David Bought the Finest Bouquet for His Date, Waiting by the Fountain with Hope—But When Emily Final…

Simon had bought the finest bouquet of flowers and set out for his date. In a bubbling mood, he stood by the city fountain, the bouquet gripped tightly in his hands. But Lillian was nowhere to be seen. He gazed around, feeling suddenly exposed, and dialled her number. No one answered. Maybe shes just running late, he thought, trying the number again. This time, Lillian picked up.

Im here already, where are you? Simon blurted at once.

Its over between us! Lillians voice cracked out like a whip.

What? Why? Simon was rooted to the spot.

Its your bouquet! Lillian declared, her tone strange and sharp.

Whats wrong with my bouquet? Simon asked, bewildered, as if he were wading through fog.

Simon had spent a disorienting eternity drifting around the flower shop. Burgundy roses, cheerful yellow daffodils, snow-white lilies, orchids in odd pots, luxurious bouquets bursting from tall vases, all arranged more beautifully than any painting. Still, Simon lingered like a lost pigeon.

He was certain Lillian had once told him about her favourite flowers, but the memory flickered in and out of his head without landing. Shed definitely voiced some dislikes, and other blooms she adoredsaid she could stare at them forever. But that was during their first meeting, when shed talked and talked, and Simon, swept up by nerves and sparkling cider and the shimmering halo Lillian seemed to wear, had simply nodded along, staring at her long, straight hair and the gracious bend of her neck, at the lively little dimples on her powdery cheeks.

Maybe this was what love felt like: urgent, muddled, dreamlike.

Did it really matter what shed said? Tonight was charmed and slippery, and Simons mind wouldnt hold any single detail of her preferences.

Look at the gerberas we have! The shop assistant startled him. You wont find others this size anywhere. Theyre out of seasonyou know, a rare breed.

Simon was running late; his mind picked up the pace. He had to decide.

Just then, as if on cue, his phone rangthe kind of interruption that always comes at the very worst moment. Lately, his mother had taken to ringing several times a day.

Havent decided yet, Simon? she asked. Its Friday, you know. Perhaps youll come down for the weekend?

Not now, mum, Im busy

No, really, your nan keeps watching the door, waiting for you.

Sorry, mum, honestlylots on my plate, Simon replied quickly, hanging up with a flash of guilt.

His mother lived out in the village with his grandmother, and the repeated calls were piling up like autumn leaves, each bringing a little extra annoyance.

Yet what could he do? His gran had been unwell for years Old age. Surely he couldnt be expected to drop everything just for her. He had his own life to attend to!

And lately, that life seemed to revolve around this new, dizzying acquaintance with Lillian. If their date went well tonight, perhaps tomorrow he could invite her out of towna secret, leafy place he already had in mind, a little country retreat tucked among willows.

Besides, his mother was always dropping hints about settling down, finding the right girl. Well, tonight might be the first step.

If only he could recall Lillians exact wishes about flowers! This forgetfulness was infuriatinga sieve where meaning always trickled away.

But honestly, all those feminine fanciesshould he have to memorise everything? Wasnt a bouquet just a gesture?

The shop assistant, well-accustomed to mens dithering, now merely observed, chin in palm, as Simons indecision deepened.

He tried to rewind the conversation with Lillian. Something about not liking the thorns on roses Best avoid roses, then.

So Simon snatched up a bouquet of enormous pink-and-white gerberasbold and rare. At least its a gesture, he told himself, and hurried back to work, missing the rest of his break.

They were meeting outside the new city fountain. Simon was running behindhis boss had detained him with an impromptu meeting, the kind that seemed to promise a promotion. He called Lillian to tell her hed be late, then muted his mobile. During the meeting, his mother called againhe ignored it, filled with growing anxiety.

Afterwards, he hurtled through traffic, his heart pounding odd notes. Pulling up near the fountain, beaming from ear to ear, he all but skipped towards the meeting spot, bouquet outstretched.

Lillian was still nowhere. Simon glanced around in slow circles, then paced across the square and tried her number. No answer.

