Charlie purchased the finest bouquet in all of London, an armful of pale pink gerberas wrapped in silvery paper speckled with pearls of mist. He drifted toward the great marble lion fountain in Piccadilly Circus, feeling oddly buoyant, as if his shoes barely touched the pavement. The city was woven with the golden threads of a late English afternoon, half-real, half-remembered, and Charlie gripped the flowers as if they anchored him to the ground.
Charlotte was nowhere. He spun and drifted through crowds of faceless city-goers, all swirling and warping at the edges, ringing her mobile. Only the hollow chime answered. Perhaps shes late, Charlie mused as the water from the fountain began to snake upwards in impossible shapes. He dialed again. This time, Charlotte answered, her voice sounding distant and underwater.
Im here already where are you? Charlie asked.
Its over between us, Charlotte said suddenly, and the words hung in the air heavy as cathedral bells.
What? Why? Whats happened? Charlies voice echoed, spiraling out like ribbons on the breeze.
Its all because of your bouquet! declared Charlotte, as if that explained everything.
He stared at the flowerswere they wilting, or were they simply dissolving into the afternoon? Whats wrong with them? he asked, lost in the dream smoke.
He saw himself again that morning, pacing in a flower shop that seemed to have no walls, only endless bouquets on clouds. Burgundy roses, yellow daffodils, lilies as white as morning milkeven orchids growing out of suspended teacups. He remembered Charlotte once saidwas it daffodils she hated? Or was it carnations? She had spoken so much on that first meet over a glass of English cider and the giddy spinning of the London Eye, but now his memory was like rain on newsprint.
He had been entrancedher laughter was the chime of Big Ben, her hair long and straight as the Thames, cheeks dimpled and creamy. Hed only nodded, buoyed by the novelty of everything, and perhaps this, he thought, was love.
But what did she actually say about flowers? Charlie wondered as the shopkeeper, a woman in crisp tweed, offered him gerberas out of season, bred on the Isle of Wight or so she claimed.
His phone vibrated, the numbers twisting, and then his mother chimed in. Lately, she rang far too often, as if she could sense his wandering heart.
Well, Charlie, have you decided? Its Fridaywill you come down to Surrey for the weekend? she asked, voice as warm as tea and as sharp as scones straight from the oven.
No, Mum, I cant, I have things on
Nanas been waiting, keeps looking at the door for you, she scolded gently.
Im sorry, trulyjust busy Charlie bid a quick goodbye.
The call left a snag of guilt. Nana lived with Mum in a thatched cottage hedged with wild poppies and brambles. Charlies visits were rare, briefwork and the city always carrying him off like a tide. Nana had been frail for ages; he knew he ought to go, but today, today was meant for Charlotte. If they got on well tonight, maybe tomorrow hed whisk her off to the quaint B&B in Kent, the one with the overgrown garden and the heron in the pond.
But flowers! His memory was a sieve; no matter how he fished, the right names slipped away, and did it even matter? Women and their fuss over such thingsdid anyone truly notice?
The shopkeepers voice rippled through the dream. How unusually large our gerberas are! Only available now, I promisetheyre magic.
No time left; his lunch break was ebbing away. Charlie snatched the bouquet, pink and white, unfamiliar but hopeful.
The meeting was by the new city fountain. His office manager, who closely resembled an owl, detained him with talk of promotions and spreadsheets. One thing bled into another, and at last, he sprinted through dissolving streets, the world glimmering and strange.
Arriving breathless at the fountain, Charlie found only the waternow moving in surreal loops and arcs. He circled the square, dialed again, sat on a twisting stone bench. Maybe Charlotte was also late. Should he call his mother back? He hesitated, phone in hand, but Charlotte rang first.
Im waiting, Charlottewhere are you?
Ive been watching you from the café across the street. Upstairs. I can see you, her voice was a sigh caught between sugar and salt.
He scanned the windowscould she actually see him? The café seemed to stretch endlessly into the fog, windows multiplying and retreating.
Come down, or he began.
Youre late, she interrupted, flatly.
I called you, did you get my message? My boss kept me late.
And the flowers, she whisperedas if it was an incantation.
What about the flowers? he blinked, unsure.
You dont even remember which are my favourites!
Charlotte, they just didnt have them in the shop
Roses! I told you I love roseseveryone has roses. I spoke about my favourite roses for ages! And you
Im sorry. Ill make it upIll come find you right now.
Charlie entered the café, which was like a corridor in a stately homeendless polished wood, mirrors reflecting him into infinity. She sat at the far end, back to the room, gazing out the clouded window. Slipping in quietly, he placed the bouquet on the table. She did not turn.
Ever the charmer, Charlie began to weave apologies. Her lips curled at the corners, almost smiling. They drank coffee so strong it tasted of memory, and as they left, Charlotte ignored the flowersone of the petals had turned to lace.
A young waitress, light as a daisy, hurried after. You forgot your bouquet!
Oh no, keep it, Charlie replied with a grin.
Thank you! she beamed, and the bouquet glowed briefly gold. Charlottes face dimmed, the colour washed away.
Ill go buy you a dozen red roses now, Charlotte, he promised desperately.
No thank youits enough trouble for one day, she said, voice thin and sharp as a winter wind.
Descending the spiral staircase, a phone call echoeda triple chime that only he seemed to hear.
Sorry, love, have I caught you at a bad time? It was Mum.
Charlotte paid no attention.
No, its not bad at all, Mum. Ill come tomorrow. I promise
That evening, he let Charlotte slip away with barely a word. Even as he watched her dissolve into the dusk, he realised he would not see her again.
The following day, instead of the city skyline, it was emerald and gold fields rolling out, patchwork as a grandmothers quilt. And in that rainbow sea, Charlie wanderedhe was both himself and the flower shops impeccable clerk, carefully gathering the wild blooms that bent towards his hand.
This time, he was certain: those waiting for him would love his selection. He would not choose wrong.
Crossing the threshold of the cottage, Charlie split the bouquet in two. Mums face blushed with happiness as she peppered his cheeks with kisses. Nana, frail as parchment, sat by the fire, hands trembling as she felt the buds and stems. Sight nearly gone, she leaned close, inhaling their green, sweet scent, and with it, the wild air of memoryher youth in some endless, sunlit meadow. The fragrance stirred something deeper than recollection, something alive and bright.
How marvellousthat life continued, through him, always.
Charlie sat beside Nana and put his head in her lap, letting her stroke his hair, though she winced lest she bruise the flowers still in her other hand.
He thought that someday, he would meet the right girlone who was not so different from the women who meant most to him. They would love each other like his grandparents had loved, like his mum and dad had loved. The trick, he thought, was knowing when you felt itwhile there was still time.
Nana clung to her flowers, refusing Mums suggestion to take them away. No, waitfetch some well-water from the pump. Use the big vaseand mind you dont bruise themkeep them where I can see
A grandsons bouquetflowers like any others, except not really. These, these were the very best in the world. These, her grandson had chosen.
