‘You don’t mind if I take a picture in here?’ says Ollie, raising his digital camera. ‘It’ll come out well – look.’ He clicks to show her the image on the screen. The wide-angle lens makes the room appear huge.
He steps towards the window.
‘The garden’s a state.’ She cringes. The grass hasn’t been mown since last summer, and the people with the house backing onto theirs overlook their lawn. ‘The best view is from the front. I’ll show you upstairs.’
‘It’s a good space for a property this central.’
His enthusiasm only serves to emphasize the pain of Abby’s loss. Doubtless he’s assumed they’re upgrading – purchasing somewhere bigger, or moving further out of the city.
Ollie removes a bright-yellow object from his pocket. He stands back and points it at the far wall. There’s a bleep.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s an ultrasonic tape measure.’
‘How does that work?’ Abby moves closer to look, and sees Ollie glance at the red-raw mark on her neck. His consternation is palpable. ‘Ah, kettle’s boiled,’ she says, thankful for the excuse to turn away.
‘So why are you moving?’ asks Ollie, a few moments later.
Abby’s first inclination is to lie but she’s likely to need Ollie’s help finding somewhere new, and he must come across situations similar to theirs all the time. ‘My husband and I are separating.’ She’s embarrassed to hear her voice crack.
‘Ah.’ A silence, and Ollie shifts his feet, awkward. ‘Er, where next? Lounge?’
‘Sure.’
As he turns to leave the room, he stops, stares.
‘Blimey, what happened there?’
Abby feels her cheeks burning. The television on top of the fridge-freezer has been smashed, how could she have forgotten? Shards of broken glass splay out from the centre of the screen, as if it’s been hit by a bullet. It happened only yesterday, and she knows her son will keenly miss being able to watch TV in the kitchen. Abby isn’t sure it’s worth replacing: a new set might meet the same fate. Nonetheless she must get rid of it. Callum’s term starts full-time tomorrow; perhaps then she can get to the tip – the glass is a real hazard with a child around.
She senses Ollie gazing at the wound on her neck again, assimilating.
* * *
I’ve had far worse goodbyes than taking Molly to school for the first time, Karen reminds herself. Anyway, the start of January is notoriously dispiriting. Isn’t it around now some DJ or other inevitably declares, ‘It’s the most depressing day of the year,’ as if a nationwide announcement will help alleviate the gloom? Best keep myself busy – it’s time the Christmas decorations came down. She scoops her hair into a makeshift bun using a nearby biro, and goes upstairs.
Getting the boxes out of the loft is an effort. Simon was such a big bear of a man he would have done it as a matter of course, but now she must manage alone. Even lowering the ladder is a test of her strength, then she has to drop the boxes through the hatch without anyone to catch them below. The fibres from the insulation make her cough, but at last she’s standing in the living room covered in dust and sweat, mission accomplished.
What a shame to throw these away, she thinks as she begins taking the cards down from the mantelpiece. Putting the decorations up was so joyful – Molly squealing with excitement as they turned on the fairy lights, Luke pretending he wasn’t bothered but clearly thrilled at the growing pile of presents. Even Toby, their cat, seemed to regress to kittenhood as he chased a piece of gold string around the room. The sense of anticipation gave them a lift, and on the whole she coped well – she bought gifts online to save money; the three of them made and iced a cake together; they joined her friends Anna and Lou to watch fireworks on the beach to celebrate the winter solstice; her mother, Shirley, came to stay for a few days and spoiled the children rotten. Still, sometimes Karen would catch herself standing with a plastered-on smile, trying to mask her upset. ‘Fake it to make it,’ Anna suggested. ‘It’s a good strategy for appearing more upbeat than you feel.’
In contrast, tidying up seems to say nothing other than the fun is over, thinks Karen. After all, what have I got to look forward to? The second anniversary of my husband’s death in a few weeks’ time? On the one hand it seems a century ago we were getting cards wishing Merry Christmas to the four of us; on the other as if it was only yesterday Simon was here to help with chores and DIY.
