Come on, open up, Vera! We know youre in there! Emma saw your lights!
Vera was in the midst of tying a lisianthus stem to a wooden stake. Her hands were streaked with green from the sap, apron smeared with soil. She heard the voices and glanced at the glass door of her workshop. Two figures stood outside. She recognised one instantly, even through the steamed-up glass broad-shouldered, hair dyed a better-red-than-dead sort of burgundy. Linda. Her ex-mother-in-law.
Vera didnt rush. She set the lisianthus in a pail of water, removed her gloves, hung them on the hook by the workbench, and finally set off to open up.
Evening, she said, sliding back the bolt.
Linda strode in without waiting for an invitation, her daughter Emma squeezing in behind, puffy-eyed, scarf twisted haphazardly round her neck.
Whats good about it? Are you alright in the head? Linda shot a look round the workshop, as if searching for something to disapprove of. Found one: Sniffing flowers while someones dying!
Who’s dying? Vera said, steady as a lake in autumn.
Nate! Emma burst out and clapped her hand over her mouth. Nates in hospital. Theres been an accident. His back’s broken.
Vera looked at them in silence. Somewhere inside, something twisted, but not like it had twisted a year ago at the mention of Nathan. It wasnt the old pain, just quiet, wary tension the kind you feel when youve been burned before and dont want your fingers near the fire again.
Sit, she said, nodding towards the two stools by her workbench.
No time for sitting, Linda protested, but lowered herself onto the stool anyway. Her legs were dodgy, Vera remembered bad varicose veins, high blood pressure.
Emma stayed standing, twisting her scarf.
Come on then, tell me properly, Vera prompted.
And they did. Taking turns, tripping over each others words, clashing on the finer points. Nathan was driving three days ago, heavy rain, skidded, crashed into the barrier. The car was wrecked. He survived with a compressed spinal fracture. Thered been surgery, doctors hedging their bets maybe hed walk again, maybe not. He needed care. Someone close.
What about Sophie? Vera asked.
She said the name calmly, surprisingly so a year ago it had felt like splintered glass under her skin. Sophie, aged twenty-eight, sales manager, the woman Nathan had left her for after eighteen years of marriage.
Lindas mouth tightened.
Sophies gone.
Where?
To her mums. Leeds. Soon as she found out he might not walk, she packed two suitcases in three hours. Stopped picking up the phone.
Vera paused. The place was quiet, save for the steady drip of an unclosed tap, and the damp earthy scent mixed with something sweet lilies maybe.
What do you want from me, then? she asked at last.
Linda straightened. Vera, you two were together eighteen years. Thats not nothing. You know him best. You know how to look after him. Right now he needs someone he trusts
Linda, said Vera, youre talking about the man who left me for another woman. The one who, just a year ago, found no place for me in the life wed built for almost two decades.
Oh, dont talk like that, Emma cut in. Thats all in the past! This is about someones life!
His life?
The doctor said without proper care there could be complications: bedsores, pneumonia! Hes had spinal surgery, Vera this isnt a cold!
Vera walked over to the tap and turned it off, then just stood, staring at her hands. Fifty-two years old. These hands knew how to craft bouquets that people framed photographs of. They could knead bread dough, manage injections during a childs fever, bandage Nathans sliced finger, mend plugs, haul heavy shopping home. They did everything but had she ever stopped to check if she wanted to? Or just did it because thats what was expected.
She wiped her hands on a towel and turned. Ill think about it, she said.
Theres no time to think! Linda barked, standing up as her voice turned hard, almost threatening. Hes alone in there! No wife, no one! Emmas at work all day, my backs gone, I can barely walk! You cant just sit here with your flowers and pretend its none of your business!
And whose business is it? Vera replied quietly.
Nobody answered.
It was properly dark now outside the workshops glass door. October night fell early. Vera gazed at the streetlamp, the slick pavements, the empty bench where customers sometimes waited in summer while she finished a bouquet.
A slice of real life, she thought. Not a film, not a novel. Two people at your door demanding you become someone youre no longer willing to be.
Fine, she said, Ill come round tomorrow morning. Have a look at him. But Im making no promises.
Linda sighed in relief. Emma suddenly sprang forward to hug Vera and Vera just stood there, arms at her sides, waiting it out.
