Chelsea Mansions

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The grey-haired man made his way slowly through the crowd, frowning with concentration, careful not to spill the two plastic flutes of champagne. A band was playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan on the sunlit lawn ahead, surrounded by hundreds of people sitting on white plastic seats. It took him a moment to make out his friend among them.

‘Here we are,’ he said, handing her a precious drink and sinking with a sigh of relief onto the seat beside her.

‘Dear Emerson.’ She smiled at him, noticing the flush on his face. ‘Was there a huge line?’

‘Not when they saw the prices. These cost more than our flights.’

She patted his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I think you’ve had enough of this, haven’t you?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me. We’ll stay as long as you want.’

‘I’ve had a wonderful day, but my feet are getting tired and I’d be happy to wander back.’

He nodded, hiding his relief. He’d seen more than enough blooms to last the rest of his lifetime. A kind of numbness had set in somewhere inside the vast central marquee in front of yet another spectacular cascade of white or pink or purple flowers, and the rising temperature and crowd numbers had made him feel increasingly uncomfortable.

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