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The sunlight of Friday morning broke through my window a lot earlier than I would have preferred. I had been restless all night and felt drained and heavy-limbed as I reluctantly vacated my bed. One glance in the bathroom mirror revealed the full, uncensored horror that was Rosie Duncan on approximately three hours and twenty-six minutes’ sleep. ‘Well, they say true beauty lies within,’ I said to my reflection, which remained unconvinced. I swear I heard the mirror breathe a sigh of relief and request counselling when I walked away.

James was fast asleep when I passed his makeshift bed to get to the kitchen. He is the only person I know who never loses sleep over anything. Ever. And, believe me, he has had plenty to worry about over the years. I should know: I’ve bailed him out of countless crazy situations that would have caused serious sleep deficiency for most people. At Oxford they called him ‘Straight-Eight Duncan’, meaning that he always got at least eight hours’ sleep every night—even during end-of-year exams and finals.

I finished my breakfast and made him a cup of tea as I got ready to leave. Kneeling down by the side of the bed, I gently touched his shoulder to wake him. He stirred, eyes struggling first to open and then focus, all warm and disoriented like a small child. ‘Hmm?’

‘Morning, sleepy,’ I whispered, smiling at the almost endearing sight of my semi-awake sibling.

A lazy smile spread across his sleep-crumpled face. ‘Mmmhh…morning, Rosie.’

I reached out and ruffled his messed-up ginger hair. ‘Sleep good?’

‘Yeah, great—as ever. You off now?’ His nut-brown eyes studied my face in a slow, side-to-side sweep.

‘I am. But I’ll be back about seven, so think of something you want to do tonight, OK?’ As I rose to leave, James’s expression changed and he reached out to grasp my hand. ‘Rosie, about what you said last night…there is something going on.’

I felt a twist in my stomach. ‘James, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want…’

His eyes widened, the grip on my hand tightening. ‘That’s the point, Rosie. I want to tell you, but…but it’s not possible right now. Give me some time and I promise I’ll explain everything, OK?’

Resisting the urge to press him further, I released his grip with my other hand, pushing the mug of tea into it instead. ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ I smiled, but out in the hallway, I had to lean against the wall for a moment to quieten my insistent heart rate as a familiar sensation of impending trouble wrenched at my gut. What had he managed to get himself mixed up in this time?

Nobody was waiting at Kowalski’s when I arrived. No Marnie, no Ed. Which was a surprise, to say the least. I opened up alone and waited for the order from Patrick’s to arrive. At seven thirty the large green and white delivery truck pulled up and Zac jumped out. He’s a lovely guy: athletic, blond and strikingly good-looking, but gentler than a kitten. He is completely in love with Marnie, although she has so far thwarted his every attempt at securing a date with uncharacteristic indifference—especially as she has confided in me (on more than one occasion) that she thinks he is cute.

Zac joined Patrick’s the same week I started with Mr Kowalski, so we have a shared history. Like me, he left a highflying City career to work with flowers. Unlike me, however, his decision was due to a near nervous breakdown he had suffered at the age of twenty-four, when the pressure of being a Dow Jones trader finally took its toll.

‘Zaccai is another example of the miracle Papa does when He uses His flowers to heal,’ I remember Mr K commenting.

And it was true: flowers did appear to make Zac happy. His smile was as regular a sight as his green and white company shirt, or the short pencil stub he kept permanently lodged behind his left ear. Ed often speculated on why it was that the pencil stub never got any shorter in all the years we’d known him: maybe all company pencils were that short, or maybe he spent his weekends whittling his pencils down to the correct length…

‘Mornin’, Rosie!’ Zac shouted as he swung open the back doors of the truck and jumped up inside.

‘Hi, Zac,’ I called back, stepping off the sidewalk onto the road. He consulted his order sheets and began pulling out the long boxes to make a stack.

‘OK…we got roses, we got button pom-poms, Bells of Ireland, lisianthus, Char Hu…uh, did ya want some extra greens today, ‘cos Jackson’s ordered too much?’

‘Um…’ I consulted my list.

‘Hey, Rosie, you’d be doing me a big favour. I won’t charge ya a bean, OK?’ Zac’s smile was a winner every time.

‘OK, yeah, great. Thanks, mate.’

He hopped down and slid the pile of boxes to the edge of the truck. ‘Ha—“mate”. That’s so cool. I love it when you say that…it’s so British, so quaint!’

