The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop: The feel-good romantic comedy to read in 2018
Tracy Corbett
The summer romance novel everyone is talking about!Evie is busy running the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop and praying for an uplift in sales as soon as possible. She might be in the market of selling romance, but for Evie a new man is the last thing she needs!That is until plumber Scott Castillo turns up to fix her boiler. She’s definitely not interested. But then, why does she keep ogling his rather attractive forearms? She’s been fooled before - she isn’t about to fall head-over-heels for some smooth-talker, right?When he isn’t trying to balance paying the bills with caring for his sick mother, Scott has stepped in to help parent his 18-year-old nephew, Ben. Between that and working full time Scott doesn’t have time for romance. Until he meets Evie…Love doesn’t always bloom the way you expect but for the customers of the Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop it might just be the perfect time for romance…This is the perfect read for fans of Lucy Diamond and Rachael Lucas.
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop
TRACY CORBETT
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Published by AVON
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2017
Copyright © Tracy Corbett 2017
Tracy Corbett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © July 2017 ISBN: 9780008221928
Version: 2018-08-17
For my wonderful family, who always believed that one day my dream would come true.
Contents
Cover (#u2ef346e5-a3c6-5e93-9936-aa3aaee750a7)
Title Page (#uff7475bb-7332-5197-9780-123edc0bb23b)
Copyright (#u5d2f9ab4-804f-5f82-b2a0-f8a31630202d)
Dedication (#ue1fb3719-7b32-52e4-84d8-4af3a6070546)
Chapter One: Friday, 14 February (#u0f428e95-1168-578d-ba50-13ed5e8c0c0b)
Chapter Two: Tuesday, 18 February (#udedda200-6954-59d8-afd3-15ba8d3757d3)
Chapter Three: Tuesday, 18 February (#ucf56618b-e871-55cc-abea-af983ba085d3)
Chapter Four: Saturday, 22 February (#u2f218551-e3b9-522b-a324-354fc1e6eb41)
Chapter Five: Monday, 24 February (#ue96b4c15-0199-5b58-9dca-dbdb73272dee)
Chapter Six: Wednesday, 26 February (#uf34dabd0-8fa2-55b8-8acf-7d079ae0ff12)
Chapter Seven: Friday, 28 February (#u6109c536-13da-5e5d-9ab9-8ffb8a0068aa)
Chapter Eight: Saturday, 1 March (#ud006e753-8d8c-5814-bfcd-766e7770a218)
Chapter Nine: Sunday, 2 March (#u20edd2ce-d8b0-58a0-8a47-f14a6d5009e9)
Chapter Ten: Tuesday, 4 March (#ueef82d87-b7fe-58fe-8963-f366ff1d3536)
Chapter Eleven: Thursday, 6 March (#u814872d4-666e-5c90-84a2-3f5182af0949)
Chapter Twelve: Saturday, 8 March (#u666016d5-8fed-5a34-a16f-b076c3a21121)
Chapter Thirteen: Tuesday, 11 March (#ud706a75f-69c8-578a-9156-86b82aa72854)
Chapter Fourteen: Monday, 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen: Saturday, 5 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen: Saturday, 12 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen: Saturday, 12 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen: Monday, 14 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen: Monday, 14 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty: Monday, 14 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One: Friday, 25 April (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Thursday, 1 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Tuesday, 6 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four: Thursday, 8 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five: Thursday, 8 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six: Saturday, 10 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Friday, 16 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Friday, 16 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Friday, 16 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty: Saturday, 17 May, 12.15 a.m. (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One: Tuesday, 20 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two: Thursday, 22 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three: Saturday, 24 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four: Saturday, 31 May (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five: Sunday, 1 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six: Monday, 2 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Wednesday, 11 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Thursday, 12 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Friday, 13 June, 5 p.m. (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty: Friday, 13 June, 5.30 p.m. (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One: Friday, 13 June, 6 p.m. (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two: Saturday, 14 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three: Sunday, 15 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four: Thursday, 19 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five: Wednesday, 25 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six: Thursday, 26 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven: Friday, 27 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight: Friday, 27 June (#litres_trial_promo)
Read an extract from The Summer Theatre by the Sea (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE (#uaff43871-308d-5d9b-844a-0bd339fefdc3)
Friday, 14 February (#uaff43871-308d-5d9b-844a-0bd339fefdc3)
‘It’s a wonderful life!’ the poster in the adjacent jeweller’s window boasted, displaying an array of pricey eternity rings mounted on velvety heart-shaped cushions.
Evie tried not to growl. It was a little hard to feel as though things were ‘wonderful’ when your ex-boyfriend had made your life so utterly miserable you’d had to up sticks and move area just to preserve your sanity. It was even harder to believe life was ‘wonderful’ when the rusty metal shutter on your shop front wouldn’t budge, causing a tirade of random expletives to fill the chilly morning air. But that was the reality of her situation and she just had to deal with it.
Evie rammed her shoulder against the slats, determined not to be outdone by a warped piece of aluminium. It was one thing to keep burglars out, it was quite another to deny the staff access, especially on the busiest day of the year.
Valentine’s Day was both a blessing and a curse. Although she was guaranteed to be busy, with a multitude of sales and a much-needed boost to her limited funds, it was also a day that required a good deal of pretending. As a florist, Evie was in the business of ‘selling romance’. It wouldn’t do to be cynical and bitter. She had to smile, radiate happiness and ensure that The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop was the place to buy your loved one the perfect Valentine’s gift.
The shutter finally relented, dislodging a blanket of snow from the wooden awning and sending it showering down on top of her. For a moment she stood there, shuddering as the sensation of wet crept down the back of her neck. Not the best start to the day.
Despite the inconvenience of an overnight snowstorm, the shop front looked like a picture postcard. The leaded bay window arching onto the quaint high street looked almost Dickensian with its frosted glass front and icicle topping. Whatever else in her life sucked, the little business opportunity that had landed in her lap was indeed ‘wonderful’.
When she’d made the decision to leave Surrey – in the hope that moving area would finally convince her ex their relationship was over – Evie had had no idea where she’d end up. She just knew she had to get away. It was only a chance viewing of an advert in the local paper that had led her to Heatherton.
The previous owner of The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop had found love in the guise of a Texan realtor and wanted someone to take over the management of her business whilst she decided whether or not to permanently settle in the US. Evie had often dreamt of owning her own florist’s, so this was an ideal opportunity, and Kent suited her just fine. Heatherton was a mixture of old-world cottages and historic interest with new-build development and a decent shopping centre. Small enough that she didn’t feel overwhelmed, big enough to feel anonymous. The perfect place to start afresh.
Her only hope was that Diana Smart wasn’t in any rush to sell. Evie needed time to make a profit and build up enough capital to make a business loan viable. She doubted any bank manager in their right mind would lend her the required funds in her present state of financial fragility.
Pushing open the front door, she was greeted by the familiar aroma of cut flowers. The air inside was almost as chilly as out. Within twenty seconds she’d started sneezing. Her hay fever never seemed to abate, no matter what the weather, which was highly annoying.
Despite the icy weather, it shouldn’t have been quite so cold inside. She checked her watch. Just after seven. The heating should have come on by now. She touched the radiator, fearing the worst. The pilot light must have gone out again.
