Free Wildflowers by Debbie Howells/Susie Martyn Page B

murdered.  Told her to call the police, though that bloke at All Hallows is a lazy good for nothing…’
    ‘Mr Crowley,’ I say sweetly , before he adds bludger .  ‘I think I saw some customers in your shop.’
    ‘Eh? ’ he grunts and mercifully leaves, just as Mrs Orange walks in.
    ‘Now my lovely, how are them flowers?  No more accidents I hope… I did warn you about them brides…’
    ‘Mrs Orange, please can you go and tell Skye I need her… NOW?’
    ‘Is it always like th is round here?’  The bride’s brother looks amused, then frowns.  ‘What was that about weed-killer?’
    ‘Oh, I may as well tell you, only I’d appreciate you keeping it to yourself because if word gets out, it’ll probably put me out of business,’ I gabble nervously, not at all sure I should be telling him.  ‘Only some crazy guy came in and sabotaged the flowers when my back was turned.  I’ve no idea who he was or why he had it in for me. I’d never seen him before in my life… Anyway, I ordered a whole lot of fresh flowers which came in at three o’clock this morning, so as far as your sister’s concerned, everything is exactly as she wanted.  And very, very fresh.’
    I watch his face for signs of alarm, but there’s not a flicker.  In fact , he seems oddly interested.  ‘Did you keep any of them?’
    ‘As a matter of fact I did, but there’s not much point.  It’s not like the police will be interested.  I just have to write it off to experience.’  I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice, because this episode has cost me hundreds of pounds, not to mention the fallout from the highest levels of stress known to man, as well as lungfuls of noxious chemicals.
    ‘Actually, you know, they might just be interested.  Do me a favour and hang on to them, will you?  Just till next week?’  Then his mobile trills from his pocket.  He reads the message and grins.
    ‘ My little sister. Tell me, do all brides go a bit…’
    ‘Mad?’  I say before I can stop myself.  ‘I’m afraid , mostly, they do…’
    ‘Right.  I better go in that case – and don’t forget to keep those flowers...’
    ‘I won’t ...’
    Reluctantly I watch him drive away.  Then after he’s gone, Skye and I tear over to the village of Nettledown in the van with our precious cargo of wedding flowers.  After dropping off bouquets to the delighted second bride, we’re off to the reception venues.  First off is a lovely old barn on a farm, a fabulous setting complete with fields of sheep bleating noisily.  The tables are draped with hessian and laid with mismatched glass and china, giving it an olde worlde rustic sort of charm.  Placing our flowers in the centre, when all the tiny candles on the tables are lit, along with the fairy lights on all the beams, I know the effect will be magical. 
    Wedding number two, however, is another matter.  It’s at Barnsley House, a grand and extremely expensive country house hotel. This time, the tables are covered with starched white linen and laid with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. Classy, you’d think.  Again, our flowers look great but the effect is totally ruined because every last square inch of the table is covered with the kind of tacky wedding paraphernalia that even the sanest people go mad for.  On every available square inch, shiny foil stars and hearts are done to death, with the ubiquitous sugar almonds in net bags which no-one touches and those disposable cameras in the wedding colours, even though everyone has a mobile. 
    Still, each to their own.  But one day, if I get married, and I hope that day will come, it will be a simple, tasteful affair.  There’ll be no tat, no fuss, not one tiny heart-shaped glittery bit of plastic, just a massive teepee beside a lake…with me, walking barefoot in a gorgeous, flowy sort of dress and my hair just so, and my handsome husband will whirl me around under the stars and promise to love me forever. 
    I ’m losing