He sat down on a bench. Maybe she, too, was running late.

He remembered he hadnt yet called his mother back but hesitatedin case Lillian called. Minutes slipped by; at last, Simon rang her once more.

This time, Lillian picked up.

Lillian, where are you? Im already here waiting.

I know. Im in the café across the street on the second floor. Ive been watching you for ages.

Really? Simon scanned the café windows, peering through their watery reflection, but he couldnt spot her. I cant see you! Maybe if you came down, or?

Youre late, Lillian cut him off, cold as marble.

Yes, Lillian, sorry! I phoned youmy boss kept me! Simon pleaded.

And the flowers! she said.

What about the flowers? Simon was baffled, his thoughts sliding out of reach.

Youve not even remembered what flowers I like!

Lillian, they just didnt have them!

Roses, Simon! You forgot I love roses? They were everywhere! Ive talked about my love for roses so many times and still

Ill fix it Ill find you now, Simon mumbled, stepping into the café with the gerberas making a clumsy shield in his arms.

Lillian was at the end, her back to the window. Simon crept up, laying the flowers quietly on the table, not daring to hand them over. Lillian ignored them, looking out towards the street.

Simon, usually silver-tongued, marshalled all his charm to make amends, his words tumbling out with guilty sweetness. Slowly, he felt her thaw; soon, Lillian was smiling faintly.

They drank coffee in the hush of days end and made for the door. Lillian never glanced once at the bouquet.

Youve forgotten your bouquet! called the young waitress, jogging after them.

Theyre for you! Simon replied with a crooked smile.

Oh, thank you! the girl blushed with surprise, clearly pleased.

But Lillians face curdled with disappointment once more.

Lillian, Ill buy you the biggest bouquet of roses youve ever seen!

No need, she muttered, Ive had enough of flowers today.

They descended the staircase in a line that felt miles wide. Simon trudged behind the wounded Lillian. Again, his mothers ringtone pealed.

Sorry, am I bothering you again? came her faraway voice.

Lillian didnt hear.

No, mum, youre right on time actually. Ill come. Ill come tomorrow.

That evening, Simon and Lillian parted with a delicate finality. He felt no hope; it was cleartheyd never meet again.

By morning, Simon was speeding down roads edged with sheep and thickening hedgerows.

Out in the English fields, to the horizon, a wild, otherworldly quilt shimmered: endless tapestries of bluebells and poppies, foxgloves trembling in the breeze. The wind made it all come alive, urgent and strange.

Simon stopped the car and tumbled outdrawn down into this polychromatic sea.

He wandered through the florid dream, plucking flowers here and there as if he were the careful assistant in the city shop, picking only the blooms that called out to him.

He was certain, this time, that those he visited would be delighted by his choicehere, he couldnt get it wrong.

As he reached the village house and stepped inside, he divided the bouquethalf for his mother, half for his grandmother.

His mother beamed, kissing him soundly on both cheeks; his grandmother, helped up by gentle hands, took the bouquet with quivering fingers and stroked the petals, almost blind now.

How long it had been since anyone had brought her flowers!

She pressed her face into the bloomssoft, ancient and young all at onceand breathed in the scent of her own faraway summers, sensing memories uncoiling from corners of her mind and floating out into the sunlit room.

It was not memory, exactly, but the living feeling of memories: the pulse of hope, the promise of morning, the shimmering now.

How wonderful! Life carried onlife pulsed gently through her grandson.

Simon sat beside his grandmother and laid his head in her lap, while she stroked his hair, careful not to crush the flowers she still cherished in her hands.

Lying there, Simon dreamt with wide-open eyes that he would soon meet a girla girl as beloved and kind as these two women. And they would love each other just as fiercely, just as completely, as his parents and grandparents had. All you needed was to notice, at the right time.

His grandmother clung to the flowers, unwilling to pass them on.

Wait Let me fill a jug from the well not the tap Get the big vase Easy Put them here so I can see

He had brought her flowers.

Flowers, a million all around, but these these were the best of them allbecause her grandson had brought them.