of in my life, but I can honestly say that Billy Whitman’s situation was one I was pretty convinced wasn’t likely to happen to me. ‘Billy will tell Emily how he feels one day,’ I said with conviction. ‘These things just take time. And no, I don’t worry that will happen to me.’
A strange look passed across the ice-blue Steinmann stare. ‘Still, it’s a scary thought, huh?’
A pretty young waitress appeared by our table, instantly summoning Ed’s attention.
‘Hi, I’m Lydia,’ she smiled.
‘Hi Lydia.’ Ed’s cheeky expression made me groan and avert my gaze.
She blushed and shifted position self-consciously. ‘Can I get you guys anything else?’
‘Rosie? More coffee?’
I politely declined, not that he was listening.
Lydia turned to Ed. ‘And for you, sir?’
‘Well, I’m fine for coffee, but I wouldn’t say no to your number.’
Watching Ed the Serial Dater at work is truly a sight to behold. Lydia didn’t stand a chance against the Steinmann charm. I’ve seen it so many times and yet it never fails to fascinate me. He can make any woman feel like she’s the only other person in the room, just with his attentive smile.
‘Well, when you ask so nicely…’ Lydia scribbled her number on a napkin and handed it to him. Ed, his eyes never leaving hers, accepted it and placed it with great care into his shirt pocket.
‘Call me anytime after seven,’ she beamed.
‘I’ll do that,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’
He watched her skip away and looked back at me. ‘What?’
I laughed. ‘You are impossible, Ed! I can’t take you anywhere.’
He took a triumphant sip of coffee. ‘I’m just in the game, Rosie, that’s all.’
‘Who do we have here?’ a familiar voice interrupted. My heart sank and I looked up to see Philippe Devereau standing by our table, expensively attired arms folded angrily and perma-tan flushed. ‘The talentless Rosie Duncan and her scruffy guard dog, I presume?’
My hard stare at Ed prevented him from saying something he might come to regret.
‘Philippe, what a pleasure. Day off, is it?’
Philippe snorted. ‘Some of us in this business are able to function outside of our stores, Ms Duncan. Unlike lesser concerns such as Kowalski’s.’
I raised my coffee cup. ‘Proud to be a neighbourhood florist, Philippe. May it ever be thus.’
He slammed a fist down on our table, making the white crockery, silver coffee pot and cutlery jump. People around us had stopped eating and were staring over at the orange-hued, black-suited angry man by our table.
‘Give it up, Ms Duncan! Know your market: the unremarkable masses who think Asiatic lilies are exotic. Leave my customers alone.’
I stared straight at him, keeping my voice low and cool. ‘On the contrary, Mr Devereau, my customers are remarkable and understand far more about flowers than you ever will. They appreciate natural beauty—something I think you lost sight of years ago.’ The nervous-looking assistant who had just scampered to Philippe’s side gasped. But I wasn’t finished. ‘And as for your customers, as I said before, I have no intention of pursuing them. But they seem intent on pursuing me. Now, if you don’t mind, this happens to be my day off and I’d like to finish my breakfast in peace.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ Philippe snarled. ‘To think that I, Manhattan’s premier floral artiste, should have to endure such treatment from a two-bit florist with ideas above her place! Who the hell do you think you are?’
Ed jumped to his feet before I could stop him. ‘Who is she? I’ll tell you who she is, you phony jerk. She is the kind of innovative, passionate designer that this City needs. Rosie understands form and beauty in a way you never will. We both do. Mark my words, Mr Devereau, our designs are going to set this whole damn place on fire and leave you wondering what the hell happened. Now why don’t you just shimmy your little orange ass back to that flower freak show you call an emporium and leave us the hell alone?’ He calmly resumed his seat. ‘Amazing the losers they let in here on a Sunday, huh?’
I smiled at Ed, genuinely touched by his chivalrous defence of me. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’
Philippe and his minion made a noisy exit from the café.
Flowers are very subjective—not everyone likes the same. I dread to think what Philippe’s idea of a perfect bloom is. Celia can’t stand the scent of stargazer lilies, for example. In fact, she is famously picky when it comes to flowers: hyacinths, jasmine and viburnum all elicit her most violent disapproval. That’s why what I do as a florist is more like analysis than simply pure aesthetics. Flowers, as Mr K used to tell us, are like people: each one of us has our own special blend of characteristics just as flowers have different colours, shapes, scents and so on.
Celia once asked me what flowers everyone at Kowalski’s would be. I didn’t even have to think about it. Ed, for example, would be something like an ornamental thistle or a protea—strikingly attractive yet complex and guarded beneath. Marnie is absolutely a gerbera girl—bright, kooky and original. Mr K was always like a chrysanthemum, rotund, solid and jolly, multilayered yet somehow completely familiar and approachable. Celia is an easy one: she’d be a gladioli—bold and showy, an acquired taste for some yet irresistible for others. And as for me…well, I suppose my name gives it away: I’m a rose through and through—full of life on the outside, yet incredibly well defended underneath the colour. Those thorns are there for a reason; they have become necessary to help me face the future.
If I was to add Nate to the list, I guess he would be a daisy: laid-back and happy, unashamedly displaying his colours to the world regardless of what they think, but—like the thick foliage beneath the bloom—concealing a more complex character behind the impressive display.
For now, I was content to enjoy the friendly colours on Nate’s surface, but I was already aware that his hidden complexities would become more apparent. The more time I spent with him, the more I was aware of a whole other story going on underneath it all. Whether he would admit to that remained to be seen.
Celia, as ever, remained intensely interested in my and Nate’s burgeoning friendship, keen to analyse each new development. Most of her incessant interrogations took place over food, either at her apartment or at one of the many restaurants and cafés she frequents across the city.
‘Don’t you just adore brunch?’ Celia grinned, buttering a slice of toasted brioche one Saturday morning. ‘Whoever thought of this splendid tradition should be cannonised immediately.’
‘Maybe there’s a statue of them somewhere,’ I smiled. ‘Or a pancake named in their honour.’
‘Well, there should be,’ Celia nodded, brushing crumbs off the blue checkered tablecloth. ‘I might just write about that next week.’
Brunch is an institution in New York, especially at the weekends and particularly in my neighbourhood. Celia introduced