Sighing, she went over to the boiler and gave it a smack. Nothing happened. Great. Just what she needed. Snow outside and no hot water or heating. The flowers wouldn’t object, but it would certainly make working conditions grim.
Delving inside the cramped cubbyhole under the sink, she dug out her padded body warmer and slipped it on over her fleece. Glancing down at her faded combats and boring trainers, she felt like the Michelin Man, all lumps and bumps. There was a time when she wouldn’t have chosen such non-descript clothing but now she owned nothing else. Well, apart from her collection of unusual shoes. Kyle might not have appreciated her love of novelty footwear, but he was no longer around to object, was he? Maybe it was time for her shoes to make a reappearance. She was tired of looking drab. Her wardrobe of army surplus gear and cheap sports attire was practical, but it did nothing for her self-esteem, or her figure, for that matter. No one would guess she was a size ten beneath all the layers.
The wholesaler’s van pulled up outside, preventing her from researching a local plumbing firm. She spent the next fifteen minutes helping to unload the array of roses and lilies into the shop, struggling to make room for all the varieties of bloom on the limited floor space and grumbling about the inflated prices. January had been a slow month. Other than a depressing increase in funerals there hadn’t been much other custom. Coupled with the impact of the big supermarkets undercutting her prices, her profit margins were taking a hit. More than ever she needed Valentine’s Day to be a success. Forget romance. This was about survival.
By seven thirty The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop was awash with colour, full to the brim with buckets of flowers, both inside and out. Eager to attract the morning commuters, she opened the doors early, trying to tempt any passers-by to call in and part with their cash.
Consequently, she’d already sold half a dozen bouquets, devoured two cups of lemon and ginger tea and had a book full of deliveries scheduled before the brass bell above the door chimed, announcing the arrival of her assistant. Saffy wasn’t a big fan of mornings, so Evie was greeted with about as much enthusiasm as a vampire welcoming the dawn.
‘Morning, Saffy.’
Evie was acknowledged with the usual dismissive wave of Saffy’s black-fingernailed hand as she passed through the shop front in search of caffeine.
‘Doesn’t the snow look gorgeous?’
There was a loud bang from the kitchen.
Apparently not.
Saffy might only be nineteen, but she was way beyond her years in terms of life experience. Her dad had walked out when she was ten years old and her mum had bounced from one relationship to another looking for the happy ever after, never quite finding it. Determined not to follow in her mother’s footsteps, Saffy was currently holding down three part-time jobs. Her goal was to attend university and ensure financial self-sufficiency. No way was she going to rely on a man to support her. Evie felt tolerating Saffy’s moody persona was the least she could do. And besides, underneath the surly sarcasm was a complex, vulnerable girl. Others might be wary of her angsty exterior, but Evie wasn’t. The goth clothing, long black hair and dramatic eye make-up was a mask, a way of keeping people at arm’s length. Evie understood this more than most.
Saffy appeared from the kitchen, her tattooed hands clasping a Minnie the Minx coffee mug. She leant against the wall, one booted foot crossed over the other, a scowl set firmly in place.
‘Sorry it’s so cold. The boiler’s playing up again.’ Evie rubbed her hands together, trying to restore blood flow. ‘I’ll get someone in as soon as possible.’
Saffy shrugged. ‘No drama. I’d rather be here than at home watching Mum swoon over Barry the Banker.’
Suffice to say, Saffy wasn’t the biggest fan of her mum’s latest beau.
‘How are the wedding plans coming along?’ Evie asked.
A scowl darkened Saffy’s brow. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘It’s not like it’ll last. Did I tell you he’s twelve years younger than she is?’
Evie nodded. ‘Sometimes an age gap can be a good thing. You never know, maybe this time it’ll work.’
Saffy snorted. ‘Don’t hold your breath.’
When the doorbell chimed, Evie looked up to see a nervous-looking young man enter the shop. He hesitated before coming inside. First-timer. You could always tell. Evie gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Can I help you?’
He shoved his hands inside his pockets. ‘I wanna get my girlfriend flowers.’
Evie smiled. Who said romance was dead? ‘Do you know what she likes?’
His face creased into a frown. ‘Er … No.’
Evie headed over. ‘Roses are always well received.’ She gestured to the array of blooms covering the floor space. ‘As you can see, we have a variety of colours. The mauve Admiral Rodneys are my favourites, but they’re all delightful.’
He glanced around before nodding at one of the buckets. ‘Those red ones?’
Evie smiled. ‘Gorgeous, aren’t they? They’re called Deep Secret.’
Saffy tutted and muttered ‘Typical’ under her breath.
Evie shot her a glare.
He pointed to the pink floribunda instead, glancing at Saffy to gauge her approval. Her non-committal shrug seemed to appease him.
‘Sexy Rexy.’ Evie picked up the bucket. ‘Excellent choice. I’m sure your girlfriend will love them. Would you like them wrapped?’
His face coloured, matching the intensity of the rose petals. ‘No … thanks.’ He dug out a crumple of notes from his pocket. ‘How much?’
‘Twelve pounds for six stems. Twenty-two pounds for two bunches.’
He shoved fifteen quid at her as though they’d just partaken in an illegal drug transaction and grabbed the flowers. ‘Keep the change.’
‘I hope your girlfriend likes them,’ Evie called after him as he exited the shop.
Saffy sniffed. ‘Cliché, or what?’
Evie turned to her assistant. ‘May I remind you, I’m trying to run a business? Could you be a little more …’
Saffy raised an eyebrow. ‘What? Insincere?’
‘Encouraging. It takes a lot of nerve to buy flowers.’
Saffy looked perplexed. ‘Why? They’re only flowers.’
‘Maybe, but they carry meaning. That shouldn’t be taken lightly.’
‘Men are only after one thing. Once they’ve got it, they’re gone. Flowers or no flowers.’
Evie sighed and handed Saffy a bucket of golden Belle Epoque. ‘Cut the stems, please, they need a drink.’
Saffy took the bucket over to the sink. ‘I know the feeling.’
Evie tried to remember how it felt to be nineteen. She was only twenty-eight herself, but being a teenager felt like a lifetime ago. Unlike Saffy, she’d been a ‘believer’ at that age, unaware of the pitfalls of love. Her parents might have divorced when she was young, but Evie had entered adulthood relatively unscathed. Poor Saffy had experienced nothing but disappointment her entire life. Her views on relationships were based on watching her mum rely on shady men with empty bank accounts. But maybe Saffy was the lucky one. If Evie had been a little more streetwise she might have seen the signs earlier and not allowed the one serious relationship she’d had to deteriorate to such an extent that she’d lost all confidence and self-esteem.
The sound of the bell tinkling dragged her thoughts back to the present.
Standing in the doorway was another young guy, this one with the looks and confidence of someone who knew they’d won the lottery in terms of genetics, but had the good grace not to be arrogant.
Saffy dumped the half-cut flowers in the sink and went over to serve him.
‘Cool hat,’ he said, pointing to her knitted black beret.
Saffy shrugged, but the compliment seemed to thaw her a little. ‘How can I help you?’ She glanced over at Evie as if to say, ‘See? I can do polite.’ But her smile instantly faded when the bell chimed again and Josh from the local funeral firm came in to collect a pre-ordered wreath. Her sharp blue eyes stared at him with a mixture of venom and warning.
