Chapter Twenty-Three

As it turns out, it’s a lot harder than it sounds.

I started out by making a list of the kinds of flowers I thought Lauren would be happy with, cutting down her list into something more workable. There was only a loose sort of colour scheme, so that freed me up to be a little creative… or it would have, if I’d known the first thing about what I was looking for. I was never really a hearts-and-flowers sort of girl, not the way Lauren was. She had worked in a florist’s when she was make her way through pre-med; I knew for a fact that every single flower on her list would have been picked out months in advance. It was no wonder she was so cut up about it all.

‘What’s the difference between a California lily and a calla lily?’ I asked Danielle when she slipped back into the dining room after I’d spent an hour flicking through Wikipedia, trying to find out what possible alternatives I might be able to get my hands on at short notice.

She shrugged. ‘Fucked if I know,’ she said, and then promptly waltzed back out to enjoy the festivities.

Thanks for nothing, buddy, I thought.

By the time Paige and the rest of Drew’s family make their way back to the hotel, I’m no closer to figuring it out than I was when I first agreed to take on the job. In amongst the kisses and greetings from Drew’s parents and managing to sidestep being hit on by his friends, I made my excuses and slipped away to do the real work of being Lauren’s Maid of Honour. By that point, I’d given up on trying to find shops who’d be able to match the rough wishlist I’d cobbled together; as it got to three in the afternoon, with a few scant business hours remaining, I’d taken instead to calling every florist I could find within a ten-mile radius to see what they had in stock. Perhaps if I can get a couple of them to hear me out, I thought, I might be able to scrape together something that looks decent. Maybe. I hope.

Yeah, no. No matter what price I offered – and God as my witness, I offered some obscene amounts of money: amounts large enough that I could feel my bank account preparing to commit hara-kiri – I was shot down, again and again.

No matter what I do, I can’t seem to figure out a solution.

I stop for a second, breathe deeply, bury my head in my hands. OK, I tell myself. Three o’clock. There’s still time. Plenty of time. You can do this, Ella. Just concentrate. Concentrate. Concen–

From the corner of the room, over by the bar, something catches my eye: Danielle, trying very hard not to be seen as she takes a bottle of champagne from the bartender, no doubt to be enjoyed by the wedding party – a party that, it seems, doesn’t include me right now. Where’s the justice in that? I think. How is it fair that everyone else gets to have a good time, when I’m here sorting through the entirety of the New Orleans phonebook? Why am I not allowed to let my hair down a little bit?

And of course, I immediately feel like an asshole. It’s fair because it’s not about my good time at all. As much as I’m a guest at this wedding, I’m also part of the pit crew. Everything I’m doing right now is all for Lauren. If she’s having fun, that’s all that matters – because I know she’ll do the same for me when my time comes.

If your time comes, of course. That hateful little voice inside my head is working overtime today.

‘You guys having fun?’ I ask Danielle, a little more sarcastically than I had intended.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘You’re still on the flower thing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I thought you said it would be fixed by now.’

‘Well, I guess I was wrong.’

Do I detect the faintest hint of a smile growing at the corner of her lips? No, it can’t be. Whatever problem Danielle has with me – and yeah, I’m sure she has some problem with me; even in her best moments, she’s significantly more frosty towards me than Paige and Jessica are, despite having known me for just about the same minuscule amount of time – she wouldn’t let it spill out onto Lauren’s wedding. No how, no way.

Would she?

I wrack my brains, trying to think of any other way out, but nothing comes to mind. I might not like it, but my options are distinctly limited.

She’s here, at least. That’s something.

I mean, she probably won’t be any use – might even be a liability – but maybe…

Well, it’s better to have her and need her than to need her and not have her, I suppose. Just as long as no one else finds out. As far as they’re concerned, everything is going fine.

‘Where are the others?’ I ask.

‘Lauren’s catching up with Drew,’ she says, ‘and Jess and Paige are corralling the family. No one ever told me Drew’s brother was so hot. Have you see that guy? He’s built like a fire truck. Muscles on muscles.’

‘Forget him.’

‘I’m not sure I can.’

‘Danielle,’ I hiss. ‘Focus for a second, would you? I need your help.’

I recognise the face she pulls all too well: Yes, Mom. It’s the face I get whenever I have to be the responsible one. I wish in that instant that I could pick her up and shake her until her teeth rattle in her fatuous party girl head. Is she really so dim as to think that I want to be the one calling up flower shops while everyone else gets to have a good time with brunch cocktails and fancy dinners? She can’t think that’s my idea of fun, can she?

Look at her. Probably. As far as she’s concerned, I’m Big Chief Stick-in-the-Mud, Queen of the Plan.

If it could be anyone else, I think – but I know it can’t. Paige will be better at keeping Drew’s side of the family entertained, and I trust Jess to keep a handle on things way more than I’d trust Danielle. It’s not as though I can get Lauren to help me out, either; she’s got enough on her plate right now.

So that means it’s me and Danielle. Trying to save my best friend’s wedding, all on our own, with literally hours to spare.

