Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle

Ed consulted his paper napkin with practised flair and turned to face her. ‘The problem here is very simple, Nurse Andersson. Our patient is a classic sufferer of Malaise Anglais.’

Marnie placed a hand to her heart. ‘Oh, Doctor, are you sure?’

‘What exactly are you trying to say?’ I giggled.

‘You’re way too British, Rosie,’ Ed declared with a smile. ‘You’re missing the gene that enables you to say No…’

‘…It won’t allow you to learn from each and every mistake,’ said Marnie, clearly enjoying this assault on my character, ‘and it unfortunately manifests itself in repeated attacks.’

‘Of course, it’s the friends of the sufferer that I feel sorry for,’ continued Ed, with merciless vigour. ‘Because, you see, they are the ones who ultimately face the hard work of providing support to the patient.’

‘But, it needs to be said, there can be benefits for them too,’ I said.

‘Such as?’ asked Ed, his blue eyes sparkling.

‘Such as, the privilege of enjoying breakfasts at the patient’s expense.’

Marnie smiled and Ed reached across to squeeze my hand.

‘Absolutely. And it is a privilege. We simply mock because we care, Rosie. When are you going to understand that some people are always out for themselves?’

I let out a sigh. We must have had this conversation a thousand times, but I’m never successful in getting Marnie and Ed to see the situation from my point of view. Undaunted, I began Attempt Number 1001.

‘I know it seems like Celia’s always taking advantage, but she really is a good friend. She’s been there for me every time I’ve needed her. I just want to repay her kindness, that’s all.’

Ed’s expression softened a little and he shook his head. ‘Rosie Duncan, we love you dearly. And if it makes you happy, we’ll gladly spend the many, many hours required in order for you to repay your friend.’

‘Well, thank you,’ I said, draining the last of my latte.

‘Seriously, though, you work too much, Rosie. You need to live a little too.’ Marnie’s voice was full of concern. An alarm bell began to jangle in the back of my mind: I knew where this was going. We were approaching forbidden territory. I braced myself and, sure enough: ‘You so need a man—’ she breathed. My heart sank and I immediately cut her off.

‘I don’t, thank you. So, the schedule for today—’

Marnie wasn’t about to be put off so easily. ‘No, I mean it, Rosie! You’re such a lovely person—if you’d just let a guy get close enough to you, I’m sure you’d be happy…’

Feeling cornered, I gave a too-forced laugh and attempted to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Ah-ah, no—that is a non-negotiable subject and, I need to warn you, will result in a breach of the conditions of your contract if you choose to discuss it further.’

Ed threw his hands up in surrender. ‘OK, OK, boss, we get it. We hereby pledge to pursue it no longer.’

‘Finally, they understand!’ I looked heavenwards, hands outstretched in gratitude. I could hardly believe it—had I really averted the inevitable lecture?

Nope.

‘…Suffice to say, that Marnie and I are committed to bugging you on a regular basis about this—’ Ed was stopped mid-sentence, by Marnie, or rather by Marnie’s hand as it clamped firmly across his mouth.

‘Quiet, Steinmann, I need this job!’ she laughed.

After a brief struggle, she let him go and they both collapsed back, smirking like a pair of naughty schoolkids. Despite my recent discomfort, I had to smile at the pair of them. Ed likes to pretend he’s the serious, surrogate older brother in this terrible twosome, yet often he’s the worse culprit. They are forever swapping jokes, winding each other up or just acting like a couple of big kids—and I love them for it. It makes me feel I’m part of something positive and gives a real, beating heart to Kowalski’s. Most importantly, I know that, behind the humour, they are fiercely protective of each other—and of me.

Ed’s eyes twinkled and he flashed a wide grin at me.

‘Suitably chastened, m’lady,’ he said, giving a little bow as we got up to return to the store. But in the doorway he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me to him. ‘However, this topic won’t go away, Rosie Duncan. It’s definitely one To Be Continued.’

Chapter Two (#ulink_112b9e8a-ad97-5693-8329-2b85280ca986)

At the age of twelve and a half I decided I wasn’t going to be a florist.

I made this Important Life Decision whilst helping my mum to create buttonholes for a wedding at five o’clock one Saturday morning. The bride’s mother had called our home an hour before in a blind panic, after realising she hadn’t ordered enough for the groom’s family. I think this was the same day that I made my next Important Life Decision—I was never, ever, ever going to get married. Never. People just seemed to lose all common sense when they were tying the knot.

