Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson

and is a former waitress in Buck’s diner just round the block from my house, designing a $25 gift basket for her niece. It’s all part of the mix.’

      ‘Unlike places like Devereau Design,’ Josh repeated, raising a telling eyebrow.

      I couldn’t resist a smile. Philippe is the kind of florist that my mother despises. ‘All fuss and bluster,’ she’d proclaim with trademark disdain. ‘Nonsense and showmanship are no substitutes for real talent. Swanning about in their designer suits and stapling banana leaves together like it’s the height of skill—charging a King’s ransom for greenery, I ask you! Any idiot can do that!’

      ‘Devereau Design caters for a very different market from Kowalski’s,’ I smiled, deciding to be diplomatic. ‘Their customers expect something a little—’

      ‘Who is this young man?’ Delores suddenly appeared beside me, making Josh jump.

      ‘This is Josh Mercer, from the New York Times. Josh, let me introduce you to Mrs Delores Schuster, one of Kowalski’s most distinguished customers.’

      Josh shot to his feet, respectfully offering his hand to Delores. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs—’

      ‘Call me Delores, please,’ she answered, her cheeks flushing slightly. ‘You’re here to interview Rosie?’

      ‘I am indeed.’

      ‘Oh well, in that case,’ Delores began, bustling in between us and lowering herself shakily onto the sofa, gripping our arms for support as she did so, ‘let me tell you all about Kowalski’s and why it’s the greatest florist’s in the whole of New York.’

      For the next thirty-five minutes, Delores regaled Josh with long, rambling accounts of her many visits to the store, each one accompanied by generous helpings of Schuster family trivia along the way.

      ‘…So then there was the time my late husband, Henry—may God rest his soul—forgot his aunt Bertha’s Golden Wedding Anniversary. Well, you would not believe the commotion in the family. I tell you, it was like the day they elected Nixon and my grandmother swore she wouldn’t leave the house again while he was in the White House. Aunt Bertha was the kind of woman you don’t forget, take my word for it, young man—she had a holler that would scare a werewolf—and she comes storming into our apartment, face all red like a tomato, and skirts flapping like laundry in a tornado, and she yells, “Fifty years of marriage to the same dumb putz and all I wanted to make my sorry life happy was for my one and only nephew to remember!” But my Henry was fast at thinking, if nothing else. He took her hand and he walked her all the way to Kowalski’s—three whole blocks he walked her—and he walked straight up to Mr Kowalski and he said, “Franz, would you please tell my beloved aunt Bertha about the surprise arrangement we’re planning for her Golden Wedding Anniversary, which she thinks I forgot?” And—would you believe it—Mr Kowalski stands there, bold as buttons, and calmly describes the most beautiful basket of flowers you ever heard of. Well, Aunt Bertha was not a woman to be lost for words—I mean, even when her husband, Charlie, proposed to her he had to endure a ten-minute lecture on her expectations of marriage, you know—but two minutes of listening to Mr Kowalski and she was a changed woman. And then—to finish it all—Mr Kowalski explains that the reason for the unfortunate delay is that the flower warehouse was all out of pink lilac, which he knew was her favourite flower—which it was—but there’s no way he could’ve known that because, right up until my Henry marched in there, he hadn’t even known Aunt Bertha existed at all! So that’s why we come to Kowalski’s—even though Mr Kowalski is long gone, probably laughing about the whole Aunt Bertha scenario with my Henry right now. Young Rosie here is a woman after his heart; he taught her well, you know. Have you got all that down in your book now, Joshua?’

      Josh nodded dumbly, his eyes glazing over.

      ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t pose for a photograph,’ Delores said, nodding at the camera in Josh’s lap. ‘I’m not one for publicity, you see. Well, I can’t stay here chatting all day. I got things to do, people to see. Edward! Help me up, please!’

      Ed stifled his mirth as he assisted Delores back to the counter.

      ‘Like I said, Kowalski’s is first and foremost a neighbourhood florist,’ I smiled, shaking my head at Josh’s amused expression.

      He checked his list of questions. ‘So, how did an English rose like yourself come to be blooming in New York?’

      Somehow, I knew this phrase would end up in the article—being friends with Celia has prepared me well for the ways of journalists.

      ‘I moved here from Boston just over six years ago, worked for a while with Mr Kowalski and then took over the business when he retired,’ I replied, hoping that this would be enough information. Of course, it wasn’t.

      ‘And were you a florist in Boston?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Oh? What was your previous profession?’

      My heart began to thud as my defences prickled. ‘I was creative director for a small advertising firm.’

      ‘Which one?’

      ‘It doesn’t exist any more.’

      I could tell Josh could sense my discomfort. He looked up from his pad. ‘All the same, it would be good to have some background…’

      ‘My mother is a florist, so I learned the trade from watching her and helping out in her shop when I was young. Then after university I chose to enter advertising and—wound up here, eventually.’

      ‘Forgive me, but I’m curious: why leave your country behind to come to the States?’

      ‘Well, look around you: New York is fabulous. What girl wouldn’t want to live here? The shops, the restaurants…’ I answered breezily, trying without success to deflect his train of thought.

      ‘I see. But England—it’s so…so…infinitely more interesting than here, don’t you think?’

      ‘Well, I—’

      ‘I mean, all that history and literature and amazing countryside; to be able to walk daily in the steps of Shakespeare, Byron and Keats; to visit the great places of learning like Oxford and Cambridge; to revel in the generations of royalty and stand in the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution—surely there was enough to keep you there?’

      Josh’s monologue on the greatness of my home country took me aback and I—like Aunt Bertha, many years before—found myself lost for words.

      A crimson flush spread over his pale cheeks and he ran a hand self-consciously through his mop of copper-coloured curls. ‘Wow. I am so sorry, Ms Duncan. I kinda got carried away there. I adore your country, as you may have gathered.’

      Relieved that the interview had strayed from my past, I smiled. ‘Not a problem. Yes, I love all of that about England. Although Stone Langley—the small town where I grew up—is nothing like the regal England you’d expect. But New York stole my heart and this is where I want to be, more than anything.’

      After the interview was concluded and Josh had taken all the photographs that he needed, I saw him to the door.

      Ed, now a gentleman-at-ease following the departure of Delores Schuster, watched me with intensity. ‘Good interview?’

      ‘I think it went OK.’

      ‘Like I said it would.’

      ‘Yes, like you said it would, O Wise and Noble One.’ I gave a small bow.

      ‘Good,’ Ed replied with a self-satisfied air. ‘So how come he grilled you about ending up here then? Checking you had your Green Card?’

      ‘He seems to be a bit of a serious Anglophile. Couldn’t understand why I wanted to live here.’

      ‘Hmm—rainy middle England, where