The Flower Arrangement (36 page)

“Wow!” he said, looking her up and down.

She sat down opposite him. The waitress made as if to fill the glass in front of her but Emily covered it with her hand.

“Really?” Paul said, recovering his composure. “You're turning down a 1996 Cuvee Jean Gautreau?”

“I don't want it.”

The waitress put the bottle and the menus down and left.

Paul leaned back in his chair, locked his fingers behind his head and smiled. “Well, what do you want, Emily? Why are we here? I'm intrigued.”

She wanted to be the upgraded Emily, just for one more minute. That cool, confident version of herself whose hands wouldn't shake, whose voice would stay steady. But she wasn't that person so she would have to settle for saying the lines she had carefully rehearsed. She had taken a leaf out of Paul's book, prepared herself in advance.

She took a deep breath. “We're here because I made a terrible mistake,” she said quietly.

Paul tipped his chair forward so suddenly that his elbow connected with his glass. He caught it just before it hit the table. A perfect save. “I knew it,” he said. “The minute I got that wedding invitation. It wasn't you. All that swirly type and the gilt. And the venue? The Enniskerry Lodge? I was having visions of flamenco guitarists and Chinese lantern balloons.”

Emily nodded. “You won't mind not coming, then?”

“What?” The smugness was gone in a flash.

“To the wedding.”

“But . . .” Now he was flustered. Floundering. “You said you had made a mistake.”

“Oh!” she said, pretending to be surprised. “You thought I meant that I'd made a mistake about
getting married
?”

“Well”—he swirled his wine, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he obviously felt—“naturally, I thought . . .”

“What I meant was that I'd made a mistake inviting you.”

She had never seen him blush before, but as she watched, he turned puce. He was still the handsomest man in the room, in the country, maybe, but now he was also the most annoyed.

Emily picked up her bag and upended it, and all the souvenirs of their time together scattered across the table. She'd kept them in a box all this time, at the back of the wardrobe, where she knew Dan would never look.

Her key to Paul's apartment. A shower cap from the hotel where they'd first had sex. Ticket stubs from an opera at the Gaiety. An empty bottle of Gucci Pour Homme. The wishbone charm he had given her.

He glared down at them and then up at her. “What's all this crap?”

He was right, it was crap, and she'd been giving it head room and house room and heart room along with all the other crap. The idea that she had to reinvent herself to please another person.

She hadn't ever been polymorphously perverse. She'd hated it when Paul had nibbled her earlobes and her elbows. She didn't want to be enigmatic or dangerous. What did that even mean in the real world? Hiding the cutlery in the laundry basket? Using a 120-volt device in a 240-volt socket?

“You know what I think?” Paul said. “I think you're still in love with me.”

“I don't think I was ever in love with you. I think I was in love with me, except it wasn't the real me.”

He snorted. “And this is?” He pointed a finger at her.

Her hair was lank, she wasn't wearing makeup and she had dressed carefully for this meeting. Fleecy leggings. Crocs. An XL sweatshirt with one sleeve cut out.

“Yes,” she said. “I think it is.”

*   *   *

Emily was fast asleep when Dan came crashing in after his stag party. He crawled onto the bed with all his clothes on, smelling of tequila and garlic mayonnaise.

“How was it?” She sat up.

“Pretty tame.” He hiccuped. “No strippers, no lap dancing, but I think I might have done the funky chicken in Abrakebabra. How about you?” He looked at her carefully. “Was it okay seeing your man?”

She had thought about not telling Dan she was going to see Paul, but then she had thought again. She wanted not to have any secrets.

“He's not my man.” She head-butted him softly. “You are. And it was okay.”

“Did you get closure?”

She smiled. “I did.”

“Where is it?” He frisked her through the duvet. “I want to see this closure you got.”

“Wait!” She giggled, pushing him off. “Just one second. I've decided on the flowers.”

“Fascinating!” he mumbled into her neck.

“I'm going back to the snowflake hydrangeas. And I've had another idea about our first song.”

He lifted his head. “Oh, Emily! Not again.”

“What about ‘Let it Snow!'?”

“I like it!” He grinned at her. “But in June? Will everyone think we're unhinged?”

“Who cares? It's our song, not theirs!”

“That's snow true!” He laughed.

And they both began to hum the tune.

Lara was working three kinds of ivy together, weaving them into cascading strands. Tomorrow, after she'd pinned them into place on the tables, she'd work in the little knots of white roses and the scented vines. When the wedding guests came in from the garden after the champagne reception on the lawn, the dining room would smell of jasmine and honeysuckle.

It was midsummer's day and the height of the wedding season that had begun in May. So far the flowers for every bride had somehow worked out perfectly, but there was always the lurking fear that the next one would not. The possibility that the wholesaler would leave out the most important bloom for a bouquet. The business of moving stock from the cold room into the warmth of the workroom and back again, so that every rose and peony had the perfect degree of openness, was fraught with danger. And that was nothing compared to dealing with the brides themselves, who needed even more careful handling than their flowers.