The poor guy had done nothing obviously wrong, as far as Evie knew, other than to show an interest in Saffy – something Saffy hadn’t taken kindly to.
‘Hey there, Saffy.’ As always, Josh remained completely unperturbed by her frosty demeanour. ‘Nice hat.’
‘That’s what I said,’ remarked Saffy’s customer.
Saffy looked between the two young men, her expression conflicted. She clearly wanted to be rude, as discussions about her appearance were never welcome, but she fought the urge and turned her attentions to her customer. ‘So, Dream Lover or Dusky Maiden?’ She gestured towards the buckets of red floribunda on the floor.
‘Which do you prefer?’ He examined both. ‘They’re for a special occasion. Big date. You’re a girl, which do you like?’
Evie caught Saffy’s eye, sending her a note of warning: Keep your opinions on love to yourself.
Saffy took a deep breath, seeming to steel herself. ‘Either would be perfect, in my opinion. Red roses are, after all, the symbol of love.’ Even though she managed to say this without any note of sarcasm, it didn’t stop Josh from laughing.
Ignoring Saffy’s glare, he headed out back with Evie to collect the large spray of white lilies ordered for a funeral later that day.
‘One day she’ll succumb to my charms,’ Josh said, handing Evie a purchase order.
Don’t hold your breath, Evie thought, channelling Saffy’s view on her mother’s relationship with Barry the Banker. But then she chastised herself. Just because she’d been bruised by the after-effects of a bad experience, she had no right to project that negativity onto others. It wasn’t fair. Josh was young, starting out in life, oblivious to the perils of love. And although she seriously doubted Saffy was going to overcome her aversion to men anytime soon, Evie would be happy to be proved wrong. There was no reason for both women to be down on love, was there?
Evie helped Josh pick up the heavy display of flowers, saddened by the fact that even on Valentine’s Day someone was being buried.
Josh admired the array of oriental lilies. ‘Cheers for doing this. The family weren’t up to organising flowers.’
‘I didn’t mind. It was thoughtful of you to help them out.’ It still confounded Evie that someone so young had chosen such a morbid profession. But Josh seemed made for easing the trauma of grief. He was tall and gangly with an antiquated sense of style. Frock coats and top hats weren’t normal attire for his generation, but somehow he carried it off. Evie guessed there weren’t many professions that catered for teenage emos. Burying people had to be one of them.
As Josh strode back though the shop, his black tailcoat flapping behind him, he nodded towards the large yellow hybrid tea roses. ‘I’d go for something a little less obvious myself.’ He glanced at Saffy, grinning in response to her scowling expression. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’
The young guy nodded, his apprehension evident. ‘Er, yeah, I guess so.’
Saffy poked her tongue out at Josh and picked up the yellow roses. ‘It’s the name of the flowers, Isn’t She Lovely. He wasn’t talking about me.’
The young guy looked relieved. ‘Oh, right. Yeah, I get it. Not that you’re not lovely – I mean, you are, it’s just …’ His olive skin covered most of his blush.
Josh reversed out the door, grinning. ‘Bye, Saffy. See you soon.’
Saffy ignored him.
Flustered, the young guy pulled out his wallet. ‘A bunch of those would be great.’
Evie shook her head. Her assistant’s interactions with Josh were entertaining, if not ideal customer service. Part of her wished Saffy would stop batting Josh away and take a chance on the guy. But then Evie reminded herself that she wouldn’t take kindly to someone telling her who to love, so she should butt out. Some wounds ran too deep to be overcome, even by someone as sweet as Josh.
While Saffy began wrapping the yellow roses by the sink, Evie headed for the counter. She settled in front of the computer, determined to find a plumber.
As if in protest, the pipes running along the ceiling started clanking.
Saffy looked over, but Evie waved away her concerns. ‘It’s just air in the system.’
The frequency and volume of banging increased.
Saffy encouraged her customer to make a speedy retreat. ‘Er, I don’t like to worry you, boss, but …’
The boiler started clicking. This was a new development. It sounded like the old-fashioned grandfather clock Evie’s dad had inherited from his father … click click click … It was like that moment in the films when the timer on a bomb is ticking down and the hero only has sixty seconds to save the world – or in this case Valentine’s Day.
Evie mentally slapped herself. ‘Stop being so bloody dramatic.’
Saffy looked affronted. ‘Charming.’
‘Not you – me.’ Evie held up a hand. ‘I was talking to myself.’
The banging stopped.
Evie waited. No explosion.
Panic over. For now.
Returning to the computer, she searched for local plumbers. She needed an urgent call-out before the system packed up completely and started leaking. She could not afford to close, not today, not on the most romantic day of the year.
Romantic, my arse.
CHAPTER TWO (#uaff43871-308d-5d9b-844a-0bd339fefdc3)
Tuesday, 18 February (#uaff43871-308d-5d9b-844a-0bd339fefdc3)
An almighty thump from the bedroom prevented Scott from walking out of the door. He paused, waiting for further noises or cries of help to emerge, but none came. He had a job booked at a local florist’s this morning and he really needed to leave. The woman was already pissed off with him, unimpressed at having to wait four days for a call-out, so being late wouldn’t go down well. But guilt rooted him to the spot. It was no good, there was no way he could walk out without knowing if there was a problem.
Dropping his tool bag on the floor, he went over and knocked on his mum’s bedroom door. ‘Everything okay in there?’
There was a pause before the door opened. His mum’s nurse stood there, pristine in her blue uniform, her cheerful smile in place as always, no matter the challenge.
Scott tried to look past her. ‘I heard a bang. Is Mum all right?’
Oshma ushered him into the room. ‘Yes, yes, we’re fine. But we could do with a hand, couldn’t we, Billie?’ Oshma always included his mum in any conversation, despite her lack of reply.
His mum was perched awkwardly on the side of the bed, her wheelchair upturned. He went over and eased her off the bed, holding her steady as she sagged against him. Losing the use of two of your limbs made it hard to hold your own body weight, so even with the use of her right side, it was difficult for his mum to stand, let alone manoeuvre herself around.
She managed a smile, one corner of her mouth rising, the other remaining frozen. She mumbled something, but he couldn’t make out what.
‘I know you need to get off, Scotty, love.’ Oshma fussed around, bending to pick up the wheelchair. ‘But if you could help me get her into the shower, I’d be very grateful. I’m all fingers and thumbs this morning.’ Her face winced as she righted the wheelchair, leading Scott to the conclusion that Oshma’s back was playing up again. ‘Nothing like a nice shower, is there, Billie?’
Scott lowered his mum into the chair and wheeled her through to the wet room.
He didn’t mind helping. But if he was honest, he was still struggling to come to terms with how his life had changed in the last two years. One minute he was holding down a promising job with a big plumbing firm in London, engaged to the girl of his dreams and buying his first home, and the next he was giving notice on his job, splitting up with Nicole and relocating to care-assisted housing in Kent. It was a lot to get his head around.
Oshma turned on the shower and unfastened the buttons on Billie’s nightie. ‘Let’s get you undressed, shall we?’
