The house is spectacular. A huge white stucco villa on three floors plus attic rooms, and a direct view of the sea visible through tall windows that frame the vista at the back and the front. I imagine that a wall must have been taken down at some point to offer up that level of open-plan space in a Victorian house. Steel beams put in. Expensive stuff. Just to give the owners more light and space. I feel an uncharacteristic twitch of jealousy. It's not like me to envy others. I rarely, in fact, give a thought to them. But this is a different case altogether. I turn off the van's engine and sit, just for a moment, readying myself. Through the window, on the other side of the house, I see the shadows of movement and as I pull on a baseball cap and open the driver's door, I hear the muted murmur of chatter. There are four cars parked outside and clearly the day is still going strong. I go to the side of the van and pull open the door. There it is, my last delivery of the day: an extra-large bouquet of white hydrangeas and roses, no expense spared, in a pink bag. On the envelope is the inscription "Nina Swann & Family."
I walk toward the front door, peering in subtly as I pass the kitchen window. A small group sits around the table, a mix of younger and older people. They all have wine, are dressed somberly. There is music playing, candles are flickering.
I see art and photography and graphics on the walls; I see a designer kitchen in midnight blue and pink, with flashes of brass and copper, big globe light bulbs hanging at irregular intervals from golden chains, plants on shelves. Through a door at the back of the kitchen, I see huge velvet sofas, a mixing desk, a Gorillaz poster. It's the home of a Gen X man who has made good decisions, made a success of his life, piled his building blocks one on top of the other with precision and care. But also, the home of a man who made one really bad mistake that his wife and his family are going to pay for, over and over again. I keep moving past the window and then I put my finger to the doorbell.
Ash thanks the delivery driver, then closes the front door behind her and carries the flowers to the kitchen. Here, her mother, Nina; her brother, Arlo; her grandmother; her uncle; her aunt; her three cousins; and her best friend all sit around the big wooden table, which is littered with wine-stained glasses, dirty plates, the gelatinous-looking remains of the canapés. The atmosphere is both brittle and unburdened. The worst of it is over, the day is done. Now Ash is shoeless in black tights, her heels abandoned earlier, once most of the other guests had left.
“Who are they from?” asks her mother. Her voice is ragged.
“Er . . .” Ash feels around the pale pink bag for a card, peels it off, and hands it to her mother.
“Please,” says her mother. “You do it.”
Ash pulls a small card from the envelope; it is the same shade of antique pink as the bag and has a linear rose embossed on the front, over which she subconsciously runs her fingertip. Inside is a note scribbled in messy florist’s handwriting with a water blotch on the ink.