Never Too Late
It was damp. Indistinct raindrops laced the windscreen. It was the kind of fine, blanket rain that filled the air with gossamer threads and drenched clothes within seconds. But this was not what stopped him from leaving the car.
He had managed to find on-street parking close by but so far had sat for a good eight, maybe ten minutes, staring blankly at the smudged streetlights and rushing pedestrians through his car windows.
The florist was in the same building as the restaurant where they had arranged to meet. Was it logical or lazy to buy her flowers from there? And were flowers at this, their first face-to-face meeting, inappropriate? Tacky? Too much? Too little?
Too late now to do anything different, either way. He had no other gifts with him. No time to go elsewhere.
Why had he not considered the details? How marvellous it would have been to have arrived with a unique and thoughtful gift. Something artisan. Handmade. He pictured himself, clean-shaven and smiling, wearing some sort of moderately trendy woollen sweater and leaning over to kiss her cheek as he deftly dropped a small cardboard box before her. But he was not that guy; any pretence otherwise would inevitably lead to disappointment in the end.
His finest hours were only ever passable.
And he’d never wear wool.
Still, he could put some thought into the bouquet and still show a hint of gratitude to her for agreeing to meet. Lilies, perhaps. After her middle name. A couple of roses, perhaps. In honour of Mum. Wait… Perhaps that was weird.
Anyway, he’d not be getting anything at this rate. Best make a move.
He zipped up his navy anorak, pulled up his hood, and made his way out of the car with a half-hearted semi-jog to the entrance of the florist. He almost bumped into the shop assistant who was making her way out mid-way through collecting the buckets of flowers outside.
“Ah!” Of course. It was almost six. Why would a flower shop stay open into the evening? He shook his head in annoyance at his own stupidity. “Am I too late?”
The shop assistant smiled as she bent to collect a receptacle full of giant orange stalactites. They bordered on the sinister. “Not if you’re quick.”
“Right. Um. I can’t say this is my forte. Any suggestions?”
He thought he caught a flicker of irritation cross the woman’s face. “We have some pre-mades over by the till.” She nodded her head towards the desk. Around it was a row of bouquets.
He marched further into the shop and then found himself pausing involuntarily. The heavy scent of the flowers hit him. Everywhere colours clashed. Fuchsia. Emerald green. Mustard yellow. The leaves and petals danced on the wind as the assistant came back through the automatic doors: like ballgowns rustling in the breeze.
He made his way gingerly to the shop counter and pretended to examine the bouquets at his feet. Truth be told, these made his decision-making no simpler, varied and overwhelming as they were.
“Right,” he said, scratching his chin reverently. “Uh… what do you recommend?”
The shop assistant put down the bucket and walked purposefully to the counter, where she went straight behind the desk and folded her arms. He took this to be a hint.
“What’s the occasion?”
He chuckled. “It’s rather a long story.” She raised her eyebrows. “Which you don’t need to hear… Suffice to say that this is for a woman. Forties.”
She jabbed at a button to ping open the till drawer. “But what does she like? And is this for a happy occasion?”
“Happy?” Was it? “Yes, I should say so. But I don’t know what she— oh, wait! I do! She likes purple.” Overjoyed to recall this, he briefly considered a ‘high five’ but had a feeling she’d not reciprocate.
“There.” She pointed directly next to his right foot, where a jumble of pinks and purples cascaded down towards the ground. He was unsure if it was artful or simply a mess. But it was bright. Entrancing.
And it would have to do.
“Righty-ho,” he said as he shook droplets of water from their stems before passing them over to the shop assistant. “They’re not lilies, are they?”
She was rolling the flowers in brown paper and gave a little jump – or was that a flinch? “No. Dahlias and irises, mainly.” She tied the bunch neatly with string.
He paid her wordlessly. Now, how to carry them? Swinging nonchalantly? They may unravel. Cradled like a baby? A little odd. In the end, he found himself holding them before him like a shield as he walked towards the exit.
Outside once more, he opened the door beside the shop to climb the flight of stairs to the Chinese restaurant. The stairwell was dark, and he could feel the heat of the place descending with each step, steaming up his glasses.
On reflection, he should have made the effort to be early. The first to arrive has the upper hand, and it would have given him time to dry off and acclimatise or even to down a beer. Too late now.
There was only one customer in the restaurant, and the waiters were still laying the tables. She was sitting, facing the doorway, eyes transfixed upon the entrance. Still in her anorak, he noticed. Navy.
He watched as her face burst into a smile: the smile he’d not seen for twenty years. The smile that was a mixture of Mum and Aunty Jean and just the tiniest touch of Dad, all in one. And her. Her. His big sister.
She stood and held her arms open. “I can’t believe it,” she said as he approached her. “You’re really here.”
“I am. I am,” he murmured as he placed his flowers down on the table next to hers. The ones it seemed she had bought for him.
A small bunch of purple roses wrapped in brown paper and string.
Author: Dreena Collins is a multi-genre author, with published short fiction collections and a suspense novel, And Then She Fell. She also writes contemporary feel-good fiction as jane Harvey. When not writing, Dreena works as the DEO of a mental health charity in Jersey.