The trouble is that grief isn’t linear, Karen has learned. It doesn’t go in a neat line upwards, as if you were climbing a mountain. Then you could get to the top and say, ‘I’ve done it, I’ve stopped being sad. Now I’m ready to meet people, to smile, laugh, drink, party. Bring it on!’ Instead, grief sneaks up from behind, grabbing you by stealth, like a mugger. Sometimes it can be extremely frightening; certainly it robs you of a great deal.
The events she is able to brace herself for because she expects to feel miserable tend to be easier; then people rally round. Christmas Day was like that; Karen and the children had several invitations. And she has friends – Anna is one, Lou another – who are good at foreseeing occasions which might trigger upset and try to be there to support her. But the gaps in between, if she’s not got her guard up, are when the mugger will strike. Without warning she’ll pull a deckchair out of the garden shed and it’ll smell of Simon – how does that happen after nearly two years? Or she’ll be the only single guest at a dinner party other than a friend-of-a-friend who’s been invited as a pairing for her, although it’s glaringly obvious they’re ill-suited. Or it might be at night; she seldom got chilly with Simon there, but these days she is often freezing, even in summer. She’ll pull the duvet round her tight as wrapping paper, yet nothing will stop her shivering.
One by one she unhooks the glass baubles from the tree with a shower of pine needles. The baubles are so worn that the mirror effect is peeling off. She wraps them in tissue paper and places them inside a box. That tinsel, she thinks, when I swathed it round these branches it appeared so festive and glittery; now it looks tacky. Why do I bother?
For the children, she reminds herself. That’s why. Without them, I’m not sure how I would have kept going.
* * *
Sod’s law, the lorry doesn’t turn up at nine, and when Michael tries Tim’s mobile he fails to answer. Michael leaves a message with the hotel switchboard, and verifies his ancient Nokia is working by ringing from the landline. While he waits for the delivery, he focuses on the spartan supplies he has left; maybe he can make them presentable enough to do some trade, although early January is a bad time for flower selling.
Perhaps I should have closed up, taken this week off, he thinks. But he can’t afford to: he has responsibilities – a mortgage to pay, a car to run, children at university; and his wife’s income, such as it is, comes from her working occasionally at the shop, too.
At the back of the florist is a cool, dark room where Michael keeps stock when the store is shut, but once he gets the flowers into the light he sees they are past their best: gerberas folding back on themselves, petals sagging; freesias beginning to brown at the edges; hyacinths drooping under the weight of their blooms. The little he can salvage won’t sell unless substantially discounted.
Eventually the deep throb of an engine heralds the lorry’s arrival. The vehicle is enormous; Jan can’t park it outside on the busy main road for more than a few minutes before other drivers start honking their horns and shouting. Michael mounts the steps of the truck and scans the shelves, assessing what will attract his customers. Roses are always a good fallback and though he prefers to buy them in London because the quality is better, these will do till he can get up to the market. Chrysanths usually go fast as they’re cheap, but offer little in terms of repeat business because they last for ages. He spies daffs and tulips, trays of primula and winter pansies, all traditional favourites.
‘I’ll take these,’ he says, once he’s gathered a hoard. Next he ponders what he might create for the h
otel. How frustrating he’s not heard back from Tim. He’ll have to make his purchasing decisions regardless – the Dutchman won’t be back till next week.
‘These are fantastic.’ Jan shows Michael some amaryllis.
‘Wow.’ For a brief moment Michael is caught up in the sensation that made him want to run a flower shop in the first place. Eighteen-inch stems crowned by four giant red trumpets like loudhailers at a country show – he feels a rush of pleasure.
‘Most people grow them in pots, but they make a superb cut flower, don’t they?’
Michael checks the tag. ‘Pricey, though.’
‘I will do you this whole bucket for twenty pounds.’
‘Can you add it to my account?’
Jan nods.
‘OK. I’ll take them.’
Michael rubs his hands together with excitement. I’ll make an arrangement for reception at Hotel sur Plage that’ll truly dazzle them, he vows.
