Mr K wasn’t religious like you’d expect a man of his generation to be. His faith was who he was. To coin a phrase, he walked the talk.
‘Rosie, Papa is the only friend who has never judged me, let me down or beaten me up. He loves me. End of story. It don’t matter what I do, what mistakes I make, he loves me whatever. That’s all the riches I need, ukochana, and they’re free every day.’
Somehow, I always felt life was calmer—brighter, even—when Mr K was around. Just before he left to return to Poland, he handed me a small, hand-painted glass plaque. It bore the words, ‘Nothing is Impossible with God’. Someone gave it to him when he was really young, he explained, and it helped him remember that he wasn’t alone.
‘Take it, Rosie,’ he’d said. ‘Let it remind you, too. Papa’s watching.’
Today, it hangs at the back of the counter in pride of place, and when I see it, I sense a little bit of the calm he brought returning.
It caught my eye again on Monday, as I was refilling metal buckets at the front of the shop with gorgeous lavender hydrangea and sweet-scented freesias. In sharp contrast to the previous Saturday, the shop was blissfully quiet, though it was still early—only 9 a.m. I smiled sadly as thoughts of Mr Kowalski came to mind. It’s always a bittersweet experience to remember him. I still can’t quite believe he isn’t here any more. I expect him to call any minute, or for his friendly old face to appear in the shop doorway. Somehow the world seems just emptier without him in it.
Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the silver limousine pull up outside. It was only when the front door opened so fast that the bell nearly came off its fixings that I noticed the tall, permatanned, Versace-clad man striding in. Behind him scurried two nervous-looking assistants, both impeccably dressed, both holding notebooks and both attentive to the man’s every move. He possessed an immense presence that seemed somehow to fill the entire store and command the undivided attention of everyone.
‘Rosie Duncan.’ It was meant as a question, but appeared more like a statement of disdain.
‘Mr Devereau. Welcome to my shop. How are you?’ I responded, my heart racing. I had put him out of my mind over the weekend and had almost forgotten the fact that Kowalski’s had apparently emptied his order book overnight.
‘Cut the sweet talk,’ Philippe snapped. ‘You know why I’m here.’
‘To admire our designs?’ suggested Ed, suddenly appearing from the workroom and standing protectively at my side.
Philippe glared at him. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr Steinmann. I want to know what the hell you…’ he frantically searched for the word, ‘…tiny, insignificant people think you are doing here.’
‘We’re selling flowers, Philippe. What are you doing here?’ I calmly replied. Far from diffusing the situation, this served only to inflame Philippe’s anger.
‘How dare you? How dare you presume to even pretend to know more than me? Because it is pretence, Ms Duncan, merely pretence. You cannot hope to aspire to even a fraction of my business expertise and artistry—’
Coolly, I cut across him. ‘But it would appear your customers don’t agree, Mr Devereau.’ Light the blue touchpaper. Stand well back…
Boom! Philippe went stratospheric like an expensive bleachblond rocket. ‘So it would appear. Now, I don’t know what you have said to entice them from my company—in the most underhanded and unprofessional way, I may add—but rest assured, Ms Duncan, they will be back. Soon. You are merely a passing phase, a fad. You can’t possibly fulfil my clients’ demands. I am the only one able to do that. I fulfil demands you can’t possibly imagine.’
Oh, I can, I thought. I’ve heard the rumours. But I didn’t say it. Philippe’s anger was far too entertaining right now.
‘My emporium is a palace compared to this…this hovel,’ he spat. ‘Talent-starved traditionalists like yourselves can only dream of owning a business like mine!’
I had dared to venture into the sacred halls of Devereau Design just once: what I saw made me glad to own a shop like Kowalski’s. Far from being a welcoming sanctuary of form, colour and scent, Philippe’s store was little more than a show-room: no flowers were available for passing trade and a large security man on the door was seemingly employed with the solitary task of dissuading any would-be browsers from setting foot over its hallowed threshold. Walls, ceilings, display surrounds and even the doors were uniform white; the counter, with its black granite top, resembled a hotel reception desk more than a service area; flowers were regimented into stiff, contrived displays—unearthly lit in identical white display boxes by tiny green, blue and magenta spotlights, frozen and unnatural like chilling exhibits in some kind of futuristic freak show. A few staff members paraded around in harshly tailored black suits, wearing matching disinterested expressions, each sporting communication headsets and carrying black clipboards. It was as if the flowers in the stark white boxes were prisoners on display. Worse still, the whole space was devoid of scent—it was like walking into Starbucks without smelling coffee. Completely wrong. It makes me shudder even thinking about it now—the lack of life in the place was almost sinister and completely alien to what a florist store should be like.
‘I sincerely hope that Kowalski’s never looks like your emporium,’ I returned. ‘We believe in allowing the flowers to be themselves—something you and your team will never understand.’
‘Kowalski’s is nothing, and your questionable talent for floral art is so limited that I fear your business will shortly collapse. In fact, I intend to see that it does.’
‘Threaten her again and I’ll personally throw you out,’ Ed growled, stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.
‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not stolen your customers. They were recommended to try Kowalski’s by another of your clients—Mimi Sutton. I believe you know her? If they have chosen to leave you, it is entirely their choice and nothing to do with me. You do not have the monopoly on floristry in this city, Mr Devereau, and neither do I.’
‘That may be true, Ms Duncan, however I will not tolerate Kowalski’s pathetic attempts at stealing my considerable share. I pity you, not only for your over-inflated idea of your worth in this city, but also for your abominable designs. I intend to drive your business into the dust…’
Ed leapt forward and flung the door wide open. ‘OK, buddy, you’ve said enough. Out!’
‘But I…’
I moved to Ed’s side. ‘We’d like you to leave. Immediately, please.’
Philippe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His sapphire eyes flashed, his face flushed bright red and he let out an exasperated cry. Spinning round, he strode magnificently out, the two assistants scurrying in his wake. The door slammed and the shop was quiet. Ed and I exchanged glances.
‘Not a happy bunny,’ I grimaced.
‘Hmm,’ agreed Ed, thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid Kowalski’s has just made a very dangerous enemy.’
‘Good morning!’ Marnie arrived, stopping abruptly in the doorway when she saw our worried
