Three
T he fine weather had brought out the crowds in the streets and Charlotte was already regretting not taking the Metro back. She’d been across the river to record an interview for a radio program created by an old acquaintance. The program was called Au Vert des Prés , literally To the Green of the Meadows , but intended as a play both on his surname—Auvert—and the neighbourhood where he lived, Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the 6th, which had once been a village outside the walls of medieval Paris, nestled amid what were then the meadows of the Left Bank.
Before she’d left London, Charlotte had listened to previous episodes of the program, which told stories of gardens and gardeners in Paris through the ages. The introductory episode was centred around an imagined walk in the gardens of the sixth-century abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, through the eyes of the patron saint of gardeners, St Fiacre, a seventh-century Irish monk who’d moved to the Brie region, just north of Paris, establishing famous vegetable and herb gardens. It had been lively and engaging, and Charlotte had immediately listened to the next two episodes: one on the seventeenth-century writer Charles Perrault, author of such famous tales as Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty , who had been instrumental in the opening of the first public garden in Paris, the Tuileries Gardens; and another as a mosaic of overheard stories from the flower market on the ?le de la Cité. It was that which had stimulated Charlotte to walk back from the recording session—which had been about how Paris gardens had inspired her work in London—because her journey would take her past the flower market, where she hadn’t been for a long time.
Recently officially renamed as Le Marché aux Fleurs Reine Elizabeth II , in honour of the late queen, the flower market was mostly housed in a couple of late nineteenth-century iron and glass pavilions on the side of the island that overlooked the Right Bank, but outdoor flower stands also spilled out onto the quay. Stepping into one of the pavilions, Charlotte was immediately plunged into a humid, muffled world of narrow alleyways lined with shops and stands, filled from top to bottom with a vast, colourful array of flowers and plants of all sorts, as well as garden tools, accessories and decorations. At this fertile time of the year, the flowers showed off their full beauty and gawkers and customers were out in force. Weaving her way through the throng of people, Charlotte took in the scenes of market life, to the soundtrack of a babble of tongues: an elderly French couple haggling with a sour-faced man about the price of a bunch of daffodils; an excited group of Americans exclaiming over a display of cacti to the obvious pleasure of the cheerful female stallholder; a beautifully dressed Korean family having their photo taken against a background of hydrangea blossoms; a woman with a Slavic accent hesitating over various garden ornaments, to the growing impatience of the stallholder.
It was in this way that she happened upon a flower stand at the end of the pavilion. The stand immediately caught her eye because the flowers—a mix of fragrant spring blooms such as peonies, jonquils, lilac, sweet pea and magnolia—were grouped in a pattern that had been so skilfully arranged that it created a dreamlike harmony of colour and shape. It had been a long time since Charlotte had seen anything quite so naturally beautiful. And yet so artful too.
To one side, talking to a customer, stood a petite woman in a deep green sleeveless pinafore apron over jeans and a simple white shirt. She had her back to Charlotte, so all she could see of the woman’s head was a mass of auburn curls. But then she turned, and Charlotte saw that the colour of the pinafore almost matched the colour of her eyes, set in a pleasantly round face. And, despite the fact she wasn’t blonde, wearing a puffy white dress or carrying a wand, she somehow reminded Charlotte irresistibly of the fairy doll which had once perched on top of her family Christmas tree back in London in happier times.
‘ Madame? Je peux vous aider? ’
Charlotte started. The woman’s voice was clear, level, with a distinct trace of a Midi accent, probably Provence. ‘Er—I wondered if you might suggest flowers to give to a favourite aunt.’
Why had she said such a stupid thing? Any flowers she bought today would be dead by the time Juliette returned. But the woman smiled at her and said, ‘It is wonderful to have a favourite aunt. Did she look after you when you were young?’
Charlotte shook her head. ‘She was often away, travelling the world. But it was always good to see her. And she’d unfailingly bring something back for me and my brother, something that smelled of faraway places.’ She hadn’t meant to say all that. And she noticed with some discomfort that the man the stallholder had been speaking to earlier was still there, hovering.
The flower-seller’s face lit up with genuine pleasure. ‘How happy that must have made you!’
At that moment, Charlotte’s phone pinged in her pocket. A text. Normally, she’d have ignored it, but right now it felt like an excuse to cut the pointless conversation short. ‘I’m sorry. I have to take this call,’ she lied, and hurried outside.
It was Aidan, her assistant back in the office. Sorry to disturb, Charlotte. It’s re Mrs Browning .
She exhaled. Mrs Browning, as she insisted on being called—no first names for her!—was a wealthy Mayfair widow who was obsessed with her garden but whose understanding of landscaping could have fit on half a Post-it note. She was always wanting to remodel her garden based on what she’d seen in magazines, even when it was completely unsuited to the actual conditions. She also imagined that she had a natural flair for design which only needed a final tick of approval from a professional. From long experience, Charlotte knew how to handle her. But Aidan had never had to deal with Mrs Browning’s whims on his own before.
She texted rapidly back. Hey, Aidan, what’s up?
She wants to change things again ? Like this . It was a photo of a luxuriant tropical garden. And I’m afraid I don’t think I handled it well .
Concerned, Charlotte abandoned texting and called him. ‘What happened?’
‘I remembered how you said to make her think a small tweak is more effective than a big change.’ A pause. ‘But—er—then I made the mistake of saying that she should pick something that inspired her, and we could definitely do it for her …’
Charlotte winced. ‘Okay. So what did she say?’ She had visions of palm trees and waterfalls and miniature jungles complete with tigers. She wouldn’t put it past Mrs Browning to suggest tigers.
‘Well—’ Aidan sounded reluctant. ‘I’m afraid she said what she really wanted was that awful bird bath thing in the picture. The one shaped like a flamingo.’
Charlotte couldn’t help laughing, relief mixing with amusement. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Sorry, Charlotte,’ Aidan said, ‘I know it’s going to really spoil the look of what you created for her but—’
‘Don’t worry, Aidan. Given what she could have demanded, this is very small beer. Just go ahead with the flamingo monstrosity. She’ll get sick of it soon enough. You did well.’
‘You really think so?’ She could hear the relief in his voice.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘It’s a real weight off my mind. Oh, I meant to ask. How’s your aunt?’
Charlotte briefly closed her eyes. The lie she’d told her staff, to cover the reason for her sudden departure. ‘Better. Thanks for asking.’
After the call ended, Charlotte stayed put, feeling rattled. Had it been unfair to expect Aidan to step up in her absence? Was she letting her clients and her staff down by not being there to deal with the day to day? What if being away hurt her business more than she’d imagined it would? Stop it , she told herself. You told him he did well, and that’s the truth. He wanted reassurance, sure, but he had done the right thing. So don’t micromanage. Don’t imagine problems where there aren’t any, when the truth is you can hardly bring yourself to think about the very real problem that …
‘Madame? Are you all right?’
She turned to see the redhaired flower-seller from the market looking at her with concern. Embarrassment made her draw herself up. ‘I have to go,’ she said stiffly, and hurried off to the nearby Metro without a backward glance.