A Bouquet of Flowers
Mary was waiting for Simon. The night air on Oxford Street was biting, at least minus ten, and as usual Simon was running late… Mary had long since lost feeling in her fingers and toes, and the wind whipped round her ankles.
To make matters worse, her phone died in the cold; she couldnt even call him. Technology, always letting you down at the worst moments! Ten more minutes, she decided, teeth chattering, and then I go.
Thats when she noticed a couple near the statue at the corner. About ten minutes ago, a young man had wandered over and had been loitering, clearly expecting someone. Now a girl appeared. He tried to hand her a bouquet, but she refused. They exchanged a few words, and she walked away briskly.
A strange mixture of sympathy and embarrassment washed over Maryshed watched the poor chap get rejected right there on the street. Where is Simon? she moaned inwardly, pacing up and down the pavement, toes numb. At last she surrendered to the cold. Just then, the boy with the flowers approached.
Good evening, he said, voice gentle, these are for you, and thrust the bouquet into her hands. I picked them myself. Seethe different colours, how they blend? Theyre quite delicate. I think you need something lovely today.
Mary, surprised at herself, took the bouquet. Go home, the boy said warmly. Dont risk your health for someone who will leave you shivering! How long have you been waiting?
Forty minutes
Exactly. You could catch your death! Those boots arent for weather like this, and your coat isnt much either. Theres only one youremember to value yourself. No ones worth forty minutes in the frost!
…
Mary stumbled into her flat and sat for fifteen minutes in the entryway, unable to move, her fingers so stiff she could barely unbutton her coat. Finally, she peeled herself out of her layers, threw on every jumper she owned, and set the kettle on in the kitchen.
It took the better part of an hour before she felt the sensation returning to her limbs and reached for her phone to ring Simon.
Tonight? Did we make plans for tonight? No, darling. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow? Marys surprise was genuine.
Of course tomorrow. Youre confused. One oclock, dont forget!
Mary stared at her phone, then tucked it away and began to cry.
…
She and Simon had been together for five years. He was considered quite the catcha proper Cambridge graduate from a well-off family, yet somehow hed pursued Mary. In return, shed done her best to please him: always dressing in the smart boots and outrageous heels he liked, tight little suits and bold lipstick (gaudy, in her view), carefully smoothing down her unruly hair to suit his taste.
My girl should look modern and chic. To complement me, Simon would say, and Mary did her best to oblige.
Usually, they met on Wednesdays and weekends. Simon would bring his shirts for her to launder.
Mary dear, nobody washes them better, not even Mumshe just chucks them in the machine without a thought! And theyre pricey, too, hed say, collecting them, fresh and meticulously ironed.
Mary also prepared him packed lunches for workSundays for Monday to Wednesday, then Wednesday evening for Thursday and Friday. Not just any lunches, but exactly as Simon liked them.
Youre a star cook! Who else could I trust? Cant have my poor stomach suffering from that canteen muck.
And Mary had to shower him with compliments, worship Simon, bolster his ego.
If Simon was lateoh, he was an artistic soul, after allit was to be expected. Sometimes he would forget his wallet, and Mary paid in restaurants and cafés more often than not, despite Simons family having plenty of money.
Every year, Mary thought, This will be the onehell propose. Yet the years slipped by and nothing changed.
…
Mary wiped her eyes: what could she do? She turned on the telly and caught the weather. Tomorrow would be even colder.
She shivered. Her gaze landed on the forgotten bouquet, petals a bit wilted but still oddly beautiful. She put them in water and her thoughts drifted to Simonthere were his shirts to wash, food to prep for the week, shopping to do for tomorrows lunch
Suddenly a chill swept over her at the thought. Tomorrowanother freezing wait. No! Her gaze snagged on the flowers.
In her mind echoed the boys words: You are all you have. Value yourself.
Value yourself Value yourself When had she last done that? Every moment was spent fretting over Simon, planning for Simon, dreaming of a life together.
But value herself? How? Mary couldnt even remember the last time she did anything just for her.
Her eyes returned to the bouquet, now reviving in the water. Mary felt a curious kind of hope. She peeled off her jumpers and, rooting about in her wardrobe, pulled on her comfiest jeans and a soft old shirt. She wiped away the makeup and let her hair fall loose around her shoulders.
Then, with steady hands, Mary took Simons shirts, stuffed them in a bag, and tossed them into the washing machine.
Next, she dragged her easel from under the bed. She hadnt painted in yearsSimon said the smell of paint triggered his allergies, plus, a woman ought to support her man and tend to the household.
But now Mary smiled and began to paint the bouquet before her. One, then two, then three paintings flowed out of her, energetic and free. When dawn crept in, Mary finally curled up in bed, heart alive with colour.
…
An insistent ringing on Saturday afternoon startled Mary awake. Nearly three oclock! She opened the door to find Simon barging in.
Why are you home? I went to find you and you werent there! Havent you left yet?
Then he spotted the bouquet. Whats that?
Flowers. Beautiful, arent they?
Simon huffedhed never given her flowers, or gifts of any kind. Youre not with me for the money, are you? hed always insist.
He looked at her clothes. Why are you dressed like that?
I just got up. I painted all night.
Painted? You know that sets off my allergies! He grabbed a tissue and noisily blew his nose.
Whats happening, Mary? I need my shirts for work tomorrow. And my lunches?
Ill iron your shirts now. As for lunch, why dont you help me this time?
Me? Cook? Im the manthe breadwinner. You handle the domestic stuff!
Well then, if youre the breadwinner, why havent you ever given me a penny?
I will, when were married, Simons voice softened.
When will we get married? Marys voice rose instead.
When I decide. Youre not just with me for money, are you?
Mary gathered all his shirts into a bag and handed them to him. Take these. Let your mother iron them. Now, please leave.
Mum wontbecause
I said leave. Dont you hear me? Im breaking up with you. Find yourself another fool. Ive had enough.
…
Fifteen years passed. Mary stood on the second floor of a vast exhibition hall, gazing out over the crowd.
Why did I ever agree to this? I detest these events. All because of my daughter Mary smiledit was her daughter whod persuaded her to exhibit her work.
She watched as people milled around, some earnestly studying the paintings, others drifting aimlessly.
Her eye caught a funny couplehe moved slightly ahead, slow and dignified, she trailed just behind like a spaniel. They stopped at Marys stand, whispered to each other, and just then her phone rang.
Come over, her assistant called.
Approaching her stand, Mary squared her shoulders. She knew what this couple would ask.
Its not for sale, she said immediately. The man turned, and Mary at once recognised Simon.
Mary? I was wondering where Id seen this picture before.
Hello, Simon. Its not for sale.
Mary glanced at his companionimmaculate hairstyle, bold lipstick, fashion suit and fantastically high heels, her face almost mournful. She looked so much like the Mary of old.
Ill pay anything.
Mary smiled. No. This is my lucky piecethe one that started everything for me.
Well then, fine. Goodbye, Simon snapped as he marched away, his companion scurrying after him. He seethed. That wretched bouquet paintinghow hed have liked to tear it to shreds! Hed only wanted to buy it for that very reason. Why hadnt he recognised it sooner? That bouquet, that momentshame and humiliation.
Long after theyd gone, Mary lingered, a smile playing at her lips. How glad she was, now, that years ago a kind, unknown boy had given her that strange bouquet and said such precious words.
