“They are for my wife,” he had said. “They are for her.”
Janis had smiled. “I’m sure she will like them,” she had said.
The man had looked down at the flowers, staring at them for several moments, and then she had realised . . . and he had raised his head again and she had seen the tears. She reached out and placed a hand on his forearm, to comfort him, and thought:
Such moments as those were part of the florist’s day, and were handled as professionally as she could manage. But it was impossible not to be reminded in her work of the transience of human life and of how we can transform it by moments of kindness and consideration.
Gordon was already there when she arrived, seated in a table by the window. He rose to his feet, knocking over a glass as he did so. The glass rolled briefly on the table and then fell to the ground, splintering into fragments.
“I’m so clumsy,” he said to the waiter who appeared to deal with the situation.
“It’s nothing, sir,” said the waiter. “People do far worse than this. Whole tables of things end up on the floor.”
She smiled in appreciation at the waiter’s kindness and then turned her attention to the menu which had been put in front of her. For a few minutes they discussed what they would have and then, in the brief silence that followed, she reached for the small parcel which she had placed at her feet.
“I’ve brought you a present. It’s not a very big present, but I hope you like it.”
His eyes widened. “But it’s not my birthday.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
284
She passed the red parcel over to him and he took it from her gingerly.
“Open it.”
He slid a finger under a flap of the paper and peeled it back.
The card was exposed and he took this out and read it.
“That’s very kind of you to say that.”
“I mean it.”
“Well, thank you. I’m the one who should be giving you a present. These months have been happy ones for me, too.”
He took off the rest of the paper and held the painting out at arm’s length. He said nothing at first, and then he smiled at her. “I like harbours,” he said. “And I particularly like this one.”
“Matthew thought you would,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow at the mention of his son’s name. “My Matthew? He said that?”
“It was his idea,” Janis said. “I wanted to get you something.
He thought you would like this.”
I’m not telling a complete lie, she told herself. Matthew had implied that he would like it and had not actively discouraged her from buying the painting. That, by a short leap, could be interpreted as being behind the idea. Gordon looked at the painting again. “That was thoughtful of him,” he said. He paused. “How was he? I mean, how did you find him? The other night at the club . . .”
Janis shook her head. “I understand,” she said. “It can’t be easy for him. People are jealous of their parents. They don’t like to see them with other people. It doesn’t matter if you’re eight or twenty-eight. These feelings can be very strong.”
He looked down at the tablecloth. “I don’t know what to do.
If we ask him to join us for anything, we’ll just have a repeat of last time. Surly, immature behaviour.”
“That’s because he loves you. If he didn’t, then he wouldn’t care at all.”
“But it makes it very hard for you, doesn’t it?” he said. “And it’ll be even harder when we tell him that we’re getting married . . .”
He stopped himself. He coloured deeply. He reached for his
285
table napkin and the sudden action sent another glass to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” he stuttered. “That was a slip of the tongue.
I wasn’t . . .”
“But I accept,” said Janis. “Don’t worry. I accept.”
The waiter reappeared, brush and pan in hand.
“I’ve done it again,” said Gordon. “I’ll pay for all these glasses.
Please add them to the bill.”
The waiter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Do you have any champagne glasses?” asked Gordon. “Not that I intend to break those. But I think we’re going to need a bottle of champagne.”