Great.

~~~

We make it to fourteen shops before time runs out.

To their credit, most of them were very apologetic about the fact that they couldn’t help us. Only two of them were completely incapable of holding back laughter at the idea of two people walking into their store and trying to outfit a wedding with flowers with a little over sixteen hours’ notice. Then again, by that point I couldn’t really blame them. The more I thought about it, the more nuts it sounded.

We’d failed. I’d failed. Whatever dream wedding Lauren might have planned for herself, it was looking increasingly likely that it would be a flower-free affair.

The guy in the last shop had seemed genuinely conflicted when we told him our sad and desperate tale. If it had been a movie, I’m sure he would have thrown back the curtain to the back room of his shop and revealed row after row of pristine table decorations, all neatly arranged and ready to take away, alongside the most beautiful bridal bouquet any bride could imagine. ‘Oh, these?’ my imaginary florist Prince Charming would say. ‘We had a last minute cancellation, so they’re all ready for you to take away. Better yet, they’re on the house. How about that?’

Instead he had just shaken his head, said ‘Sorry, ladies,’ and carried on getting ready to close up shop.

I slump down low outside in the street outside the store, crouched with my head in my hands, willing myself to be able to think just a little faster, just a little smarter, just a little better… but nothing comes. I’m flat out of ideas. The well is dry.

A figure stands above me, blocking out the early-evening sun. ‘Call her,’ Danielle says eventually. ‘You gave it a good try, but…’

She doesn’t have to finish the thought; my mind has already cycled through every relevant section of the thesaurus. But she needs to know that you fucked it up. That you fumbled the pass. That you failed, Eleanor. You failed, you failed, you failed. Just when Lauren needed you. Just like you knew you would, deep down. But that’s just your streak recently, eh? One failure after another?

‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘Not yet. Just… not yet, OK?’

‘She’s going to find out eventually! The wedding is tomorrow!’

‘I know that. That’s why we’re going to fix it. Tonight. All of us, between us. That’s what bridesmaids are for, right?’

‘How?’

Well, isn’t that just the sixty-four thousand dollar question? I think. Do tell us, Ella… how do you plan on weaselling your way out of this one? What’s the grand plan here?

‘I… I don’t know. But we’ll think of something.’

Paper, maybe? It’s a little kitsch, but origami flowers could work. Say it takes ten minutes to make a paper rose, with four of us, if we work all night, that’s… I run the maths through in my head, and the numbers sort of work out. That could be feasible. Maybe.

Maybe there’s a Staples close by. That’s not so crazy, right? Right?

I sigh. If only any of us knew how to make a paper rose. I know I don’t, and somehow Danielle doesn’t seem like the type. It’s a little late in the game to be taking origami lessons, what with everything else that needs to go on.

So much for that, then.

So much for everything.

The realisation that I’m fresh out of ideas hits me hard – harder than I would have liked, that’s for damn sure. I press my back against the wall of the flower shop and try my damnedest to stop the tears from welling up in the corner of my eyes. It’s bad enough that I’ve let Lauren down, but the last person I want to see me like this is Danielle.

Go on, I think. Gloat away. Get it out of your system.

She doesn’t, mercifully. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she says. ‘Stop crying and give me fifty dollars.’

‘Why?’

‘Just trust me, would you?’

It’s not the most encouraging argument, but at this point I don’t have much else to go on. I hand over the money, half expecting her to shove it in her bra and head into one of the nearby bars for a round of mojitos on me, but instead she takes a look in the reflective glass of the florist’s shop, shimmies her shirt down just enough to suggest the possibility of scandal, and heads back inside.

What use is that going to do? I think. Hell, if money was the issue, we would have been fine; Lauren’s flower budget was not insignificant at all, and I’m sure if it came down to making sure she got everything she wanted – or even a fraction of it – then she’d be happy to cover the bill.

A minute or two later she emerges from the shop, bearing a small rectangle of cardboard. She hands it to me with a smile on her face, pleased with what my fifty dollars has purchased. All of a sudden I understand the feeling a fairy tale character might have on being told that her son had just sold the family cow for a handful of supposedly magic beans.

ZACHARY KINGSTON FLORISTS, it reads. NEW ORLEANS, LA.

‘A business card?’ I ask.

‘Yep.’

‘For the store you were just in? The one who already said they couldn’t help us?’

‘Turn it over.’

There’s an address printed on the other side, barely legible; then again, what else could you really expect from a doctor? ‘What’s this?’ I ask.

‘A market,’ she says. ‘The market, in fact. That’s where you need to go.’

‘Danielle, look. I don’t see how…’

‘How I could have solved our problem when the great Ella Mossberg couldn’t? Is that what you’re saying? You think I just pulled down my shirt, flashed a little skin and he caved?’

‘No. Of course not.’

She grins. ‘Well, I did. Fifty bucks, a wink and a smile, and there you go.’ Danielle taps the card in my hand. ‘Flower wholesalers.’

‘Whatnow?’

‘At night, refrigerated shipments of flowers come in, and the florists buy whatever they want to stock their shops. Every city has one, somewhere around. They’re usually a big deal. You need to know someone to get in, and now we do.’

‘Every city? And every night?’

‘Sure. How did you think the florists got their flowers?’

‘I… I don’t know.’ It’s a fair question. I guess I always figured… flower fairies, maybe? Personal stocks? Delivery men in pristine white cotton aprons, like old-timey milkmen? It could have been anything. ‘How do you know about this?’

‘I told you,’ she says, ‘I’m from New York. I used to live down the street from the market in Brooklyn. Every day at four AM, there’d be people haggling over tulips at the top of their voice. It was a pain in my fucking ass, is what it was.’

Oh, I’m sure of that – but it’s useful knowledge to have. Very, very useful.

I’m not sure where it comes from, exactly – in fact, if you’d told me a couple of hours earlier that I’d have my arms wrapped around Danielle in the middle of a New Orleans street, I would have thought you were insane – but the hug is real and heartfelt.

‘Easy,’ she says. ‘It’s just a business card.’

Except it’s not. Not at all. It’s so much more than that.

Maybe, despite everything, there’s a chance we might still be able to give Lauren the wedding she deserves.