party next month and I suggested you might do the flowers. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Why would I mind? That’s fantastic. Wow, Soph, thanks.”
“OK, great. Point is that Mr. T has many VIP contacts. I know that if it all works out, he’ll put in a good word for you with his friends. Anyway, gotta run. His PA will phone you.”
ABBY SPENT THE MORNING working on three large flower displays for Hugo at Hugo, the Mayfair hair salon. Since her rave review in the Sunday Times “Style” section and the piece in the Evening Standard , Abby had acquired several upmarket corporate clients. With a bit of luck, she could now add Mr. Takahashi to that list. Even then she wouldn’t have quite enough big names on her books to put her on the London florists A list, but she was getting there.
The interior of Hugo at Hugo called for outsize floral displays that made a statement. The salon was made up of several large, high-ceilinged rooms with ornate plaster moldings. Hugo—or, rather, his interior designer—had gone for a rococo feel. To wit, he had filled the place with vast crystal chandeliers and flamboyant French antiques. There were cupids peeing into marble fountains, gold-filigreed chairs covered in cherry velvet, gilt mirrors and heavy silk drapes at the vast bay window.
Martin, who, stylistically speaking, worshipped at the altar of industrial piping and twisted metal, sneered at the interior of Hugo at Hugo and branded it a “drag queen’sboudoir.” Abby was inclined to agree, but since Hugo was paying her a fortune to fill his distressed-stone urns each week, she didn’t grumble.
Since the urns were far too heavy to transport, Abby would arrange each display in a plastic inner container, which she would then deliver to the salon. Today she was putting together a mass of trailing ivy and adding tall stems of flowering cherry. When the three displays were finished, even Martin said they looked magnificent.
By the time she had fought through the traffic, delivered the flowers and got back to Islington, it was nearly lunch-time. She remembered she had to pop out to buy Aunty Gwen’s birthday present.
She parked the van and headed back to the shop just to check that no problems had cropped up while she was out.
As she approached the shop, she could see that Martin had been busy. The ready-made hand-tied bouquets they always had standing by for customers in a hurry were sitting on the pavement in zinc containers. Next to them were the hyacinth plants, snowdrops and candle pots. One of the candle pots was particularly stunning. Martin had invented the design, and it had become one of their most popular. Overflowing a galvanized pot was a broad garland of dried red chilies. In the center stood a tall, chunky, creamy-white candle. At Christmas he’d done something almost identical using Brussels sprouts. Martin had such an eye for the quirky. She smiled to herself as she realized how lucky she was to have him.
Her smile vanished the moment she opened the door and heard the raised voices. Martin and his ex-boyfriend, Christian, with whom he had been at loggerheads since their acrimonious split almost a year ago, were fighting again.
“You have absolutely no right to deny me access to Debbie,” a red-faced Martin cried, shaking his forefinger at the older man, who was standing on the other side of the counter.
“Don’t you start lecturing me about rights,” Christian shot back. “You gave up your rights the day you walked out.”
“I walked out on you—not Debbie. And how could I have stayed? After what you did.”
“For God’s sake,” Abby hissed, “will the pair of you just put a sock in it.”
The two men ignored her and carried on arguing. At one point, Martin, who seemed to be in the middle of making a flower-and-fruit centerpiece, picked up a lime and ran it through with a length of thick florist’s wire. He then thrust the fruit’s metal tail into a wicker basket full of Oasis. “You
“Mind? Why would I mind? That’s fantastic. Wow, Soph, thanks.”
“OK, great. Point is that Mr. T has many VIP contacts. I know that if it all works out, he’ll put in a good word for you with his friends. Anyway, gotta run. His PA will phone you.”
ABBY SPENT THE MORNING working on three large flower displays for Hugo at Hugo, the Mayfair hair salon. Since her rave review in the Sunday Times “Style” section and the piece in the Evening Standard , Abby had acquired several upmarket corporate clients. With a bit of luck, she could now add Mr. Takahashi to that list. Even then she wouldn’t have quite enough big names on her books to put her on the London florists A list, but she was getting there.
The interior of Hugo at Hugo called for outsize floral displays that made a statement. The salon was made up of several large, high-ceilinged rooms with ornate plaster moldings. Hugo—or, rather, his interior designer—had gone for a rococo feel. To wit, he had filled the place with vast crystal chandeliers and flamboyant French antiques. There were cupids peeing into marble fountains, gold-filigreed chairs covered in cherry velvet, gilt mirrors and heavy silk drapes at the vast bay window.
Martin, who, stylistically speaking, worshipped at the altar of industrial piping and twisted metal, sneered at the interior of Hugo at Hugo and branded it a “drag queen’sboudoir.” Abby was inclined to agree, but since Hugo was paying her a fortune to fill his distressed-stone urns each week, she didn’t grumble.
Since the urns were far too heavy to transport, Abby would arrange each display in a plastic inner container, which she would then deliver to the salon. Today she was putting together a mass of trailing ivy and adding tall stems of flowering cherry. When the three displays were finished, even Martin said they looked magnificent.
By the time she had fought through the traffic, delivered the flowers and got back to Islington, it was nearly lunch-time. She remembered she had to pop out to buy Aunty Gwen’s birthday present.
She parked the van and headed back to the shop just to check that no problems had cropped up while she was out.
As she approached the shop, she could see that Martin had been busy. The ready-made hand-tied bouquets they always had standing by for customers in a hurry were sitting on the pavement in zinc containers. Next to them were the hyacinth plants, snowdrops and candle pots. One of the candle pots was particularly stunning. Martin had invented the design, and it had become one of their most popular. Overflowing a galvanized pot was a broad garland of dried red chilies. In the center stood a tall, chunky, creamy-white candle. At Christmas he’d done something almost identical using Brussels sprouts. Martin had such an eye for the quirky. She smiled to herself as she realized how lucky she was to have him.
Her smile vanished the moment she opened the door and heard the raised voices. Martin and his ex-boyfriend, Christian, with whom he had been at loggerheads since their acrimonious split almost a year ago, were fighting again.
“You have absolutely no right to deny me access to Debbie,” a red-faced Martin cried, shaking his forefinger at the older man, who was standing on the other side of the counter.
“Don’t you start lecturing me about rights,” Christian shot back. “You gave up your rights the day you walked out.”
“I walked out on you—not Debbie. And how could I have stayed? After what you did.”
“For God’s sake,” Abby hissed, “will the pair of you just put a sock in it.”
The two men ignored her and carried on arguing. At one point, Martin, who seemed to be in the middle of making a flower-and-fruit centerpiece, picked up a lime and ran it through with a length of thick florist’s wire. He then thrust the fruit’s metal tail into a wicker basket full of Oasis. “You
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