Quiver

He suggests Christmas lilies but she thinks they’re too funereal. They move on to hyacinths, then a mixed bunch of spring flowers, arguing about the nature of flowers and their psychological properties.

“Daffodils, they are unsubtle, they are the prostitutes of all flowers. They come up from the ground so quickly, with this bright color, standing on the street corner for just a second of the year, and then poof! They’re gone! Disappeared. Whores. Much better to buy a flower that is more loyal, that has dignity and will stay around for a lot longer. Like a lily or a tulip that is still closed.”

The tone of his voice, his nearness, the vibrancy with which he speaks and his sense of humor ignite something in her body. At first Deidre is terrified that he’ll notice. As if she herself has started to exhume a fragrance of her own to attract, like some overblown rose. As he hands her a bunch of lilac, their hands touch just for an instant. A frisson of buried pleasure sparks between them. It is difficult to ignore.

She steps back, internally chastising herself. Don’t be ridiculous, you’re old enough to be his mother.

“And tonight, are you free?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I am being out of place. A woman such as yourself must surely be busy, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. Let’s go out. I’ll meet you at Circular Quay at eight.” There they are, the words. Her heart beats painfully under the crisp linen suit. This is worse than finalizing a big deal. Get a grip on yourself.

“Good, at eight then.”

She walks off with tulips, dizzy with the new set of detonated chemicals surging through her blood. A date, for the first time in five years.

Mischa watches her go. She reminds him of the single white lily, the large blossom always threatening to blow away from the tall, frail stem. Her pale, serious face perched on that long neck. Often he’d fantasized about lifting up that fine hair and kissing her from lip to nipple. He would do it slowly as if collecting the dew of her skin like honey from a flower.

She was turning eighty-two, although officially she’d been in her late sixties for over a decade. As far as she was concerned she was the center of the universe and all else should orbit around her. Deidre was ten minutes late.

“Mauve? Well, I suppose they are rather unusual, although there is something rather common about tulips.”

“Mother, I’ve given up trying to please you.”

“That’s evident.”

She was impossible to please. Deidre knew that but she fell into the same emotional trap every time. It must be biological, a form of genetic envy that makes mothers think that anything their daughters do isn’t good enough.

“How’s Wallace?”

“Fine, it took two hours the other night but the prostate held up.”

Wallace was her mother’s seventy-eight-year-old boyfriend. They’d met at the casino during one of the pensioners’ nights out. Wallace was hopelessly in love with the flirtatious Ethel, who kept him ruthlessly dangling, occasionally allowing him the odd sexual favor.

“You should get yourself a boyfriend. Preferably younger. It’s not healthy to be inactive from the neck down.”

“I’m not inactive.”

“And as for that last slip-up! I knew the moment I saw him, but children never listen. Homosexual. That’s why he was so good with the wall papering.”

“Interior design, Mother, how many times do I have to tell you? Anyway I’ve got a boyfriend.”

Deidre instantly regretted the words but there they were, sandwiched between the sponge cake and her mother’s dentures.

“You have not.” Ethel gagged on her cake. For one horrible moment Deidre was terrified that her teeth would go flying. It had happened before.

“Not yet officially, but I am seeing someone, tonight actually.”

“He’s just after your money.” Deidre hated the sinking demoralized feeling her mother provoked in her when she came out

with statements like these.