No Smoke Without Fire Page 2
She picked her jacket off the floor and wandered over to the music dock with the intention of plugging in the music from her phone. She was in for another shock. When she reached into her zip-up pockets, they were empty. She tipped the contents of her bag out onto the kitchen table with growing frustration and turned the bag inside out. Not there. She began to panic – she must have dropped it in the cab or left it at the club. This was worse than losing her credit cards or her keys. Her whole life was stored on that phone!
‘Calm down and think!’ she told herself. She took her tea over to the sofa where she sank into the soft cushions. ‘I’ll drink this cup of tea and then I’ll work out what to do.’
As she sipped the scalding tea, she tried to recall when she last had her phone.
Just before she had walked off to the cloakroom, she remembered Jessi grabbing it out of her hand to take a selfie of the two of them downing shots with Brett. She had a vague recollection of Jessi handing it back to her.
‘Damn! I must have left it on the bar,’ she said out loud. There was no landline in the flat, so she had no way of calling the club to check if someone had handed it in. She’d just have to wait until the girls came home when she could borrow one of their phones to make the call.
Without her music, every creak and murmur from the building echoed round the flat. The usual domestic noises from the pipework and utilities took on an eerie quality. She thought she heard footsteps on the communal stairs. It didn’t help that their money-grabbing landlord had failed to repair the deadlock on the communal entrance, leaving only one flimsy lock on the peeling old front door to prevent anyone from walking in off the street and climbing the shabby staircase.
But when she threw open the door to the landing, of course, there was no one there. Too rattled to go to sleep in her bedroom, Celeste lay back on the sofa unsuccessfully practising her mindfulness techniques and trying to get some rest in preparation for her exceptionally early start at the florist’s the next morning for Valentine’s Day. All the while she was listening out for her friends’ return.
In the darkness, ordinary night-time noises from the residential side street were magnified and menacing. She heard the neighbours’ cats fighting, and a rustling below the window, which she imagined must be some creature of the night going about its business. Further down the street a dog started barking, setting Celeste’s nerves on edge again. In the distance, the hum of traffic was broken by sirens wailing from the direction of the high street. There were no curtains in the living room since the landlord was dragging out getting replacements for the ghastly rags the girls had taken down when they moved in, so the headlights from the occasional passing car swept through the room like a searchlight.
Eventually she heard the diesel rumble of a taxi approaching. Now fully awake, she sat bolt upright on the sofa, listening to the sound of tyres on wet tarmac as it pulled up outside the house, car doors opening and closing, and Jessi and Anya, their voices loud and shrill, talking to someone on the driveway. As the girls pushed open the communal entrance to the building, Celeste heard someone’s footsteps crossing the road, followed by a motorbike engine starting up and then moving away. Right then, she heard the key turning in the lock and at last her friends stumbled through the door, shrieking at Celeste.
‘Oh my God! Celeste, thank God you’re here. We were worried sick about you. I was going to call the police if you weren’t here.’ Celeste noticed that they were completely drunk and thought cynically that however worried they had been, it hadn’t stopped them enjoying another two hours at Heavana without her.
‘Why did you go off like that without telling us? We sent you about a hundred texts. Look…’ said Anya, holding out Celeste’s mobile phone.
‘Oh! Thank God! Thank you, thank you – you found it!’ It was Celeste’s turn to express relief. ‘I thought it was gone for good. It would have been a nightmare to lose my phone.’
‘It’s not me you should thank,’ said Anya. ‘Some guy brought it back here for you. He was standing by the doorstep and recognised us from the club.’
‘Did he tell you his name? What did he look like?’ asked Celeste suspiciously.
‘He was wearing a motorcycle helmet so I couldn’t see his face properly,’ said Anya. ‘Don’t look so alarmed!’ She laughed. ‘He seemed nice enough.’
