Chapter 5
M any of the larger florists, especially the chains, purchased their flowers at Bloemenveiling Aalsmeer – a flower auction in a town about half an hour away, just outside Amsterdam.
It was housed in one of the largest buildings in the world, and she wanted to go to see it full to the brim of flowers, but with such a small pitch there didn’t seem much point.
Also, she didn’t have a car– not even a bike– so unless she rented one, she wasn’t going to get them back intact.
No. It would be much more efficient to source her flowers locally.
But from which vendor? She decided the best way to find out was to visit the floating flower market again and talk to some of the other stall owners to find out who they preferred to work with.
There was nothing quite like local knowledge and making new friends in the process.
On another glorious day, she dressed in her usual denim shorts and T-shirt, her hair in a messy bun, and went about the next phase of starting her dream life.
As she left the houseboat, she couldn’t help but glance over at The Rembrandt to see if Max was awake.
The memory of him with his head in his hands looking so distraught preyed on her mind.
Not that she should care. He was incredibly rude and curt, but she didn’t like to see anyone suffering.
The galley curtains were closed and there were no signs of life.
As tempted as she was to peek at the easel still sitting on the deck covered in a cloth, she resisted, knowing that if she were caught, Max would probably never speak to her again, and there was no need to make things even more awkward than they were already.
A cool breeze swept her face, refreshing her skin.
While she loved the houseboat, it did get a little stuffy, even with all the windows open.
With the weather so wonderful, Rosie decided that this time she’d take a different route through the city.
Unlike London, where she had to rush through miserable commuters to get to work in a carbon-copy office block, today, there was no need to rush, and as the sun was already brightening the sky with its warm glow and only a few puffy clouds drifted lazily above her head, she wandered this way and that enjoying the hidden canals lined with houseboats, some as big as the flat she’d lived in in London.
They must have been worth a fortune with their shining dark wooden decks, the galleys painted bright colours with the names written on.
Maybe one day her little boat would be like that.
Piet, the owner, had already said she could do what she liked with the place after she’d messaged to say she needed to make it feel more homely.
He just seemed happy someone was living there.
Strolling down the tree-lined streets of shops filled with couples and families chatting and eating, Rosie tried to make out what they were saying, attempting to improve her Dutch.
Amsterdam had a wonderful vibrancy and was full of energy.
London had been too, but that energy had seemed frenetic and never-ending, whether it was the middle of the day or the middle of the night.
Amsterdam’s energy was different, motivating and animated, but tempered somewhat by the pedestrianised streets and the water flowing through the city, which made it seem somehow more settled.
It was almost as if it was older and more mature, though she knew that wasn’t technically the case.
Rosie smiled to herself, knowing she was being fanciful and happy to indulge herself as she followed the streets aimlessly.
When she looked up again, she realised she was outside the Rijksmuseum and paused to take in one of the most famous galleries in the world.
‘Wow,’ Rosie muttered under her breath. A passer-by heard and smiled at her.
The red-brick building was enormous with a central section flanked by two towers connected to two recessed wings and then further blocks that jutted back out.
With sandstone windows and blocks running in vertical lines across its frontage it was both Gothic and Renaissance in style.
The dark grey roof rose into peaks, punctuating the clear blue sky.
It was breathtaking: a beautiful building to house the amazing works of art inside.
Her mind flew to Max and she wondered what style of work he painted.
She shook him from her mind. She’d have to make time to go in and look around.
After all, it was one of the most well-known museums in the world.
She’d be an idiot not to go, and it would be one of the first questions her dad would ask.
But for now, she needed to find her way back to the flower market.
After a few wrong turns (map reading had never been Rosie’s strong point, even when it was all on Google Maps), she made it back to the Singel canal and stepped inside the gorgeous floral-scented space.
As soon as she entered, the different colours spread like a Van Gogh painting before her and the smell was almost overpowering.
There was a strong aroma of pollen from the different types of lilies, and the earthy scents of peat and mud mixed with that of the canal.
