‘When would you like the flowers delivered?’ She smiled, the antithesis of the wild creature looming behind her.
‘Tomorrow?’
‘What’s your wife’s name, please?’
‘Erin Lucas,’ Robert replied loudly, deliberately using Erin’s previous name and directing his reply at King. Robert felt like a bit-part actor on a vast stage, who has stolen the crucial line of the leading man. The assistant began to write but before she had a chance to ask anything more, Baxter King ended his call and leaned forward on the counter.
‘I’ll deal with this order, thanks, Sally. Take Alison outside and freshen up the street displays.’ He urged her away from the counter and turned to Robert. ‘Erin Lucas? You’re sending flowers to an Erin Lucas?’
In those few words, the size of Baxter King diminished further. The crazy flora on his tasteless shirt wilted and the bulging skin on his cheeks and hands sank as if it had been seared on a grill. The greyness in his eyes occluded like miserable rain clouds and his pitted cheeks flushed to highlight hundreds of purple thread veins.
‘Yes. I’m sending flowers to my wife.’ Robert stood tall and removed his sunglasses.
‘Is she OK? Is she sick?’ King’s fingers twitched around his mouth and he began to tug on a tuft of scant beard. ‘Did I miss her birthday?’
Robert snorted and stared hard at the man. He rested both hands on the shop counter and leaned forward. ‘No, she’s not ill and it’s not quite her birthday. I’m sending her flowers because I want to. Because I love her.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Baxter King stood back a little and managed a small smile. ‘But you can’t send her freesias. No, no, no . . .’ He came out from behind the counter, his small smile now a chunky yellow grin. He offered his stubby hand to Robert. ‘Baxter King, by the way. You must be Robert. I’ve heard all about you.’
Robert found himself shaking hands with King and, completely unable to respond – partly from shock at the casual admission that he knew Erin and partly because he kept on talking – Robert followed him around the shop and listened to what exactly his wife preferred in the way of cut flowers.
‘Personally, I’d send heliconia, probably the Mexican Gold. Simply stunning in a tall vase with glass beads. But you could go for some stems of red ginger. Horrendously expensive because I get them flown in from Puerto Rico.’ King wiped his nose with the back of his hand. ‘But she’s worth it.’
‘I’ll stick with the freesias, thanks.’ Robert deepened his voice.
‘Not the heliconia?’ Baxter King stepped back, a theatrical stance, and raised his eyebrows. His chapped lips formed a horizontal question mark, his watery eyes begging Robert to change his mind, and for a moment Robert was tempted to take the heliconia.
‘I gave her freesias when we met.’ It was becoming a battle of the blooms and Robert refused to give way. ‘Knowing Erin as well as I do, I can safely say that she’ll love them.’
‘
Safely
, you see. That’s the problem I face each and every day. So many men come into my shop with the intention of buying chrysanthemums for their wives, girlfriends and lovers.’ Baxter King held out his hands to Robert and waited a beat. ‘I don’t even
sell
chrysanthemums in here! Bloody waste of petals. It’s my job to make sure that men buy what women really want. The
exotics
. I ask my customers, if the woman in your life was a flower, what would she be? I encourage them to tell me about her, about her shape, her smell, her height, her colouring. Then I ask what she’s like in bed, as a mother or . . .’
Robert could see King, like a large dish of melting jelly, and he could feel him, because he had now taken hold of both his hands, but he couldn’t do anything to stop King. The man was like rampant ivy, planting his enthusiasm all over Robert. He had to admit, the man was good at his job. Had he not come into the shop to confront King about the relationship he was having with his wife, Robert would have been persuaded to order the Puerto Rican red ginger and hang the price.
Robert glanced uncomfortably at his hands, still held by Baxter King although the man’s fingers were sweaty and losing their grip.
‘So you see, you really can’t send my beloved Erin freesias. They’re not
special
enough and she’s a very special lady.’ King finally released Robert and stepped back to lean against the counter. He mopped his forehead with a handkerchief and waited for a response.
Robert didn’t know what to say. He paced around the small shop again, pretending to ponder the various blooms but really wondering if he had got the right man. He thought back to the letters he had found in Erin’s study. There was no doubt in his mind that the two of them had a special relationship and no mistake either that it had been going on since their marriage.