Scott looked the other way, trying to be respectful. He couldn’t imagine it was fun having everyone stare at your broken body. He usually left the intimate bits to Oshma, figuring this was preferable than having your son do it. He busied himself by fetching towels from the airing cupboard.
‘Let’s get a move on, shall we,’ he heard Oshma say. ‘Let Scotty get off to work.’
With no husband to support her it had fallen to Scott to look after Billie. And it was the right thing to do, despite its difficulties. After all, his mum had done the same for him and his sister when their dad had been killed in a motorbike accident aged thirty-four. She’d had to pick up the pieces and dig deep. It was his turn now. He had to show some mettle. But it wasn’t without a price.
Two years ago his life had been all about him. Five-a-side footy on a Sunday, holidays abroad, saving for a convertible. He’d socialised with mates, ate out at nice restaurants and enjoyed a disposable income. Now his days were spent organising Billie’s medical needs, tending to her care requirements and, thanks to his sister, playing guardian to his eighteen-year-old nephew. He was exhausted, suspended in a constant state of worry. But his mum didn’t need to know that. He couldn’t let his frustrations show. She deserved better.
He checked his watch, it was just gone 9 a.m. He was officially late. The woman at the florist’s wouldn’t be happy. Tough. She’d just have to wait a bit longer to get her boiler fixed. Family came first.
At least setting up as self-employed eased the burden of constantly taking time off work, if not his on-going issues with paperwork.
As he headed for the bathroom, Ben’s bedroom door opened. His nephew appeared carrying his new tablet. ‘I thought you’d left?’
‘Oshma needed a hand with Nanny. I think her back’s playing up again. How’s the gadget?’
Ben’s face broke into a grin. ‘It’s got so many cool apps. Did you know it’s currently twenty-nine degrees in Bangalore?’
Scott smiled. The device hadn’t been cheap, but his nephew worked hard at school and all the kids seemed to have tablets these days. He hadn’t wanted Ben to lose out by not having one. ‘I hope you’re getting some homework done.’
Ben laughed. ‘Chill, Uncle Scott. School is sorted. Need a hand with Nanny?’
On cue, the shower switched off. Before Scott could respond, Ben took the towel from him and headed into the bathroom. Scott often wondered who the adult was in their relationship and who was the kid. Still, he was grateful Ben was so mature. Parenting him otherwise might be far more challenging than it was.
Scott went into the bathroom. Between them they lifted Billie out of the chair so Oshma could dry her.
‘Guess what, Nan? I’ve subscribed to Netflix on my tablet. That means we can download films directly onto the TV without needing the DVD. Cool, huh?’
Billie nodded her agreement, although it was hard to tell how much she understood. She mumbled something Scott didn’t catch. Ben laughed and said, ‘Already ahead of you. Gladiator is downloading as we speak.’
Scott was hit by another pang of guilt. He shouldn’t assume Billie’s brain was affected; it was only her body that betrayed her.
‘“My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North.”’ Ben’s impersonation of Russell Crowe made his nanny laugh. ‘“And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.”’
There was no doubt in Scott’s mind that Ben would indeed be commander of his own destiny. Luckily the kid had inherited his mother’s aptitude for study and didn’t have his uncle’s flawed intelligence. Scott had always struggled at school, unlike his sister, who’d aced her exams, gaining straight As in fourteen subjects before falling pregnant at sixteen following a drunken fumble at a school disco. But Lisa hadn’t let one mistake hold her back and, thanks to their mum, had achieved her goal of venturing into the world of academia. As a consequence, Ben’s progress had been mostly down to Billie, not his sister. Lisa had been working abroad since Ben was eleven, her career teaching applied mathematics far more important than playing mum. Something that still pissed Scott off.
Ensuring the brake was engaged on the wheelchair, Scott lowered his mum into a sitting position, lifting her lifeless leg onto the footrest. ‘You smell nice, Mum.’
Using her good hand, she reached out and stroked his cheek.
Billie had never moaned or resented her daughter for putting her career ahead of bringing up her son, but Lisa’s lack of involvement in either Ben or Billie’s life certainly infuriated Scott. Especially since the stroke. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d wanted to confront his sister, demand to know why he’d had to give up his life and sacrifice everything he’d worked for to become guardian and carer, whilst she got to continue enjoying her prestigious career. But history had shown that no amount of persuading or pleading impacted on Lisa, so in Bangalore she stayed, working in a field he couldn’t even comprehend. She’d got the brains, he’d inherited a heart. You couldn’t win them all.
As they wheeled Billie into the bedroom, Ben kept his nan entertained, updating her with news of his love life. ‘I’ve got a clip to show you of Amy, Nan.’ The kid had been struck by the thunderbolt of first romance. ‘I filmed one of her dance routines and posted it on YouTube.’ He grinned. ‘She’ll be on Strictly one day, you watch.’
Oshma wiped away a tear. ‘You’re a lucky woman, Billie, having such beautiful young men caring for you.’
Billie kissed Ben’s cheek.
Scott checked his watch, and then felt bad when Oshma caught him and started waving him out the room. ‘Go, go, we can manage from here.’
He hesitated, but Oshma was adamant, pushing him out the door. He sidestepped her, bending down to kiss his mum. ‘See you later. I won’t be late.’
She mumbled something like, ‘Don’t worry,’ but he did, constantly.
As he picked up his tool bag, Ben appeared in the lounge. ‘If you have time later can you help me with my UCAS application? I need a personal statement from someone who knows me.’
Scott felt an instant rush of panic. He couldn’t write his Ns the right way around, let alone write a personal statement, whatever one of those was. ‘Depends what time I get back. Write out what you want me to say and I’ll sign it.’
Ben looked disappointed, which made Scott feel like crap. He hated letting the kid down, but as writing a birthday card brought him out in a cold sweat, he wasn’t about to shame his nephew further by messing up his uni application.
‘Why don’t you search the net, see if you can find some examples and then we can use one as a template.’
Ben perked up. ‘Yeah, good idea. I’ll do that.’
Hopefully the kid would have sourced help elsewhere by the time Scott got home and he’d be off the hook. But for now he needed to get going. The bills kept piling up, and if he didn’t work, he didn’t earn. And they needed money, badly.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_bb78522a-bd23-5dff-93ca-a124509cde97)
Tuesday, 18 February (#ulink_bb78522a-bd23-5dff-93ca-a124509cde97)
Evie had always known being a florist was hard work, and normally she was up for the challenge, but this morning she was flagging and it was only nine thirty. Her back was aching from lifting buckets of flowers to change the water, and her hands were sore and numb from the cold. She wished the plumber would hurry up – he’d been due half an hour ago. Bloody unreliable tradesmen. It was bad enough he couldn’t come out last Friday when she needed him, but there was no excuse for being late today. Was it too much to ask that people showed up when they were supposed to? She was trying to run a business.
She stretched out her limbs, trying to loosen the muscles in her back. She hadn’t been running for a few days and was feeling it. Exercise seemed to be the only guaranteed way of keeping the stress at bay these days. She relied on her regular fix.
Needing a break, she brewed up a pot of herbal tea and sat down at the counter to check her emails. The snow had all but melted outside, but the frosty conditions were keeping people indoors today. Hopefully business would pick up as the day warmed up – assuming the flaming plumber deigned to show up and provide them with some heat.
