Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson

stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.

      ‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not stolen your customers. They were recommended to try Kowalski’s by another of your clients—Mimi Sutton. I believe you know her? If they have chosen to leave you, it is entirely their choice and nothing to do with me. You do not have the monopoly on floristry in this city, Mr Devereau, and neither do I.’

      ‘That may be true, Ms Duncan, however I will not tolerate Kowalski’s pathetic attempts at stealing my considerable share. I pity you, not only for your over-inflated idea of your worth in this city, but also for your abominable designs. I intend to drive your business into the dust…’

      Ed leapt forward and flung the door wide open. ‘OK, buddy, you’ve said enough. Out!’

      ‘But I…’

      I moved to Ed’s side. ‘We’d like you to leave. Immediately, please.’

      Philippe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His sapphire eyes flashed, his face flushed bright red and he let out an exasperated cry. Spinning round, he strode magnificently out, the two assistants scurrying in his wake. The door slammed and the shop was quiet. Ed and I exchanged glances.

      ‘Not a happy bunny,’ I grimaced.

      ‘Hmm,’ agreed Ed, thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid Kowalski’s has just made a very dangerous enemy.’

      ‘Good morning!’ Marnie arrived, stopping abruptly in the doorway when she saw our worried expressions. ‘What? What happened?’

      ‘Philippe Devereau just called by to wish us well,’ Ed smiled nonchalantly.

      Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Philippe? He’s so gorgeous. What did he want?’

      Ed picked up a pile of order forms and moved towards the workroom. ‘Oh, you know, he was in the neighbourhood so he thought he’d say hi.’ He turned back at the door and gave a wide-eyed grin. ‘Oh, yeah, and he mentioned he was gonna drive Kowalski’s into the ground as soon as possible.’ He disappeared into the back room.

      Marnie’s smile fell and she rushed over to hug me, her blue curls bouncing as she did so. ‘Oh, Rosie, that’s awful,’ she wailed. ‘What are we going to do?’

      I didn’t know. But this was not, I resolved, the time for doom and gloom.

      ‘We’re perfectly OK,’ I said, hoping my voice matched my optimistic statement. ‘We’ll be fine. What does Philippe have to offer that we don’t?’

      Marnie looked despondent. ‘He’s been Floral Artiste of the Year for the past ten years. His business is worth multimillions. He scouts the world for the best designers and gets them. Ooh, and he has the biggest range of tropicals and exotics to order—’

      I interrupted her. Philippe was looking too invincible. ‘Yes, I know, OK, but he doesn’t spend time with his customers. Or provide free delivery. Or…’ I was struggling already, ‘…or…’

      ‘Offer them coffee?’ Marnie suggested, a little less hopefully than she’d intended.

      I snapped my fingers. ‘Or offer them coffee. Exactly! But we do. We have,’ I continued, walking over to my beloved coffee machine and patting its cracked lid, ‘the ultimate advantage right here.’

      ‘Old F?’ asked Marnie, still unconvinced. ‘Old Faithful is our secret weapon?’

      ‘Absolutely. Philippe Devereau may be able to head-hunt the world’s finest for his business, but he’ll never be able to make a decent cup of coffee for his clients, will he?’

      Ed appeared in the workroom doorway. ‘Maybe we should give Old F a raise,’ he suggested, ‘or promote him to CEO.’

      I smiled confidently. ‘So, if we all stay positive and make sure Philippe doesn’t try to head-hunt our coffee machine, Kowalski’s will survive this!’

      Ed and Marnie made a brave attempt at a helpful cheer, but their expressions spoke otherwise.

      After the excitement of Monday, Tuesday arrived with little fanfare—so much so that I almost didn’t remember Celia had arranged my dreaded New York Times interview for later that day. In fact, when the young, ginger-haired reporter entered my shop, I initially mistook him for a student seeking parttime work. It was only when he produced his card that I saw who he was.

      ‘Josh Mercer, New York Times? Celia arranged an interview today?’

      ‘Yes, of course, I-I’m sorry,’ I stammered, extending my hand for him to shake. ‘I’m Rosie Duncan and this is my co-designer, Ed Steinmann.’

      Ed and Josh shook hands. ‘You guys grab the sofa and I’ll make some coffee,’ Ed offered, much to Josh’s delight. It turned out that he’d spent the morning interviewing warring parties involved in a dispute over a controversial neighbourhood regeneration project in the East Village.

      ‘So, great news story but not so great if you’re expecting a decent cup of coffee,’ he explained, flopping down on the old leather sofa and rummaging through his canvas satchel for his notebook. ‘Disgruntled people aren’t predisposed to good hospitality, I’m afraid.’

      ‘Well, you won’t find disgruntled locals here,’ I joked as Ed arrived with two mugs of coffee. ‘Just friends, flowers and a great cup of medium roast.’

      ‘I love the vibe in your store,’ Josh smiled, sipping his coffee and looking around as if he was mentally photographing every angle, feature and detail. ‘I mean, Kowalski’s is so different from the other Upper West Side florists—like Devereau Design. This isn’t a boutique—it’s…more personal, I guess. How do you keep it that way?’

      ‘We have a long tradition of serving the neighbourhood,’ I replied—and right on cue the silver bell over the door tinkled cheerily as a lady in her eighties entered, laden with shopping bags. Ed rushed over to her, gathering the bags from her as she feigned protest.

      ‘I’m fine, Edward. Quit fussing so!’

      ‘Now, Mrs Schuster, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t assist you?’ Ed smiled, offering his arm, which she accepted, her hand the colour of rose-tinted tissue paper daintily placed on his sleeve as he escorted her to a small white wicker chair by the counter.

      ‘You’re just like my late husband, God rest his soul,’ she smiled. ‘Upright and uptight—that was Henry. And I’ve told you before, young man, you must call me Delores.’

      Josh was watching Delores Schuster with intense interest, his ballpoint pen hovering thoughtfully over his notepad as his reporter’s eyes drank in every detail.

      ‘She’s a regular?’

      ‘Oh yes. Mrs Schuster’s been coming to Kowalski’s since her family got their apartment on West 71st Street, over forty years ago. She was one of Mr Kowalski’s first customers and she’s been coming here ever since.’

      ‘Do you find it difficult to balance the day-to-day side of the business with the growing number of large-scale commissions you’re now taking on?’

      It was a good question, but one I hadn’t really considered before. We don’t have to make a special effort to keep both the day-to-day and the event stuff running. It is just what we do—and something I love my business for. Yes, sometimes we are so busy I can’t even tell you what day of the week it is and, equally, in our quieter times, there are sometimes days on end where you can count the customers venturing into the shop on the fingers of one hand. But that’s the nature of the business: you can only work with what you have available at the time. The unpredictability would scare many, but I enjoy it.

      ‘Despite my shop now increasingly