Mum said that she could separate the soon-to-be-married ladies who visited her shop into four categories: Neurotic, Laid-Back (but usually accompanied by neurotic mothers), Bossy (‘I-know-exactly-what-I-want so-you’d-better-do-what-I-say-or-else’), and Nice and Uncomplicated. It seemed to me that the last category was sadly lacking in members. As I grew older and was given a Saturday job in Mum’s shop, I saw three fistfights, countless heated arguments and one engagement broken, all over the matter of flowers. Totally crazy. What never ceased to amaze me, however, was the way Mum calmly and gently responded to each rude, obnoxious, or just plain psychotic customer, managing to bring them to a satisfactory decision every time.

With a name like mine, the floristry connection was almost impossible to get away from. Mum called me Rose after my grandmother, but it’s also part of her name—Rosemary. My brother, James, often jokes that he should have been called Daisy to make the floristry theme complete. Nevertheless, as soon as I could, I got as far away from floristry as possible. I studied media and communications at university, got a good degree and moved south to work for a London advertising agency. It was a great job and I loved it. I loved the excitement. I revelled in the deadlines, the intense periods of high creativity and the fulfilment of seeing my finished campaigns on giant billboards across the city. Mum was incredibly proud of me and put a display of my adverts in one corner of her shop, just behind the stargazer lilies. ‘The stars are the limit for my little dreamer,’ she used to tell her customers. But every now and then she would remind me that, in her opinion, my design ability came from my gift for floristry. ‘You’re a natural designer,’ she would say, ‘and nothing will ever give you a thrill like creating something with living things.’ I would laugh at this, but Mum’s calm and knowing smile always left a little discomforting question mark at the back of my mind.

Then, just when I thought my life was complete, I found there was something missing. And one of my Important Life Decisions was put to the ultimate test. I fell in love.

That one, singular happening in my life changed everything. It led me to leave England and a family and career I loved, to move to America and chase my dream.

When my dream died, my other Important Life Decision was reversed and floristry became my saving grace. I rediscovered the joy of creating something with living things; twisting, moulding and combining scents and colours, forms and foliage into something new, something worthwhile. I found that catching the fleeting beauty of flowers seemed to awaken something hidden deep within me: a need to celebrate life—however brief—after my own life had been exposed to so much death. As I placed my creations in the hands of my customers, I found my work marking their lives too—celebrations, commemorations, condolences—and the thrill it gave me to be part of their stories far surpassed anything I’d felt during my previous job. Just like Mum had told me. And now I can’t imagine ever doing anything else.

Celia arrived at noon on the day of her big event to inspect the progress of her order. I was proud to report that we were almost done—only two more arrangements to complete. She skipped around the workroom like a delirious three-year-old, squealing with delight at the ‘quaintness’ of the baskets, the ‘gorgeous English scent’ of the roses and the quality of craftsmanship ‘that Philippe himself could never equal’. After several minutes of gushing and promises of many future orders to come, she was gone again, racing off to her next interview.

Ed wiped his brow and flopped down onto a chair.

‘Rosie, that woman is a human whirlwind. How on earth do you keep up with her?’

I giggled. ‘Sometimes, I ask myself the same question. But her heart’s in the right place, you know.’

‘Sure, but where’s the rest of her?’

Marnie and I finished the final arrangements and stood back to view the wonderful spectacle that is a completed order. ‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘We’re done.’

Ed frowned. ‘Wait—we’ve got to have the Kowalski Ceremony before you can say that.’ He picked up an old, rusty pair of halfmoon spectacles from a shelf, placed them on the end of his nose and adopted a slow, gentle Polish accent. ‘So, I think maybe we are done now, everybody? Good! Let’s clear up and deliver!’

I smiled at him. Some days I miss Mr Kowalski so much my heart aches.

‘Can I go for my lunch break?’ asked Marnie, hopefully.

‘No problem,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘Take an hour, mate. You’ve worked so hard the last two days. Enjoy yourself.’

But before I’d finished speaking, Marnie had grabbed her bag and coat and was out of the door, shouting her thanks over her shoulder as she went.

Ed raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Now there’s another whirlwind in training,’ he said. ‘Must be the guy she met last week in drama class.’

I smiled as I began to collect the scrap foliage and raffia from the worktables. ‘Ah. Another chapter of Marnie’s life begins.’

‘Poor Marnie. Her love life reads like a plot of a daytime soap,’ Ed agreed, and began to carry completed arrangements to the cold store. ‘I was attempting to explain this to my mother the other day. Let me see if I remembered the highlights: there was the med student—he lasted four months, till he announced he wanted to become a gynaecologist…’

‘Always a passion-killer, that one.’