Once Jan has gone, he takes off his donkey jacket so he can move more freely, and flicks on his ancient transistor. Just as he’s getting started, he hears the familiar chords of ‘White Man in Hammersmith Palais’ by The Clash, one of his favourite singles. Grinning with pleasure, he turns the volume up full blast – it’s not as if there are any customers in the shop – and sings ‘Oo-ee-oo’ along to the backing vocals as he slices the trunk-like amaryllis stems on a diagonal.
Funny to think an old punk could end up a florist, he thinks, pulling off the outer leaves of some brassica in time to the reggae beat. Wonder what Joe Strummer would make of a shop called ‘Bloomin’ Hove’? Might give him a laugh. After all, almost everyone settles down in the end – he spent his last days on a farm in Somerset. Didn’t I read he got into planting trees to combat global warming?
Michael selects a few fronds of cedar – the spicy scent should work well on the hotel front desk. Whilst he twirls the arrangement to check every angle, he casts his mind back. At once he’s in the mosh pit, pogoing alongside his mates, peroxide hair spiked up with sugar soap, elbows flapping like chicken wings to fend off fans who jumped too close . . . Yes, they did use to gob at whoever was performing, revolting in hindsight, but there was something so great about those days. The music was raw and simple, a channel for his youthful aggression and rebellion. I’m glad I was of an age to catch it, he thinks. Seventeen in 1977: perfect. A couple of years older and I’d have ended up into Yes and prog rock, like my brother. There was Bowie, but glam rock wasn’t political, anarchic, whereas punk seemed to speak to lads like me from the suburbs. Croydon even had its own scene: The Damned were local, and there was a pub, the Greyhound, with gigs on every Sunday. That was another hallmark of punk – it was an anyone-can-do-it movement, you didn’t need money or even musical skill to be part of it.
Michael sighs. This mentality seems to be missing now. He’s tried to engage with his kids about what they’re into, but he can’t imagine his son or daughter picking up a guitar, even though he’s urged Ryan, in particular, to give it a go. Instead his son seems more interested in playing computer games – or did when he lived at home – and try as he might, Michael can’t pretend he’s enthralled. Now Ryan is away studying and Michael’s not sure what he gets up to. Sometimes it feels they’re not just a generation apart, but on different planets.
The song finishes with a succession of rapid chords, and the DJ announces he’s doing a tribute to mark the ten years since Strummer’s death this Christmas.
Blimey, The Clash on Radio 2, thinks Michael, shaking his head. In ’77 that would have been an abomination. Next up is ‘White Riot’, and, inspired by the colour theme, he plucks some pale roses from a bucket and thrusts the stems between the amaryllis with a flourish.
Finally, his work is complete. He holds the arrangement at arm’s length.
‘What do you make of this, Joe?’ he asks, looking up at the heavens.
Joe, he is convinced, approves.
3
Abby braces herself. He’ll be back soon – it was just a half day today.
Minutes later, the key turns.
Straight away he hurls himself down the hall and headbutts her stomach, throwing her off balance.
‘Whoa!’ she says, struggling to grasp his shoulders and hold him upright. She is strong, but he is often stronger.
Several paces behind is Eva; she looks exhausted. That’s the effect he has: those involved with him end up worn out, thin. Eventually most give up the fight, yet so far Eva is sticking with it, and Abby is grateful.
‘How did it go?’ she asks.
‘All right.’ Eva shrugs, then smiles. ‘We managed a while in the park before he got agitated.’
‘Well done, thank you. You must be hungry. Can I get you anything?’
Abby reaches to open the fridge and he is off, charging down the hall. Callum is such a live wire; he never stops, as if his veins are pumped full of electricity. Before she’s had time to process what’s happening, Abby is running after him. The front door isn’t securely locked yet, and as he reaches to turn the handle, Abby darts beneath him and punches in the code.
Phew. In terms of passing traffic, at any rate, they are safe.
Then he’s off again, into the living room, jumping on the armchair, Zebedee.
She dives for his ankles, knowing it’s futile. With astonishing speed he leaps up and over her, past Eva, who’s come to help, to BOING! BOING! on the sofa. No wonder the springs are going.
‘Ouch!’ Abby gets another headbutt.
