The nearest florist to the hospital is called Plants and Petals, and as I arrive I feel it should be hauled up for misrepresentation. There are no plants, only flowers. And those are mostly of the frilly pink variety.
“Oh, hi,” I say to the girl behind the counter. “I’m after a plant. Quite a plain plant. For a man,” I clarify. “It needs to be masculine-looking. Strong-looking.”
I’m hoping she might say, “Step this way, the masculine plants are in the back,” but she just sweeps an aimless hand around and says, “Help yourself. Carnations are half price.”
“Yes,” I say patiently, “but I don’t want carnations, I want a plant. A masculine plant.”
The girl looks blankly at me as though she has no idea what a masculine plant is. I mean, come on. Masculine plants are definitely a thing. And if they’re not, then they should be.
“Don’t you do any yuccas?” I ask. “Or really plain spider plants? You’re called Plants and Petals,” I add, almost accusingly. “Where are the plants?”
“Yeah, we don’t really do plants no more,” she says with a shrug. “Except the orchids. Very popular, the orchids.”
She points at a row of pots on a nearby shelf, each containing a single orchid. Each beautiful flower is tethered to a little wooden stake, and they look quite cool and minimal.
A guy might like an orchid. Mightn’t he?
“OK, I’ll take this one,” I say, grabbing the most minimal orchid of the lot. It has only two white blooms, with large, shell-shaped petals.
“Gift wrap?” asks the girl, beginning to pull out a sheet of iridescent pink cellophane. “You get a free ribbon,” she adds. “Pink or purple?”
“No, thanks!” I say hastily. “No gift wrap. It’s fine as it is. Thanks. Although I would like a card.”
I choose the least garish Get Well option and write:
Dear Seb
Wishing you a speedy recovery
Fixie
Then I pay for the orchid and hurry along the streets to the hospital, wishing I’d remembered my gloves. It’s bloody freezing, even though the Snowpocalypse hasn’t hit. As I reach the hospital entrance, a few shell-shaped orchid petals blow away in the breeze, and I curse myself for not asking if there was any plain cellophane.
Anyway, never mind. I’m here now.
Clutching the orchid, I head to the main desk and eventually discover that Seb is on Nelson Ward on the fourth floor. As I rise up in the crowded lift, my heart starts thudding and my hands suddenly feel a little damp.
I mean, this is a good idea, isn’t it?
“Noah!” exclaims a woman. “Leave the lady’s flower alone!”
I turn my head and to my horror see a toddler in his mother’s arms, triumphantly clutching a fistful of orchid petals.
Shit. What’s he done? There are only about six petals left on the plant now.
I whisk the orchid away out of danger and survey it anxiously. It still looks OK. It just looks even more minimal. Super-minimal.
“I’m so sorry,” says the mother, and I notice that the toddler has a cast on his foot and, really, am I going to make a fuss in a hospital? So I smile and say, “Not to worry,” and cradle the precious orchid with both arms until we reach the fourth floor.
As I reach Nelson Ward, I’m starting to lose confidence. My throat is tight with apprehension. My legs have lost their bounce. What if— What if he’s— Oh God, what if— My head is looping around all kinds of disastrous possibilities, and a large part of me wants to run away and forget it.
But somehow I force myself to walk forward, ask a nurse for Sebastian Marlowe, and make my way to his cubicle. He’s in a ward of four beds, and his is at the far end. As I approach, it’s fully screened by a printed curtain.
“Knock knock,” I say, my voice a bit shaky. “Are you there, Seb? It’s Fixie.”
There’s no reply, so I peep round the curtain, and there he is. Alone. And asleep.
I survey him silently, my heart thumping in reflexive terror, which gradually subsides. His face is bruised. His hair has been shaved a little at the temple, and he’s got a dressing there that makes me wince. One of his ankles is strapped up in a bandage, I notice. But he doesn’t seem to be on life support or anything like that. My stomach gives the most almighty lurch of relief, and without meaning to, I exhale hugely. He’s OK. He’s alive.
There’s another reason for my relief, I realize: He’s asleep. I don’t have to talk to him. Because suddenly I feel incredibly nervous and I’m not sure what I would say. Maybe my best plan is: Leave the orchid and card—then back out of his life altogether. Yes.
Trying to be absolutely soundless, I tiptoe around his bed to his nightstand. I prop the card against the wall—then as it slips, I grab at it, bumping against his water jug, which tilts. In silent dismay, I grab for the jug to right it, then realize I’ve knocked his plastic glass, shit …
Desperately I grab for the glass, then realize I’m dropping my orchid and grasp for that too, at which point the glass falls on the floor with a loud clatter, and Seb opens his eyes.
Shit.
He stares at me for about twenty seconds as though he can’t compute anything, and I stare back, agonized, wondering where to start.
“Your name is Sebastian,” I say at last, in slow, careful tones.
“I know that!” he says. His eyes travel down the hospital bed, taking in his injured ankle, and I see the click of remembrance in his face. “Right,” he says. “Right. Yes.” He’s silent for a moment, then his eyes meet mine again. “Was it you? Who called 999?”
“Yes,” I admit. “It was me. I know you didn’t want me to, but … well, I told you, I can’t help fixing things!” I give a high, fake laugh, trying to mask my awkwardness. “Usually turns out badly, but …”
“It didn’t turn out badly,” he says slowly. “It would have turned out badly, if …” He halts again, and his woodland eyes turn dark as though with thoughts he’s not going to share.
“Well. I did.” I give another awkward laugh.
“Yes.” His eyes fix on me again, then his face jerks. “I’m so sorry!” he says. “Where are my manners? Sit down, please.”
“Thanks,” I say, a little shyly, and sit on the plastic visitor’s chair. “Oh. This is for you.”
I proffer the orchid, which I’ve been holding all this while. But as he takes it, I realize in horror that my hand has been wrapped tightly around the remaining delicate petals, and they’ve all come off in my hand.
I’ve basically given him a bare twig in a pot.
“Wow,” says Seb, surveying the twig confusedly. “That’s … lovely.”
And now he’s being nice about it. I can’t bear it.
“It’s supposed to have these on it,” I say quickly, opening my hand to show him the crumpled white petals. “It was an orchid, but it had a few accidents. This is what it looked like …”
I try to demonstrate where the petals should go, but I keep dropping them, and at last I look up to see Seb clamping his lips together as though he’s trying not to laugh.
“No, it’s great,” he says hurriedly as he catches my eye. “It was great. I can see that.”
“Maybe they’ll grow back,” I say in lame hope.
“Yes, definitely. I’ll keep watering it.” He pats it, his eyes distant for a moment, then adds matter-of-factly, “You saved my life.”
I stare at him, jolted. I mean, yes, I called 999. But saved his life?
“I’m sure I didn’t,” I say.
“You saved my life,” he repeats. “And I want to thank you.”
“I didn’t save your life!” I say, totally embarrassed. “Honestly! All I did was … You know. I made one call. I thought you should have medical attention. That’s all. It was nothing. If I hadn’t called, someone else would have— Can I pour you a glass of water?”