Page 35 of My Kind of Happy

I had wondered if I was crazy to be taking this job. But a small voice cheered me on and told me that this was the most spontaneous, unlike-me thing I’d ever done, and it might not be as adventurous as trekking in Nepal but it suited me and I should embrace the change. Once again, the voice sounded surprisingly like Freddie’s. So here I was.

‘Phew,’ she said, her brown eyes shining with relief. ‘Because you’ve no idea how glad I am to have just the right person on board. Uncanny, how you turned up at the time of Rosie and Gabe’s wedding, just when I needed help. Like a guardian angel.’

‘A series of happy coincidences.’ I said cheerfully and explained how the article in the Derbyshire Bugle had brought me here that day. ‘And believe me, I was happy to help.’

It had been a while since I’d felt useful and needed by another person. Looking after Ethel had filled a big gap in my life after Freddie died, but since she’d gone into a home, I’d missed the daily contact of having someone to check on.

‘And you, handsome boy, can be our guard dog,’ said Nina, bending down to Scamp and raking her fingers under his chin, which unbeknown to her was one of his absolute favourite things in the world. I could already tell he was in love. And full marks to her: she didn’t flinch at the lingering pong from his early morning dip.

‘I’ve brought his bed, and his water bowl and his favourite toy,’ I said, looking for a corner out of the way. ‘Do you mind where I put them?’

‘By the window,’ she said, moving a little wooden stool which was being used to display some delicate potted primulas. ‘Prime position. He can keep an eye on unwanted visitors.’

I looked at her, amused. ‘I can’t imagine you get many of those?’

‘Ooh look, customer,’ she said, nodding towards the door. A woman in her sixties was striding purposefully our way. ‘That’s Mrs Derry, chairwoman of the Women’s Institute and chief organiser of the church flowers. Loves a yellow chrysanthemum. All yours.’

Nina chucked me an apron as the door opened and just like that, I was officially a florist.

The morning flew by in a blur of new information and instructions. The first job had been ‘conditioning’ the new stock, which I knew from my week at the Wisteria Cottage Flower School meant unwrapping delicate stems from their cartons and reviving them in a mix of water and a special type of flower food. The flowers had arrived in Barnaby from all over the world. Granny would be amazed; I was pretty sure none of the flowers on her market stall would have travelled across several continents.

‘It’s called quick dip,’ said Nina, adding a capful of liquid to a bucketful of water. ‘Caffeine for flowers. Never ceases to amaze me that flowers can be dry-shipped from places like Africa without a drop of water. Then boom, plunge them into this and they blink their bleary eyes and come to life again.’

‘Like me after the first coffee of the day,’ I said, eyeing the kettle.

Nina grinned. ‘Coffee? Thought you’d never ask. Milk and one sugar, please.’

Coffee in hand, Nina gave Scamp and me the grand tour of her adorable shop.

It had all been such a rush last time I was here, and there had been so many flowers crowding the space, that later when I’d tried to visualise the interior of the shop, I couldn’t conjure up a clear picture. Now I was able to look around properly I knew I was going to enjoy spending my days here: there was a vintage garden shed theme to the decor; mini aluminium watering cans with calligraphy slogans, pots in the shape of wellies and piles of vintage wooden crates of varying sizes which gave a rustic, earthy feel to the displays.

‘It’s bigger than I remember, it’s like a Tardis,’ I’d said when we’d finished exploring.

Only the front half of the space was visible from the street. There was a brick archway separating the front and back sections of the shop. The back half contained the kitchenette, the cold store and a large empty space. A rear entrance led to a yard where Nina had parked her van. I didn’t think she was using the space properly; there was so much unfulfilled potential here. But it wasn’t my place to tell her, at least not on my first day.

As if reading my mind, Nina sighed.

‘Dead space really. Almost too big.’ she said, wrapping her hands around her mug and leaning against the archway. ‘And the rent certainly is. But what can you do? No point increasing the amount of stock; we struggle to sell what we’ve got as it is.’

My eyebrows lifted. ‘The shop isn’t doing well?’

And if it wasn’t, why recruit me, I wondered.

‘No, not exactly.’ Nina’s eyes slid away from mine and she scuffed the toe of her Converse on the floor. ‘Just, you know.’

I didn’t know, but neither was I going to pry. Besides, I was doing this job because I wanted to, not because I needed to. So if the shop was in trouble, it wasn’t the end of the world, at least not for me. And perhaps there was something I could do to help the business. Maybe Nina and I could learn from each other. I could use the four months to indulge my passion for flowers, while she could benefit from my experience in analysing market trends. I could easily delve into the shop’s customer database and check for patterns in spending. That way we might identify potential areas for growth. The thought gave me a happy glow.

Nina mistook my silence for disquiet about what she’d just revealed. ‘Are you worried you’ve made the wrong decision, taking this job?’

‘Not at all!’ I protested. ‘And my mum thinks it’s a good idea, so I’m doubly sure I’m doing the right thing.’

‘Oh good, because we are very busy, let me tell you about how we work …’

She began to give me a potted history of the business and I felt my attention drifting.

That was true about my mum. She had barely batted an eyelid when I’d told her I was leaving Zed Market Trends. Hardly surprising given that she herself didn’t believe in staying anywhere long. Scamp and I went to stay with her last weekend and when I told her about my job offer from Nina, she’d been delighted.

‘I’ve often thought you’d make a good florist,’ she’d said, chuckling. ‘Nimble fingers and a sharp eye for colour. Just like me.’