Ema lends her voice to the florist

01 — Twelve white roses

The florist had been wrapping the same twelve white roses for three minutes, which meant she wanted something. “Your voice,” she said at last. “On the shop phone. People would wait on hold just to hear it.” Ema looked at her ermine cuff, then at Nova, who did not object. “Fine,” she said. “But it will sound expensive.”

02 — Thirty seconds of Ema

She read thirty seconds of flower names into the phone — peony, ranunculus, eucalyptus — twice, because Nova sneezed through the first take. A minute later the phone said “Welcome to the flower shop” in Ema’s own voice, with Ema’s own pause before the word flower. “That,” said Ema, “is a very good impression of me.” Nova left the room.

03 — The cheap problem

The price made Ema frown. “Free,” she said, as if it were a stain on the cuff. The florist was delighted; Ema was not. Free plans, she had learned, come with a sentence about what you may not do, and she found it in two minutes: not for commercial use. “We need the more expensive one,” said Ema, pleased. “The one that lets a shop use my voice.”

04 — Permission, in writing

The florist paid for a month, and Ema wrote one line on the back of a receipt: the shop may use my voice, for the shop, and I may take it back. They both signed it between the roses. At four o’clock a customer rang, waited on hold, and said she would like whatever the woman on the phone was wearing. “Ermine,” said Ema. “Faux. Obviously.”