Celeste wasn’t reassured. If her ‘white knight’ had found her phone at the club, then why didn’t he just hand it in to the staff or to one of her friends? Most importantly, how did he know where she lived? He must have been through her social media accounts to work that one out. And why did he wait two hours before giving the phone back? She felt violated. Who knows what he had been looking at during all that time? What’s more, Anya said he was wearing a motorcycle helmet and Celeste had heard the engine of his motorbike clearly as he rode away. Come to think of it, the odd thing was she hadn’t heard him riding up to the house when he arrived… She had been listening out for ages for Anya and Jessi’s return in the taxi and was sure that in her state of hypervigilance she would have heard a motorbike pulling up outside the window. Now, as she threw herself back on the cushions, she had an uncomfortable thought: that rustling outside the window… he must have been hanging about outside for quite some time…
‘Average height, a bit lanky, ordinary – not your usual type I would say.’ Jessi dropped down on the sofa next to Celeste and ripped a slice off the leftover pizza she had retrieved from the oven.
‘So, what is my type exactly?’ asked Celeste, trying to shake off her anxiety.
‘Why don’t you check your Tinder?’ said Jessi a little sheepishly. ‘When you were busy flirting with Brett, well we had a bit of fun matchmaking for you.’
It turned out that while they were all at the bar drinking shots, Anya and Jessi had sneakily got their hands on to Celeste’s mobile and had been through her Tinder account, swiping right and left in a giggling, giddy alcoholic huddle.
‘We made some great picks for you,’ chipped in Anya. ‘Tall, dark and handsome, all local guys, twenty-five to thirty, within a one-mile radius.’ She leant over the back of the sofa as Celeste scrolled frantically through the cards of the men the girls had ‘right-swipe-liked’, and those of new matches who had ‘liked’ her back.
‘I can’t believe you did this!’ she groaned.
Anya pointed at the faces as Celeste kaleidoscoped through them, her own face set and grim, her fingers hovering above the icons at the bottom of each card, and with lightning speed, tapping the crosses to undo the hearts.
‘Look he’s hot,’ Anya squealed. ‘Stop, go back! Don’t cross him off.’ She carried on pointing and prodding. ‘Look, him – dark, a bit rough round the edges. Tap his profile – investment manager, into extreme sports, adventures. Alpha male – that’s what you go for isn’t it?’
Celeste was too preoccupied to engage. She scrolled through the drop-down menus, getting more and more agitated by the second. It was not as quick and easy to ‘un-match’ as to undo a ‘like’.
Suddenly, while she fumbled through the options, a message popped up on her screen, another match had been made, and he wanted to chat. Speech bubbles… he was typing! She jerked forwards and dropped her mobile to the floor as if it had scalded her fingers. Jessi picked it up and Celeste stared at the image with morbid fascination. It was him, on a beach, somewhere tropical, photographed against the light and with his features shaded by a baseball cap, but unmistakeably him – she recognised the jawline and the set of his lips. The man from the club.
‘Give me the phone,’ she yelled, snatching for it.
Before she could locate the ‘un-match’ button, his words appeared on the screen. Just four little words, but enough to send a chill to her bones.
‘Hello. I am back.’
PRESENT
3
It doesn’t take me long to find out where You work or what You do. Your phone gives it all away without me even having to look through your messages. Your scr
eensaver photo is a close-up of a single red rose lying flat on a work surface made of stone. You must have leant over to point the lens directly into the head of the rose, your body folding – supple and tense.
The image of the rose is my screensaver now too. At its bulbous base, where the flower meets the stem, the petals are velvety smooth and lined with tiny vessels, bulging and soft. At the head, the diminishing circles of rose petals – curling, pulsing and falling away into a black hole – are like an invitation.
Each time I look at my phone, I can almost smell the fragrance of You. Is that what You intended?
Of course, I know that a lot of women have screensaver photos of flowers that have nothing to do with their jobs, but it’s your tag that gives it away: #seventhheaven
My first thought is a restaurant or bar. Is this a favourite haunt? – for in my heart of hearts, I know You are too delicate and refined to be a waitress.
