50. Primrose
PRIMROSE
“More flowers?” Trudy, the nurse in charge today, takes the arrangement from my hand. “You must have yourself a secret admirer.”
“Or maybe I steal them as I pass the crematorium,” I quip, adjusting my backpack on my shoulder.
“Hyacinths and forget-me-nots,” she says appreciatively. “Very pretty. Unusual too.”
“Yeah, a bit. Anyhoo, I’d better get on.” I duck my head and flee, though I can’t run away from my thoughts quite so efficiently. The flowers started arriving last week. Pretty arrangements sent daily to my flat, each with a card in Luc’s beautifully scribed hand.
I’d put the first arrangement straight in the bin, still annoyed that he’d had the absolute nerve to turn up at my work like he did. I never did find out who orchestrated the tête-à-tête, not that I would’ve reported it. But I might’ve roundhouse kicked that person in the face.
Anyhoo, I’d dumped the flowers—shock probably—before pulling them straight back out the wheelie bin. Even if I couldn’t bear to look at the blooms, someone would, or should, appreciate them.
Mon c?ur, the first note read.
Blue hyacinths represent constancy. Forget-me-nots mean exactly what their name promises. I have not forgotten you for a single hour, Primevère.
Nor will I ever.
The day before was red chrysanthemums and ivy. I’d dropped that arrangement off at the cardiac ward.
Mon c?ur,
Red chrysanthemums say I love you.
Ivy means fidelity; a bond that endures. I know flowers cannot undo what I have done, but perhaps they can say what I should have said before you left.
A different arrangement every day. Different blooms and different meanings. He’s going to run out of flowers at some point, though. Not to mention words. I hope it happens sooner rather than later.
Mon c?ur,
Primroses. I must be as courageous as the bloom while I am without their namesake.
While I am without you.
White tulips ask for forgiveness.
I’m sending both because one is the truth and the other is the hope.
This was my favorite card, though I won’t ever admit to almost keeping the arrangement that was simple and sort of pure. I also won’t admit I’ve been carrying the card in my backpack since. Such a pretty sentiment from someone who deserves a throat punch.
I wish he would stop sending me flowers and words because they just make me think of him. Bad enough that he invades my dreams. Because there is no hope. None. There is no future for us. He needs to stop finding beautiful ways to make me miss him.
“Flowers.” Lavender sets down her fork.
“Yep.”
“Every day?”
“Every day for three weeks now.”
“Bunches?”
“More like…” I cast my eyes to the ceiling. “Tasteful displays. Vases and things.”
“Big?”
I shake my head.
“Red roses?”
“He’s not dumb.”
“Huh.” She pats her napkin delicately to her mouth.
“It’s weird, right?”
“What’s weird is this is the first time I’m hearing this. Your apartment didn’t look like a jungle last week.”
“I don’t keep them.” My answer is choppy and halting.
“Brutal.” She reaches for her water glass. “The man is obviously obsessed.”
I snort. “Not even.”
I’m out to lunch with my sister who is approximately 97 weeks pregnant. And while I can’t believe I’m initiating this conversation with her, I know I need to speak to someone about Luc. I’m weakening and I know I shouldn’t!
Not that I’ve seen the man since he turned up at the hospital with his apologies and his words of love.
Oh, I’ve received plenty of flowers and prettily worded notes, but that’s the extent of his reappearance in my life.
Unless, of course, you count how he seems to be on my mind all of the time. And that I am not happy about.
I mean, was it not torturous enough to make me love him, that he had to come back into my life to remind me of the things I like about him when I’m busy? Busy trying to learn how to unlove him?
“So flowers. After he just… turned up at the hospital?”
“Without a word of warning and pretending to be lovesick.” I pull the crust from the garlic bread. “Maybe I should’ve just called security.”
“Don’t eat all that. I ordered it for the baby.”
“The baby wants garlic bread?” I pull a doubtful face as my gaze drops to her rotund stomach, sitting above the waistband of her leggings and under a bright red T-shirt. She reminds me of Winnie the Pooh, not that I dare say so.
“Yes, this baby wants garlic bread. And an ice cream afterwards. She’s a very hungry bubba. She also wants sushi, a wedge of Brie as big as her mama’s head, and a margarita that comes in a glass the size of a bucket. But she’ll have to wait for all that, won’t she?”
“Until she’s at least ten.”
“Only for the margarita.” She gives a sly smile as she reaches for her water glass. “So what I’m hearing is you took my advice and had a holiday fling with la billionaire bleu. Thanks for the news. The belated news.”
“You’re welcome.” A whole world of discomfort swims through my answer. I’m not big on sharing. I shove the chunk of garlic bread in my mouth.
