Eight Perfect Hours by Lia Louis

Chapter Thirty-Seven

‘’Ere, check the fitty out,’ says Dilly, tuning his guitar.

‘What?’

‘Over there. Getting off the train. Fucking arse on it.’

‘Dilly.’

‘What?’ he gawps, twisting a knob on his guitar. ‘Look at him, the man’s made of marble or something.’

‘Will you just get on with tuning the bloody guitar and start – I don’t know, strumming away or something, sing, make yourself useful. God, where’s bloody Theo?’

Dilly sighs, rakes a hand through his iced-gem of a hair do. ‘Stop being so nervous, Elle. The stall looks great. The flowers look great. And you – well, you’re dressed like curtains to be fair, but you look great too. So, chill, yeah? Seriously.’

Today is the day. The opening of Noelle’s, my own little florist shop in the train station. Mine. My own little shop. I can hardly believe I am saying those words. And Dilly’s right, it really does look great – just how I imagined it would. When opened wide, the wooden shutters have shelves on, full of beautiful in-bloom flowers, some made up into bouquets, some bunched loose, in sections, for bespoke requests. Charlie’s sign sits above my head, beautifully painted on driftwood, my name in tattoo-like calligraphy across it in white and orange, and entwined around the letters, the green stalk and the plump petals of a daisy. It’s tiny. It’s beautiful. It’s mine. A place to do what I love, in a place where people come and go and explore and have adventures out in the world and come home again. Or don’t.

‘What’s the time?’ I ask, nervously.

‘Half eight. Oh, look. Charlie and Theo.’ Dilly holds a hand in the air, does a big swoop of a wave, like someone trying to find their friend in a nightclub.

Charlie trots down the platform, a huge flower-shaped helium balloon in her hand, her mouth wide, her hand in the air as if she’s at a concert. ‘My girl!’ she shouts. Morning commuters look up stiffly from their coffees. ‘My girl has done it. Fuck me, I’m going to cry. It looks amazing. Doesn’t it, Theo? A-mazing.’

Charlie speeds towards me, throws her arms around me, and then wraps the balloon’s ribbon around my fingertips.

‘For you.’ She beams, tucking my hair behind my ears. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

Theo glances up at the shop’s sign, then down at me. He lets go of the stroller where Petal is sitting, a huge croissant in her chubby hands, and presses the brake on. ‘Congratulations, Elle,’ he says, circling it, to hug me. ‘This is just how I saw it. I always knew.’

‘Visualised it,’ says Charlie with a wink. ‘In the sweat lodge.’

‘With Jet no doubt,’ I say.

‘Course,’ she giggles. ‘Post-cunnilingus class.’

Charlie and I laugh loudly, our happiness echoing around the station, bouncing off the walls, and Theo takes our photos. I hold Petal and pose, and Charlie presses her face against my cheek, and Dilly shoves his head in the frame and makes a stupid face, and I feel full of it – to the brim. With happiness. With love.

Then I hear her familiar voice.

Mum. It’s Mum. She’s here, and she looks beautiful, the sunshine on her face, her lips in her favourite ruby-red lipstick, knee-high boots, and fur coat she’d swish out of working men’s clubs in after performing. Mum. My amazing mum. And when she sees me, she bursts into tears. I hoped so much that she would come. But she’s starting small, and coming here, with her walking stick – a stick Dilly had painted hot pink and stuck diamantes on – is a big step for her. Huge.

‘Oh, Elle. Oh, Elle, this is just beautiful. Beautiful.’ Then she opens the lapels of Ian’s beige mac and cries into his chest.

‘Well done, Noelle,’ he says sensibly and measuredly, a hand patting Mum’s back. ‘A very well done. I’ve already left a Google review. Did I tell you? I’m a local guide.’

Everyone stays for Theo’s cacao rose-water truffles, Candice and Steve turn up, having snuck out of the office on an unofficial smoking break, and Dilly sings two songs, while Mum watches and claps and sings along, and my heart feels like it’s going to propel out of my body at the sight of her bobbing from side to side, watching him live, like she used to. She’s here. I’m here. And we’re scared, definitely – I for one am shitting myself – but we’re doing it anyway. We’re living now. Because now is all there is.

I look behind me at my little flower shop, and at everyone – well, almost everyone – I love in the world. And I think of something Daisy once said, something she’d written for her English paper – that the only way to live forever is to leave parts of yourself behind. And that’s what this is. A part of me.

I turn on the platform, a cold breeze whipping through my hair, the smell of greasy sugared doughnuts floating from a bakery two doors down. And there he is. The final piece. Sam. Making his way down the platform. Tall, handsome, strong, can’t-eat-makes-me-puke levels of gorgeousness. He carries a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand, the colour of sunrise.

I walk a few paces forward to meet him on the platform. Dilly plays and sings behind me; Mum, Theo and Ian watch him, Petal sleeps on, and Charlie chats to a passing commuter, a tray of truffles in her hand arranged on a foil platter.

‘You’re here,’ I beam at him, and Sam grins down at me.

‘What’s up, Gallagher.’ He leans down, kisses my lips softly, a slow hello. ‘Sorry. Overran a bit, with Dad. But I’m here.’

‘You’re here.’

‘Live and in colour,’ his voice rumbles in my ear, then he straightens, looks past me at the stall. ‘Jeez, and look at this. This – Noelle. It looks incredible.’

‘It really does, doesn’t it? And these …’ I gesture at the flowers in his hand, jiggle about on the spot, excitedly.

‘Oh, they’re not for you.’ Sam says sternly, shaking his head, then his face breaks into a wicked smile. ‘OK, fine. Take ’em. They’re yours.’ He laughs. ‘We can’t have you giving this little town flowers and nobody giving them to you, right?’

‘Oh my God, I love them. They’re asters,’ I say.

‘Yep. I know. I actually did my research,’ he says passing them to me, the paper crinkling in our hands.

‘Did you?’

He nods, brings a hand to my face, holds my chin softly between his thumb and finger. ‘They mean patience.’

My heart dances. ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘They do.’

Patience.Patience is what got us here. It could’ve happened fifteen years ago, it could’ve happened so many times. Who knows how many? Who knows how many times we passed each other, just missed one another, two ships passing in the night. But it wouldn’t have been the right time. But I feel sure that now is. The invisible red thread. It may have tangled, but it never ever broke.

‘Oh, and I also got you this.’ He pulls a rectangle from inside his jacket. It’s wrapped in thick, red paper. ‘Something for when you’re ready.’

I hold the thick rectangle in my hand. Daisy’s photos. It must be.

‘Thank you. And now of course, I feel like you should have something.’

Sam kisses my forehead. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘Already got everything I need.’ He smiles down at me, as his hand slides down my arm and grips my hand. ‘Come on. Let’s go see the fam.’

Behind me, Dilly finishes a song and I hear Charlie shout, ‘Well, if it isn’t Captain America!’

Sam laughs, raises a hand in a wave, and together, we walk towards my little shop, my family, my friends, my future. My forever.