It’s the work of seconds to google the words ‘seventh heaven’. There are lots of entries – but one, in particular, catches my eye – a local business address.
I can guess You cycle to work, because when I paid You a visit last night, I saw a battered bicycle (with your initials scratched into the paintwork) locked up inside the dingy hallway. (As if anyone would want to steal that bike!) So, I reason that your workplace can’t be too far away.
It doesn’t take me long to click, and link to the @seventhheaven Instagram account, and then to find a publicity shot of a woman standing at a table, preparing a bouquet of flowers.
It isn’t You.
But a quick zoom-in on the shot shows the worktop surface to be identical in texture and hue to the sandstone background I see on your screensaver. Et voilà! QED. Problem solved!
‘Seventh Heaven Pimlico – home of exquisite blooms and celestial bouquets.’
The sweetest flower in the shop. That’s where You are hiding!
*
Icy raindrops lashed Celeste’s face as she flirted with death cycling through the rush hour traffic to the florist where she worked four days a week in the heart of Pimlico. She was relieved to turn off the busy road and into the side street where Seventh Heaven was located among a small cluster of businesses including an upmarket Italian café and deli, a fashionable shabby chic British restaurant and jazz club, and three quirky boutiques selling lots of fancy things nobody really needed. This bitter February morning the shop’s crimson window display provided a welcome splash of vibrant colour against the relentless grey of the pavement. On any other day the street was picturesque and charming with its handsome white stucco terraces made up of residential properties adorned with black wrought-iron balconies and freshly painted front doors. But today under a stormy sky it felt as if the whole of London was in mourning.
Celeste had overslept. Being so distressed and distracted by the chance sighting at the club followed by the message on her phone the previous night, she had forgotten to set her alarm. She’d had no time for breakfast or coffee and due to sleep deprivation and caffeine withdrawal on top of the hangover, a migraine was brewing in her head. She was wrecked.
Celeste knew she was going to be in big trouble when she got to work. She’d promised her boss, Meghan, the owner and manager of Seventh Heaven, that she’d be in by 6am. Meghan had warned her it was going to be hectic. Valentine’s Day – one of the busiest days in a florist’s calendar. She knew that Meghan was counting on good sales today to make up for the dismal takings since Christmas. Even in the upscale residential area of SW1V, austerity in Britain was biting. Everyone was cutting back on life’s little luxuries and flowers were one of the first things to go.
After locking her bike to a nearby lamp post, she glanced at her phone – 8.50am. Only ten minutes to opening time.
‘She’s going to kill me!’ she muttered to herself. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if she sacks me on the spot!’ It wasn’t the first time Celeste had overslept and she knew she must have been at least on her third ‘final warning’.
Meghan had her back to Celeste when she slipped in through the back door. Her sleeves were rolled up as she stood over a large china sink full of cold water. She was surrounded by steel buckets filled with red roses. Celeste could tell just by looking at the set of her rigid shoulders and neck and the jerky movements of her hands that she was angry.
‘What’s your excuse this time?’ said Meghan without turning around. She carried on stripping the thorns and snipping and tying the roses into fat red bouquets. Celeste noticed that Meghan’s hands were already chapped and raw from the cold water. ‘You promised to get in early. You’ve let me down again.’
Celeste said nothing. Getting drunk with her girlfriends to celebrate her birthday wouldn’t cut it as an excuse.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Celeste as she hung up her coat. She put on her ‘Seventh Heaven’ apron and reached for one of the steel buckets from the bench. ‘I’ll work through my lunch break.’
At last Meghan turned to look at her. She seemed to have forgotten the tragic significance of the 14th February date, which for Celeste was anything but a festival of love.
‘You’ve got to stop behaving like a reckless teenager, Celeste.’ Her eyes were hard and unforgiving. ‘We’ve all been cutting you slack for the last seven years but it’s time you started facing up to your responsibilities. Grow up. Quit the victim mentality. This is a business, not a charity. I gave you a chance, but I haven’t got space for passengers.’