She opened her inbox and scanned down the list of messages, looking for any orders or queries. At first she nearly missed it, but something in her brain must have registered the name, because she was drawn to a notification on Facebook.
Kyle Caplin wanted to be friends.
Was he serious? Shaking her head in disbelief, she declined the request. She’d been in Kent for almost a year and hadn’t heard from him. Foolishly, she’d started to believe he’d moved on. But it didn’t look that way. Or maybe this was his clumsy attempt at apologising, remorseful for all the hurt he’d caused. More likely he just wanted to keep track of her, check what she was doing and who she was doing it with. Well, tough. What she did with her life was no longer his concern.
Frustrated, she pushed her chair backwards, away from the irritation of Kyle, only to collide with something solid. Yelping in surprise, she spun around, fearful of finding Kyle standing in the shop, but it wasn’t her ex-boyfriend filling the space, it was a tall, dark – she refused to use the word handsome – handyman carrying a tool bag.
‘Jesus, you made me jump.’ He removed his woollen hat, running his hand through his mess of dark, wavy hair.
She’d made him jump? Defensiveness morphed into annoyance. ‘Well, if you will sneak up on people, what do you expect?’ She didn’t like people seeing her ruffled. Especially not men. Especially not attractive men.
‘I’m sorry, but I did ring the bell and knock twice.’ He placed his tool bag on the floor. ‘I’m Scott Castillo from Round the Bend Plumbing. I’ve come to fix your boiler.’
She ignored his outstretched hand. She wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m really sorry. I was delayed by a damsel in distress.’ He grinned, no doubt trying to win her over. ‘What can I say, I’m a man who likes to help women.’
Evie didn’t doubt it. He probably spent a good proportion of his life ‘helping’ women. She knew the type – she’d been involved with one. All smiles and flattery to begin with, until his victim succumbed, and then it was nothing but trouble. ‘Well, you can help this woman by fixing the boiler. The pilot light keeps going out.’ She walked towards the back of the shop, showing him where the water tank was.
He lifted the cover away from the boiler. ‘I’d love a coffee. I left without breakfast this morning.’ He subjected her to another of his smiles, no doubt meant to charm. She guessed it worked on most women. She wasn’t most women.
He picked up a screwdriver. ‘White, no sugar, please.’
Biting down the urge to shove his screwdriver somewhere painful, she headed into the kitchen and grabbed the dirtiest mug she could find. Shoving a tablespoon of coffee granules in it, she mixed it with three-day old milk, added sugar just to be spiteful and took it back out to him. ‘There.’ She slammed the mug down. ‘As per your order.’
He stared at the stone-cold concoction, no hint of boiling water.
She waited for his eyes to lift to hers. ‘If you’d wanted a coffee you should’ve brought one with you. I’m paying you to fix my boiler, not stand around drinking my profits.’
One of his dark eyebrows twitched. Was he trying not to laugh? ‘My apologies. I’ll get on with the repair.’
‘You do that.’ She left him to it. He was a distraction she didn’t need.
It was gone ten by the time Saffy arrived, having worked a late shift at the pub the night before. Dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing huge sunglasses and a beanie pulled down low over her head, pushing her blunt fringe into her eyes, she slumped into the shop, her bag dragging on the floor behind her. ‘I need caffeine,’ she said, heading into the kitchen.
The plumber looked up hopefully, but Saffy had already disappeared.
Evie was grateful for Saffy’s late start. It had allowed her time to recover from the shock of Kyle contacting her. Surely he wasn’t hoping they’d get back together? No one could be that deluded. At least, she hoped not. She would not allow Kyle contacting her to derail her from her goal of moving on with her life. She would ignore the message, delete it from her mind and pretend it never happened. Good plan.
But her rationale took a hit when Saffy jolted her from her thoughts by placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘Jesus! Don’t do that.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Saffy’s lip curled, Elvis-style. ‘Who’s the eye candy?’
‘The what?’ Evie’s gaze followed Saffy to where the plumber was working on the boiler. ‘Oh, him. Scott something, and I thought you were off men?’
Saffy shrugged, her face now free of sunglasses. ‘I am. Doesn’t mean I’m blind. And besides, I wasn’t thinking of me. He’s way too old. He’d do okay for you, though.’
Evie’s hands went to her hips. ‘Gee, thanks.’
Saffy tied her apron around her middle. ‘You’re welcome. I’ll go see if Scottie the Hottie needs an assistant.’
Scottie the … Evie watched Saffy saunter off. At least the plumber had one fan. He might be too old for Saffy, but he couldn’t be more than late twenties, and that was most definitely not old. Not by a long shot. Cheek of it.
Within five minutes Saffy was perched on the countertop next to Scott, handing him tools and chatting away like a smitten schoolgirl instead of the sullen teenager she was. Far from showing disinterest, the plumber was indulging Saffy in her tirade about her woeful parents, including her latest dealings with Barry the Banker.
‘He wears too much aftershave,’ Saffy said, pulling a face. ‘And he uses words like todger and goolies. I mean, what kind of pervert is he?’
The sound of Scott’s laugh did something strange to Evie’s insides, causing a shiver to run up her spine. The cold was getting to her, clearly. She needed to keep busy.
As Evie started to make up a funeral wreath, Saffy switched topics, easing from dysfunctional family matters to career aspirations and her plans to become a nurse. Scott nodded encouragingly. ‘I’m sure if you work hard enough you’ll achieve your goal.’ He sounded like a responsible parent rather than an unreliable tradesman.
Pleased with his answer, Saffy swung down off the counter. ‘For that you get a brew.’ She picked up the mug containing the results of Evie’s earlier strop. ‘Er, what happened here?’
Scott grinned. ‘I pissed off your boss.’
Saffy faked a gasp. ‘Oh, shit. You didn’t ask her for a drink, did you?’
He nodded.
Saffy shook her head. ‘Schoolboy error. Tradesmen never get drinks. They get above their station.’
Scott laughed. ‘My mistake.’
Evie ignored their collective laughter. Saffy might be fooled by his charming persona, but she wasn’t. She was older – as Saffy had kindly pointed out – and wiser. She’d been duped by a smooth-talking Lothario before and she wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it a second time.
Unfortunately, Scott chose that moment to look up, catching Evie staring at the muscles in his forearms. She turned away, unsure of why she’d been ogling.
The front door chimed and Martin Harper burst into the shop, accompanied by a chilly gust of wind. He looked harassed and a lot older than his thirty-something years. He didn’t even glance at the flowers, just strode over to Evie, briefcase swinging by his side. ‘I need a bouquet. Can you deliver today?’
Ignoring his brusque manner, Evie wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Hello, Martin. How are you?’
‘What? Oh, fine. Sorry, I’m in a rush. I need flowers for Laura’s birthday.’
Evie raised an eyebrow. Leaving it a bit late, wasn’t he? Evie couldn’t imagine it would help their marital difficulties if he had forgotten her friend’s birthday. ‘Certainly. What did you have in mind?’
He pulled out his wallet from the inside pocket of his pristine blue suit. Evie glimpsed a Savile Row label. ‘I don’t care. I just need them delivered today, whatever it costs.’
She opened the order book. ‘Would you prefer a basket or a hand-tied bouquet?’
