It All Started With You

IT ALL STARTED WITH YOU DEBBIE HOWELLS For Georgie and Tom Earth laughs in flowers. HENRY DAVID THOREAU CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Acknowledgments More from Debbie Howells About the Author About Boldwood Books 1 It began with a bossy friend and a small word. Two letters. Rhymes with Joe, but no matter what’s in my head, what comes out is always ‘yes’. And in the case of the well-meaning, about-to-be-married friend whose florist let her down at the last minute, it didn’t matter I’d never put together a bouquet, let alone worked as a florist. My fate was sealed. Honey has a lot to answer for, but as I soon discovered, there’s something seductive about flowers. Not just the luscious scents and vibrant colours, but it’s the symbolism. The hidden sentiment; the love, passion and beseeching, artistically arranged and gift wrapped in crunchy brown paper. The ultimate gesture of romance – but so much more. I’d always loved flowers. But. Put simply, being a wedding florist was an accident. It just happened – but then that’s the story of my life. ‘It can’t be that hard,’ Honey begged me. Actually begged rather than ordered, which wasn’t Honey-like at all, but desperate times called for desperate measures, plus she’d morphed into a hideous bridezilla by then. It’s to be expected, I’ve learned since – only some are worse than others and Honey never does things by halves. ‘Fricking woman’s let me down. You’re creative aren’t you? And it’s just plonking a bunch of flowers in a vase… Please, Frankie, pleeease… I’ll pay you…’ She mentioned a sum that would keep my bank manager off my back a little longer. ‘Otherwise it’ll be the most miserable wedding ever…’ Not for nothing is Honey a successful lawyer, though put on the spot, I always forget this. She had me cornered and she knew it. I thought about it – but not for long. Only the hardest-hearted person could bear their best friend’s big day to be anything less than perfect, and if I’m honest, a tiny, insecure part of me liked the idea that just for once, I could do something she couldn’t. Before I knew it I’d muttered those immortal words. ‘I suppose…’ At which point she’d whooped triumphantly and flung her arms round me, leaving me spluttering in a cloud of Chanel. If only I’d stopped to think, even fleetingly, that this was a wedding. Worse, it was Honey’s wedding, and no matter how hard I wanted to trivialise it, I wouldn’t be able to, because make no mistake… it mattered. Try taking your worst nightmare and multiplying it a hundredfold, because as I’ve learned since, with weddings, there are no second chances. No saying it’s okay, we’ll sort it out tomorrow. Everything has to be perfect – on the day. This wedding brought out the very worst in my friend, because as well as manipulative, she’s a control freak. Finding the right flowers in precisely the right colours and degree of openness kept me awake at night. Imagine – sleepless nights over bunches of flowers. It’s about as insane as the bride who measures the diameter of roses, and believe me, Honey did that, just as she insisted they match the bridesmaids’ dresses which were a washed-out grubby shade of lilac. Antique, I was told, sternly, as I stared in horror at the fabric swatch she’d waved in front of me. Did flowers that colour even exist? When I expressed my concerns, Honey was dismissive. ‘Look online. It can’t be difficult to find them.’ Whatever, I thought. And it wasn’t just plonking things in vases, either. Oh, no… There were fifteen of them, to be all identically just so and exactly like the picture she gave me, with sticky out bits and twiddly things – this was Honey, after all. Not to mention the small matter of the church. ‘Just pretty it up a bit, Frankie, I’ll leave it to you… only can you make sure you do the windowsills and a big thingy by the altar and pew ends and confetti cones with real rose petals and…’ Pew ends, schmew ends. I didn’t know how to make them back then, so I tied bunches of flowers on with long trails of ribbon. It was pretty – but if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have sneaked lavender in there for constancy, and exquisite stars of stephanotis for a long and happy marriage. And hazel twigs of course, because no wedding’s complete without them. But then, none of this mattered, because hazel twigs or not, it was a romantic, magical day as all weddings should be, with Honey dazzlingly adorned in Caroline Castigliano, her beloved Johnny on her arm and a scattering of tiny bridesmaids following behind. And as I eavesdropped shamelessly on the many admiring comments, I couldn’t help but feel a small, secret glow of pride that a tiny part of this was all mine. As it turns out, Honey loved what I’d done, so much that when my latest job collapsed in tatters around me, fresh back from Honey-moon, she came to see me. Tanned and glowing after a fortnight in the Caribbean, bridezilla had gone and my old friend, the ball-busting lawyer, was back. ‘You can’t seriously have thought you’d spend the rest of your days being a waitress? I mean, really…’ Of course, I’d seriously thought no such thing. ‘I just needed money and took the first job