There were three weddings in the book for tomorrow, another three lined up next weekend, and then—Lara felt light-headed with excitement as she bent down to pick up another strand of ivy—there was her own wedding, a week from Monday, just ten days from now. After weeks of secret searching, she had finally found the perfect dress in a vintage boutique owned by Ciara's flatmate.

She hated to lie, so she had said that she needed something for a
summer wedding; she just hadn't mentioned it was her own. Suzanne had brought out a 1930s blush-pink silk tea dress with a skirt that fell softly to the knee like poppy petals. Lara had been daydreaming about the bouquet since April, but she had finally ordered the flowers this morning. White O'Hara roses with pale pink hearts, and white veronica.

Two weeks from now, she and Ben would be married and in southwest Crete, where her parents had honeymooned. Ciara, who had been surprised when Lara told her she was taking a week off, had now decided that it had all been her idea in the first place.

“I told her she had to take a break,” Lara had heard her tell Becca, the intern, this morning. “She hasn't had a holiday in six years!”

The guilt Lara had felt about leaving Ciara on her own for a week disappeared after Becca had come on board. She was only twenty-two but a natural, intuitive with people and flowers. Lara was already thinking of offering her a job.

She had finished the ivy garlands and was sweeping up the fallen leaves when she heard someone bounding up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. She was already smiling when Ben stuck his head around the door.

His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glittering with mischief. Sometimes he looked so boyish that it scared her.

“Hey! What are you up to?”

Lara leaned on the brush. “My eyes,” she said. “In weddings.”

“Any wedding in particular that I should know about?”

“Sssh.” Lara put her finger to her lips and pointed at the floor. “Ciara might hear you!”

He came over and took the brush. “Come on, Cinderella,” he said. “I'm taking you to lunch. I've booked Guilbaud's. I know we're going there on our . . .” He dropped his voice to a comic whisper. “
Wedding day
, but this can be a sneak preview.”

“What about your work?”

“Software upgrade!” He twirled the brush. “All the computers are out of action. I'm supposed to be proofing a manuscript at home, but
I'd much rather hang out with you!” He took her hand. “Come on, grab your things.”

“Ben,” she said carefully, “it's a lovely idea, but I can't go anywhere. I've got three wedding bouquets to make by the end of the day, plus two sets of table arrangements. Damn! I forgot! Hang on a moment!” She hurried to the door and called down the stairs. “Ciara, can you take the agapanthus out of the cold room?”

When she turned back to Ben, he was taking out his phone.

“Let's have an early dinner then. I'll call and see if they have a table.”

“I'll be working late, but I'll come home early tomorrow evening, I promise.”

*   *   *

Ben stuffed his hands into his pockets and his fingers closed around the little red leather box as he walked along Camden Street. Lara hadn't wanted an engagement ring, and the wedding ring she'd picked was a plain rose-gold band. But he'd asked the jeweler to design a flower-shaped diamond cluster, and had been planning to give it to her at lunch.

Surely she could have spared an hour? Ciara and the new intern could handle things.

He'd hardly seen Lara since the start of May. She was gone from six most mornings and back late every night. Ben hadn't been that bothered back in March when she wanted to keep the wedding secret. She'd had a big showy wedding before; he got it that she didn't want to go there again. But now he wondered if there was some other reason for all the secrecy.

Was Lara ashamed of telling people she was marrying him? Was she having second thoughts? Was she using work as an excuse to avoid him?

A knot of worry gathered in his stomach as he turned toward St. Stephen's Green.

“Save me!” A tall blonde woman wearing a cream dress and carrying
a briefcase stepped into his path. “Save me from twats and lying bastards!”

He laughed. “Hello, Mia.”

Katy's sister was coming from a meeting with the Revenue, where she'd found out that one of her clients had stashed away five hundred grand. She leapt at the chance of lunch.

“Very posh!” she said as a waiter in black tie walked them to their table. “Do you have five hundred grand stashed away somewhere as well?”

“I wish,” Ben said. He flicked through the leather-bound wine list, his eyes widening at the prices. “House red okay with you?”

“House Dutch Gold would be okay. That's how desperate I am! God”—she bit her lip—“how long is it since we've hung out together?”

“Must be two years.”

“I've missed you! Maybe now you're all playing happy-ever-afters we can be friends again.”

“I'd like that.”

By the time they were finishing their starters, the knot of worry in Ben's stomach had dissolved. Lara was busy, that was all. She had a lot to get organized before they went away. Two weeks from now, he thought as he emptied his glass, they'd be married and he'd have her undivided attention.

“Another bottle?” Mia asked. “I'm buying. I can't bear to go back to work. I'm too hammered now anyway.”

He smiled. “Go on!”

Mia kept him entertained with wickedly funny stories about her work colleagues and Ronan's pretentious arty friends before moving on to her favorite subject, her mother, Angela.

“She went into a total decline when you left. Pined for you like the dead parrot in that Monty Python sketch pined for the fjords. Then—you're not going to believe this—she got off that lovely little ass of hers and went out and met a man!”

“You're joking!”

