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Boldwood Books - Debbie Howells

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173 pages

English

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A totally brilliant, escapist and uplifting read that will break your heart and put it back together again, perfect for fans of Cathy Kelly, Jill Mansell and Debbie Macomber.

I always thought I was going to be a girl who did something. I was going to run my own business and find fame and fortune! Fall in love…

But here I am. Still waiting for it all to happen, sitting on the floor, surrounded by lilies and roses, trying to do my best friend’s wedding flowers because – in her words – ‘how hard can it be, Frankie?’. The answer is actually ‘very hard’ but it’s not the only thing that’s tough right now. My boyfriend won’t commit, I barely have a job, and once again I have the hangover from hell…

What I don’t know is that life’s about to throw me a curveball. A new friend I will make with a beautiful, sad-eyed little boy who is so very tragically ill. I still don’t know about that heartbreak.

Even so, in this moment, I know that it’s time for some changes. Maybe it’s time to make my dreams come true? To try to become a marathon-running, healthy-living, wildly-in-love florist-to-the-stars!

Because I’m beginning to realise that you only get one chance at life. I don’t yet know how you change everything, all at once, but what I do know is it all starts with me…

Previously published as Wildflowers by Debbie Howells.

Sujets

Mashups

Women

Coming of Age

21st century

Friendship

Contemporary history

Floristry

General officer

Woman

British Isles

The Women

General

Contemporary

Family Life

Romance

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	Boldwood Books
Date de parution	23 juin 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781805492252
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0900€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

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 that came along.’
She stared disbelievingly at me. ‘Frankie. We’ve known each other for years, haven’t we? In all that time, the longest you’ve stuck at any one thing is about, what, eight months?’
‘More like six,’ I told her miserably, feeling a pit of despair open up in front of me. At times, she really could be brutal.
‘It’s time for a change, don’t you think? Take something seriously, for once.’
Easy for her to say. I sighed. I knew what she was doing. Honey’s philosophy with everyone, friends included, is to break them down to build them up – sympathy doesn’t come into it. Naturally, I didn’t argue.
‘I get by. And it’s not like I don’t try,’ I objected, trying to justify myself. ‘Really I do. It’s just, well, you have to agree, I am quite unlucky…’
But as I topped up her glass of Pinot Grigio, even I knew how lame that sounded.
‘Thank you. Well, go on a course. Get a qualification. But get off your arse and do something, or you’ll be squatting in this flat of yours forever.’
That last bit needled me, because I love living here. Dexter’s Green is one of those picture-postcard villages, consisting of a handful of pretty old cottages which are home to an assortment of equally colourful residents, with the ubiquitous village pub and the most lethal cider for miles, and Demelza’s, handy for emergency supplies of chocolate and not much else.
My flat’s tucked away above the post office, with a front door off a quiet road and a personality all of its own. The ceilings are crooked and part of the floor creaks ominously, and if it rains overnight the roof leaks, but the views are to die for. And it’s cheap.
Suddenly Honey leaped up, looking delighted with herself. ‘Frankie! I’ve got it! Flowers! You did mine, didn’t you? Go back to college and learn to be a proper florist. I’ll write you a testimonial if you need one.’
As if my future could be decided as simply as that.
But Honey likes to channel her bossiness into worthy causes and as true friends always do, she had my best interests at heart. Over the years I’d resisted her attempts to interfere, but this time, I had to concede she had a point. I’d worked in coffee shops and care homes and garden centres, which meant I scraped by, but only just. Part of me craved more. Why shouldn’t I have a flashy car and expensive clothes, instead of simply admiring those everyone else had? I pictured my own neat little house, the mortgage paid each month on the button instead of muddling along struggling to pay my rent.
The long and short of it was, she got me thinking, because somewhere along the way, I’d missed that elusive something that all my friends had figured out. There was a future out there, I was sure of it, no less, no more than anyone else’s. And I’d wasted enough time, taking the path of least resistance while I waited for life to happen .
It was as a glimmer of an idea was taking seed that one gloriously sunny morning a few days later, I was walking around All Hallows, a town about five miles away, window shopping because it was the only kind of shopping I could afford. Then, as I turned up a cobbled side street, right at the end, I saw it. The most humble of florists, called Daisy Chain.
If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have probably carried on walking. You see, there are florists and there are florists … about as many worlds apart as McDonald’s and The Dorchester. However, this was then, and without a second thought, I went in.
Okay – so it wasn’t The Dorchester, but it was a proper old-fashioned florist shop and actually, it was sweet in there, with lots of traditional flowers like carnations and chrysanthemums and frothy white clouds of gypsophila. Of course, there were tasteless add-ons and plastic tat in abundance, but then a short, rotund figure popped up amongst the buckets, her salt and pepper hair stuck out at shoulder length. It was my first glimpse of Mrs Orange.
‘Can I help you, pet?’
‘I don’t know. I… I’m looking for a job. You see, I want to learn to be a florist.’ My earlier confidence seemed to wither up and die as her beady eyes scrutinised me.
‘Work experience, duck?’ she said, raisi