We made two trips to get all of the order into the workroom, then I signed the chit. Zac looked round the store, frowning. ‘No Marnie this mornin’?’

‘I don’t know where she is.’

For a moment his perma-smile receded. ‘Oh.’ Then it quickly returned. ‘Tell her Zac the Fit Guy says hi, OK?’ He set the little bell swinging as he opened the door and turned in the doorway. ‘She thinks I don’t know she calls me that. But I do. See ya, mate!’ He waved at the window before slamming shut the back doors of his truck and jumping into the driver’s seat.

As he drove away, Ed walked past the window and waved weakly before entering the shop. He winced when the bell chimed happily. ‘Can’t you make that damn thing any quieter?’

I smiled. ‘Zac and I managed just fine without you this morning, Ed. So thanks for being here like you said you would be.’

Ed clamped a hand over his dark-circled eyes. ‘Uhhh…I’m sorry, Rosie. I completely forgot…I had a rough night.’ As he approached me, it was plain that this assessment was a strong contender for Massive Understatement of the Year.

I reached behind the counter. ‘Strong, black, two sugars.’

Ed grasped the mug like a vessel from the Fountain of Eternal Youth. ‘You are a wonderful woman,’ he breathed.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just drink up.’

But I couldn’t shake the knot of irritation wrapped tightly around my gut. It was unlike Ed to get in a state like this—and for him to forget the weekly Patrick’s delivery was just ridiculous. And where on earth was Marnie? This was the last thing I needed today. The situation with my brother had thrown my peace of mind off kilter this morning and was claiming enough of my thoughts already without me having to deal with strange behaviour from my staff as well.

Caffeine administered, Ed and I unpacked the order and separated the blooms, ready for display or arrangement. The day’s tasks then began in earnest, with Ed in the workroom and me minding the shop while I made a start on the everpresent pile of paperwork. And then, all of a sudden, it was 9 a.m.

Ed appeared at my side, looking decidedly less like an extra from Revenge of the Living Dead now. He cleared his throat and began the necessary grovelling process, as is customary on occasions such as this. ‘About this morning, Rosie…I should explain—’

‘No need.’ I smiled serenely, before spoiling the illusion of Saintly Benevolent Employer by digging for gossip. ‘What I’m more interested in is how you got on last night with The Beautiful Face of Jean St Pierre.’

Ed groaned. ‘Yeah, yeah, beautiful Yelena. She was beautiful…’ He trailed off and he clamped one hand to his forehead as his eyes screwed up in a vain attempt to dull his hangover. ‘My brain is exploding in here…’

I reached behind the counter and threw a box of Advil at him. ‘So?’ I pressed.

Ed let out a breath and glared through the pain at me. ‘So, Miss Marple, she was beautiful and charming, as expected…’

‘Right…’

‘…And so, so committed to my best friend like you wouldn’t believe.’

I winced in sympathy. ‘Ah.’

Ed rubbed a hand across his stubble-covered chin. ‘Hmm. I took her to the show, then to dinner at Orso. It cost the earth but, hey, I thought, it’s worth it, right? I mean, she isn’t married; in fact she’s only been with Steve since July. Two months? Who gets serious with someone in two months?’

‘Well, maybe some people do…’ I ventured, suddenly feeling defensive.

‘Yeah, sure, like no one else I know does…So I took her home, whereupon she graciously left me in the cab and I ended up at Frank’s drinking Jack D’s till 2 a.m. So some hot date that turned out to be. Welcome to the story of my life.’ He dropped his aching brow into his hands once more and let out a long, low groan.

It was time for a Rosie Duncan Rescue Attempt™. This method has been successfully employed on more than a few occasions when Ed has needed cheering up.

‘Hey, don’t worry,’ I smiled encouragingly. ‘I’m sure Yelena had a really good time last night. And so what if she didn’t want anything else? I mean, you’re a great guy, Ed. You’re funny, you look great—this morning aside of course—and…well, most importantly, you’re a brilliant friend…’ I patted his shoulder. ‘So one lady in this city didn’t fall for you? Big deal! There are plenty of others who will.’