‘Whatever. Just charge the flowers.’ He handed her an Amex card.
‘The bouquets come at different prices.’ She took his credit card. ‘Twenty-five pounds, thirty, forty—’
‘Forty.’
‘How about a lovely tied bouquet of irises, the birth flower of February, combined with some beautiful violet primroses and mixed foliage.’ Laura loved purple flowers. Something Evie felt Martin should know.
‘Sounds great.’ He wasn’t really listening.
‘Would you like to write a card?’
He shook his head. ‘Do it for me, I need to go.’ Not exactly going all out, was he? No wonder Laura was getting increasingly depressed.
Whilst Evie ran the credit card through the till, she nodded towards the selection of gift cards displayed on the counter. ‘Would you care to choose a design?’
‘I’m not fussed. Just write, “Happy Birthday, Laura. Love, Martin.”’ He punched in his PIN and extracted a business card from his wallet. ‘She’s at work today, deliver the flowers there.’ He replaced his wallet and straightened his jacket. ‘Do you need anything else?’
‘No, I have everything I need.’ She handed him his receipt. ‘The flowers will be delivered this afternoon. I hope Laura enjoys them.’
‘I hope so too. I don’t fancy sleeping in the spare bed.’ Without a backwards glance, he was gone.
Evie shook her head. She’d become good friends with Laura since moving to Heatherton, but Martin remained a mystery. He worked long hours and didn’t socialise with them much, so it was difficult to know whether he really was a grump or just stressed about his job. Poor Laura. Not much of a birthday for her.
Evie turned to find her assistant looking smug. ‘You were right, boss. Flowers carry meaning, as in “I’m a complete git and I forgot your birthday, darling.”’ She clutched her chest, faking a swoon. ‘What a touching sentiment.’ She then proceeded to mime throwing up in a bucket, making the plumber laugh.
‘Thank you, Saffy. Very insightful. Have you finished cutting those stems?’
Her assistant begrudgingly picked up a pair of secateurs.
The rest of the morning progressed without incident. Saffy went about her duties while Evie continued working on a funeral wreath. Occasionally, Evie glanced over at the sink to watch Scott fiddling with the water pipes. At one point, she thought she caught him checking her out, but she could’ve been wrong. It was probably just puzzlement. After all, she did have remnants of breakfast cereal staining the front of her apron.
By midday the boiler was fixed, much to Evie’s relief. Mostly because they needed hot water, but also so she could be rid of the plumber. ‘What’s the damage?’ she asked, getting out her purse.
He washed his hands in the sink. ‘Eighty-three pounds including VAT. I had to replace the thermocouple. I’m not sure how long it’ll last, it’s an old boiler. The whole thing might need replacing.’
This was not good news. She was trying to save up in case Diana decided to sell the business. News of her boiler’s impending doom sent her into a sneezing fit.
The plumber politely waited until she’d stopped. ‘Do you have a cold?’
She shook her head, fumbling for a tissue in her pocket. ‘Hay fever.’
He did that laugh again, the one that sent a shiver racing up her spine. ‘A florist with hay fever? That’s brilliant.’
‘Oh, yeah, hilarious.’ Like she hadn’t heard that one before. She opened her purse and paid him the money. ‘Can I have a receipt, please?’
He frowned, as if no one had asked him that before. ‘I’ll send you an invoice in the post.’ He picked up his tool bag and made for the door.
‘But can’t you write me out something to show I’ve paid?’
‘No need.’ He continued walking. ‘You can trust me.’
She doubted that very much.
‘I’ll see myself out. Call again if you need me.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she mumbled, channelling Saffy. As the door shut behind him she turned to her assistant. ‘Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him.’
Saffy went over to the window and watched him climb into his van. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I rather liked him.’
‘Come away from the window, we don’t want to encourage him.’
Saffy turned and looked Evie square in the eye. ‘You sure about that, boss?’
Evie felt a blush of heat on her cheeks. ‘Absolutely. Now get on with some work.’
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_eb85abf6-c9c9-5965-b8ff-502e073a4686)
Saturday, 22 February (#ulink_eb85abf6-c9c9-5965-b8ff-502e073a4686)
Laura could always sense when intervention was needed. It was partly why she was so good at her job, even if she did say so herself. The ability to read a person was an essential trait when selling wedding dresses. Brides weren’t just purchasing a dress, they were buying into the dream, creating a wondrous fairy tale that would export them into a romantic whirlwind of perfection. Weddings were about excess and style, accessories and glamour, the whole event organised with military precision, choreographed down to the last scented petal, ensuring the guests were left in spellbound awe, watching as the stunning bride and slightly stunned groom sailed away on a cloud of wistful bliss, their bank accounts empty, their hearts filled with love.
And then there were brides like Anita.
Laura moved her client through to the alcove at the side of the shop, behind the rails of pricey designer gowns, and opened the curtain with a dramatic swish, as if revealing the sparkling contents of Aladdin’s cave. ‘I think we might have what you’re looking for through here.’
With some hesitation, the woman followed. ‘I don’t want anything fancy. It’d be ridiculous at my age to turn up in one of those big frilly gowns. I just want something simple. You know, tasteful, appropriate for a woman in her fifties.’
Laura smiled. ‘I quite understand. Which is why we have a selection specifically designed for just such a requirement.’ She moved across to the rail of dresses. ‘At Truly Scrumptious we cater for all brides, including those looking for a more bespoke service; perhaps marrying for the second time, or simply wishing to have a more low-key occasion. Not everyone wants or can afford a huge whistles and bells production.’
The woman visibly relaxed. ‘Oh, I agree. We’d love to have a big do, but we just can’t afford it. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to find something within my budget.’
‘Then you’ve come to the right place.’ Laura lifted a dress off the rack, an ivory-coloured vintage design with lace overlay and belted waist. ‘This style proves very popular for the more mature bride. The knee-length cut and capped sleeves give it a less formal feel, yet the detail in the fabric and underlay skirting provides enough glamour and sophistication to give it impact.’ Laura waited for the woman to be seduced by the beauty of the dress before adding, ‘At seven hundred pounds, I think you’ll agree it’s very reasonably priced.’
When the woman coloured, Laura replaced the dress, moving on to the next rail.
‘However, our dresses start at one hundred pounds, rising to several thousand, so hopefully we have something for everyone.’
The woman edged towards the cheaper end of the rail. ‘It’s a simple ceremony, you see. Followed by a reception in our local village hall.’
Laura nodded. ‘Of course. But it is your wedding day, and you’ll be the star attraction. Don’t be too afraid to stand out.’ The woman’s expression indicated she hadn’t thought of that. ‘And if you don’t mind me saying, you have an amazing figure. Any of these retro designs would complement your frame perfectly, making you the envy of many women half your age.’
The woman coloured again.
Laura knew she was winning her over. ‘Why don’t I leave you to browse through the dresses at your leisure? Let me know when you find something you’d like to try on.’
‘Yes, thank you. I’d like that.’
Laura smiled. Another fish baited, hooked and reeled into her lair, primed for a sale. A relaxed and comfortable customer was much more likely to buy, Laura had learnt. If you evoked trust, created confidence and gave them the illusion of being in control, they would hand over their credit card. If you pushed too hard, they went elsewhere. All tricks Laura had mastered since setting up the business three years ago.