He slides over the back of the settee and stands in front of the bay window like an escaped convict on watch for his captors, looking up the street one second, inside the room the next. He starts scratching, tugging at the skin on the backs of his hands. It’s red raw and weeping, Abby notes, a sign he’s especially upset today. Seeing this makes her heart bleed, too.
‘Hey, hey, little man . . .’ she murmurs, voice soft, concern for his state of mind mixed with fear he’s going to headbutt the glass. ‘Shall we try Alvin and The Chipmunks? How about Alvin and The Chipmunks?’ She enunciates the words clearly and Eva reaches for the box.
The window isn’t as interesting as this prospect, and – WHOOP! – he’s over to the coffee table, snatching the remote and flicking on the telly.
‘Come and sit on Mummy,’ she says, and pats her lap.
Callum does as he’s bid – a rarity – and, with no concept of his seven-year-old weight or impact, lands on her bony thighs with a thud.
For a few moments, he is settled.
Abby exhales. It makes her manic too, being with him. It’s catching, this inability to concentrate, to stay still: they ping from place to place, activity to activity, like a game of pinball. Even when Callum is out at school or with one of his carers, it’s hard for Abby to slow down.
‘I wish I understood more what goes on inside here,’ she whispers, stroking his head. But as usual her son seems far away in his private world and doesn’t answer. Conversation is only ever one-way. So instead she continues fondling his hair, hoping he remains seated long enough for her to catch her breath.
* * *
By midday Michael has still not heard back from Tim, so he asks Ali, the greengrocer next door, to keep an eye on the shop while he nips down to the seafront to deliver his handiwork. Michael walks into Hotel sur Plage and is poised to ask the lad on reception to let Tim know that he’s here, when his heart misses a beat.
On the glass counter is a vast bouquet of deep-pink peonies. These are new blooms, poised to open; their fragrance is sweet and light as a sunny day. They are not remotely in season, so must have cost the earth.
Normally it would be down to Michael to remove the previous week’s flowers and put new ones in their place. But on Boxing Day he supplied the hotel with an arrangement of ivy, moss and red and white roses; not this. He left a family gathering early to deliver it in person. Why the change?
At that moment Tim comes hurrying down the corridor, shiny leather loafers clicking on
the marble. ‘Ah, Mike, glad to see you! Happy New Year!’
‘Nice flowers.’ Michael jerks his head towards the counter.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ gushes Tim, then grasps that Michael is being sarcastic. ‘Ah, yes, well, Mike, actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about . . . Hope you got my message on your mobile?’
Michael shakes his head.
‘Couple of hours ago, must have been.’
‘I’ve had my phone close by all morning.’
‘It was your answer message – it clicked on after a few rings.’
Michael reaches into his pocket and retrieves his Nokia. To his surprise, through the scratches on the tiny screen he can make out the message icon. ‘Must have missed it,’ he says, confused as to how. Then he realizes. The radio. Oh shit.
‘Er . . .’ Now Tim appears nonplussed. ‘I hope you didn’t buy any flowers specially . . . ?’ His voice trails off.
Of course I did, thinks Michael. ‘Why?’
‘The thing is, um, it’s . . .’ Michael sees colour rising up the young man’s neck. Michael is not used to Tim fumbling; normally he’s assertive to the point of bullishness. ‘I might as well be honest. We’re going to be getting another supplier to do the arrangements here from now on.’
Michael had a hunch something was amiss; still, he is speechless. There’s been no warning of this at all before today, no inkling from the management that they were unhappy, no moans or groans about his work, or mutterings to suggest he needed to watch his step, let alone a request for Bloomin’ Hove to retender. Tim even asked him to make extra displays in the run-up to Christmas.
‘It’s just that . . . we’ve got this new—’
‘You’ve found someone cheaper,’ states Michael. ‘Ah, well.’ He struggles to think at speed. ‘I’m sure I can do something about that.’ Tim has beaten Michael’s prices down repeatedly since he was promoted eighteen months ago, so Michael doesn’t have much room to manoeuvre, but he can’t give up without a fight. He’s determined to see those amaryllis standing in their rightful place in the reception of Hotel sur Plage.