The Wedding Florist – Part 1: Something Blue

"Blue," said Luca. "She wants everything blue."

"Peonies aren't blue."

"I know."

"Nothing is blue. Nature does not do blue."

"I know. Delphiniums. Hydrangeas. Cornflowers. She has a very specific shade." He handed her a paint chip. It was the colour of a summer sky at four in the afternoon.

Zara looked at it, then at him. She was twenty-nine, a florist in Melbourne, in an apron full of wire and ribbon, with a pencil through her bun and a long-suffering expression. He was thirty-three, a wedding planner, immaculate in a navy suit, with a clipboard and the strained smile of a man whose job it was to say yes.

"When is the wedding?"

"Saturday."

"It's Tuesday."

"I know."

"The delivery is missing."

"I know."

They stared at each other. Then Zara laughed, a short, desperate bark, and Luca, to his surprise, laughed too.

They spent three days in the workshop. Luca ran errands, phoned growers, collected flowers from three markets. Zara dyed, wired, arranged, building arches of delphinium and sea holly. He brought her coffee. She brought him pins. They shouted at each other once, briefly, over a ribbon.

On Friday night, at midnight, the workshop was a sea of blue.

"It's beautiful," said Luca, slumping against the bench.

"It's blue."

"It is extraordinarily blue."

"Can I ask you something?" said Zara, wiping her hands.

"Yes."

"Why do you say yes to everything?"

"Because I like the weddings," said Luca. "The ones that work. It's the best thing in the world."

She looked at him, tired and sweet in the lamplight. "Green?" she said, softly, a stem colour.

"Green," said Luca, with a rueful smile. "Very green. Come on. The van's arrived with the peonies."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Reception.