She turned up the volume on the love songs CD and pressed the wall-mounted perfumer, releasing a discreet waft of rose water into the air. ‘Can I tempt you to glass of fizz, Anita?’
‘Oh, no, I best not…’ And then she paused. ‘Actually, you know what, that would be lovely. After all, you only get married … twice.’ She laughed at her own joke.
Laura laughed along with her. ‘Excellent decision.’ She left the woman to it and headed into the kitchen to commence stage two of her carefully honed sales seduction technique.
Just because Laura had perfected the art of turning even the most difficult customer into a satisfied one, it didn’t mean she was mercenary. Far from it. She genuinely cared about her brides, wishing them every happiness on their special day. She just wanted them to be wearing one of her dresses when they said ‘I do’. Was that such a bad thing? She’d never sell someone a dress that wasn’t right for them, that was why she carried such an extensive range. It was a competitive market out there. She needed to be on her game to stay in business.
Not that she needed the money. Martin made enough to keep a roof over their heads, but that wasn’t the point. She needed something in her life to focus on, to challenge her, to bring out the romantic in her. And since her marriage no longer did that, running Truly Scrumptious helped to fill the void.
Laura removed the chilled bottle of Prosecco from the fridge.
Things had been so different eight years ago, when she’d first met Martin. Fresh out of university, his boyish charm and honey-coloured hair had provoked an immediate spark when he’d propositioned her in a Starbucks café, wooing her with frothy macchiatos and his plans for a career as a sports agent. He was vibrant and energised, with big hopes and a persuasive persona. She’d been charmed, entertained, and fallen in love before finishing her second coffee.
Opening the bottle of wine, Laura poured two large glasses, ignoring the fact that it was barely lunchtime and too early to be drinking. Catching sight of herself in the vanity mirror, she unclipped her long auburn hair, smoothed down the kinks and refastened the clasp. It wouldn’t do to look dishevelled.
Her striking appearance had been one of the things that had first attracted Martin. He loved her pale skin and long legs, his desire for her evident from the start. And she’d loved it. In those early days he’d been just as smitten as her, encouraging her dreams to become a fashion designer, promising her a world of adventure and spontaneity. And for the first few years that’s exactly what their life had been like. Moonlit picnics, floating down the Thames in a rowing boat looking at the stars, travelling to exotic destinations, existing on adrenaline and limited income. She’d never been happier.
In turn, Laura had supported Martin through his internship, holding down two jobs and giving up the opportunity to work in New York for a wedding dress designer so he could pursue his dream of becoming a sports agent. They’d married on a beach in Phuket and hitch-hiked their way through Vietnam and Thailand for their honeymoon. It was the stuff of dreams.
Laura took another slug of wine.
For the first couple of years, things had been great. But then Martin had become disillusioned with not being able to break through into his chosen career and had taken a job at a financial recruitment firm. It wasn’t all bad; the increase in income enabled them to buy their first home and when Laura took over the management of Truly Scrumptious things were pretty good. But then Martin’s job grew steadily more demanding, the hours increased and soon he was coming home tired and grumpy. They stopped going out during the week, and then at weekends, and then Martin’s work took him travelling without her and she became more and more fed up.
Laura contemplated how she socialised more with her friends these days than with her husband. It was a depressing thought. She carried the tray through to the alcove, her cheeks flushed from the wine.
She wouldn’t mind so much if the sex was still good, but even that had tailed off. There was a time when Martin couldn’t keep his hands off her. Now she was lucky to get a quickie before bedtime. If she didn’t make a move in the ten minutes before climbing into bed it was game over, Martin would be asleep before she’d even cleaned her teeth. Their sex life was no longer the stuff of dreams – it was in danger of fizzling out completely.
In her absence, Anita had been productive. Three dresses had been selected for trying on, including the retro dress that Laura had picked out.
Placing the tray on the distressed-finish side table, Laura handed the woman a glass of Prosecco. ‘Here we are, a little something to aid the task of dress hunting. I see you’ve made progress. Would you like to try them on?’
Anita nodded, sipping delicately at her wine. Unlike Laura, who’d downed her glass in two large gulps.
Laura carried the dresses through to the changing room. ‘Give me a shout when you need zipping up.’
Whilst she waited for Anita to change, Laura picked up the bouquet of flowers Martin had sent her for her birthday and carried them through to the kitchen. The primroses had lasted well, but the cut irises were wilting, bending low as if hanging their heads in shame. The petals were dry and withering, sapped of life and vibrancy. Kind of how she felt about her marriage.
Anita called out from the other room. ‘I’m ready.’
Dumping the flowers in the bin, Laura returned to her bride.
She found Anita wearing the retro dress, the ivory colouring a perfect complement to her skin tone. The woman stared at herself in the mirror, swishing one way and then the other, enchanted by the movement of the petticoats around her legs.
Laura fastened the zip, the nipped-in waistline enhancing the woman’s trim figure. ‘You look beautiful.’
Anita smiled self-consciously. ‘I do, don’t I?’
Laura nodded. ‘It’s perfect for you.’
A quick glance at the price tag, followed by a biting of the lower lip, preceded Anita announcing, ‘Sod the cost. I have to have it.’
Laura smiled. Things might not be great at home, but she was a frigging genius when it came to selling wedding dresses.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_a2546a9c-fdc3-55c4-838a-3a6b4cbc2a50)
Monday, 24 February (#ulink_a2546a9c-fdc3-55c4-838a-3a6b4cbc2a50)
Throwing his phone onto the bed in annoyance, Scott closed the bedroom door. He needed a moment to compose himself. Oshma’s back was playing up again. He wasn’t angry with her – it wasn’t her fault she had a dodgy disc – but it meant he’d have to rearrange his diary so he could look after Billie. Another day without income wasn’t a welcome prospect. He was struggling with the bills as it was. He rubbed his forehead, trying to dilute the frustration. He had two call-outs booked, both needing urgent attention. Cancelling was bound to send them elsewhere, losing him much-needed custom. But it wasn’t his mum’s fault. She needed him. He’d just have to suck it up.
Having sent apologetic texts to his customers, Scott masked his annoyance and went to tend to Billie. He found her in the kitchen being spoon-fed porridge by her attentive grandson. Her right arm was usually strong enough to grip a spoon, enabling her to feed herself, but some days her muscles were troubled by a weakness that rendered her virtually paralysed. Today was one of those days. It broke his heart to see her struggling.
Knowing she wouldn’t appreciate a fuss, Scott clapped his hands together. ‘Breaking news, guys. Oshma won’t be in today so you have me running the show.’ He planted a kiss on his mum’s cheek. ‘Lucky you, eh?’
The right side of her face creased into a frown, a questioning look in her eyes.
‘Her back is bad. She’s booked in to see the physio later. Hopefully she’ll be here tomorrow.’ Scott squeezed his mum’s shoulder, overriding any attempt to insist he go to work. ‘I didn’t have anything important booked for today. It’s no big deal to stay home.’
He doubted his mum bought his lie. Billie Castillo might have lost all manner of functions, but she hadn’t lost her radar for bullshit.
When a dollop of porridge landed on Billie’s dressing gown, Scott handed Ben a paper towel. ‘Besides, social services are visiting today to do an assessment. It’s best I’m around.’
