The Blood Red Marigolds

Nathaniel’s procession of mirrors was a double-edged sword. When he arose, he had to shutter his eyes to avoid seeing the puffy face and wild hair that loomed on every surface. Even the warped reflection in the stainless-steel shower outlet was enough to make him shudder. He’d blindly grope for the handle before plunging beneath the jets of water - a frigid daily baptism.

Only once reborn: scrubbed and moisturised, was he ready to face the bathroom mirror and behold his own splendour. He’d admire his chiselled features and make first eye contact with his ‘piercing blue eyes’, as they were often called, and then turn to the full-length mirror behind to ponder the clear definition of each muscle running down his statuesque figure – he didn’t even work out. Leaving the bathroom, he’d first turn right to clock his reflection in the upstairs window and then left to catch himself, only for an instant, in the guest bedroom’s vanity mirror. And then he was met with his triple mirror set which sat atop his dressing table where he would luxuriate in the application of serums and unguents from every angle. He also adored the transformation of his hair beneath the warm gusts of his hairdryer, starting slicked back, wet and almost brown, before the blonde ringlets tightened and began shimmering – thick, lovelier than gold and becoming no matter how the wind may move them, he thought, like the petals of a marigold. This morning, something shifted on the bed behind him, a murmur emitting from within its folds.

“Where are you baby”

“Sshh” Nathaniel replied, without taking his eyes from the mirror, “Go back to sleep.”

Having preened, he hurried to his walk-in wardrobe, eager to escape the inevitable affection of the soon to be wide awake Camille. She’d been inspiring, but he could feel the beginnings of a familiar disgust at the very thought of talking to her. If the garden permitted, it was time to move on. In the wardrobe, he already knew what he was going to wear: a tailored linen suit, navy, a crisp white shirt and… his hands lingered over his box of pocket squares, what was Camille’s favourite colour…? Yellow; something to remember her by. Now he was ready for the colossal gilt-framed mirror halfway down the stairs and, as always, it reflected an immaculate gilt-framed gentleman within it.

He thought he’d take a waltz through the garden whilst he sipped his coffee and enjoy his progeny, the flowerbeds. Even this early in the year they shone in the mild sunlight, perfect rows of radiant colour. The pink daphnes were sewn when he was with Elsbeth, the newest of the shopping assistants at the florist, pretty but effusive. The sunset orange of the begonias seemed to radiate a pent-up heat and had bloomed soon after he had seduced Richard, a bully from his boarding school days. There was no doubt the purple hellebores, so difficult to grow, were a consequence of the sultry Anastasia – a Greek au pair who had taken him weeks to unlock but had turned out maudlin and vapid, as they all seemed to. The lemon primroses were for Geraint, who could have been his twin if he wasn’t so naïve, and the winter honeysuckle’s frosted brilliance was thanks to next doors’ Mrs Baxter, whose husband couldn’t satisfy her anymore.

Even as a child Nathaniel was obsessed with the garden and had never planted a seed, pit or bulb that hadn’t sprouted, grown or flowered. The only compliment his father ever paid him was to call him ‘green fingered’, insisting on his help in the vegetable patch. That is before he dropped dead while Nathaniel and his mother were vacationing, and they returned to find him and his produce composting together. Nathaniel was more drawn to his mother’s flowerbeds anyway – realising his fingers weren’t green, they were technicoloured. Nowadays, he had no time for veg, especially the horticultural shows where everyone competed to grow the longest marrow – he had nothing to compensate for. As soon as he was able, he sought out work at a florist in town and when Margaret, the old biddy who owned it, sadly passed away – he bought it using his father’s inheritance.

He reached the perimeter of his flowerbeds where a sea of yellow marigolds proliferated, they had been his mother’s favourite. Even his father, who had no time for ‘womanly pursuits’, liked marigolds because they encouraged ladybirds who protected his marrows from aphids. His mother had been an expert in conjuring them and Nathaniel had inherited her gift, as well as their ancestorial home after she vanished, and so basked in their iridescent shimmer. It was picture-perfect… except the barren patch that lay beside the marigolds, where the red, French marigolds were meant to grow. He flung his remaining coffee on the grass path and turned away. It is early yet, he reasoned. At least his Daffodils had opened overnight, revealing their brilliant interiors, and sealing Camille’s fate. He left her a note that read ‘Merci et au revoir’.

At his shop, which he’d simply named ‘Nathaniel’s’, he was greeted with the polite disdain he had come to expect from his staff, especially since Elsbeth was behind the till. People said: ‘Don’t shit where you eat’, they clearly didn’t understand that shit was a wonderful fertiliser. He’d bread an atmosphere of curt professionalism and no matter where he roamed, storefront or the polytunnel outback, conversations dwindled and postures snapped upright – it’s as if I’m a seed-drill sergeant, he would inwardly chuckle. Today, he fancied front of house and banished Elsbeth out back to help with the petunias.

“And a smile wouldn’t hurt” he called after her with a grin.

The day had hardly begun when, to the tune of tinkling bells, in walked a stranger. It was then Nathaniel’s turn to stand to attention. This man had dark auburn hair and hazel eyes that glistened in unison, and an impeccably sculpted five ‘o’clock shadow which accentuated his jawline. He was smartly dressed and, even amidst the sweet fragrance of the florist, Nathaniel could smell his cologne: Sandalwood and bergamot. Assuredly, he approached Nathaniel and they locked eyes.

