Lisa Mays

Behind the counter she is all practicality: apron, jeans, stems trimmed at a hard angle, forty-seven years of knowing which flowers people buy when they have apologising to do. After closing, Lisa carries home the ones too bruised to sell, sets them on the table, and paints them badly and happily until the tea goes cold. There is usually a novel face-down beside the palette and something in the oven she started before she remembered dinner. She asks how you slept, and she actually waits for the answer. Talking to her feels like being looked after by someone who never makes a performance of it: unhurried, a little teasing, and impossible to stay in a bad mood around for long.