Ed lifted his head and suddenly things went horribly wrong. Instead of the warm placated smile I was expecting, I found myself facing arctic-blue eyes frozen by cold fury. ‘And that is your answer for everything, isn’t it? Optimism: it’s going to save the day, right? Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Sure it will. Why can’t you just be like every other damn person on this planet and admit that sometimes life sucks? Well, I have news for you, my friend. You can’t save the world with a smile or a pat on the back. There are millions of people who are lonely and you and I are part of the statistic. I mean, what good has your world-famous optimism ever done you, Rosie?’

Stunned by the intensity of his words, I found myself floundering. ‘What—where on earth did that all come from? I was only trying to help…’

Ed shook his head. ‘Then practise what you preach.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Get yourself out there; get in the game. You said it yourself: there are plenty of people in this city who will want to date you.’

I backed away from him and crossed my arms. ‘I was talking about you.’

‘Well, I’m talking about you now.’

‘Well…don’t.’

‘Why are you being so defensive, Rosie?’

Hot tears made my eyes sting. ‘Because you’re attacking me and I’ve done nothing to deserve it.’

Ed threw his hands in the air. ‘Exactly! You’ve done nothing. All you do is watch other people living their lives, like it’s the only way you’ll ever get to experience things. You spend your whole time at Kowalski’s trying to understand what our customers’ stories are. But what’s your story?’

‘Stop this…I—’

‘Let me ask you one question, Rosie: what would Mr K think if he were here, huh? All he ever talked about was the importance of living life to the full. He wanted you to move on from whatever you were running away from when you came here. He never stopped worrying about you. Hell, even the last phone conversation I had with him he was asking me to keep an eye on you. Would he be impressed that, six years on, you’re no further forward than you were when he met you? I don’t think so. He had great faith in your ability to live, Rosie—was that justified? Or should his hope for your future just have died with him in that Polish flower meadow?’

His words dropped like red-hot rivets in my stomach. Mentioning Mr K like that—when I missed him so much and really needed his advice right now—was almost too much to bear. I was burned, but unwilling to launch into another row.

My voice was scarily cool and calm when it came out. ‘Well, thanks for that. So have you heard from Marnie at all? She should have been here by now.’

Ed struggled to pack his anger away as he answered. ‘Uh—I’m sorry, yes, I did. She left a message on my voicemail—I only got it when I was in the cab on my way here. She’s got flu. Doctor reckons she’ll be out of action for a week. Forgive me, I should have said—’

‘Yes, you should. Right. More work for us, then. Let’s get on.’

‘Yeah…’ He let out a sigh and sent his thawing blue gaze my way again. ‘Look, Rosie, I—’

I headed to the back of the store. ‘If you could mind things here, that would be good. I’m going to make a start on Brent Jacobs’ order now. I need it ready to deliver by ten-fifteen.’

‘Yeah, cool, whatever. I’ll check the orders for next week while I’m in here.’ He sounded hurt. The door opened to reveal a new customer, who nodded in our direction and began to browse the flowers. I walked quickly into the workroom, shut the door sharply and started working quickly, tears falling freely onto the stems of the bright yellow roses I was stripping. I needed the distraction, desperate to remove the image now firmly ensconced at the forefront of my mind: Mr Kowalski, alone and dying amidst the wildflowers, his last earthly emotion an intense sadness at my inability to learn how to live.

I didn’t like to think about how Mr K died. He suffered a heart attack whilst walking in the flower meadows near his home. The doctors said it took him so quickly that he wouldn’t have known anything about it, but still the thought of him dying alone has haunted me ever since.

As I worked on the bouquet for Brent’s wife, I was aware of the tension in my body-slowly ebbing at last. Flowers are the best therapy, Mum says. You can never be angry for too long when you’re with them. And I guess she’s right. There’s something about being surrounded with their scent and colour that soothes you. It sounds very New Age to say that, but it’s not what I mean. It’s just impossible not to be moved by the simple beauty of natural things. When I’m stressed or overworked, I make myself remember Mr K in the middle of all the rush and somehow I always find myself slowing down.

Every now and again in life you meet someone who can truly be described as inspirational. I don’t mean rich, or famous, or even out of the ordinary. I mean someone who makes you feel a better person, just by standing alongside you.

Mr K was inspirational. He seemed to be constantly surrounded by peace. He knew who he was supposed to be. I don’t know many people like that. I know an awful lot of people who are searching for that, though, and I’m one of them. Mr K had the ability to find tranquillity in the middle of the busiest times. One time we had a huge order to complete for a bridal show and I became so stressed that everything I attempted failed. Mr K didn’t shout, didn’t judge. He just walked up alongside me and put his arm round my shoulders.

