Page 119 of My Kind of Happy

‘Grazie, cara!’ She chuckled and gave me a twirl in her loose-fitting purple and orange kaftan and sandals. ‘This my coolest dress. It is hot enough to cook pizza on the pavement today. Poor Stanley is as pink as porn.’

I stifled a giggle and hoped she meant a prawn.

‘What can I get you?’ I waved an arm over my flowers. ‘Are you shopping for yourself or someone else?’

Maria produced a Spanish-style fan from a pocket in her kaftan and wafted it over her face. ‘I not buying, I come to say thank you for telling Stanley about the Claybourne Hotel.’

Go Stanley, I thought to myself. ‘You went! I’m so pleased. Was the bedroom nice and cool?’

‘It was perfect. I feel like princess and Stanley is my prince.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. ‘Very romantic.’

‘And what about the hotel?’ I prompted, wondering if Stanley had brought up the subject of a wedding date. ‘Was that romantic?’

‘The hotel is beautiful but …’ Her voice drifted off and she shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m trying to find a wedding venue for my best friend and I tried there but they’re booked solid for the next four months.’

‘Ah.’ She nodded wisely. ‘A gunshot wedding, I understand.’

I smothered a smile and explained about Terry’s illness. ‘It’s forced them to think about marriage sooner than they would have done, but Laura would regret it if she didn’t have her father there to give her away.’

Maria sat down heavily on a stool I used to reach the high display shelf and slipped her fan into her pocket. ‘Regret is a terrible thing. Stanley want us to marry soon, but I so happy now. I don’t want to lose this feeling.’

‘How long have you been engaged?’

‘Two years.’ Her gaze drifted off into the middle distance, her fingers twisting a slim diamond ring on her left hand. ‘We out there on village green and he get down on his knee and tell me he want me to be Mrs Pigeon.’

‘And do you want to be Mrs Pigeon?’

‘Oh yes.’ She sighed. ‘But it risky business. I only have three men in my life. In Italy, Lorenzo, he died, and Marco, he my husband, but he such a dicky head, I run away from him to England with my baby in my arms. Then no one until Stanley. With him by my side, my life is good. What if it go wrong again?’

‘Love is risky,’ I agreed. ‘But then life is risky. We never know how much time we have.’

‘Dio mio,’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘This is true.’

I swallowed a lump in my throat, thinking how life can be as still as a mill pond one minute and then just one pebble can change everything, sending ripples throughout every part of your world. Losing Freddie was my pebble, and Terry’s sudden illness was Laura’s.

‘Stanley adores you Maria, but …’ I hesitated, unsure whether I should interfere or not.

She lifted her palms impatiently. ‘But what? Kitty got your tongue, eh? I am big girl, just say the truth.’

I laughed. ‘All right, I think he’d feel complete if you were his wife. Perhaps to Stanley, you being only engaged is a job half done.’

She thought about that, chewing her thumb nail.

‘He is very neat and tidy man. Once he was very ill, his heart was all blocked up and I thought I would lose him. It would break my heart if I didn’t make him as happy as he could be.’

‘This is about both of you,’ I reminded her. ‘Getting married needs to be a decision which makes you happy too.’

‘But I no want fuss, we old people, I no want a big, big party like Rosie and Gabe. If we can have a wedding, just quiet, just me and my Stanley, then I say yes. You are right. I do it to make him happy.’

‘There was something my mum used to say about happiness,’ I said, surprising myself by remembering it. ‘Happiness is like perfume: you can’t pour it on others without getting some on yourself.’

She used to say it every time I asked for some of her Estée Lauder perfume and she dropped some onto my wrist, showing me how to dab them together. It hadn’t really registered with teenage-me at the time just what a poignant saying it was; I hadn’t thought about it in years. But it was such a nice sentiment. It brought back that story from Freddie’s letter about how happy that young boy had been when Freddie had given him a pair of old trainers, and the subsequent joy Freddie had got from making that simple gesture.

Her dark eyes lit up. ‘That is it! Stanley is my perfume, he make me so happy. Unless he eat pittle eggs, then he smell like trump.’ She got to her feet, shuddering in disgust.

‘Thank you, cara.’ She kissed my cheek. ‘You make me remember what is important. I go and talk to Stanley now.