“Nope. They've been together for nearly two years. We haven't met him yet. She's keeping him secret.” She took a spoonful of her strawberry parfait. “My theory is that he's younger than her. Can you imagine it! Mum and a toyboy!”

Ben winced. “Would that be such a bad thing?” he asked drily, but she was too tipsy to make the connection.

“You were always too easy on her, Ben. You know she thinks you're on the rebound from Katy. She told me at that party back in the spring that she gives you and Lara a year.” She loaded her spoon up and held it out to him.

He pushed it away and the parfait slopped off onto the white tablecloth. A waiter swooped in to clean it up. Anger rose in Ben as he sat, unable to speak, while the man first fussed with the stain, then covered it with a clean napkin.

“A year? Bullshit!” he said when the waiter had finally gone.

“Course it is,” Mia agreed cheerfully. “Mum's full of it, you know that.”

“Well, if you see her, tell her that Lara and I are getting married.” It was out before he could stop himself.

“You are?” Mia dropped her spoon on her plate with a clatter.

“Yeah, but you can't tell anyone. Nobody knows. It's classified information. Seriously!”

But she had turned away and was waving the waiter over. “Two glasses—no, make it a bottle of champagne. We're celebrating!”

She turned back to Ben, her lovely face lit up with excitement, and said the one word that nobody had said to him.

“Congratulations.”

*   *   *

They were both drunk at half past five when they left, but Mia was the drunker by far. They hugged outside on the pavement, watched by the
white marble statues above the gate of the Dáil and the equally impassive doorman on the steps of the Merrion Hotel.

“You look after yourself!” Mia said, thumping his back. “And you look after that gorgeous woman.” She staggered a little in her high sandals. “I'm due at Katy's for dinner. She's going to kill me for showing up drunk but I don't care. I'm so happy for you both. So, so, so”—she waved at a cab—“happy!”

She folded herself into the taxi gracefully and turned around and waved at him till it turned the corner onto Merrion Row. She wouldn't tell Katy about the wedding, he told himself.

*   *   *

Phil came home at eight thirty. He'd done a run to Kildare and back and he'd been caught in a summer shower. Raindrops glittered on his leathers and his fringe was damp when he took his helmet off.

“Mia gone already?” he asked.

Katy looked up from her book. “Home. Drunk as a skunk. So,” she said, folding her arms, looking annoyed, “when were you planning to tell me the news?”

He kissed the top of her head then went over to the table. “What news?” The frangipani tart that Mia hadn't touched was on a cake stand. He broke a piece off.

“The news about Lara and Ben getting married?”

Phil's hand stopped midway between the plate and his mouth, which was gaping with astonishment.

Katy knew that she herself had probably looked exactly like that when Mia told her. Ben, the most commitment-phobic man on the planet, was getting married. Ben, who had avoided any mention of marriage when they were together. Who had said, when anyone asked, that Katy art-directed “a magazine,” carefully omitting the word “wedding” as if saying it out loud might make it happen.

After the news had sunk in, she had probed her emotions carefully,
looking for a raw nerve ending. It was not particularly flattering that Ben had avoided marrying her for seven years and then proposed to someone else within nine months, but what had happened between them felt like ancient history. She was happy now; why shouldn't he be happy too?

Phil put the pastry down and sank into the chair by the window. He was staring straight ahead, rubbing his dark hair slowly with the flat of his hand. “Mia told you?”

“She bumped into Ben. He told her.” Katy decided not to tell Phil about the boozy lunch. He already thought that Ben was a stoner.

“She must be winding you up,” Phil said grimly.

“He showed Mia a ring. You really didn't know? Lara didn't drop any hints?”

“No.” Phil's jaw was set.

“Mia did say it was supposed to be a secret,” Katy began.

“Really?” he snapped. “Well, remind me never to trust your sister or your ex with
my
secrets.”

*   *   *

It was after eleven when the three wedding bouquets were finally finished and Lara blew out the candles, switched off the fairy lights and locked up for the night. It had been raining all evening. The puddled pavement shivered with blue and pink neon from the nightclub across the street.

She had forgotten to text Ben. She hoped he hadn't been watching the clock, waiting for her. She scanned the street for a taxi but there were none so she decided to walk home instead. Every step was an effort. She didn't remember ever feeling this tired, not even when she was pregnant.

At the Bleeding Horse, she had to thread her way through the crowd of drinkers who were milling around on the street. Young people, she thought, then realized that most of them were Ben's age. She would never admit it to him, but she still felt self-conscious when people
clocked that they were a couple. Awkward when she was with his friends, especially Diane, who looked at her as if she thought anyone over thirty-five was a candidate for a bus pass. She had almost died of shame the one time she met his mother.

“Nobody would think twice if the age gap were reversed,” Ciara had pointed out. That was true, but it didn't make Lara feel any better.

The light was on in the living room. Ben was watching the TV, a beer in his hand. He didn't look up when Lara opened the door.

“Sorry I'm late.”

“It's okay.” His eyes didn't leave the screen.

“Do you want to come up and have a shower with me?”

He took a gulp of his beer.