Chapter
One
I bury my face
amongst the pale pink roses and cream freesias, inhaling the sweet scent; I
wish Will would buy me flowers. Sighing, I bind the stems with ribbon the exact
shade of the roses. I cast a critical eye over the large bouquet; it’s perfect.
I can’t resist another sniff and I laugh as the feathery fern tickles my nose.
Just one last thing to do; I attach the card to the cellophane.
To my darling wife, Caroline. Thank you for 40 wonderful years.
All my love, now and forever, Neil xxxx
How amazing is that? My heart
pangs every time I read it. Lucky Caroline. Will has this theory that because I’m surrounded by flowers all
day, I must get sick of seeing them. As if! I adore flowers – all those
different colours, shapes and smells; the details on the petals.
I carefully place the bouquet in
the cool room, then dash back through to the workroom.
Grabbing the brush, I turn up the radio and attack the floor. Swivelling my
hips in time to the music, sweeping the floor takes a lot longer than it ought
to.
‘Gemma!’
I jump. It’s my boss, Marie,
calling from the shop.
‘Turn the radio down.’
With hot cheeks I finish the
tidying rather more sedately. From the workbench I salvage what I can of
leftover ribbon, and using a dustpan and brush I sweep up discarded leaves and
stems and dash outside to the gardening waste bin.
Whilst I’m scrubbing my hands
prior to getting started on a wedding order, Marie pops her dark curly head
through the doorway. ‘Put the kettle on, Gemma. I’m closing up – I’ll be
through soon.’
Glancing at my watch I’m
surprised to see it’s 6pm. We’re working late tonight.
It’s such a big order that I reckon we’ll have to come in early tomorrow
morning as well in order to finish it, but it will be worth it. I never tire of
putting together a bouquet or a table decoration. And the look on the bride’s
face when she sees her bouquet? I get a lump in my throat every time.
Two hours later and it’s time to
go home. I check my mobile on the way to the car and see there’s one missed
call from Will. I call him and immediately wish I hadn’t because he asks me to
pick up some pizzas for the lads. I groan; that’s the third time this week that
Will’s mates have been round at ours. They’re harmless, though somewhat
annoying. I know I should say something to Will, but I don’t want to be a
killjoy.
The A5 is quiet all the way from
Chester to Mold, and I’m soon driving along the row of terraced houses which
make up Churchill Street. For once I’m able to park right outside my house. The
sound of rowdy laughter greets me as I struggle to open the front door with my
cargo of pizzas.
‘Hi Blondie.’ Will ruffles my chin-length bob,
plants a kiss on my forehead and whisks the pizzas away from me.
I leave my bag and coat in the
narrow hall and head for the kitchen, passing through the living room en-route.
Daz, Gaz and Kev are sprawled on the floor, cans of lager in hand. There’s a
football match on the enormous flat-screen TV is displaying some football
match. I smile at them all. ‘Hiya.’
Three grunts.
‘So how was your day?’
Will gets some plates out of the cupboard. ‘The usual. There’s
some post over there for you.’
‘How was your day, Gemma?’ I
mutter.
Will rolls his eyes. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ I turn to the small pile of mail
on the worktop. On the top is a letter from the Maelor Hospital in Wrexham. I
went to see my GP recently about a mole on my leg. I’ve had it for years. When
I first noticed it had grown I didn’t think much of it, but thought I should
get it checked out to be on the safe side. I was convinced it would be benign,
but my GP suspects its melanoma; she’s referred me to a dermatologist. The
letter tells me I have an appointment in a fortnight’s time.
‘How many slices of pizza do you
want, Gem?’
‘Hmm… Sorry
what?’ I look up. ‘Oh, none for me thanks.
One
I bury my face
amongst the pale pink roses and cream freesias, inhaling the sweet scent; I
wish Will would buy me flowers. Sighing, I bind the stems with ribbon the exact
shade of the roses. I cast a critical eye over the large bouquet; it’s perfect.
I can’t resist another sniff and I laugh as the feathery fern tickles my nose.
Just one last thing to do; I attach the card to the cellophane.
To my darling wife, Caroline. Thank you for 40 wonderful years.
All my love, now and forever, Neil xxxx
How amazing is that? My heart
pangs every time I read it. Lucky Caroline. Will has this theory that because I’m surrounded by flowers all
day, I must get sick of seeing them. As if! I adore flowers – all those
different colours, shapes and smells; the details on the petals.
I carefully place the bouquet in
the cool room, then dash back through to the workroom.
Grabbing the brush, I turn up the radio and attack the floor. Swivelling my
hips in time to the music, sweeping the floor takes a lot longer than it ought
to.
‘Gemma!’
I jump. It’s my boss, Marie,
calling from the shop.
‘Turn the radio down.’
With hot cheeks I finish the
tidying rather more sedately. From the workbench I salvage what I can of
leftover ribbon, and using a dustpan and brush I sweep up discarded leaves and
stems and dash outside to the gardening waste bin.
Whilst I’m scrubbing my hands
prior to getting started on a wedding order, Marie pops her dark curly head
through the doorway. ‘Put the kettle on, Gemma. I’m closing up – I’ll be
through soon.’
Glancing at my watch I’m
surprised to see it’s 6pm. We’re working late tonight.
It’s such a big order that I reckon we’ll have to come in early tomorrow
morning as well in order to finish it, but it will be worth it. I never tire of
putting together a bouquet or a table decoration. And the look on the bride’s
face when she sees her bouquet? I get a lump in my throat every time.
Two hours later and it’s time to
go home. I check my mobile on the way to the car and see there’s one missed
call from Will. I call him and immediately wish I hadn’t because he asks me to
pick up some pizzas for the lads. I groan; that’s the third time this week that
Will’s mates have been round at ours. They’re harmless, though somewhat
annoying. I know I should say something to Will, but I don’t want to be a
killjoy.
The A5 is quiet all the way from
Chester to Mold, and I’m soon driving along the row of terraced houses which
make up Churchill Street. For once I’m able to park right outside my house. The
sound of rowdy laughter greets me as I struggle to open the front door with my
cargo of pizzas.
‘Hi Blondie.’ Will ruffles my chin-length bob,
plants a kiss on my forehead and whisks the pizzas away from me.
I leave my bag and coat in the
narrow hall and head for the kitchen, passing through the living room en-route.
Daz, Gaz and Kev are sprawled on the floor, cans of lager in hand. There’s a
football match on the enormous flat-screen TV is displaying some football
match. I smile at them all. ‘Hiya.’
Three grunts.
‘So how was your day?’
Will gets some plates out of the cupboard. ‘The usual. There’s
some post over there for you.’
‘How was your day, Gemma?’ I
mutter.
Will rolls his eyes. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ I turn to the small pile of mail
on the worktop. On the top is a letter from the Maelor Hospital in Wrexham. I
went to see my GP recently about a mole on my leg. I’ve had it for years. When
I first noticed it had grown I didn’t think much of it, but thought I should
get it checked out to be on the safe side. I was convinced it would be benign,
but my GP suspects its melanoma; she’s referred me to a dermatologist. The
letter tells me I have an appointment in a fortnight’s time.
‘How many slices of pizza do you
want, Gem?’
‘Hmm… Sorry
what?’ I look up. ‘Oh, none for me thanks.
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