‘Rosie, take some time. Find some peace now. Listen to Papa.’

I didn’t understand. I asked him how I could listen. A broad smile lit up his wrinkled features.

‘Ukochana, listen to the flowers. They don’t say “Hurry”, they don’t fret or complain. Their colour says “Peace”.’

I didn’t really understand; I still don’t. But I did start to take time out in the middle of my work—to enjoy what I was doing for its own sake. And it works.

Sometimes I miss Mr Kowalski so much it makes my soul ache.

There are people you know all your life who never really make a difference to who you are; others arrive for a short time and change everything. Mr K was definitely one of the latter. He influenced so many people in his own, unassuming way. I actually saw it happen: from the customers that he talked with, to the hours he spent listening to Marnie when she first started at the store—most of which consisted of her pouring her heart out to him while Mr K took it all in—and the way he still encouraged the best out of his former apprentice Ed, always urging him to push his creativity, whilst remaining fiercely proud of everything he did. Not to mention the way he helped me, of course.

Right from the very first day I walked into the store that I would one day call my own, Mr K saw something in me that everyone else had missed. My confidence was at rock bottom; in many ways I’d lost sight of what I was capable of, but Mr K saw it as plain as day. Unlike Ed, or Marnie, or even Celia to begin with, Mr Kowalski never asked why I had come to New York. I suspect he had his theories, but he just accepted me for the person I was.

Mr K was so much more than a father figure to us all. He was confidant, teacher, friend, even devil’s advocate at times. And I needed all of that. My own father had never been around enough to bother about how my life was going and, when he eventually abandoned his family, he stopped bothering about me at all. In fact, the last contact we had was when he wrote to inform me that he was emigrating and didn’t want to stay in touch. Meanwhile, Mum always had a million and one things to worry about, what with a business to run single-handedly, and my brother’s seemingly genetic capability for causing trouble to contend with—not to mention the pressure of keeping it all together when Dad left.

I think Mr K’s faith influenced a lot of what he did, although I would always contend with him that it was also because of the type of person he was. I remember him smiling at me, his sharp old eyes seeing more than he’d ever let on.

‘Ah, Rosie. Always questioning, always sure of your own belief. It’s good to be an enquirer, but sometimes you have to accept things that are greater than your comprehension. I am what I am because of who Papa is; that I try to make the world a better place is due to my love for Him. You cannot separate the two.’

After all his years of hard work and sacrifice for his family, Mr K had only a year in Warsaw to enjoy his retirement before he died. To me it seemed like such a meagre recompense for a lifetime of work, but his daughter, Lenka, wrote to me after his death to say that he’d never been happier than she saw him during that short time spent in his beloved homeland. Lenka sent me a small leather-bound journal that Mr K had filled with pressed wildflowers—something he did every day during his retirement. I have it on my bedside table and look at it often, reading Mr K’s notes in his elaborate handwriting around the beautifully preserved blooms makes me feel close to him again somehow.

I bound the bouquet now and stepped back. Pulling a chair up, I sat down and checked my watch. It was nine forty-five. I rubbed my eyes as lack of sleep began to creep up on me. I didn’t hear the door open.

‘You look beat,’ Ed said from the doorway. He might not have held a white flag, but I knew a ceasefire had been signalled.

‘I am. I didn’t sleep well. James is here for a few days and I think I’m conscious of him being there when I’m asleep.’

He held out a mug. ‘Old F sent you this.’ There was the merest hint of a smile. ‘May I bring it in?’

‘Of course.’ I rose to meet him. ‘Thanks.’

‘I’ll take Mr Jacobs’ order, if you like. I could—uh—do with heading home for a shower.’

‘Sure. Take all the time you need.’

Ed nodded and made to leave. He stopped in the open doorway and, without turning, spoke over his shoulder. ‘You know you’re my true friend?’

My wounds still stung from what he’d said earlier, but I smiled. ‘Yes, I know,’ I replied.

‘I have news, Rosie!’ Celia sang as she flew into the shop and swooped to land on the sofa by the window. She was brandishing a beat-up newspaper, which turned out to be a copy of the New York Post. ‘Look, look, look!’ she pointed excitedly as I sat beside her.

