Adele Parks - Love Lies

I park the car as close as I can to the block-long row of stalls. The attendant notes my attire and asks laughingly whether a delivery failed to show. I don’t find the words to answer but instead start to float towards the beautiful scent of lush blooms that signposts what I anticipate to be a staggering array of flowers.

I spot a huge, open warehouse. I can already see stall after stall of colourful amaryllis, hydrangeas, chrysanthemums and gerberas; the sight of them is the equivalent of seeing a good friend holding a glass of wine and a bar of chocolate. A plump, smiley lady asks me for a two-dollar entrance fee. I mutter that I’m not carrying any money. She shrugs and says, ‘Well, it’s late, we’re closing up anyways soon. You might as well go on in there.’

I try to smile to convey my thanks.

‘Nice dress,’ she adds. ‘Don’t get it wet.’

The bustling activity I normally expect to encounter at a flower market has started to subside. No doubt most of the day’s trading has been completed; growers, shippers, wholesalers, distributors, floral designers, event planners and retail florists will have poured through these doors this morning, even earlier than Colleen surged into my bedroom. Now there are just a few non-commercial customers wandering around. Women who are throwing dinner parties this weekend looking for deals on the flora for their centrepieces and some guys buying bouquets for their mothers and lovers. There are a few couples; most look newly engaged. Brides-to-be can be easily identified because they are generally stressed but determined; the grooms-to-be are romantic but clueless and together they search for floral inspiration for their big day. More than one bride-to-be looks at me with horror and suspicion, then takes a wide berth as though I’m bad luck. Admittedly, I must be a sight. I’m wearing the most exquisite wedding gown ever created and I’m wearing my mascara in panda bear patches. I probably do look unlucky.

On the other hand, the burly men who are closing up their stalls barely give me a second glance. Perhaps they’ve seen other brides wander among their flowers like lost ghosts. I watch the stallholders’ efficient and confident actions as they pack and stack empty crates, hose the floor and load up their vans. I’m soothed by the familiarity of their simple, uncomplicated work. I’ve missed the clank of trolleys, the thud of plastic buckets clunking on wet cement floor and the noisy blaring radios pulsing in the background. LA flower market has its own flavour. In

I wander aimlessly around the vast market, concentrating on nothing other than breathing deeply. I cross my arms in front of my body and frantically rub my hands up and down my arms, over and over again, in a hopeless effort to warm up. I’m freezing because I’m wearing a scant, shimmery number and there are dozens of huge fridges, introduced to keep the flowers cool on piping hot days, but this slight physical discomfort hardly matters. What have I done?

I realize I’ve probably ruined Scott’s career, although I know I haven’t broken his heart – it doesn’t belong to me. By running out on the wedding I’ve wasted hundreds of thousands of pounds and I’ve passed up the opportunity to enjoy millions more. As soon as the world’s press gets hold of the story everyone will agree that I am the most stupid, ungrateful woman on the planet.

But the more I stare at orchids wrapped like newborn babies – with tenderness and padding – and the deeper I breathe in the elegant fragrance of radiant ranunculus, which refreshes my lungs after so many dark smoky days behind closed doors, the more I think I’ve just done the bravest and best thing in my life. I thought my future was all about a wedding but it’s not. When I saw Scott on stage he seemed to offer an escape route. I should have recognized it for what it was; a stonking great crush. I got carried away. No, I ran away. There’s a difference.

I watch a group of voluble and raucous Mexican guys

The question pops into my head, despite my resolute efforts to block any soul-searching. I concentrate hard on the startling amaryllis and the delicate dendrobium orchids. But the harsh realities won’t go away. I have no boyfriend, no job, no home, no future. These facts are icy cold and can’t be softened, even by confident lisianthus. The flowers begin to swim in front of me. I realize I’m crying when I almost fail to recognize the peonies that are laid out in rows, ranging from the palest, most tender pinks to hot, urgent crimson.

I slump down on the cold floor and practically hug the nearest crate of blooms.

‘Good God, Fern, that was quite an exit. Haven’t they taught you anything here? It’s a dramatic entrance that a girl is meant to make.’ His voice pours through the noise. He’s found me.

74. Fern

‘Oh Adam, I’ve fucked it up,’ I wail.

‘I dunno. I think that was the most sensible thing you’ve done in six weeks – well, that and the new hair, it really suits you.’

I splutter a laugh despite the overwhelming misery that’s ripping through my gut. It’s not a good idea as it happens, because snot comes out of my nose – never a great look. ‘I don’t mean leaving him. I mean –’

I mean leaving Adam but I can’t tell him that. I did leave him and now he doesn’t want me, he said so last night. Quite clearly. Unequivocally. I have to avoid talking about us. I don’t want to frighten him away. I need a friend right now. I’d hate it if he became embarrassed or offended and left me here alone. I put him on the spot yesterday and it didn’t work, there is no point in going down that route again. Ever again. You can’t go backwards, he said that. I don’t finish the sentence. My face flushes with mortification and regret. I clear my throat and scramble around for something neutral to talk about – a pointless exercise in the circumstances, not unlike making polite small talk at a wake.

‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

‘Everyone is searching for you all over the city, but I knew you’d need flowers. You always said they help you think. And once I got here I thought I’d find you near the peony stall.’

‘Because they’re my favourite flower?’

‘No, because legend has it that mischievous nymphs like to hide in the petals of peonies, causing this magnificent bloom to be given the meaning of shame or bashfulness in the language of flowers,’ he replies.

Is he calling me a mischievous nymph? And if he is, is that a good thing? I shake my head. This is not the moment for innuendo and analogies; we’re confused enough. Another thought strikes me: since when did Adam know so much about flowers? I stare at him, dumb-founded. ‘How do you know that?’

‘You told me,’ he says, looking awkward.

Did I? I’d forgotten. ‘When?’

‘Forever ago.’

I blush again, newly doused with shame and regret. Is it possible we once talked about the meaning of flowers? How could I have forgotten that? How did I let that slip away?

Adam notices I’m scarlet and comments, ‘You look like one of these peony flowers, right now. You know, the same colour.’

He’s looking at me with an intensity that is making me wilt. I scramble about my brain for something neutral to say; something that won’t betray regret or wistfulness. Something that is impossible to misinterpret; a comment which cannot have a deeper meaning read into it. Some plain speaking.

‘Peonies tend to attract ants to the flower buds. This is due to the nectar that forms on the outside of the buds,’ I say authoritatively.

‘Are you calling me an ant?’

‘No!’ Failed there then – he still read more into my comment than I meant him to. I try to explain. ‘I’m just saying that however perfect they look there’s always a drawback.’