Maggie looked down at Lucy’s tanned wrist and pearl bracelet against her own pale Irish skin, conscious of a physical closeness
that she hadn’t invited.
‘Jack’s friend Owen is handling all that. He’s a landscape gardener – isn’t that right, Jack?’ Jack nodded and smiled, shifting
from one foot to the other.
‘Yep, that’s right – Owen’s just set up his own company too, you see that’s what got me thinking … But yes, Owen’s a great—’
His fiancée interrupted with a whispered aside to Maggie. ‘Only qualified a year ago so he’s dirt cheap too.’
‘Ahh.’ Maggie said. She didn’t like what Lucy was implying, but her relief was genuine. She’d been wondering how on earth
she was going to manage it all by herself. ‘That’s great. Look, I have to head off now, but it’s been wonderful to talk with
you today. When I’ve got a few things firmed up perhaps we could schedule in a meeting? So that Owen and I can brief each
other – and you – on our plans, I mean. Lucy, Bluebelle du Jour are going to make this day perfect for you. Trust me. Bespoke
weddings are what we do best.’
Standing next to Maggie’s car, they’d shaken hands and air-kissed. When Jack’s mouth briefly touched Maggie’s cheek, his stubble
brushing against her skin, she had not been able to stifle a smile. He was such a genuine guy. Lucy would have to work hard
to train him out of that.
In her garden, Maggie shivered. A cloud was starting to block out the sun, and without a wrap over her pink dress she felt
the sudden cold. Gathering up the phone, her Netbook and her empty glass she headed back inside through the French doors of
her two-storey 1920s cottage.Mork, her Burmese cat, snaked his way between her feet before dashing inside ahead of her. There was a Mindy, too, her sister
Carrie’s cat from the same litter – Mork had the cushier deal, as Mindy had to endure quite a bit of tail-pulling from toddlers.
Maggie closed the doors carefully behind her and switched on the stereo. Billie Holiday’s soothing tones started to fill the
room. The notes started low and wove upwards. They seemed to reach out to each of the magnificent orchids that filled the
living room and the adjacent kitchen. Maggie picked up the plant spray and began her daily routine, singing along to the melody
and spritzing each orchid in turn. From fragile white petals to delicate pinks and bold purples – each bloom had her full
attention for a moment as she assessed its position, movement and colouring, and looked out for any flaws or damage.
Maggie wondered what would happen if she ever took the time to assess her own body in the same detail. At thirty-six she was
still looking pretty good … but when she stepped out of the bath each night the steps that followed were hasty. She’d rub
on body moisturiser in swift strokes and dodge the view in the wide mirror. She questioned now why she’d ever thought that
mirror was a good idea. Linger too long and she knew what she’d see – dimpled skin, thread veins and stretch marks, her life’s
adventures mapped out across her thighs, stomachand bum. She knew how to dress her figure well; in fitted but forgiving jeans, and linen, silk and cottons in cool shades;
but the naked truth was another story – wasn’t it for every woman?
The orchids, however – young and old, perfect and flawed – were all beautiful to her. She stepped up on a little wooden stool
and spritzed her favourite of all – a bright pink bloom that she’d placed in a gilt birdcage she’d bought years ago in Islington.
Maggie was a London girl. She’d lived just off Camden Passage once, the cobbled street that every weekend became an antiques
heaven. Back then, she’d been learning the ropes at a friend’s flower shop nearby and singing with a band in bars and clubs
most evenings. With time things had changed though, and apart from the birdcage, very little from
that she hadn’t invited.
‘Jack’s friend Owen is handling all that. He’s a landscape gardener – isn’t that right, Jack?’ Jack nodded and smiled, shifting
from one foot to the other.
‘Yep, that’s right – Owen’s just set up his own company too, you see that’s what got me thinking … But yes, Owen’s a great—’
His fiancée interrupted with a whispered aside to Maggie. ‘Only qualified a year ago so he’s dirt cheap too.’
‘Ahh.’ Maggie said. She didn’t like what Lucy was implying, but her relief was genuine. She’d been wondering how on earth
she was going to manage it all by herself. ‘That’s great. Look, I have to head off now, but it’s been wonderful to talk with
you today. When I’ve got a few things firmed up perhaps we could schedule in a meeting? So that Owen and I can brief each
other – and you – on our plans, I mean. Lucy, Bluebelle du Jour are going to make this day perfect for you. Trust me. Bespoke
weddings are what we do best.’
Standing next to Maggie’s car, they’d shaken hands and air-kissed. When Jack’s mouth briefly touched Maggie’s cheek, his stubble
brushing against her skin, she had not been able to stifle a smile. He was such a genuine guy. Lucy would have to work hard
to train him out of that.
In her garden, Maggie shivered. A cloud was starting to block out the sun, and without a wrap over her pink dress she felt
the sudden cold. Gathering up the phone, her Netbook and her empty glass she headed back inside through the French doors of
her two-storey 1920s cottage.Mork, her Burmese cat, snaked his way between her feet before dashing inside ahead of her. There was a Mindy, too, her sister
Carrie’s cat from the same litter – Mork had the cushier deal, as Mindy had to endure quite a bit of tail-pulling from toddlers.
Maggie closed the doors carefully behind her and switched on the stereo. Billie Holiday’s soothing tones started to fill the
room. The notes started low and wove upwards. They seemed to reach out to each of the magnificent orchids that filled the
living room and the adjacent kitchen. Maggie picked up the plant spray and began her daily routine, singing along to the melody
and spritzing each orchid in turn. From fragile white petals to delicate pinks and bold purples – each bloom had her full
attention for a moment as she assessed its position, movement and colouring, and looked out for any flaws or damage.
Maggie wondered what would happen if she ever took the time to assess her own body in the same detail. At thirty-six she was
still looking pretty good … but when she stepped out of the bath each night the steps that followed were hasty. She’d rub
on body moisturiser in swift strokes and dodge the view in the wide mirror. She questioned now why she’d ever thought that
mirror was a good idea. Linger too long and she knew what she’d see – dimpled skin, thread veins and stretch marks, her life’s
adventures mapped out across her thighs, stomachand bum. She knew how to dress her figure well; in fitted but forgiving jeans, and linen, silk and cottons in cool shades;
but the naked truth was another story – wasn’t it for every woman?
The orchids, however – young and old, perfect and flawed – were all beautiful to her. She stepped up on a little wooden stool
and spritzed her favourite of all – a bright pink bloom that she’d placed in a gilt birdcage she’d bought years ago in Islington.
Maggie was a London girl. She’d lived just off Camden Passage once, the cobbled street that every weekend became an antiques
heaven. Back then, she’d been learning the ropes at a friend’s flower shop nearby and singing with a band in bars and clubs
most evenings. With time things had changed though, and apart from the birdcage, very little from
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