‘When did you first meet my wife?’ Robert’s tone was accusing. He stood with his arms folded.
Baxter glanced at the ceiling and thought. ‘Oh, years ago. It was when her daughter was only about three, possibly four.’ Baxter King tipped back his head, revealing more scarred flesh on his thick neck. His breathing became rasping. ‘I caught her stealing my bloody stock.’ Robert opened his mouth to speak but Baxter continued. ‘When she fell to the floor sobbing and begging and telling me her sorry story, well, that’s when I took pity on her. So desperate, she was. Poor lamb and with a child to feed.’
Robert’s open mouth transformed into a choke and everything he’d planned to say slid back down his throat like a foul bolus of food. There was obviously some mistake. After a moment, when it seemed as if Baxter King was lost in memories and gazing into an arrangement of purple rhododendrons, Robert began to laugh.
‘You realise we’re on crossed wires here?’ Feeling relieved, he relaxed and blew out hard. ‘We must be talking about two completely different women.’ But Robert’s relief was short-lived. King had mentioned a daughter and he could hardly ignore the letters that King,
this
King, had sent to Erin. ‘Erin Knight – I mean Lucas? About five foot six, fair skin, blonde hair this sort of length?’ Robert’s hand dithered around his neck trying to recreate his wife’s hairstyle while the bolus worked its way back up his gullet.
Stealing flowers?
His thoughts kicked up several gears as he tried to imagine Erin doing such a thing.
‘Yes, Erin Lucas and I know she’s called Knight now. She told me all about you. It was such a relief when I heard that she’d married someone decent. Things are finally going right for her.’
Robert felt his forehead prickle as dots of sweat forced through his skin and turned to a salty crust in the air conditioning. Here he was, faced with the man he thought was having an affair with his wife and instead of trying to conceal his knowledge of Erin, King was brazenly open about their relationship. Robert needed to sit down. He felt dizzy and ludicrously confused.
‘Could I have a glass of water? I’ve had a long drive and—’
‘Of course. Come out the back and we can talk in private.’ Baxter called the shop assistants back into the store and led Robert to a kitchen area which faced out onto a shady cobbled courtyard. Buckets of flowers and ornamental trees in terracotta pots were stacked everywhere but there was a small space outside with a table and two chairs.
Robert, feeling not at all as he had expected, sat down and gratefully took the cold drink. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and wiped his hand across his mouth. He knew he had to play this carefully.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Marrying me was good for her. And she’s got Fresh As A Daisy to keep her on the straight and narrow now.’ Robert tried for a frivolous tone and, although a little bitter-sounding around the edges, King didn’t seem to notice.
‘My man, you’re so right. From the minute she began working for me I knew she had talent. A real eye for colour and beauty. Her floral designs earned her quite a name around here. And Patrick just adored her when she first came to stay with us, which was just as well because she ended up living with us for nearly eight years!’ Baxter King let out a laugh the likes of which Robert had never heard before. Fleetingly, he was reminded of a donkey.
‘Poor Patrick.’ Baxter sighed, glancing at Robert who was staring hard at the cobbles, trying to decode what Baxter had told him. ‘A terrible way to go.’
Robert realised that, if he was to play the game correctly, humouring the peculiar King was imperative. He needed to know everything. ‘Patrick?’ Robert said it as if he should know but couldn’t quite remember.
‘My partner. He died in the terrible fire.’ As if centre stage, Baxter hung his head and paused.
‘Your business partner?’
‘My lover, dear man. My
lover
.’
Robert arced his head long and slow in an overstated nod, time enough for him to assimilate this huge new piece of information. Baxter King’s lover had been a
man
?
Robert’s first thought was that Baxter must now prefer women but a moment’s reflection made him see that this was highly unlikely. The man was very definitely and openly gay. Robert had been so concerned about Erin having an affair that he’d missed the signs completely.
Once again, a brief swell of relief but then more agitation as a thousand questions beckoned. It was clear now that they were both talking about the same Erin. What Robert didn’t understand was the part about Erin stealing from King’s shop. It didn’t sound in the least bit like his wife, although, as his belief in her honesty dwindled, all sorts of unusual scenarios became possible.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Robert hung his head out of respect.
