12 November
Jack
‘I need to order some, er, flowers,’ I say. I’ve been loitering in the florist’s for the last few minutes, waiting for everyone else to leave. It’s fully Christmassed up in here already, decked out with ribbons and holly wreaths, and one whole wall of shelves is covered with those huge red plants that everyone sticks on the fireplace and battles to keep alive until New Year.
The forty-something florist is bundled into a puffa jacket, her fingers red and chapped. It’s cold enough in here to see my breath.
‘Any idea what kind you want?’ she asks, still scribbling on the previous customer’s order slip.
‘The kind that say I’m sorry I’ve been an idiot?’
Her pencil stops moving, and the look she gives me tells me she’s been here before. ‘Red roses?’
I shake my head. ‘No, no. Nothing, you know, romantic.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Chrysanths go down well with more mature ladies … mums, for instance?’
Jesus, what is she, a florist or a therapist? ‘They’re not for my mum. I just want something that says I’m genuinely sorry. To a friend.’
She disappears into the back and comes back carrying a glass bowl brimming with fat peonies, creamy-white and lavender blue. ‘Something like this?’
I study them. They’re almost the exact same colour as Laurie’s eyes.
‘Just the white ones,’ I say. I don’t want the flowers to carry a jot of unintended meaning. ‘Do you have a card I can write to send with them?’
She hands me a shoebox that’s been divided by hand-written labels. One of the biggest sections, tellingly, is ‘I’m sorry’; clearly I’m not the first and won’t be the last guy in here who’s been a shmuck. I flick through the designs for the simplest, make a snap decision and pull out two.
‘I need to order two of those please,’ I say, nodding towards the peonies she’s placed down on the floor behind the counter.
‘Two?’ She raises her eyebrows.
I nod, and this time her look suggests that she’s distinctly unimpressed. ‘You don’t want me to vary them even slightly?’
‘No, exactly like that, please.’ She can think what she wants to think, I don’t care. If I order the same then I can’t get it wrong when Sarah mentions them.
She shrugs and attempts to look neutral. ‘I just deliver the flowers,’ she says. ‘Your business is your business.’ She hands me a biro and walks away to help another customer who’s just come in with a ‘Santa Stop Here’ sign and a bunch of mistletoe from outside.
I look down at the tiny card and wonder how on earth I’m supposed to say enough in such a small space. I’ve acted like a headcase for weeks. Laurie’s visit was the final straw; I lay on the floor after she left and it occurred to me that all of the people I love are in danger of giving up on me. It’s frightening how easily your life can spiral out of control; one day I was on the up and up, the next I’m face down on the carpet dribbling. I haven’t had another drink since, and I’ve seen the doctor for some milder pills to manage the pain. He suggested counselling; it’s early days – I’m not sure I’m quite ready to get all touchy-feely yet.
‘Sarah,’ I write, ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a twat lately. You’re an angel for putting up with me. I’ll change. J xx’. I seal it inside its envelope before Judge Judy can read it over my shoulder, writing Sarah’s name and address on the front.
The other card stares up at me, blank and intimidating.
Dear Laurie? Laurie? Lu? I don’t know what note to strike. I hesitate, pen poised, and then I think to hell with it and write without thinking too much, in the hope that it’s going to come out right. The worst that can happen is I’ll need to spend another 20p on a fresh card.
‘Hey Laurie. I’m sorry for the way I behaved. I didn’t mean a word of it. Not one. Except that I miss you. I’m so sorry I fucked our friendship up. Jack (shithead) x’
It’s not perfect, but it’s going to have to do because the florist is all keen-eyed as she slides behind the counter to finish serving me. I put the card in the envelope and fill out the front, then push them both across the counter towards her.
She doesn’t say a word as she rings up my bill, but as she hands my credit card back she smiles. An acid smile that says you’re a very, very bad person, and I’ll take your money but that doesn’t mean I approve of you.
‘I’ll take care not to mix the deliveries up,’ she says, sarcastic.
‘You do that,’ I say. I’m all out of smart comebacks, because she’s right. I’m a very, very bad person, and I don’t deserve forgiveness from either of them.