Portrait of a Young Woman, told by the flowers on her table

She was beautiful. That was what he told her when he handed me over: “You’re beautiful. I love you. Take these flowers as a symbol of my affection.”

All in a day’s work for her, I suppose; breaking hearts and mending them with the same smile. But, to her credit, she took one look at me and gave some genuine thanks.

“They’re gorgeous!” she exclaimed, rightfully so, “Let me go and find some water and a vase - oh, Edgar, you shouldn’t have, really, you know I can’t accept-”

Here the dashing Edgar decided to interject his own opinion, as most men tend to do whenever a woman is speaking.

“And I can’t accept your refusal to Ms Wolloughby’s dance on Friday.”

“Oh, Edgar,” she said again, in that same reprimanding-yet-caring voice, not unkind at all, and with just enough warmth to keep them panting after her. I don’t think she means to have quite the effect that she does, but surely she must be somewhat aware of the way she has them feeling. “Oh, Eddie, I told you, I’m going with Susie. I couldn’t possibly stand her up - you know how important it is to have female allies in this world.”

That’s what she called them, ‘female allies’.

She did eventually manage to persuade Edgar out of the doorway and on his way back to his own house with the promise of an invitation to dinner. She then sauntered over to the coffee table and carefully placed me in a tall, thin glass. It was soothing, to have the water around me again, though it only really slowed down the inevitable. But she admired me, and that restored my confidence in my good looks a little.

“There, some water for you, darling,” she said, and her voice was much deeper and richer when she was alone. She ran an absent finger through one of her curls. “I do wish Edgar would take no for an answer. I love flowers - he knows this - but I don’t love him. But I feel ever so guilty when he tries to be so nice about it. Oh, perhaps I should set him up with Mabel, perhaps get him away for a bit. And Mabel is so lovely, a really beautiful girl, she’ll treat him right of course…”

She trailed off quite naturally as though the thoughts flowed more easily through her head when they were silent. She sat back against the sofa, legs crossed delicately, hair splayed against a cushion. Between her slender fingers she twirled the half-moon pendant of her necklace absent-mindedly. Her lips were slightly open, parted just a fraction, and even though I didn’t have heightened touch-receptors, I fancied I could feel her breath as it brushed out of them. For a few moments she was the picture of tranquil beauty, like some priceless oil painting of some Grecian goddess who had been wronged and was very tragically melancholy but brave about the whole situation.

Then another knock at the door, and she shot up out of her trance and smoothed the silky fabric of her skirts. She waited a few seconds, though, and stroked one of my leaves which, I am ashamed to say, was going a tad yellow around the edges.

“Susie!” she said when she finally worked up the courage to open the door, and she threw her arms around the young woman who stood on the other side of it. This was clearly a usual greeting between the pair, for the aforementioned Susie responded by melting into her embrace as though these were two fundamental elements who were always destined to combine.

She led Susie to the sofa to show me off, and Edgar’s name was not mentioned once. The two women did not let go of each others’ hands.

“I can’t wait for Friday,” Susie said, now bringing her free hand up to gently touch my lady’s face in a caress so intimate that, had I eyes, I may have looked away.

They continued in this vein for some time, whispering sweetness that was only acceptable when there was no-one in the room but the two of them - and me, of course, but who will listen to the testimony of a few pretty flowers?

Besides, I was already starting to wilt.