Another Night, Another Day (3 page)

‘Most people grow them in pots, but they make a superb cut flower, don’t they?’

Michael checks the tag. ‘Pricey, though.’

‘I will do you this whole bucket for twenty pounds.’

‘Can you add it to my account?’

Jan nods.

‘OK. I’ll take them.’

Michael rubs his hands together with excitement. I’ll make an arrangement for reception at Hotel sur Plage that’ll truly dazzle them, he vows.

Once Jan has gone, he takes off his donkey jacket so he can move more freely, and flicks on his ancient transistor. Just as he’s getting started, he hears the familiar chords of
‘White Man in Hammersmith Palais’ by The Clash, one of his favourite singles. Grinning with pleasure, he turns the volume up full blast – it’s not as if there are any
customers in the shop – and sings ‘Oo-ee-oo’ along to the backing vocals as he slices the trunk-like amaryllis stems on a diagonal.

Funny to think an old punk could end up a florist, he thinks, pulling off the outer leaves of some brassica in time to the reggae beat. Wonder what Joe Strummer would make of a shop called
‘Bloomin’ Hove’? Might give him a laugh. After all, almost everyone settles down in the end – he spent his last days on a farm in Somerset. Didn’t I read he got into
planting trees to combat global warming?

Michael selects a few fronds of cedar – the spicy scent should work well on the hotel front desk. Whilst he twirls the arrangement to check every angle, he casts his mind back. At once
he’s in the mosh pit, pogoing alongside his mates, peroxide hair spiked up with sugar soap, elbows flapping like chicken wings to fend off fans who jumped too close . . . Yes, they did use to
gob at whoever was performing, revolting in hindsight, but there was something so great about those days. The music was raw and simple, a channel for his youthful aggression and rebellion.
I’m glad I was of an age to catch it, he thinks. Seventeen in 1977: perfect. A couple of years older and I’d have ended up into Yes and prog rock, like my brother. There was Bowie, but
glam rock wasn’t political, anarchic, whereas punk seemed to speak to lads like me from the suburbs. Croydon even had its own scene: The Damned were local, and there was a pub, the Greyhound,
with gigs on every Sunday. That was another hallmark of punk – it was an anyone-can-do-it movement, you didn’t need money or even musical skill to be part of it.

Michael sighs. This mentality seems to be missing now. He’s tried to engage with his kids about what they’re into, but he can’t imagine his son or daughter picking up a guitar,
even though he’s urged Ryan, in particular, to give it a go. Instead his son seems more interested in playing computer games – or did when he lived at home – and try as he might,
Michael can’t pretend he’s enthralled. Now Ryan is away studying and Michael’s not sure what he gets up to. Sometimes it feels they’re not just a generation apart, but on
different planets.

The song finishes with a succession of rapid chords, and the DJ announces he’s doing a tribute to mark the ten years since Strummer’s death this Christmas.

Blimey, The Clash on Radio 2, thinks Michael, shaking his head. In ’77 that would have been an abomination. Next up is ‘White Riot’, and, inspired by the colour theme, he
plucks some pale roses from a bucket and thrusts the stems between the amaryllis with a flourish.

Finally, his work is complete. He holds the arrangement at arm’s length.

‘What do you make of this, Joe?’ he asks, looking up at the heavens.

Joe, he is convinced, approves.

Abby braces herself. He’ll be back soon – it was just a half day today.

Minutes later, the key turns.

Straight away he hurls himself down the hall and headbutts her stomach, throwing her off balance.

‘Whoa!’ she says, struggling to grasp his shoulders and hold him upright. She is strong, but he is often stronger.

Several paces behind is Eva; she looks exhausted. That’s the effect he has: those involved with him end up worn out, thin. Eventually most give up the fight, yet so far Eva is sticking
with it, and Abby is grateful.

‘How did it go?’ she asks.

‘All right.’ Eva shrugs, then smiles. ‘We managed a while in the park before he got agitated.’

‘Well done, thank you. You must be hungry. Can I get you anything?’

Abby reaches to open the fridge and he is off, charging down the hall. Callum is such a live wire; he never stops, as if his veins are pumped full of electricity. Before she’s had time to
process what’s happening, Abby is running after him. The front door isn’t securely locked yet, and as he reaches to turn the handle, Abby darts beneath him and punches in the code.

Phew. In terms of passing traffic, at any rate, they are safe.