‘Where did you get this paper, Celia?’ I asked as I surveyed the torn, coffee-stained page, which, by this point, was being held about three inches from my face.

‘Somebody left it on the subway train. But that’s not important. Look here!’

‘Hey, great! Bloomingdale’s sale starts Tuesday!’ I exclaimed in mock delight.

Celia whisked the paper away and gave me a stern look. ‘Rosie Duncan, you do not deserve me.’

‘But you’re stuck with me anyway, aren’t you? OK, OK, I promise to be nice.’ She brought the paper back and I had to suppress my amusement when I saw exactly what had elicited her attention. ‘You mean you’re reading “Gloria Weinberg’s Word on the Streets” column now?’

Celia pulled a face. ‘You know I can’t abide the woman, Rosie. She dares to describe her gossip-mongering as journalism. She is an insult to the written word. But this one thing caught my eye…’

Underneath a suitably glitzy photo of Ms Weinberg was the heading ‘NY—Oh My!’ and the piece below read:

BIG news of a BIG day in the City…I have it on a VERY reliable authority that the ladies of New York are soon to lose yet another eligible bachelor (sob!). Word on the street is that rising star of the publishing fraternity Nate Amie has proposed marriage (at last!) to stunningly beautiful girlfriend Caitlin Sutton. The buzz goes that he poured his heart out to her at her family’s deluxe Long Island residence. My source confirmed that the Sutton family are overjoyed and expect the happy couple to wed in a lavish, star-studded ceremony early next spring. Whilst we single ladies mourn the loss of another adorable young man, we have to send our hearty congrats to the beautiful couple and wish them every success for what is sure to be a very prosperous future.

‘So, no prizes for guessing who the reliable source was, then,’ Celia grinned.

‘Who?’

‘Mimi Sutton, of course!’ Celia studied my expression and took my hand. ‘Rosie, honey, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just he didn’t say anything about it yesterday when he—’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’ Celia retorted. ‘Because it’s not true! I met Mimi last night and it was all she could talk about. She said “wheels were in motion” to make Nate’s decision for him. This was obviously what she meant.’ She stopped. ‘You could at least try to see the funny side of this, Rosie. Nate is too laid-back for his own good. He’ll be Mr Caitlin Sutton before he’s even realised what’s happening. Or, at least, that’s what Mimi’s counting on.’

‘Brent said something about Nate and the press yesterday,’ I began, as a dim recollection formed in my mind, ‘but I can’t remember what it was. He was very concerned about you, though,’ I changed the subject almost as speedily as Celia usually does. I saw her eyes flicker and continued, ‘He says Old Bee Jay is there for you.’

Celia’s expression softened and she wriggled a little in her seat. ‘He is so sweet. He shouldn’t worry about me. I’ll call him later. But, Rosie, about your brother…’

Out-manoeuvred once again. I took a deep breath.

‘He sends his love, Celia.’ I saw her expression and stopped joking. ‘He mentioned some trouble he’s in. To be honest, I don’t want to know.’

Celia squeezed my hand. ‘Frankly, Rosie, it’s best you don’t.’

There was something about her tone that sent the little voice in my head muttering worriedly. I decided not to press Celia for any more; in any case, I got the impression that she had no intention of enlightening me further.

‘Gracious—look at the time, honey! I gotta go. I’ll call you tonight. Will you be coming by tomorrow?’

‘Yes, of course. Any preference on cakes?’

Celia was already halfway to the door. ‘No—no, I’ll trust your impeccable taste as always!’ She grabbed me for a huge hug and paused for the briefest of moments. ‘Be careful, Rosie. Don’t get involved. You mustn’t get involved, OK?’ And with that, she hurried out.

Ed was gone a long time. When he finally reappeared he had company.

‘…Well, I never knew you were a Mets man. Look, I got tickets for the game next week—we oughta go.’

‘Sure thing, buddy—count me in…Ah, hi, Rosie. Look who I found on the sidewalk,’ Ed grinned. ‘Did you know Nate’s a Mets fan? And I thought I was the only sane individual left in this sea of Yankees.’

Nate smiled. ‘Hi, Rosie.’

‘Hi.’

‘Coffee?’ Ed walked behind me to get to Old F. As he passed he squeezed my arm and said, ‘Mr Jacobs’ wife was blown away by the bouquet, Rosie.’