‘Thank you. It’s fine. I can talk about it now. I have to, you understand. At least Erin and Ruby escaped unharmed.’ Baxter King made a show of massaging the scars on the left side of his face and neck. Robert couldn’t help staring, as if the chewing-gum stretch of his skin would reveal the entire story.
‘I think Erin finds it hard to talk about.’ Robert was leading, he knew, but the man seemed eager to divulge information. ‘I was in Brighton and had heard so much about you from Erin that I couldn’t resist a meeting.’ Robert slowed himself. He was relying on the scant information he had to sound credible. It would be easy to slip up.
Baxter King looked at his watch and grinned. ‘Have you time for an early lunch, my man? I’d love to know how she’s getting on. And I want to hear all about Ruby.’
Robert stood up and took his cue. ‘My shout,’ he said, allowing a reciprocal smile to widen his face.
The two men ordered a light lunch of warm chicken salad drizzled with a pesto dressing. Baxter studied his meal as if it were a striking bouquet of summer blooms before disposing of it greedily.
Idle chit-chat concerning running a flower shop, life in Brighton compared to London, and Patrick’s acting career which was finally coming to fruition before he died, occupied them while the waiter served chilled beers and presented their food. They both knew there was much to discuss and instinctively waited until their privacy was assured. During these twenty minutes, Robert found himself growing to like King. There was something about him that he found appealing, an honesty that he hadn’t expected to encounter in the man he suspected of having an affair with his wife. Still, Robert had to know.
‘Forgive me for asking but I’ve always wondered, because Erin talks of you so highly, have you ever been in a relationship with my wife? Are you, or were you, her lover?’ Robert knew instantly he sounded ridiculous and he drove his knife into a piece of chicken.
That same guffaw again, from deep within Baxter’s cavernous belly – an explosion of disbelief surfacing like a small volcanic eruption. ‘Erin and I, lovers? She’s far too lovely for an old faggot like me. I wouldn’t let myself anywhere near her. Never fear, my man, your wife’s perfectly safe with Uncle Bax. Cheers!’ Baxter King lifted his dew-covered glass high and then chinked it against Robert’s untouched drink, downing most of the contents in one draught.
Robert picked up his beer and did the same.
‘Tell me about Ruby. She must be quite a young lady now.’ Baxter wiped salad dressing off his mouth.
‘She is. More and more like her mother every day.’ Robert didn’t know why he said that. It was completely untrue. ‘She’s growing up fast.’ He didn’t want to have to go into detail about Ruby’s troubles at school. He felt inadequate enough as a stepfather.
‘But?’ King had latched onto Robert’s evasive tone.
‘No buts, really. We moved her to a different school recently. She’s doing really well, although Erin took a fair bit of convincing that it was the right thing.’
‘Were those bullies still beating up on her?’
Robert was relieved that King already knew, obviously a result of his correspondence with Erin. He nodded. ‘She goes to a private college now. They’re heavily into music. In fact, there’s a trip to Vienna coming up—’
‘But Erin won’t hear of Ruby going, right?’
Robert was stunned. ‘You’re right. She didn’t even want her to go to Greywood College. She said Ruby shouldn’t run away from her problems.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. Erin’s done enough running away in her life. And she’s incredibly protective of Ruby. When the child was younger, Erin literally wouldn’t let her out of her sight. Even when she went to the bathroom.’
Robert froze, chicken halfway to his mouth. Another fragment offered.
‘Where do you think that’s come from?’ His most leading question yet, Robert knew, but it had to be done. He’d never get another chance.
‘Well, we both know the answer to that,’ Baxter said, assuming that Robert’s knowledge was equal to his. He placed his cutlery carefully on the edge of his plate and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his sieve-like face tipped towards the ceiling.
Robert nodded slowly in agreement. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. His expression urged King to continue.
Baxter spoke in a low voice that was hushed by his loaded words, but after the first few seconds, Robert couldn’t hear anything except the banging in his ears. The noise of his blood pulsing through his head gave him a sudden migraine, which, he decided, was infinitely preferable to what Baxter was telling him.