Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson
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‘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 me to its delights shortly after I arrived in the city—and you would be amazed at the number of venues catering for ‘brunchers’ here. Today we were enjoying eggs, pancakes, brioche and crispy bacon with never-ending cups of strong, chocolate coffee at Annie’s, a small yet perfectly formed eatery three blocks east of Celia’s apartment. It resides in the basement of an old brownstone building and legend has it that the premises were formerly an illegal drinking den that enjoyed considerable success—and notoriety—during Prohibition in the 1920s. Annie’s had been one of Jerry’s favourite haunts and he spent many happy weekends courting Celia there. While she never admits it, Celia maintains a few things in her life that she and Jerry used to do together. I think it’s comforting for her, in an odd way. She still has his Mets baseball on her desk in her apartment, for example, and still buys smoked salmon from Schumann’s deli—even though she constantly complains about the prices and is forever asserting her intention to shop elsewhere.
At best, Annie’s can hold about twenty diners at a time: today the place was packed and a relaxed queue was forming on the steep steps leading up to sidewalk level above.
‘I think we got here at the right time,’ I said. ‘They’re queuing already and it’s only ten thirty.’
‘My mother always says it’s important to head for the restaurant with the queue,’ Celia smiled. ‘She doesn’t trust places that people aren’t flocking to. But then, she hates waiting. I’ve lost count of the number of times we pass restaurant after restaurant with empty tables just so she can wait in line somewhere else—and then have to endure her constant complaining about how long she’s having to wait. It’s a no-win situation. But, that’s my mother. Never happier than when she isn’t happy.’
‘But you still love her, eh?’
Celia smoothed out the red checked napkin on her lap. ‘Of course I do. It’s just not always as simple as I’d like it to be. See, you have to understand that we’ve never had an easy relationship. Not like I see you have with your mother. Mom always wants better for me, you know: better career, better wealth, better relationships—which is good for me, don’t get me wrong; but the end result is that she’s never satisfied with who I am or where I’m at. I always get the feeling she’s disappointed in me somehow. So,’ she brightened and I sensed the subject was being hastily discarded in favour of another, ‘how’s life for you? I heard you and Nate went to the Noguchi Museum on Long Island last week?’
‘Yes, we did. We had a great time—the art is so amazing.’
‘That’s different for you guys, isn’t it? Meeting outside of your store?’
I smiled. ‘Nate said he wanted to see if our conversations would work outdoors. As it turned out, we proved his theory.’
‘So, did he say any more about the Caitlin situation outdoors?’
It was a good question, yet here’s the odd thing about last Saturday: