Page 1 of Weekends with You

August

Flowers have always been the best communicators. They’ve mastered falling over one another in the perfect way to announce exactly what they need: sunlight, water, space, time. They let us use them again and again to saycongratulationsorI’m thinking of youorI’m sorry. They do not rush. They do not bloom before their time. They do not take without giving in return. They are nothing like the rest of London.

I knew I shouldn’t have been at work, seeing as I was supposed to be packing the last of my things in my old apartment to move that afternoon, but I couldn’t resist finishing this project in the clarity of the morning light. All weekend I’d been putting together an arrangement for a proposal, and the remainder of the cosmos had been delivered to the shop before sunrise this morning. It would only take a minute.

I twisted the firm stems of the cosmos around one another so the pale pink petals faced outward, then filled in the spaces with delicate white sweet peas. The combination of colors was meant to mimic the blush of promised love, but I was sure that would be lost on both parties. Most people came in requesting something “beautiful” or “extravagant” with little regard for the actual arrangement, but that didn’t bother me. It meant I was able to take creative liberties and share in my customers’celebrations or sorrows, which was the whole reason I had found myself in this business in the first place.

This particular customer told me he was proposing with his grandmother’s ring to a woman he’d been with since school, so I opted for something traditional.

“Lucy, is that you?” Renee’s voice startled me from my reverie, and I spun on my stool to see her poking her head into the office.

“In here,” I said from the studio.

Renee had secured this space before I was even born at a fraction of the price I imagined it would be now, and I was lucky to reap the benefits. The studio had a mix of tables, some pale wood and others shiny metal, but the tops were always hidden by masses of flowers, stems, shears, ribbons, and whatever else we could get our hands on. Bolts of canvas paper bookended our workspace, and old photos framed in antique bronze crowded the walls. It was the kind of clutter that made me feel nostalgic instead of claustrophobic, which made this place feel even more like home.

“I could hardly see you,” she said, turning on the rest of the lights as she came in. They flickered to life, bulbs asking to be replaced, bathing us in a dull fluorescent glow. “How can you work with such little light?”

“Well, I’m younger than eighty, so that might have something to do with it.” I looked up from the last of my ribbon curls to check if she was smiling. I could tell she was fighting it.

“I’m only seventy-four. And careful with that sharp tongue, pet,” she scolded. “You’re going to end up cutting yourself.”

“Spoken like a woman with years and years and years of wisdom.”

A dry laugh slipped from her coral lips, followed by a quickpinch of my earlobe. I swatted her hand away, relishing the sound of her clinking bracelets in the silence.

“What are you doing here so early?” she asked.

“I could ask you the same,” I said, eyes narrowed. We had both, admittedly, been spending way too much time in the shop lately. Some days, it didn’t feel like we had much of a choice, if we wanted to keep the lights on.

She sighed and lowered herself onto a stool beside me, hands braced on the worktop. “I was planning on finishing this arrangement once the dahlias were finally delivered, since you’re supposed to be moving today...” She trailed off, prompting me to fill in the blanks.

“Which I will be, just as soon as I finish this,” I said, picking at a singular dry leaf and keeping my eyes locked on my work.

I was only moving across the city, so I wasn’t sure what the big deal was. I’d moved before. More than once. Across the Atlantic, in fact. But always on my own and never into a warehouse conversion with seven other roommates.

Renee took her turn swatting my hand from the flowers. “It’s finished, Luce.” Her tone was firm but not unkind, and I knew it was her way of shooing me out the door.

“But the delivery,” I tried.

“Will be handled by Carla when she arrives later this morning.” Carla was our new part-time hire, and I hadn’t yet gotten used to having the extra weekend help. “It’s taken care of. Go. Those last bits aren’t going to pack themselves.” She nodded in the direction of the door, and I had no choice but to obey. As much as I hated to admit it, Renee did usually know best.

“Call me if there are any issues,” I said from the doorway.

“I can assure you the only issue is how late you’re going to be if you don’t get moving.”

I rolled my eyes and let the door close behind me, the familiar chimes announcing my departure.

The “last bits” Renee was referring to were basically the entire contents of my apartment. When I got home, I stood barefoot on the kitchen tile and looked at the piles in the living room still waiting to be boxed: records, books, mugs, more throw blankets than I could count. Does everyone amass this much shit when they’re living alone? In truth, I loved all my shit. In my tiny studio, there was a place for everything, and it all seemed to serve a purpose. So what if I was one person with eighteen mugs? Maybe I was prone to eighteen different moods, each of which required a specific mug.

It had been less than four weeks since my landlord announced he was selling the building to a major conglomerate and the rent was set to double. I was almost certain it wasn’t legal, but then again, I’m almost certain nothing about being a landlord in London is legal, so I wasn’t prepared to take him to court. I already knew there was no money in the North London Lotus for a raise. I had no choice but to move out.

In the week following the letter from my landlord, I did a lot of crying. Giving up my freedom to wander around in my underwear all day or put leftovers in the refrigerator with the confidence that they’d still be there in the morning felt like a tragedy. When I signed the lease, I had bragged to my friends that it was too good to be true, and after two years this city had, once again, proven me right.

Once I had gotten my act together and resumed behaving like an adult, I called Raja for advice. We had been roommates in college, and she was practically the Patron Saint of Inexpensive Housing. She was pursuing an MBA and living on a student’s budget in Seven Sisters, so I figured she’d have someadvice. What I did not figure was that she’d offer me a room in her warehouse apartment.

“You have to come live with us, Lu,” she’d said over drinks in a local pub one night soon after I got the letter. “Alice just moved out to live with her horrible boyfriend, remember them? So her room is free. We haven’t even listed it yet. And there’s a studio space if you ever pry yourself from the shop and want to do some floristry at home. It’s perfect, really.”

There was little chance of convincing Raja otherwise when she thought she had a brilliant idea. But when she saw me waffling, staring into my gin and tonic and contemplating going from a studio to an apartment with seven roommates, she delivered her final argument. “Besides,” she said, “you have nowhere else to go.”

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