“But ohmygod!” she says, leaning in, all big eyes and entertainment. “He is well fit, Prim. What did I tell you about older men!” She holds up her hand for a high-five.
“I can’t believe I expected sensible advice from you,” I lie, as my hand meets hers, my lips twitching with a smile. Lavender’s advice is usually blunt but very good.
“Down to business, then.” She grabs a fry from my plate and pops it into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before beginning again. “It was only meant to be a summer fling but you both caught feelings.”
“Catching feelings is worse than catching herpes. At least for herpes you can prescribe an antiviral.” I put my elbow on the table and my head to my fist.
“I thought herpes was incurable?”
“It is.”
“Well, so is love,” she says, sounding exactly like our mum.
“Moving away from the delightful topic of STDs.” She gives a heavy frown.
“I take it you’ve come back to London because of your job and your amazingly wonderful family.
Not to mention, you need to be here to meet the newest edition.
” Her fingers gravitate to her bump. I’m not even sure she realizes how often it happens.
“And now he’s what? Love bombing you now that you’re not together?
Trying to win you over just so he can keep you dangling? ”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it. Other than that day at work, I haven’t seen him. He hasn’t contacted me. He isn’t pressuring me. Just sending me flowers with these insanely lovely messages.” I put my elbow to the table and sigh.
“Printed or…?”
“Handwritten.” One shoulder lifts and falls. “He must’ve bulk-written them or something because he must be back in Paris by now.” And the kids will be in school.
Today’s arrangement included hellebores, blue delphiniums, white anemones, and a couple of sprigs of rosemary and was addressed, as usual to ‘his heart’.
Mon c?ur,
Hellebores provide hope in the darkest season, and delphiniums represent an open heart.
Anemones are for forsaken love and rosemary is for remembrance.
I remember everything, and I deeply regret how I made you feel forsaken.
Despite the season your loss has left me in, my heart remains open.
P.S. I remember the rosemary with a special fondness.
Something inside me gives a throb as I remember again. The herb garden. Those tight pants and the crunch of gravel under his riding boots.
“You still with me?”
“Hm?” I snap back to the moment, and the café. “Yeah, of course I’m still here.”
“In body, at least.” Her gaze narrows as though she knows. “Why do you think he turned up at the hospital, then… nothing?”
“Because I told him to get fucked. Things ended really badly between us.”
“Things usually do,” she says, stirring her virgin mojito with her straw.
“Then why did you suggest I sleep with him?” I demand.
“Inside voice,” Lavender trills.
My shoulders stiffen, though I refuse to acknowledge my emotional outburst. Or any looks I might’ve drawn to the table.
“I suggested it because I thought you deserved a little fun. And because I thought he’d break your dry spell, not your heart.”
“He didn’t—” I halt. “You’re right.” I sigh. “Declarations were made. For what they were worth.”
“Love?”
I nod.
“You or him?” My sister’s elegant brows almost climb to the top of her head.
“Both. Only, one of us didn’t want to be heard. And maybe one of us shouldn’t have been listening.”
Her nose scrunches again. “What in the name or arse did you just say?”
“He told me he loved me in French.”
“But—”
“I know I speak French. I just didn’t tell him that.”
Lavender sits back in her chair. “Bloody hell. This is some K-Drama shit. And I am here for it.”
“I’m pleased my life is amusing you.”
“Oh, it is. Immensely. I’ll tell you something else too. It’s warming the cockles of my cold, cold heart to know that I’m not the only Whittington to have found love on the messy path.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Me and Raif,” she says to the tune of duh!
“Only, Raif married you. And he married you quickly.” Meanwhile, the man I love tried to manipulate me into screwing someone else. Only, that’s not true. He tried to frighten me. To make me run. I’m sure that’s what he thought I’d do. Idiot.
“You don’t know the half of it. Raif is… he’s as sly as a fox and I wouldn’t traumatize you with our origin story because then you might have to kill him. And I kind of like having him around.”
“I wouldn’t kill Raif. I like him.”
“I know you do but, if you knew what went on between us, you’d want to off him. I know you would, little miss sweet and innocent my arse,” she mutters. “But like I said, I love my husband, so no giving him Ebola on the quiet, m’kay?”
“I don’t know about Ebola, but I can give him compression socks.”
“Fabulous, but back to you.”
I give a deep sigh. “Things were said—”
“Love things. Things he wasn’t ready to tell you. But would’ve. Eventually.”
There’s a reprimand in there somewhere. “I suppose I thought we were going to try to make a go of things. But then he sort of turned everything on its head.”