Celeste shrank visibly. Meghan had never spoken to her in such harsh terms before.
Her boss must be really seriously hacked off, to have given her such a dressing-down, on Valentine’s Day of all days.
*
There was no time to mope or feel sorry for herself. Celeste worked straight through the morning, preparing bouquets of roses in the cold room at the back while Meghan resolutely blanked her and remained engrossed in making up the orders for all the more exotic hand-tied creations, dealing with last-minute telephone orders and serving the steady stream of customers coming through the door. Celeste didn’t dare break off mid-morning as was her normal routine to get an almond milk latte from the deli next door and when it got to her usual lunchtime, she was faint with hunger and a pounding headache.
When Meghan took a late lunch break in the early afternoon, she called Celeste to come front of shop and serve. Although Celeste had been working flat out in order to prepare enough bouquets for an anticipated surge in customers stopping to buy flowers on their way home from work at the end of the day, so far, the sales had been disappointing. It was so cold and grey that there were fewer people than usual out on the streets – those who didn’t have to venture outside were sheltering at home. And as Meghan lamented on her way out the door, it wasn’t only the footfall that was down but also the spend. Even the rich were watching their pennies – the more extravagant arrangements remained stubbornly on the shelves.
The flow of customers into the shop had now slowed to a trickle. With Meghan out of the way, at last Celeste was able to make herself a drink. She stood behind the counter sipping her tea, warming her cold, scratched hands on the china mug and staring at the shop window as if hypnotised by the driving rain running down the misted panes. There were only one or two pedestrians passing by – a woman in a long raincoat struggling with shopping bags in one hand and a screaming child in the other; an elderly man walking an elderly dog.
As she stared out vacantly, a young man in leathers approached the shop front and paused for a few seconds on the pavement in front of the Valentine’s display. His face was shielded from the rain by a black umbrella. She retreated to the doorway of the cold room. For some reason, his presence outside made her feel vulnerable and exposed. He seemed to hesitate by the door, as if considering coming in to buy one of the bouquets of red roses, before changing his mind and going on his way. A fleeting thought of the mystery biker from the night before crossed her mind before she cast it away.
Suddenly she felt lost and very mu
ch alone. The reality of working in a flower shop on Valentine’s Day was so much less romantic than people might imagine. It was only mid-afternoon, but she’d been on her feet for hours – prepping the flowers and smiling and exchanging anecdotes with strangers buying gifts for their loved ones. Right now, it seemed like she was the only person in the world forgotten, unlovable and unloved. There was no one to take her out on a date at the end of the day. There was no one waiting for her at home. There was no one special person in her life who would be giving her a card, or chocolates, or a single red rose.
All the love had drained from her heart on that Valentine’s night seven years ago.
PRESENT
4
I know that Friday is your day off work at the florist’s because that’s the day you come into college.
I am here early this morning hanging out at the coffee bar to make sure I don’t miss You entering the building. But You don’t turn up. My cappuccino slowly goes cold. I simply have to see You, so I bunk off my lecture on computer graphics and head for Seventh Heaven to look for You there. This time I intend to buy flowers.
That doesn’t happen. But it isn’t a wasted trip. My luck is in. As I turn into Camford Street, who should I see pulling out into the traffic but You – You, behind the wheel of an ice-blue Fiat 500 cabriolet. I swing the bike into a perilous U-turn and follow You through the backstreets of West London and over the Chelsea Bridge and down the A3. You know where You are going. There’s not a second’s hesitation as You come to each junction.
But I have to say, Celeste, you’re a bad driver!
You smash a wing mirror on someone’s parked car as you race for the Chelsea Bridge. It’s an expensive car too – a Lamborghini, no less. You don’t stop to check the damage. And, you know, speeding is one thing. But driving at fifty-five miles per hour in a school zone, when the reception kids are being marched across the road to get on to a waiting coach, is another! When I pull up at the crossing, the teachers are cursing You and whipping out their phones.