After theyd gone, Vera sat for a long time on the same stool Linda had used. She gazed around at her flowers. Lisianthus in the pail, pink and tender, buds curled like little letters. Chrysanthemums in wooden crates. Physalis branches like orange lanterns. Shed made this place herself. Got the lease three months after Nathan left, painted the walls in the dusty white-grey she liked, with next-door neighbour George from across the landing screwing the cabinet doors on in exchange for a decent bottle of wine. She picked the name Stem & Leaf, finding it silly at first, then eventually loving it. Found suppliers, started a little website, figured out how to photograph blooms so people stopped scrolling to take a closer look.
A year. A year shed spent building a life for herself. Turns out living for yourself isnt selfish; its just… normal.
And now this.
She turned off the overhead light, leaving only the little lamp by the door on as always and walked home.
The hospital was a big, old-school NHS building, packed corridors and that unmistakable, never-pleasant hospital smell. Bleach, bland food, and something else impossible to identify. She found the right ward and asked the nurse.
Are you family?
Ex-wife, said Vera.
The nurse raised an eyebrow, barely, but directed her on.
Nathan lay alone in a four-bed room. He was half-covered by a hospital blanket, arms on the duvet, looking gaunt, the colour drained from his face and dark circles under his eyes. On the bedside table were a mostly-empty mug of tea and his phone, screen down.
He spotted her and his face shifted not happiness, more resignation, as though hed been waiting for this moment.
Vera, he said.
Hi, she replied, putting a bag with apples and sparkling water on his table. Not because she felt like cheering him up: you just dont turn up empty-handed at hospitals.
She didnt perch on his bed. She settled into a chair by the window.
Pain? she asked.
Its alright. The pills help. He fell quiet for a bit. You came.
I did.
Mum called. Said they’d seen you.
Yes.
He looked at the ceiling, and then at her again.
I wasnt sure youd come.
I wasnt sure myself, to be honest.
Silence. Rain whispered at the window. November seemed to be running right up against October.
Sophies gone, Nathan said.
I know.
Just like that. He gave a lopsided, humourless grin. Like in the films. You get hit by lightning, start crossing yourself but its too late by then.
Vera didnt say anything. She had no intention of pitying him, but she wasnt about to finish him off, either. She simply looked at this man shed shared eighteen years and a son with, with whom shed spent every summer at the same old seaside cottage, bickered over bills, made up, and bickered again, convinced that was just life, and thats all it could ever be.
Vera, Nathans voice softened to a tone she knew well the one he used when angling for something. She braced herself. Ive been thinking. Lying here you get a lot of time for it. I realise now… I was a fool. All I truly had that was real was you. Home, family all that. Sophie… well, you know. Im not looking for apologies, I know its too late. But youre the only person I have. The closest Ive got.
Vera listened, and at the same time, she seemed to be hearing his words from the outside. Youre the only one. I realise now. Im a fool. Please. Words meant to bring her back. Not for her sake. Not to fix anything real. But so someone would fetch food, change the IV, talk to doctors, do all the practical things Vera was always the one to do.
Thats what post-divorce relationships look like sometimes, she thought. Not romantic, not tragic just practical. Someone finds you because things have gone wrong. Not out of love; out of convenience.
Nathan, she said quietly. Im glad youre alive. And Im glad the operation went well. But I’m not coming back not to look after you, not in any way. Were divorced.
I know were divorced
Let me finish.
He stopped. Surprised now; shed always let him interrupt before.
Ill sort out a nurse. A real, professional one. Ill pay for the first month. I expect youre in no position to sort it out yourself right now. Thats all I can offer. And one more thing She rummaged in her bag. Took a while, as the folder was hidden under wallet and notebook. Heres the paperwork. We never finished the financial bit of the divorce. You kept putting it off I didnt rush either, couldnt deal with it at the time. But now, Id like you to sign.
Nathan stared at the folder.
Youre serious.
Completely.
Im lying here after back surgery and youve brought me paperwork.
Thats right, Vera said. Because tomorrow you might say you werent in your right mind or your solicitor might claim it was under duress. I know all the old games. Youre of sound mind and memory the doctor can confirm it.
He stared at her for a long while. She didnt look away.
Youve changed, he said, eventually.
Yes.
Youd never have done this before.
Probably not.
He took the folder, flicked through. Vera handed him a pen.
At that moment, a doctor came in. A shortish man of about forty-five, grey NHS tunic, medical notes tucked under his arm. Calm face, the kind you see on people who work too much to pretend at cheerfulness.
Good afternoon, he said, giving Vera a brief, polite look. Im Dr Andrew Miles, his consultant.
Vera, she said.
Youre?
Ex-wife, she said again. For the second time today, getting used to the words.