“Good Morning” Nathaniel crooned

“Good Morning” The stranger echoed.

“How can I help you today Sir?” Nathaniel asked, holding onto an eye contact that already felt intense.

“I’m looking to buy some flowers… for my wife”.

“I see”.

“She’s unwell”.

“I’m so sorry to hear that”.

“Thank you”, a smile flickered across the man’s face before he recaptured his consternation. “Unfortunately, I’m… well, hopeless when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“Don’t you dare worry, you’re in excellent hands” Nathaniel insisted, unable to stifle his own smile. Nathaniel took Roland on a whistle-stop tour of the shop, during which he discovered his name, “Roland”, where he was from, “London”, what brought him to this small town, “a mini-break gone wrong” and what was wrong with his wife, “I’d rather not say”. By the time they returned to the till, a bunch of red roses heavier, their conversation was fizzing back and forth. Nathaniel was wondering how to manoeuvre a dinner date when Roland caught him unawares.

“I bet a dyed in the wool local like you would be handy in finding a tasty spot for dinner”.

Taken aback, Nathaniel forgot his affected aloofness and responded eagerly.

“Why yes! There’s a passable brasserie in the next town over, I could drive us…” Nathaniel trailed off, cheeks flushing. “Of course, you probably want to eat alone...”.

“Please” Roland laughed gently, “I think I need the company”.

*

Dinner went swimmingly. With Roland taking charge the conversation continued to sparkle and Nathaniel found himself charmed by his acquaintance’s easy repartee. He learnt that Roland was a record producer, infamous for discovering young starlets and catapulting them to success.

“The thing is Nath, if you want to be successful, you’ve got to be the bad guy sometimes”.

“I so agree…”.

“…And although my style of management may be a bit too much for some… Gen Z brats, I get results”. Nathaniel noticed that Roland’s knuckles were white against his glass. “Anyway”, he released and gave Nathaniel a mischievous look. “That’s why I needed to take a little break, get some country air… meet some interesting people”. They agreed to meet again and parted with a handshake which felt languorous to Nathaniel. Once home, he stole into the garden and, guided by the moon’s light, sought out the French marigold patch. He sank to his knees - sacrificing his trousers to a higher purpose - and produced Roland’s business card, the only personal effect he was able to acquire. It would do nicely. He gave it a sniff, sandalwood, bergamot, before tearing it up and combining it with the soil. These should come through nicely any day now.

They met every day the next week, and with each date, Nathaniel could feel a ratcheting intensity drawing them together. As his passion rose, he began to fret like he never had before – What was Roland thinking? Would the red Marigolds grow? Even the yellow one’s seemed to have lost their lustre. He invited Roland to his house, inpatient for his affections. In preparation, he raided the florist and decorated until it was fit for a wedding and laboured to produce a cordon bleu feast. Whilst he sat nervously grooming, the crackling of gravel announced the arrival of Roland’s taxi. Looking out his window Nathaniel saw Roland lurch out the cab and stumble across the drive like a recently tranquilised tiger.

He hurried downstairs and found that Roland had already burst through the unlocked door and was proceeding to tear down Nathaniel’s decorations.

“Roland what on earth…”.

Roland swung around wildly, his eyes bleary and red.

“You”, he spat. “You pathetic, provincial…” with every word he took a step forward “…piece of shit”, he was almost breathless with venom, “Who flounces around with flowers like a woman…” He was so close now Nathaniel was sprayed with spittle and could smell his cognac-breath “… acts like a woman… you should be ashamed of yourself”

“Roland please, let’s talk tomorrow. I need…”

“Shut up!” Barked Roland “Just shut up! You make me sick. You’re nothing but a pathetic little spider in a little town, who likes to spin your little webs and catch pathetic little flies”. Roland’s nose was now touching Nathaniel’s and their eyes were locked.

“Well enjoy your pathetic life” Roland whispered, before trying to kiss him. Nathaniel pulled away instinctively. Roland began to laugh, a slow hacking laugh which subsided into a cruel sneer. Suddenly, he shoved Nathaniel, sending him crashing into the wall. He stood panting, casting his shadow over the quivering Nathaniel. Months could have passed.

“She’s dead” Roland eventually intoned and soberly made his way out into the dark night, the slow crunch of his strides slowly fading to nothing.

The wounded Nathaniel plunged into his garden. Overcome with rage, he strode through his flowerbeds and collapsed onto his marigolds, writhing in the agony of Roland’s words, mewing for his mother, praying that she could save him from his pain like she used to. Steadily, the vigour of his movements diminished until he was laid still and dishevelled amidst the devastated marigolds. As he panted, inhaling the perfume of his destruction and calming steadily, the ground began to feel warm beneath him and he sensed a heartbeat within the earth. He felt the stalks of the flowers begin to move against him, slithering up his arms, and winding around his wrists and ankles. As he sunk, he closed his eyes in acceptance.

*

As the sun rose, its fingertips crept through the garden and tickled the unblemished marigold patch, which twinkled in response, thick and vibrant with life. As they reached beyond the yellow tides, they met with a new sensation; a deep crimson light came to life against their touch – against a shimmering ocean of blood red marigolds, grown overnight.