I've always felt I had something the Edwardian country lady about me despite having no great flair for anything even remotely ladylike beyond a deep affinity for summoning servants. History, however, did not quite agree with me since my female ancestors were more usually to be engaged in making the beds, not reclining on them. Nevertheless, I’ve always seen myself in a picture hat rather than a mob cap, gathering roses from a walled flower garden after a spot of light water-colouring.
The location for the photo shoot I'm doing on Friday afternoon does nothing to disabuse me of the notion. It's a huge house in Acton with a wet dream of a kitchen which each of us regards covetously, redecorating it to our own taste in our heads. Outside an acre of green baize lawn is surrounded by high walls full of roses and lavender sprouts flom the flower beds. There's even a Victorian summer house. I have such bad house envy my teeth hurt.
It belongs to one of the Linleys, I hear from a production assistant, and I glance around for pictures of the Queen until the owner comes back and someone hisses in my ear that he's Inspector Linley.
A copper? Owns this house? I can't believe it.
'No, you divot, it's a telly program. He's an actor.'
Meanwhile the photographer can't be expected to learn all our names and while we are each being turned into transvestites by the make-up girl she refers to me as 'Journalist lady', my daughter as 'Brown Lady' and others as Blue, Pink and Spotted Lady depending on what we're wearing. Blue Lady, my friend Sarah, is looking at herself in the mirror transformed from trendy fashion designer in a denim smock to Lady from John Lewis with horror. I'm sweating in a deep fuschia dress as it's supposed to be September, not the middle of a June heatwave. I'm even wearing tights.
We eat Marks and Spencer snacks and drink Ginger Beer from the luxury M&S sandwich selection as armfuls of decadently opulent flowers fill the big square limed kitchen table into which I could fit my entire bedroom.
White roses, Orange Roses, Pink Roses, Stock, are arranged everywhere in troughs.
‘Have any of you done any flower arranging classes before?’ asks Sally, who for the purposes of this feature I'm pretending I've invited along to teach exactly this to three of my closest friends (it was supposed to be four but Nel scoffed and said she would rather put pins in her eyes so the daughter was roped in instead) in my luxury kitchen in my bohemian house in sunny Acton.
My friends look nervous at the question. We’re all fairly artistic - Eva has her Gallery and Sarah and Fi are both designers, however none of us really think Flower Arranging counts as creative. We might all be women with ribbon drawers but none of us faff around with flowers.
Still flower arranging? How hard can it be? However, nobody speaks.
‘Erm, I put them in a vase,’ offers Sarah eventually into the void.
Silence.
‘…and I take them out of the cellophane.
Sometimes.
I even, occasionally, even cut off the elastic band,’ I add.
Everyone else looks a little uncomfortable. Five and a half grown women and we are all quietly terrorized by the idea of sticking a bunch of flowers into a jug.
‘Good, good,’ soothes Sally. it’s so much easier when everyone comes to it fresh. She begins describing each bloom in the green vase that she sets in the middle of the table. Eva who likes gardening shows off and starts reeling off Latin sounding names for something that to me looks like a weed.
‘Is this what we’re going to do?’ Asks Fi looking at Sally's vase.
‘Yes,’ Sally agrees. ‘I’m going to show you all how to do a hand tied bunch.’
‘It’s such a pretty arrangement,’ Yvonna volunteers.
We all murmur in agreement.
‘No, no - this is just the bucket ladies. It's not arranged – it’s just the selection of flowers you’re going to use to learn.’
Ah well, this would give some indication of our level of competence. It looked fine to me.
Sally takes one rose and starts adding flowers in a circular movement that is harder than it looks. Plus the rose still has some thorns on it and I feel I am about to sleep for a hundred years. I have performance anxiety as all my fingers turn to thumbs, none of them green.
‘How thick should the bunch be? I mean, what’s the ideal erm...' I want to say girth but instead I make a shape with my fingers and thumb that I can’t imagine any Victorian Lady would have done in public.
'I know what you mean Journalist lady,' says the photographer, making me do it again for the camera.
'Just keep going till you’ve used everything up,' says Sally.
Personally I think mine looked prettier before I touched it, but that could have had something to do with the fact that I manage to tie my thumb up with the stems when I get to the tricky part with the string.
‘Sharp scissors,’ warns Sally as I try to cut myself out. It’s like primary school all over again.
I’m watching Sarah out of my eye who is sticking her tongue out with concentration as knitwear designer Fi, whose knitting skills with long, tricky needles, surely stand her in good stead, is blazing on and already posing with hers off for the camera. Every two seconds the photographer shouts instructions.
'Lady in Pink can you look as if you're enjoying yourself?'
'Lady in Brown, can you smile?'
'Lady in Blue, can you point at that jug again.'
'That's a lovely pose Journalist Lady.'
I've been watching America's Next Top Model. I can do fierce and smile with my eyes. I preen. Sadly my flowers have not been so well schooled. They droop.
I carefully haven't told them the level of modelling involved in being part of a photo shoot. The flowers aren't exactly on message either.
'When we make a gift wrapped bouquet you’ll see how the small scraps you strip off the leaves can be used for another arrangement,’ says Sally.
‘We’re doing another one?’ (Phew, say it isn't so, I’m silently thinking!)
‘Oh yes, we’re going to re-tie the one you just did and gift wrap it.’
I want to slap her as we all survey our much struggled with bouquets with dismay 'You mean we have to undo them?'
'Pink lady could you stop scowling?' snaps the photographer.
I look at my lovely arrangement and want to rebel. I don't want a gift tied bouquet in tissue paper. I want to take this one home and put it on my own scruffy kitchen table. Nevertheless, I cut the string and start again.
Eventually, one thousand pictures later we all leave with aching cheeks and several bunches of flowers. Doubling up with my daughter means my house is suddenly transformed into Colour Supplement Heaven. When Worcester man arrives an hour later he hits Stepford Central. both of us made up and perfectly coiffed, I have supper on the stove and daughter is in a Cath Kidson apron making a chocolate cake. There are flowers in the hall, flowers on the table, candle arrangements outside in the garden which is set for our meal, posies in the bath room and bouquets in the bed room (with clean sheets, of course).
He hands over a cellophane wrapped bunch with the price still on it in five inch high letters.
‘Oh flowers, how sweet of you,' I say as though all the others came from my stable of secret lovers.
'Yeah, we just did this lame flower arranging course,' said the daughter,
Darn that ruddy girl.