Dr Miles nodded as if that was ordinary, then turned to Nathan.
Mr Grant, sleep alright?
Fine. I slept.
Good. Miles scribbled in his notes. Well try raising the head of the bed today, see how you get on. Its early days, but youre heading in the right direction.
Doctor, said Vera, Could I have a word?
They stepped out into the corridor. Vera gently pulled the door to.
I want to arrange a private carer, Vera said. Someone qualified. What exactly do you recommend experience, skills? Anything we need from home, any kit?
Andrew Miles studied her. Youre not going to do it yourself?
No.
I see. He paused thoughtfully. Honestly, thats sensible. Dont take this the wrong way but family members who provide care out of guilt or duty rarely help anyone. He needs calm and professional care, not drama, not late-night tears. A good carer knows how to do that. Family rarely do.
Do you tell everyone this?
Only those who ask.
She almost smiled. Almost.
Would you jot it down? She took out her phone.
He dictated, she typed. He mentioned trusted agencies linked to the hospital; the nursing staff could point her their way. Vera thanked him.
One more thing, he said as she was about to leave. His chances of recovering are decent. Hes not old. The surgery went smoothly. With luck, six months from now he may walk. No guarantees its slow.
I understand, Vera said.
Lets hope he does too.
Back in the ward, Nathan had the folder closed on his chest, pen at his side.
Will you sign? she asked.
He looked at the ceiling. And if I say I need time to think?
Nathan.
All right, Ill sign. He picked up the pen. Youll get your way whatever. Youre different now.
Ive always been this way, Vera said. I just used to hide it. No idea why.
He signed the three pages. Vera slipped them back in her bag.
Ill have a carer sorted by the end of the week, she said. Ill ring Emma and explain. Ill transfer the first months money straight to the agency. After that, youre on your own.
Vera, he said as she zipped up her bag.
What?
Thank you. For coming.
She gazed at him, long and level. Not with anger or pity. Just as you might look at something that was once a part of your life and now isnt.
Get well soon, she said.
And left.
In the corridor, she paused by the window. Outside, the hospital garden, a few trees stripped of leaves, a rain-soaked bench. An old man in a dressing gown sat there gazing into the middle distance, at what, who knows just breathing the open air.
Vera drew a deep breath too.
Something let go. Not all of it, but something important as though shed carried a heavy bag and now, finally, could set it gently on the floor. Not a dramatic drop; just setting it down and straightening her back.
If anyone asked how to let go of the past, she thought well, not sure you ever do it at once, or through one big decision. Its lots of small steps. Shed just taken another.
Vera found a carer through an agency in two days Maureen, fifty-eight, tons of experience in rehab and elderly care, solid, practical, a folder thick with references. They met at a coffee shop near the hospital. Vera explained everything. Maureen listened, asked sensible questions: the patients temperament, depression risk, pain threshold, how often family would turn up.
Family often make things harder, not easier, Maureen noted. Its not their fault. It just happens.
I know, Vera said.
They agreed terms, Vera transferred the funds, then rang Emma and ran through it all. At first Emma started to kick off about how Nate wanted his own kin nearby, but Vera cut in firmly but gently, which she realised was new for her. It used to be silence or shouting only.
Emma, you can visit each day if you like. Maureen wont mind. But Im not coming. Ive my own life. I dont have to fit my plans around someone elses mess anymore.
Emma paused, then said, Fine.
Just fine. No blame, no tears. Maybe she was worn out too. Maybe somewhere inside, she got it.
Linda called herself a week later. Her voice was different lower, older.
Vera, Maureens a good woman. Nates getting used to her. Thank you for sorting it.
Youre welcome, Linda.
Dont disappear for good, wont you? Just call now and again.
Vera didnt say yes or no. Just wished her a polite goodbye and dropped her phone back in her apron, because she was once again in her workshop, as usual. If anyone asked her now how to let go of the past, shed say: just keep living. Not heroically, not with drama. Just keep going. Get up, go to work, do what youre good at and what you love. The toxic relatives and ex-husbands might not vanish, but theyd stop being the centre of things.
That year, winter came early. By November, there was snow. Vera surprised herself by realising she liked winter never had before. But then, shed never really thought about it. There was no space to, not with Nathans constant moaning about the cold, his arthritis, his mug of tea that had to be served just-so. Now she could simply look out at the snow and think: pretty. That was enough.