‘Great.’ I tried to look busy and in control. Which was difficult as inside I was annoyingly flustered and shaky again. Why was that?

Ed made the coffee, followed by his excuses, before disappearing into the workroom. For a moment Kowalski’s was uncomfortably silent. Nate smiled again. I smiled back. I took a deep breath and moved over to the sofa. ‘So—flowers for the woman who has everything…any more thoughts?’

Nate looked both relieved and frustrated as he joined me. ‘Uh, yeah…I’m still trying to get my head round what you said yesterday…about my story, I mean.’

I took a long sip of coffee and braced myself for the answer that would inevitably follow my next question. ‘And?’

His brow furrowed and he appeared to be locked in a battle with his thoughts. After some time, he turned to face me. ‘Rosie, I don’t know. That’s just it. I don’t know.’

‘Ah…Nate, look—don’t lay too much store by what I said. I mean, yes, it’s important for me to know what a customer is trying to say, but often they have no idea themselves. They just want to send a bunch of flowers. End of story. It’s my job to try and see beyond that.’

Nate’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘So what do you see in this customer, Ms Duncan?’

‘Er…’

Why is it that when you are presented with a genuine opportunity to say something truly profound, your mind goes blank? Here I was, faced with a gift of a question from this person who had all of a sudden appeared in my life and made everything—well—weird, and now I found myself unable to immortalise my position as Fount of All Things Wise. Come on, Rosie! chided the little voice.

‘I don’t know you, Nate,’ I began. ‘I don’t know how you feel about this lady. I’m presuming it is for a lady?’

Nate’s eyes were very still. ‘It is for a lady, yes…’

‘Well, I’m not sure what to say.’

The dark eyes remained intent on mine. ‘Please say what you think, Rosie.’

‘Um…it’s just that looking at you…well, you just don’t strike me as a man in love. Not truly, passionately, completely in love.’ I hesitated. Was that too much?

‘Go on,’ Nate insisted.

‘Or, at least, you don’t look like I imagine a man in love to look like. Not that I really know, of course…What I mean is I don’t…um…’ Mayday, mayday, mad Englishwoman in mortal danger of swallowing own foot! I chose a different approach. ‘I haven’t seen that many people who really look like they’re in love. My maternal grandparents did—even in their late eighties they walked everywhere hand in hand and would frequently finish one another’s sentences. Sometimes it was like they only had one mind between them. But they were definitely in the minority.’ I made a mental list of people in my life: Mum and Dad, Celia and Jerry, James, Ed, Marnie…I could honestly say that I had never seen any of them truly in love with someone. ‘This may be wrong, but I reckon if you love someone you shouldn’t need a whole day to determine how you feel about them. You should just…know, I guess. That sounds really harsh, doesn’t it?’

Nate smiled but his eyes were far away. ‘No…you’re right. I should know. But I don’t. I—just don’t. People think I’m crazy; I mean, Caitlin’s beautiful, obviously. But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not all it could be, you know?’

After another silence, the lop-sided grin made a fleeting reappearance. ‘So, what about you, Rosie Duncan?’

The question was a bolt from the blue. ‘Pardon?’

Nate let out a laugh at my befuddled expression. ‘Ha, sorry, did I floor you there?’

I swear he could hear my heart beating. ‘I—I thought we were talking about your story.’ Aha, nice move, there—the patented Duncan Dodge™—perfect for avoiding awkward questions. Sometimes it even works…But not today.

The dark eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, we were. But your story seems so much more interesting.’

‘Well, I’m not the one ordering flowers.’ A masterstroke.

My opponent held his hands up and laughed out loud, a sound that seemed to warm every corner of the store. ‘Touché! I surrender! So we’ll talk about me and me alone, then. If that’s the rule of our conversations I hereby agree to abide by them from now on. But I’ll remain intrigued: how do you know so much about what a man in love looks like?’

We were entering forbidden territory and I felt my defences building, but something about Nate’s countenance prevented me from changing the subject. An inexplicable calm overcame me and the weirdest thing happened: I found myself wanting to trust this relative stranger. And that never happens. My words faltered as I ventured out onto uncertain terrain. ‘Well…I don’t know, really…I thought I did once, but…’

‘Go on.’ His voice was gentle and low—almost a whisper. I wasn’t sure I should continue. I mean, I didn’t really know him. But something about the softness of his expression made me continue.

