fine,’ I replied, my control returning.
‘It’s just that I don’t know what to…uh…I guess I need some advice, Rosie,’ he frowned. He put his mug down on the counter and twisted it slowly from side to side. ‘Here’s the thing: I’ve ordered I don’t know how many of these bouquets before, but they’re all the same. I want to send something different now. I…I need something different.’
I nodded. ‘Ah, I see you’re experiencing what we in the business call The What Do You Get For The Woman Who Has Everything dilemma?’ I smiled calmly, mentally awarding myself several brownie points. Thank you, Celia… It’s amazing how one titbit of background info about Nate’s love life had transformed me now from Regular Florist to Official Font of All Knowledge.
His eyes widened slightly. ‘Yes—how did you know?’
‘I just guessed,’ I replied, hoping my air of wisdom didn’t belie the truth. ‘Well, I suppose it all comes down to what you want to say to the lady in question.’
Nate shook his head, confused. ‘Sorry, you lost me. What I want to say?’
I took a breath. It’s always difficult attempting to explain how I work. Right from the first time I ever designed a floral arrangement, I found I instinctively knew what I wanted to say. ‘Say it with flowers’ is an old cliché, I know, but it’s essentially what I do in my work. My designs aren’t solely based on colours, species or scents, although these are obviously important components. Instead, each one has a meaning, an emotion to convey, with a deeper significance than just a nice thought. Mr Kowalski used to say there are many reasons why people choose to send flowers—celebration, commemoration, declaration, apology, regret…
‘But you got to look beyond the reason and convey the Big Story. It’s not the What but the Why. Why is this man saying sorry? Is he apologising for a mistake he made, or for the man he finds he has become? You gotta be detective, doctor and counsellor when you create something, believing that what you create will have the power to change somebody’s life. Design with your eyes, your wisdom and your heart.’
People have said that I design as if I intimately know the person who is going to receive the flowers. I can’t explain it any better than Mr K put it, really—I design with my eyes, my wisdom and my heart.
Nate’s eyes focused on a point a million miles away. Thoughts I wasn’t party to washed over his face and his voice was quiet when he spoke. ‘I…I guess I need to think about what my story is, then. I need to think…I’d like to come back and hear more, Rosie. And talk about it. Would you talk about it with me? Look, I have some time free tomorrow—about the same time. Can I make an appointment for coffee then?’
This was utterly unexpected, but inexplicably welcome. ‘Of course,’ I replied softly. ‘No problem at all, Nate.’
Once Nate had left the shop, Ed appeared from the back room like an inquisitive meerkat from its burrow. ‘Hmm. So that’ll be three times you’ve spoken, to date. And would I be correct to assume he’s just booked a fourth?’
I ignored him and flipped the Open sign to Closed.
‘Aw, come on, Rosie, you gotta tell me now. I just shook hands with your secret guy. We’re practically family.’
‘I’m going to cash up,’ I replied coolly, going to open the till. But Ed never gives up. Not without a fight, anyhow. He reached over, pushed the till drawer shut, stole the key and sprinted to the other side of the room, holding his trophy aloft.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Ed. Give it back please.’
He held out his hands, a wicked expression lighting up his azure-blue eyes. ‘So come and get it, already.’
‘Fine.’ Annoyed, I walked over to him and attempted to retrieve the key. But it was no use. As my fingers touched the palm of his hand, Ed lifted it high above his head, laughing as I fell forward and ended up face to face with The Grateful Dead on his faded vintage T-shirt.
‘Well, hello there,’ he grinned down at me as I rested awkwardly against the warmth of his chest, ruffling my hair with his free hand before stepping away, the key still frustratingly out of reach. It’s one of the things I hate about being five feet four inches tall; it means irritatingly tall people like six-foot-two-inch Ed always have the upper hand on me. Literally, in this case.
After much jumping about and other failed tactics like pleading, demanding and tickling (which, I must confess, made the fight far more amusing than annoying because Ed has a giggle like the Mayor of Munchkinland), I resorted to the vertically challenged person’s ultimate move. Mustering every scrap of strength possible, I stamped on his foot. Surprised and shocked by pain, he doubled over and I skilfully caught the key as it fell from his hand. Works every time.
‘Too easy,’ I mocked. ‘Never underestimate a shortie, tall guy.’ Flushed with victory, I swaggered back to the counter and resumed my task.
‘That’s so not fair!’ Ed wailed, clutching his wounded limb.
‘Sorry. Are you OK?’
‘Oh, sure, I’m fine,’ he shrugged.
I let him sweat it out for a while. But once I’d finished cashing up, it was time to put him out of his misery. Grabbing his hand, I led him to the sofa and we sat down.
‘OK, mister. You want details? I’ll give you details.’
Ed did his best to feign disinterest, but his eyes were far too twinkly for someone who didn’t want to know what I was about to divulge. ‘Well, in the light of the callous injury you’ve just inflicted on me, I reckon that’s the least you can do,’ he sniffed.
In truth, there wasn’t an awful lot I could tell him. I wasn’t sure why Nate had chosen to visit today. After all, I still didn’t know a great deal about the man. But I could see there was a lot more to him than first impressions suggested. And I found that…well, intriguing. Ed smiled as I tried to explain this. The only way I could represent my gut feeling was by comparing Nate to an iceberg. Which, inadvertently, revealed my secret theory about Ed, when I added: ‘He’s just like you.’
‘You think I’m an iceberg?’ he repeated, more than a little taken aback.
‘Yes. In a good way, though.’
Ed ran his hand through his dark brown hair and shot me a quizzical look. ‘What’s good about an iceberg?’
I have to admit I was stumped for an explanation, but I made a valiant attempt anyway. ‘Well, you’re a good iceberg—meaning there’s a lot more to discover about you than first meets the eye. You know, as opposed to a bad iceberg, as in bad news for the Titanic. You get what I’m saying?’
Ed’s expression remained unchanged. ‘I’m an iceberg…’ he muttered, as though considering an awful diagnosis and finding a deeper implication that I hadn’t meant.
I put my head on one side and peered at him, my hand lightly resting on his knee. ‘Trust me, it’s a good thing. I find you…intriguing.’
He laughed despite himself. ‘You sound like Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter.’ He adopted a clipped, old English film actor accent. ‘Do you find me terribly, terribly intriguing,
