous teasing, had remained largely unchanged since college, which was exactly how Ava liked it.
‘Oh great, sounds wonderful – make sure he cleans up the knife drawer afterwards,’ she replied.
‘I’ve got Marcie on it now. For Mummy, it’s Wine Time.’
‘Tell me about it. What a day!’
Ava pictured Mel at home on her bright pink sofa. She knew she’d be wearing jeans, her Birkenstocks and a hoodie in an eye-wateringly bright colour, probably orange. Her dark hair, of which Ava had been so envious when they were flatmates in London, would be scraped back – the brief period of trying to blow dry it for work long over. Mel had always been scruffy in a sexy kind of way, so the mayhem of motherhood suited her. She was rarely any messier than before, but she was certainly not going to let impending middle age prevent her from dressing how she wanted. Nor was Ava, but whenever they spoke it crossed her mind that it was somehow more impressive that Mel was pulling off motherhood with such verve, especially as she still worked part time.
‘You okay, hon?’ began Mel.
‘Yeah, fine really,’ she muttered before beginning to explain Rob’s last-minute change of plan but she didn’t get very far without almost being able to hear Mel’s hackles rising all the way from London. She could sense her bristling at the mention of him failing to meet her exacting standards for what Ava’s boyfriend should be.
‘What a charming way to behave!’ observed Mel, dryly.
‘Yeah, it’s not ideal. Fridge scraps for me tonight. You’re the one with the kids, I’m the one with the lover and yet you’re at home with your feet up while I’m the one foraging for dinner. This is not what the lady mags tell me our roles are supposed to be.’
‘This turn of events is far from usual for either of us, at least you can console yourself with that.’
Certainly it was rare for Mel to sound so relaxed at this time in the evening, but Ava realised with a shiver that this wasn’t exactly the first time that Rob had flaked out on plans lately.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Ava bit her lip, thinking.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Mel pounced on that small pause.
‘Yeah, yeah! Let’s put it this way, it’s certainly not something I’m used to or intend to put up with.’
‘Good! Getting used to it would be the worst of all.’
As the words were still leaving Mel’s mouth, Ava felt something unfurl within her: the realisation of her acceptance. She was getting used to this.
‘Anyway, let’s park Rob for a minute,’ Mel continued. ‘I’ve got a plan – and I want you to hear it.’
‘Oooh, go on!’
‘I’m going to apply for tickets to Strictly Come Dancing this year. We are going to do this …’
‘Oh wow, that’s given me the Summer Strictly Feeling.’
‘Eh?’
‘Sorry – it was Lauren who coined that term, not you. You know what I mean, though – end of the summer, nights are drawing in, you’re wondering if the diamante sandals you bought for summer are ever going to get used again this year but secretly, deep inside, you’re thirsting for Saturday nights curled up in front of the telly with a stew, instead of marinating chicken breasts in peri-peri sauce and chopping up endless feta for salads.’
‘Oh I HEAR you! I am dreading the day I have to accept that the kids will be back playing inside all day instead of using the garden but still … winter jumpers, new long boots and Strictly?’
‘Exactly ! It’s so bittersweet. On the one hand, dark evenings coming up; on the other, dark evenings of Salsa and Waltzes.’
‘Oh goodness, you’ve got me all excited about it now. So – tickets?’
‘YES! I want to do this. How come we never thought of this before?’
‘You know how it is – new babies, new businesses, you leaving London and deserting me.’
‘I suppose. What made you think of it?’
‘Emma – she’s started taking Salsa classes.’
Ava snorted with laughter. Emma was a particularly pushy mum who lived on Mel’s street – albeit the ‘smarter’ side, as she was always quick to remind her. She had two children the same age as Jake and Marcie, and felt very strongly that Mel would be quite unable to cope without her peerless and never-ending stream of advice. It was always delivered in a stage whisper, with a dead-eyed smile, while Emma’s children slept angelically in their expensive double buggy and Mel’s threw their shoes – and socks – into the hedge. From breast feeding to violent video games and even as far as how to ‘keep the spark alive’ between herself and Rich, Emma’s advice was a constant source of both fury and hilarity to Mel and Ava.
‘Wow! Emma. At Salsa classes.’
‘I know.’
‘That, I simply cannot imagine. Where is she doing it?’
‘Same place as I do Pilates!’
‘How do you know?’
‘She took me aside to tell me in her special whisper – some things never change. I was in the supermarket car park, trying to get everything in the boot and she came over and announced it, as is her way.’
‘Well I never!’