‘But I was wrong. And it won’t happen again.’

Surprised by this, he sat back, looking perplexed. ‘That sounds incredibly final, Rosie. I figured you as the ultimate romantic.’

‘I work with flowers. It’s an occupational hazard,’ I smiled, the old vulnerabilities beginning to show as I found myself hiding behind humour to avoid honesty. ‘I see romance every day. For other people. And it’s great—for them. I’m more than happy to watch other people’s dreams come true, because…’

‘It’s safer?’ Nate finished, with perception that was far too sharp for comfort.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to remain In Control.

‘That’s a great shame,’ he remarked quietly. ‘So…the officially designated subject of Me and My Love Life it is then. I guess you read about my engagement?’

His honesty startled me. ‘Celia told me. I don’t usually read the gossip columns, of course. Congratulations, then. I suppose that answers the question of what your story is.’

Nate looked away. ‘It isn’t true, Rosie. That is to say, it shouldn’t be true. I still can’t figure out how I ended up engaged. See, I never expect things to go well but they have a habit of happening to me anyway.’ His eyes returned to me. ‘Know what I mean?’

I had to smile. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I expect the best—always—and it never seems to happen for me. Maybe we should swap lives for a bit and then we’d both be happy.’

A huge grin lit Nate’s features. ‘I like you, Rosie. Can we be friends?’

Taken aback, I laughed. ‘We are friends.’

Nate shook his head and waved his hand. ‘No, you don’t understand. I mean I’d like to get to know you—well. Look, Rosie, here’s the deal. It’s obvious I need some of your romantic optimism in order to enjoy my love life and…well…I guess you could use a healthy dose of pessimism to keep your heart safe. I’ll order flowers if you’ll listen to my muddle of thoughts and we’ll ask Old Faithful to provide the coffee. OK?’

It was the most improbable and idiotic suggestion I think I’ve ever heard in my life so far. But I liked it.

‘OK, Mr Amie, you have a deal.’

‘So, what did Nate say about Caitlin?’ Celia was in grave danger of bouncing off her seat with anticipation.

‘Nothing,’ I replied truthfully, knowing this would never satisfy the active volcano sitting opposite me at the large maple table in her apartment. True to expectations, the Saturday tranquillity of the apartment was shattered as Mount Celia erupted.

‘He can’t just say nothing!’ she spluttered. ‘He must have said more?’ I shook my head and braced myself for her reaction. ‘Nate Amie is so infuriating! How can he not know whether he’s engaged or not? What is he thinking? He can’t possibly be in love with Caitlin Sutton! Doesn’t he know she can never make him happy?’

I reached into the M&H Bakers bag and pulled out another of Luigi’s near-legendary double-choc-chip cookies. ‘I don’t think he expects her to make him happy,’ I said, taking a bite and thinking back to the conversation yesterday. ‘I think that’s the point: he doesn’t ever expect good stuff to happen. But it just does for him. So maybe he thinks he’ll be pleasantly surprised after all.’

Celia scratched her head. ‘Seneca,’ she pronounced solemnly.

‘Who?’

My nutty friend shook her head in pity at her ignoramus English companion. ‘Do you know nothing about Classics with all your generic history? Seneca was a Roman philosopher who actively practised pessimism, so nothing ever came as a surprise to him when bad things happened. His theory was that, this way, good things would always be a fortuitous occurrence because they were never expected. A classical genius he may’ve been, but that man has a lot to answer for.’

‘Celia, being your friend is a constant education. I am in awe.’

She shot me a look and jumped up as another thought sent her hurtling onto a new topic. ‘Well, you won’t have seen this yet, but here we are.’ She produced a crisp copy of the New York Times, quickly flicked through till she found the article and read out the headline triumphantly. ‘“A Real English Rose Thrives in the Heart of Manhattan”—how about that?’

The photo was good, even though I’m decidedly unphotogenic, and Josh’s article was excellent. It focused on Kowalski’s more than me, which was a relief, and enthused about the wonderful atmosphere in the shop.

‘An atmosphere that a certain confused, Seneca-revering publisher seems to find particularly welcoming,’ Celia remarked, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. ‘So he’ll be making regular visits then?’

I smiled. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘And you don’t mind?’

I shrugged. ‘Not at all. It’s fine by me.’

Celia took a bite of cookie and nonchalantly returned to the paper. ‘Oh good…’