Page 26 of Check Me Out

Tamara interrupted, “But isn’t Pips—?”

“What Demo?” I snapped at the same time. “I’ve only just arrived!”

We swivelled to stare at each other in confusion. Then I spun on my heel and dashed out of the staff room door.

12

Pips

I wheeled around the corner by spring greens, and there he was. Marcus, late of my tumbled bed. He was standing awkwardly behind a green-draped demo table, with a bunch of assorted carnations in his hand. In the other hand he held a small pair of scissors and a long trail of twine. He looked cute—of course he did!—but also, frankly, terrified.

“What are you doing?” I burst out.

“You know what? I’m not entirely sure.” He glanced at me, panic-eyed, pink-cheeked. He was all nerves again, bless him.

The small group of people in front of the table included the usual YBB suspects, plus some early shoppers and a couple of kids who were probably truanting. As a past offender myself, I wasn’t going to rat on them.

Lina dumped a selection of pots in front of a huge pile of cut flowers, foliage, and lumps of floristry oasis foam, then stood back, arms crossed, as if appraising all her work. “According to the notes, this should be a demonstration of the perfect ikebana.”

“Bless you,” said Mr G from his folding chair, back in the front row. He had a basket of baby toiletries on the floor in front of him, obviously a cover for him returning to the store as a genuine customer. “Of course, that’s flower arranging to you and me. We know nothing about Japanese art.”

“But what areyoudoing?” I directed at Marcus. “Isn’t thismyjob?”

He grimaced. “I messed up, with… you know.” He obviously didn’t like to sayyour alarmin front of others. “So, I thought I could take your place. To help out.”

“The Women’s Institute always like seeing a handsome man on display,” Mrs G said. She winked at Marcus as she picked up a mop and bucket propped against anti-perspirants.

“They’re not the only ones,” Mr G said with a grin, and she smacked him on the shoulder as she passed.

Marcus swallowed hard and brandished his tool.Pun intended. “First you need to treat the stems,” he said to his audience, “so that the cut flowers last a long time at home, and keep their blooms for as long as possible.”

“Is there a cream for that?” called someone from the back and the crowd rippled with laughter.

Marcus battled on, snipping the stems and arranging some foam in the bottom of a vase, in the place of real water. “You want to vary the flowers you use,” he said gamely. “Don’t just choose the same colour or type. Look for a way to draw attention to the size and length.”

A couple of mature ladies—I was pretty sure Mr G was egging them on—gave a piercing wolf whistle then dissolved into laughter.

“Make sure they’re bedded well.” Marcus was flailing now and no one was giving him any support.

“Yes please!” joked a plump lady at the side of the aisle.

“You’re gonna need a bigger twine,” bantered her friend, who had to be at least two dress sizes larger. They turned on each other, a mixture of affront and affection.

Marcus looked around wildly. I stepped forward, intending to help out before this went tits up. But Mr G was already up out of his chair, approaching the table.

“Here, you need these. Gladys showed me what to do with her bush. In the garden, I mean.” And he reached out with a pair of huge, wickedly-sharp pruning shears. The blades were open.

“Noooooo!” came a combined cry from at least six voices. I didn’t know where he’d got them—did we even sell them? And should I take them immediately off the stocklist?—but I snatched them away at exactly the same time Lina threw herself at him in some kind of rugby tackle. The moment was saved—but the table went flying. Petals, twigs, and foam flew everywhere.

My last thought was that at least there was no fire, water, or foodstuffs involved.

***

I stood beside Marcus, watching as Mrs G hurried back and forth with the mop and brushpan, and the customers ambled off with smiles and a story to tell, to finish their shopping. Hopefully some of them picked up garden supplies, too.

“Thank you,” I said softly to him. “For trying to help me.”

“Of course I would.” Then he gave the tiniest, smirkiest smile. “But maybe I shouldn’t try again?”

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