racing. I had put him out of my mind over the weekend and had almost forgotten the fact that Kowalski’s had apparently emptied his order book overnight.
‘Cut the sweet talk,’ Philippe snapped. ‘You know why I’m here.’
‘To admire our designs?’ suggested Ed, suddenly appearing from the workroom and standing protectively at my side.
Philippe glared at him. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr Steinmann. I want to know what the hell you…’ he frantically searched for the word, ‘… tiny, insignificant people think you are doing here.’
‘We’re selling flowers, Philippe. What are you doing here?’ I calmly replied. Far from diffusing the situation, this served only to inflame Philippe’s anger.
‘How dare you? How dare you presume to even pretend to know more than me? Because it is pretence, Ms Duncan, merely pretence. You cannot hope to aspire to even a fraction of my business expertise and artistry—’
Coolly, I cut across him. ‘But it would appear your customers don’t agree, Mr Devereau.’ Light the blue touchpaper. Stand well back…
Boom! Philippe went stratospheric like an expensive bleachblond rocket. ‘So it would appear. Now, I don’t know what you have said to entice them from my company—in the most underhanded and unprofessional way, I may add—but rest assured, Ms Duncan, they will be back. Soon. You are merelya passing phase, a fad. You can’t possibly fulfil my clients’ demands. I am the only one able to do that. I fulfil demands you can’t possibly imagine.’
Oh, I can, I thought. I’ve heard the rumours. But I didn’t say it. Philippe’s anger was far too entertaining right now.
‘ My emporium is a palace compared to this…this hovel,’ he spat. ‘Talent-starved traditionalists like yourselves can only dream of owning a business like mine!’
I had dared to venture into the sacred halls of Devereau Design just once: what I saw made me glad to own a shop like Kowalski’s. Far from being a welcoming sanctuary of form, colour and scent, Philippe’s store was little more than a show-room: no flowers were available for passing trade and a large security man on the door was seemingly employed with the solitary task of dissuading any would-be browsers from setting foot over its hallowed threshold. Walls, ceilings, display surrounds and even the doors were uniform white; the counter, with its black granite top, resembled a hotel reception desk more than a service area; flowers were regimented into stiff, contrived displays—unearthly lit in identical white display boxes by tiny green, blue and magenta spotlights, frozen and unnatural like chilling exhibits in some kind of futuristic freak show. A few staff members paraded around in harshly tailored black suits, wearing matching disinterested expressions, each sporting communication headsets and carrying black clipboards. It was as if the flowers in the stark white boxes were prisoners on display. Worse still, the whole space was devoid of scent—it was like walking into Starbucks without smelling coffee. Completely wrong. It makes me shudder even thinking about it now—the lack of life in the place was almost sinister and completely alien to what a florist store should be like.
‘I sincerely hope that Kowalski’s never looks like youremporium,’ I returned. ‘We believe in allowing the flowers to be themselves—something you and your team will never understand.’
‘Kowalski’s is nothing, and your questionable talent for floral art is so limited that I fear your business will shortly collapse. In fact, I intend to see that it does.’
‘Threaten her again and I’ll personally throw you out,’ Ed growled, stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.
‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not stolen your customers. They were
‘Cut the sweet talk,’ Philippe snapped. ‘You know why I’m here.’
‘To admire our designs?’ suggested Ed, suddenly appearing from the workroom and standing protectively at my side.
Philippe glared at him. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr Steinmann. I want to know what the hell you…’ he frantically searched for the word, ‘… tiny, insignificant people think you are doing here.’
‘We’re selling flowers, Philippe. What are you doing here?’ I calmly replied. Far from diffusing the situation, this served only to inflame Philippe’s anger.
‘How dare you? How dare you presume to even pretend to know more than me? Because it is pretence, Ms Duncan, merely pretence. You cannot hope to aspire to even a fraction of my business expertise and artistry—’
Coolly, I cut across him. ‘But it would appear your customers don’t agree, Mr Devereau.’ Light the blue touchpaper. Stand well back…
Boom! Philippe went stratospheric like an expensive bleachblond rocket. ‘So it would appear. Now, I don’t know what you have said to entice them from my company—in the most underhanded and unprofessional way, I may add—but rest assured, Ms Duncan, they will be back. Soon. You are merelya passing phase, a fad. You can’t possibly fulfil my clients’ demands. I am the only one able to do that. I fulfil demands you can’t possibly imagine.’
Oh, I can, I thought. I’ve heard the rumours. But I didn’t say it. Philippe’s anger was far too entertaining right now.
‘ My emporium is a palace compared to this…this hovel,’ he spat. ‘Talent-starved traditionalists like yourselves can only dream of owning a business like mine!’
I had dared to venture into the sacred halls of Devereau Design just once: what I saw made me glad to own a shop like Kowalski’s. Far from being a welcoming sanctuary of form, colour and scent, Philippe’s store was little more than a show-room: no flowers were available for passing trade and a large security man on the door was seemingly employed with the solitary task of dissuading any would-be browsers from setting foot over its hallowed threshold. Walls, ceilings, display surrounds and even the doors were uniform white; the counter, with its black granite top, resembled a hotel reception desk more than a service area; flowers were regimented into stiff, contrived displays—unearthly lit in identical white display boxes by tiny green, blue and magenta spotlights, frozen and unnatural like chilling exhibits in some kind of futuristic freak show. A few staff members paraded around in harshly tailored black suits, wearing matching disinterested expressions, each sporting communication headsets and carrying black clipboards. It was as if the flowers in the stark white boxes were prisoners on display. Worse still, the whole space was devoid of scent—it was like walking into Starbucks without smelling coffee. Completely wrong. It makes me shudder even thinking about it now—the lack of life in the place was almost sinister and completely alien to what a florist store should be like.
‘I sincerely hope that Kowalski’s never looks like youremporium,’ I returned. ‘We believe in allowing the flowers to be themselves—something you and your team will never understand.’
‘Kowalski’s is nothing, and your questionable talent for floral art is so limited that I fear your business will shortly collapse. In fact, I intend to see that it does.’
‘Threaten her again and I’ll personally throw you out,’ Ed growled, stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.
‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not stolen your customers. They were
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