Then he’s off again, into the living room, jumping on the armchair, Zebedee.

She dives for his ankles, knowing it’s futile. With astonishing speed he leaps up and over her, past Eva, who’s come to help, to
BOING! BOING!
on the sofa. No wonder the
springs are going.

‘Ouch!’ Abby gets another headbutt.

He slides over the back of the settee and stands in front of the bay window like an escaped convict on watch for his captors, looking up the street one second, inside the room the next. He
starts scratching, tugging at the skin on the backs of his hands. It’s red raw and weeping, Abby notes, a sign he’s especially upset today. Seeing this makes her heart bleed, too.

‘Hey, hey, little man . . .’ she murmurs, voice soft, concern for his state of mind mixed with fear he’s going to headbutt the glass. ‘Shall we try
Alvin and The
Chipmunks
? How about
Alvin and The Chipmunks
?’ She enunciates the words clearly and Eva reaches for the box.

The window isn’t as interesting as this prospect, and –
WHOOP!
– he’s over to the coffee table, snatching the remote and flicking on the telly.

‘Come and sit on Mummy,’ she says, and pats her lap.

Callum does as he’s bid – a rarity – and, with no concept of his seven-year-old weight or impact, lands on her bony thighs with a thud.

For a few moments, he is settled.

Abby exhales. It makes her manic too, being with him. It’s catching, this inability to concentrate, to stay still: they ping from place to place, activity to activity, like a game of
pinball. Even when Callum is out at school or with one of his carers, it’s hard for Abby to slow down.

‘I wish I understood more what goes on inside here,’ she whispers, stroking his head. But as usual her son seems far away in his private world and doesn’t answer. Conversation
is only ever one-way. So instead she continues fondling his hair, hoping he remains seated long enough for her to catch her breath.

* * *

By midday Michael has still not heard back from Tim, so he asks Ali, the greengrocer next door, to keep an eye on the shop while he nips down to the seafront to deliver his
handiwork. Michael walks into Hotel sur Plage and is poised to ask the lad on reception to let Tim know that he’s here, when his heart misses a beat.

On the glass counter is a vast bouquet of deep-pink peonies. These are new blooms, poised to open; their fragrance is sweet and light as a sunny day. They are not remotely in season, so must
have cost the earth.

Normally it would be down to Michael to remove the previous week’s flowers and put new ones in their place. But on Boxing Day he supplied the hotel with an arrangement of ivy, moss and red
and white roses; not this. He left a family gathering early to deliver it in person. Why the change?

At that moment Tim comes hurrying down the corridor, shiny leather loafers clicking on the marble. ‘Ah, Mike, glad to see you! Happy New Year!’

‘Nice flowers.’ Michael jerks his head towards the counter.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ gushes Tim, then grasps that Michael is being sarcastic. ‘Ah, yes, well, Mike, actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about . . .
Hope you got my message on your mobile?’

Michael shakes his head.

‘Couple of hours ago, must have been.’

‘I’ve had my phone close by all morning.’

‘It was your answer message – it clicked on after a few rings.’

Michael reaches into his pocket and retrieves his Nokia. To his surprise, through the scratches on the tiny screen he can make out the message icon. ‘Must have missed it,’ he says,
confused as to how. Then he realizes. The radio. Oh shit.

‘Er . . .’ Now Tim appears nonplussed. ‘I hope you didn’t buy any flowers specially . . . ?’ His voice trails off.

Of course I did, thinks Michael. ‘Why?’

‘The thing is, um, it’s . . .’ Michael sees colour rising up the young man’s neck. Michael is not used to Tim fumbling; normally he’s assertive to the point of
bullishness. ‘I might as well be honest. We’re going to be getting another supplier to do the arrangements here from now on.’

Michael had a hunch something was amiss; still, he is speechless. There’s been no warning of this at all before today, no inkling from the management that they were unhappy, no moans or
groans about his work, or mutterings to suggest he needed to watch his step, let alone a request for Bloomin’ Hove to retender. Tim even asked him to make extra displays in the run-up to
Christmas.

‘It’s just that . . . we’ve got this new—’

‘You’ve found someone cheaper,’ states Michael. ‘Ah, well.’ He struggles to think at speed. ‘I’m sure I can do something about that.’ Tim has
beaten Michael’s prices down repeatedly since he was promoted eighteen months ago, so Michael doesn’t have much room to manoeuvre, but he can’t give up without a fight. He’s
determined to see those amaryllis standing in their rightful place in the reception of Hotel sur Plage.

‘I couldn’t ask you to lower your costs,’ says Tim.

Could have fooled me, thinks Michael. He waits, watching, strangely fascinated, as Tim’s normally pale face continues to redden until he matches the peonies.

‘Trouble is . . . It’s, er—’ Finally Tim blurts, ‘ – Lawrence’s daughter.’

It takes Michael a few seconds to compute. ‘As in
the
Lawrence, owner of this hotel?’

Tim can’t meet his gaze. ‘Mm.’

It’s an axe to Michael’s knees. ‘I see.’ Bile rises in his throat. I hate this man, he thinks. I’ve never liked him, now I fucking loathe him.

There’s another silence and implications tumble like dominoes.

For any retailer to lose their biggest customer is invariably bad news, but at this time of year, for Bloomin’ Hove, it’s potentially catastrophic. The shop doesn’t make much
profit on the business from Hotel sur Plage, but it’s the only contract Michael has: his anchor in a sea of crazily fluctuating income. Without it he will find it hard to pay this
month’s rent, and he has been running up credit with Jan and another supplier in the Big Smoke. But he’s damned if Tim should glean any of this, and he’s aware of the lad behind
reception, pretending not to listen.

‘Of course, we’ll settle your outstanding invoices . . .’

‘Right.’ Michael nods.

The vase of sickly scented peonies, the bowl of mints to sweeten guests, the glass-topped counter polished to perfection – if Michael had a sledgehammer to hand, he’d smash them all
to pieces.

Instead he turns and marches straight out of the building.

Outside, he stops. Suddenly he’s desperately short of breath, heart beating so fast he feels it might burst through his ribcage. He grabs hold of the wrought-iron railing to steady
himself.

His MPV is parked in a nearby loading bay, and after what seems a long while, the wind blowing along the promenade and the sound of waves crashing on the shingle calm him enough that he feels
able to drive.

Through the car window he can see the giant red blooms rising up from their boxes, garish and defiant. His heart starts to thump again.

They’re all trumpeting at him, jeering. ‘So what are you going to do with us now? Sell us for a song at your sorry little shop?’

At lunchtime on the way back from school, Karen and Molly stop at the Co-op in Seven Dials. Karen is reaching for their usual wholemeal loaf when Molly asks,
‘Aren’t we going to get Grandma some bread?’

Karen’s mother prefers sliced white, so over Christmas Karen has been buying that too.

‘We’re not seeing Grandma for a bit,’ says Karen.

Her little girl looks worried. ‘Has she gone back to Portugal?’

‘Grandma doesn’t live in Portugal any more,’ Karen explains as they join the queue for the till. ‘She’s much closer to us now, remember? She’s gone home to
her flat, near Grandpa.’

‘Why doesn’t Grandma live with Grandpa?’

Lord, thinks Karen. Out of the mouths of babes. She considers how best to explain. ‘Grandpa’s not well, so he’s in a special home where nurses can look after him.’

‘So does Grandma live on her own?’

Karen feels a stab of guilt. ‘Yes, sweetheart, she does.’

‘Oh.’ A small line forms between Molly’s brows. ‘Does that make her sad?’

Her daughter’s question surprises Karen. It seems so grown up. ‘Maybe,’ she says, flummoxed.

‘Like you’re sad without Daddy?’

‘Er . . .’

‘If Grandma’s sad, she should come and live with us,’ announces Molly.

Just then they reach the till. Thank goodness Karen can focus on the cashier – she’s utterly lost for words.

* * *

‘Oh dear, not in?’ says Ali, when Michael gets out of the MPV back at Bloomin’ Hove.

‘He was in all right.’ Michael’s voice is a growl.

‘But—’ Then Ali sees the boot full of amaryllis and his face falls.

I may as well tell him, decides Michael. If anyone will understand, it’s Ali. His neighbour’s trade has taken a nosedive since the opening of a Tesco Metro a hundred yards down the
road – luckily they’ve not much room for flowers.

‘Fired.’ He flings the trays of roses onto the pavement in frustration. He cut the stems short especially for the hotel restaurant – how on earth can he sell dozens of such
blooms now?

One by one he lifts the precious arrangements from the vehicle and lays them by the door. As he struggles with the display he made for reception, he feels his skin prickling with resentment.