Some stalls stocked seed packets, garden ornaments and bird baths, others more novelty items like windmills and gnomes.
Noise and chatter already filled the air with vendors speaking to each other in Dutch and others conversing in English.
There were other stalls nearby too: a cheesemonger, a coffee shop, all welcoming some of the earliest customers.
Rosie made her way to her small pitch. The space measured about the same as the galley of her houseboat, tiny compared to some of the other stalls but bigger than the cupboard Bram at the council had described it as, and being here, in this historic place, was worth it.
The pitch was reasonably well kitted out, although like her houseboat it was a little tatty in places.
It could do with a lick of paint and though she usually preferred brighter colours, something pastel and muted would make the beautiful flowers stand out.
She made a note on her phone and snapped some photos for a before-and-after shot for Melody and her dad.
Rosie began calculating how many bunches of flowers and what different varieties she wanted to stock, when a woman’s voice called over her shoulder.
‘It’s you again!’
Rosie turned to see Emma, dressed in another colourful skirt, her apron tied tightly around her waist, showing off her hourglass figure.
Her pillar-box red hair was tied back away from her face, and she was slicing an enormous ham by hand, cutting thin strips of it with a dangerously sharp knife, then arranging them on a plate.
From the cocktail sticks sticking out of some of the pieces, these were more samples for those visiting the market.
They were in for a treat if the cheese Rosie had tasted before was anything to go by.
It’d been delicious, and she planned to buy some more while she was there.
Maybe she could get some of this ham too and have a relaxed dinner when she got back to the boat tonight.
She might even sit out on her deck now she’d re-potted the plants.
‘Hello again,’ Rosie replied. ‘Emma, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. Well remembered.’ Emma pointed the knife at her and Rosie instinctively took a step back.
‘Whoa! You having a bad morning?’
Emma laughed, suddenly realising she was brandishing the knife like a weapon. ‘Oops, sorry.’ She went back to carving. ‘Actually, it’s been quite good so far.’ She glanced towards another shop, but Rosie couldn’t tell which one. ‘So, I heard you got your pitch.’
‘You did?’
She nodded. ‘Everyone talks here. Nothing is a secret in the flower market.’ She was flourishing the knife again as she spoke.
‘Should you be doing that?’
‘Doing what?’
‘That.’ Rosie made stabbing motions with her hand.
‘Of course, I’ve done this a million times.’
‘While talking?’
‘Sometimes. Grietje said she was happy you were taking over her pitch. Though Finn won’t be.’
‘Who’s Finn?’ Rosie asked, worry bringing frown lines to her forehead.
‘He was next on the waiting list, and is one of the most unpleasant people in the market.’
‘Oh.’ Rosie bit her lip.
‘Don’t worry, no one likes him all that much. And as he already has one of the biggest pitches here at the Bloemenmarkt and two shops, he doesn’t really need another outlet. Look—’
She pointed with the knife to where a man with one of the largest stalls was standing.
He had some of the most beautiful flowers Rosie had ever seen and three staff scurried behind him.
Rosie hoped one day that might be her, though she wouldn’t be standing with her arms crossed over her chest, looking angry like he was.
He surveyed the scene before him like he owned the place.
‘We were all quite worried about him taking over everything,’ Emma continued, done with the knife and laying it down.
Rosie felt herself relax a little. ‘We all want there to be diversity here and lots of different shops offering different things. Yes, it’s the flower market and that’s what it’s famous for, but that doesn’t mean the same person should own all the flower stalls.
Lucky for us Grietje said she liked you and she’s a very good judge of character. I’m so pleased to welcome you.’
Emma loaded the meat onto the cocktail sticks and arranged them on an elegant platter. ‘There,’ she said, peeling off the thin rubber gloves she’d been wearing and putting them in a small bin behind the counter.
‘Do you know who he buys his flowers from?’ Rosie asked. ‘They’re beautiful.’