Free Wildflowers by Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn Page A

too preoccupied to carry out normal levels of interrogation. It’ll wait.
    By half past three, we’ve unpacked everything into buckets of water and we’ve started.  What is usually pleasurable becomes a race against time as we snip and tweak like fury, too engrossed to even notice the sun coming up. But amazingly, incredibly, we manage it.  Not only that, but it’s only seven o’clock when we finish. We even have time to spare.
    Feeling slightly disembodied, I look a cross the road, as the lights flicker on in Demelza’s, and Mr Crowley goes through his daily ritual of putting out the sandwich board, filling up the newspaper rack, sweeping the doorstep and firing up the oven.  It’s always in that order so I give him exactly ten minutes before I go over and pick up some bacon sarnies.  Incredibly, for once, Skye and I actually sit down and eat them instead of gulping them on the hoof as we usually do.  With the pressure off – temporarily - I seize my moment.
    ‘So Skye… you and Milo… is there – er – something , only I – er – noticed…’  Tiredness has this effect on my verbal capacity, reducing my speech to stuttering monosyllables.  Fortunately Skye’s used to it. 
    Skye ’s beetroot blush to the tips of her ears gives her away.  ‘ Dunno .’
    ‘ Oh,’ I try to reassure her, not-so-subtly digging for more.  ‘Erm, he’s rather nice, isn’t he?  Fun, I should think?’
    ‘Want more coffee , Frankie?’  She stomps off in her DM’s to fill the kettle, thereby ending our conversation.
    The coffee break over, we’re just about to start loading up the van for our deliveries, as a man walks in. At first, I can’t place him but something about him is familiar.
    ‘Hi!  Again!’  I’m certain I know him – though I can’t remember where from, unless it’s one of Honey’s dinner parties, memories of which tend to be somewhat distorted.
    He has warm eyes which seem to linger on me and unlike most men in flower shops, doesn’t look the slightest awkward.  And that’s probably, I’m guessing, because a gorgeous guy like him probably has an adoring girlfriend he regularly buys flowers for.  What other reason could there be?
    ‘Hi…’  He peers at me curiously.  ‘It is you – I wasn’t sure for a moment.’
    At the sound of his voice, my memory kicks in.  It’s the hot best man from last Saturday.  The one who’s only seen me at my worst. 
    ‘Looking slightly better than last weekend, I’m pleased to say.  No spiders…’  I say in a jolly voice and pulling a face, point to my eyelashes.
    ‘ Spiders …’  He looks confused.
    Nice , Frankie.  I try to dazzle him with my wit and he ends up thinking I’m deranged.  I resort to being business-like.
    ‘Anyway, how can I help you?’  
    ‘Well, believe it or not, I’m here for the flowers – again.’
    ‘Oh – not the best man again?’  Is that kind of like being always the bridesmaid? Only it can’t be – he’s far too good looking.  As he looks around the shop, I take a sneaky glance at him.  Lovely shirt, ironed but not too perfect, top button undone.  Lovely jeans, just faded enough so they’re soft looking.  Lovely tanned hands…
    ‘No – I’m the bride’s brother, this time.  And seeing as I knew where you were, I offered.  Hey, I do like your shop…’
    ‘ Thank you.  Um – which bride?’  I ask, forcing myself to focus.
    ‘Bernice.  Clifton.  Why?  Are you doing more than one?’
    ‘Oh, just two…’  I say airily.  ‘It’s nothing… All part of a week’s work.’ 
    But t hen Mr Crowley comes blundering in.  ‘I ‘ope you called that police bloke, girl – that lazy so and so…’
    The bride’s brother pricks up his ears.  ‘Police?  What’s been happening?’
    ‘Someone poured weed-killer on her flowers, that’s what.  Could smell it a mile off.  Screaming like a banshee, she was.  You never heard anything like it. Thought she’d bin