Come December, business picked up Christmas bouquets, office orders, festive centrepieces. Vera took on a helper, a young woman called Molly, twenty-three, cheerful and quick, a bit of a scatterbrain but eager to learn. They made a good team. Vera taught her to see flowers not just as retail stock, but as an artist sees paint. Molly listened intently and sometimes had such creative bouquet ideas, Vera was genuinely impressed.
How do you come up with these? Vera asked one day.
I just look at whos ordering, Molly shrugged. Then I think which flower is a bit like them. Or the person they’re buying for.
Thats a good method.
You taught me that. Said bouquets should feel alive.
Vera didnt recall it, but she supposed she must have because she believed it.
January, February. Life went on. Vera signed up for an advanced floristry course. Molly said she didnt need it, but Vera replied theres always something new to learn, not out of need, but because its interesting. That was new for her she used to do only what was necessary, or for someone else.
Living for yourself sounds selfish when you say it, but in reality, it looks like this: signing up for a floristry course, reading in your armchair without anyone tutting, why so long with a book?, visiting another town on a weekend just to see Victorian architecture because youve loved old buildings all your life, and no one ever cared to join.
February Emma called. Nathan was slowly recovering. On crutches now. Maureen worked with him patiently, no fuss. Vera was genuinely glad, with no guilt or bitterness; just simple relief that someone was getting better.
March came with the thaw and the shops first orders for spring bouquets. Tulips, hyacinths, anemones. Vera loved that shift when the wintry arrangements with cotton and eucalyptus gave way to something bright and impatient and bold.
Thats when he turned up.
Vera was tying yellow and white flowers in a simple, honest bouquet when the door opened. She didnt look up her hands tied with ribbon.
Good afternoon, she called.
Afternoon, came the reply.
She recognised the voice even before her eyes met him. Calm, a hint of tiredness, steady.
Dr Andrew Miles stood in the doorway, surveying the shop as though seeing something familiar at last. He wore a dark coat, a casual scarf no clipboard in sight.
You, Vera said.
Me. He smiled.
A pause. Molly, fetching wrapping paper from the back, left Vera momentarily alone with him.
Nathan Grant was discharged ten days ago, Andrew said. Recovering at home. Prognosis is good.
I know. Emma sent a message.
Good. He hesitated. Not much, but Vera noticed. I was passing by. Well not exactly. Actually He gave a genuine smile, the first shed seen unfiltered. I came here on purpose. I remembered the name: Stem & Leaf. Found you online.
Vera set the ribbon down.
Looking to buy flowers, then?
Yes. And not just that.
The shop smelled of hyacinths and damp earth.
What exactly did you want to buy? she asked.
He walked over to the anemones purple, deep red, white with black centres.
These, I think. Three? Or five; is that better?
Odd numbers, Vera said. Three or five. Who are they for?
Not sure yet. He glanced at her. Maybe you could help me decide.
Vera picked three, then added two of the almost-black ones.
Five, she said. They look good together.
She began wrapping, hands working from habit in brown paper, ribbon at the ready.
Vera, Andrew said.
Yes?
Do you mind if I say this outright? I dont do hints.
Go on, she said, not looking up.
Id like to see you again. Not at work. Not about anything serious. Just coffee, the theatre if you like theatre. Or just a walk, if you dont want to be indoors. I know it might sound odd, but I think grown-ups ought to be able to say things directly, rather than pretending theyve only come for flowers.
Vera looked up.
He met her gaze, calm and unpressuring, saying something important but leaving her space to decide.
How long have you known? she asked.
Three months or so. That day in the corridor, when you asked me to list the care requirements.
She remembered the corridor, the hospital window, bare trees outside.
I was still married then. Technically.
I know. Thats why I waited.
Outside, March was in full swing snow almost gone, just a few dirty stripes at the edges of the pavement. Sparrows argued beside the bench. The streetlamp glowed, pointlessly it was still broad daylight.
I dont know, Vera said at last.
What dont you know?
I dont know how to do this. I was married for eighteen years, spent a year learning to be on my own. I dont know where to start.
Honestly, nor do I, Andrew said. I divorced six years ago. My daughter seventeen lives with her mum. Were civil. I buried myself in work first, then started thinking. Now I think maybe theres more than just thinking.
Molly returned from the store room, paper in hand. She saw Andrew and gave him a bright grin.
Everything alright, Vera? she asked.
Fine, Molly, Ill manage.
Molly slipped out again, quietly pleased to have caught a bit of the scene.
Vera handed Andrew the bouquet.
How much? he asked.
One sec, said Vera.
He waited.
Vera paused, watching the nearly-black anemones in his hand. Shed always loved them, slightly like poppies, but subtler, quietly assertive. Not showy, not hiding either.
Its a story about flowers, she thought suddenly. Her new life had grown up around them a way to heal, a safe space, something real. Now a new person was about to step in. Not barge in, not insist, not demand just enter, speak simply, holding out a handful of anemones, waiting for her answer.
All right, Vera said quietly.
He lifted his eyebrows a bit.
All right, as in?
The theatre, Vera said. I havent been in ages.
Andrew flashed a real smile. Great.
Just not tonight. Ive three more orders to finish.
Of course. Maybe Friday? Or would Saturday suit you?
Saturday, said Vera.
She named the price; he paid in cash, stowed the change, but didnt hurry off.
Vera, can I ask something?
Go on.
Just curious. How long have you worked with flowers?
The shop: just over a year. Flowers themselves: all my life. Just a hobby before. Now its a job.
Lucky, that. When a hobby turns into a job.
Yes, Vera said. It is.
He nodded, balanced the bouquet, made for the door. Paused.
See you Saturday, Vera.
See you, Andrew.
He laughed softly. Just Andrew.
Saturday, Andrew.
He left. Vera watched through the window as he walked down the street past the bench, past the sparrows still bickering. Dark coat, scarf, anemones in hand. He didnt look back.
Molly popped out from the back.
Vera, who was that? she asked, trying not to sound too nosy but not really pulling it off.
A customer, Vera said.
A customer you chatted to for fifteen minutes?
Molly.
Yes?
Go wrap those chrysanthemums for Mrs Watson. Shell be in at four.
Molly vanished, clearly smirking. Vera got back to work, fingers moving with the familiar rhythm of wrapping paper and damp stems, the scent of hyacinth in the air.
Saturday came after four ordinary days: orders and deliveries, Mollys questions, a suppliers call about peony prices. Just four unremarkable days in this patient, self-earned year.
Vera didnt dwell on Saturday. She just worked. When the place was empty, shed recall the conversation not word for word, just the calm voice, the anemones in his hands, see you Saturday, Andrew.
Grown-ups can be direct, hed said.
Suppose they can.
She didnt know what Saturday would bring. Didnt know if theyd get on, or how to talk about anything but work or illness or the past, didnt know if shed want to see him again. She only knew one thing: it was her choice, now. Not Lindas, not Nathans, not guilt or fear of solitude. Hers.
A new sort of feeling not dizzy or giddy like novels claim. Just steady, like stepping off snowy ground onto dry pavement.
On Friday evening, after closing, Vera took some leftover anemones and put them in a glass on her windowsill not for sale, just for herself.
She looked at them.
They stick together nicely, shed said of those five. Still true.
She switched off the lights and headed home. Tomorrow was Saturday.
Saturday started at eight, grey skies and the aroma of coffee from the machine Vera had bought six months ago which Nathan wouldve said was a waste of money. Waste one of those words that creep into marriage like weeds in a flower bed, choking out want, like, and I will.
She sat by the window, drinking coffee, watching rooftops, a pigeon, a car dodging a puddle.
Her phone rested on the table with a message that had come an hour ago not just now, exactly an hour ago, bursting out like someone had built up the courage:
Morning. Theatres at seven. Maybe bite to eat first? Or not, up to you. Andrew.
She read it again, noticed the Morning not quite spelled right, and smiled.
She replied:
Morning. Food sounds good. Six?
Sent, phone down.
She finished her coffee.
March kept ticking onwards, rain on the sills, wind whistling, a lone sparrow chasing off a pigeon. The city went about its business, indifferent to other peoples momentous Saturdays. Cities simply carry on.
The phone flashed. One word: Sorted.
Vera got up, put the mug in the sink, tied on her apron there were eight hours yet before evening, and a shop doesnt open itself. Grabbed her keys.
At the door, she glanced back at her flat. Cosy, light, anemones in a glass by the sill, a habit shed started for herself. Her flat. Her coffee machine. Her flowers. Her Saturday.
She stepped out.
The door closed softly behind her the sound of something properly shut.
Andrew was waiting at the café when she arrived at twenty to seven, hovering by the door, phone in hand, pocketing it as soon as he spotted her. That dark coat, same scarf. No flowers this time.
Evening, he said.
Evening, said Vera.
They paused, meeting each others eyes for a couple of seconds. Two grown-ups on a damp March night, standing here because thats what theyd chosen. Not from duty, or fear, or need just because they wanted to.
Well then, Andrew said, shall we?
Lets, said Vera.
And in they went.