Scott hated official visits. Not because he had anything to hide, but because the way they inspected everything, assessing his abilities to meet his mother’s care needs, always made him feel substandard. It was like being back at school when his English teacher used to humiliate him in front of the class because he refused to take notes. The woman had never grasped that he wasn’t being deliberately challenging, he just struggled to write things down. He hadn’t enjoyed being dumb. He’d much rather have been a smart-arse like his sister, but the genetics hadn’t worked out that way.
Scott made himself a coffee. ‘I thought you were on a study day?’ He tried to give Ben his best parental look, popping a slice of bread in the toaster.
‘I am.’ Ben held the straw to Billie’s lips so she could sip her tea. ‘I was up early. I’m on my first official break.’ He grinned at his gran. ‘Nanny and I are going to watch The Bourne Identity and discuss the merits of Matt Damon’s acting talents. Isn’t that right, Nan?’
Billie nodded, her love of films one of the few pleasures she hadn’t lost. It was a passion she’d passed on to her grandson.
Scott buttered his toast, doubting that Matt Damon had anything to do with Ben’s English curriculum but appreciating his nephew’s efforts to keep Billie stimulated. ‘Just make sure you get some studying done. I don’t want the school on at me because you’re falling behind.’
Ben laughed. ‘I’m on course for straight As, Uncle Scott. Chill, will you?’
There was nothing Scott would have liked more than to ‘chill’, but that wasn’t going to happen. He could barely remember a time when he wasn’t stressed or aggrieved by his situation. But for the sake of his mother and nephew, he didn’t let his anxiety show. He was just grateful that Ben had inherited Lisa’s aptitude for study and not his own shortcomings.
Ben wiped Billie’s mouth with the paper towel. ‘Big date tonight, Nanny. I’m taking Amy to Francini’s for dinner. We’re taking the train into Ashford after school.’
Scott wasn’t sure what a ‘big’ date involved. Should he be worried? When it came to women, Scott avoided offering Ben any kind of guidance. He was hardly an authority on romance. Look at what had happened with Nicole. One minute they were in love, buying their first home together, engaged to be married, and the next his mum was struck down by a stroke and everything had crumbled around him.
Finishing his coffee, he stacked the breakfast things in the sink. The resentment he felt about his situation hadn’t eased in the two years since everything had gone tits up. If anything, it had become worse. His mum was blameless, but the resentment he felt towards Nicole was different, fuelled by confusion and betrayal. In the initial weeks following Billie’s stroke she’d been supportive and caring, helping him with the multitude of tasks that had landed in his lap. But when Nicole realised he wasn’t about to place his mum in a care home, cracks had developed.
She’d argued that settling his mother in a home and sending a fifteen-year-old Ben to foster carers was the sensible thing to do. Scott didn’t see it that way. Billie and Ben needed him. In the absence of Lisa, he was their only family. There was no way he could abandon them.
The biggest shock came when Nicole broke off their engagement, claiming she wasn’t being ‘put first’. In that moment a small part of him had stopped loving her. Self-interest wasn’t an attractive quality. But most of him didn’t want her to leave. He needed her. It felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest. But if she’d truly loved him, she would have supported him, not given him an ultimatum.
There was never really any choice. Scott would never have chosen anything other than looking after Billie. So they split up. He moved to Kent, while Nicole stayed in the house they’d purchased together in Putney.
‘Is that okay, Uncle Scott?’
The sound of Ben’s voice broke through his thoughts. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Lisa’s allowance doesn’t hit my account until tomorrow. Can I borrow twenty quid? I don’t want to be caught short on my big date.’ His continued emphasis on the word ‘big’ rang alarm bells. But Scott wasn’t up for a birds and bees discussion with his nephew, who probably knew more than him anyway, so he dug out his wallet and gave Ben his last twenty-pound note.
‘You really need to make your mum’s money last the month,’ he said, trying to make a point, but knowing Ben would never call his mother anything other than Lisa. Or, if he was really pissed off with her, ‘that woman’. ‘Budgeting is an important lesson to learn.’
‘I know, and I wouldn’t normally ask, but I’m taking Amy on a—’
‘Big date, yeah, I heard.’ Scott sighed, once again feeling like he should be questioning the kid’s intentions a bit more, or at least mentioning the merits of using protection, but he chickened out. He was a terrible guardian.
Ben pocketed the cash. ‘I’ll pay you back tomorrow when I get my allowance.’
‘No need.’ Use it to buy condoms, he should’ve added, but didn’t, wimping out again.
‘Thanks, Uncle Scott. I’ll return the favour when you start dating again.’ The kid turned away before Scott could reprimand the cheeky blighter. ‘Come on, Nanny, let’s get you set up in front of the TV.’
Scott ruffled Ben’s hair as he wheeled Billie into the lounge. The kid was right though, he didn’t date. Nicole’s reaction to his mother’s stroke had left him wary of getting involved. He was better off sticking with casual hook-ups, rather than searching for ‘the one’.
Which was a shame, since he’d recently met someone who’d ignited his interest. The woman at the florist’s was just his type – a cute brunette with a curvy bum. He’d been mesmerised. Not just in a sexual way, but in a ‘I’d like to date you’ kind of way, which was not what he wanted, or could offer, so it was lucky she didn’t feel the same way.
Why was he thinking about a woman he’d only met once? Especially one who’d been less than enamoured with him. It was probably Ben’s talk of his ‘big date’, reminding him what he was missing out on. As if he needed any kind of reminder.
When social services knocked on the door shortly after eleven, all Scott’s insecurities resurfaced. The two women were nice enough, asking him how he was coping and making suitably sympathetic noises as they were shown around the adapted apartment, but Scott still felt like he was being interviewed, tested in some way, as though they didn’t quite think he was up to the task. This feeling was compounded when they walked into the lounge to find Ben re-enacting a scene from The Bourne Identity where Matt Damon rolls around the floor trying to disarm a rival agent with a bread knife. Add in Billie still wearing her nightclothes and a sink full of dirty dishes and Scott felt like the worst carer in the universe.
But they didn’t appear perturbed. Thankfully, they refused the offer of tea and made tracks to leave, but not before handing Scott another form to complete.
His heart sank. He hated forms.
He barely listened as the woman rattled on about his mum being transitioned from Disability Living Allowance to the new Personal Independence Payment. All he could see was a multi-page document with big empty squares requiring completion. It was bleeding obvious his mum needed help, anyone could see that. Why did he need to justify it to a bunch of red-tapers?
‘You have one month to complete the paperwork,’ the woman said, stepping into the communal corridor. ‘Unfortunately, there’s a backlog on claims at the moment, so you might find there’s a gap between DLA ending and PIP starting.’
Great. Just what he needed. ‘How much of a delay?’
The woman was already walking away, distancing herself from potential abuse over the inadequacies of the country’s welfare benefit system. ‘Anything up to nine months, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, any award will be backdated to the start of the claim.’
Well, that’s all right then, he thought, his sarcasm morphing into annoyance. Jesus, at this rate he might have to ask Ben for his twenty quid back.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_5f1864a6-aa79-5b31-b02e-95b4592188c6)
Wednesday, 26 February (#ulink_5f1864a6-aa79-5b31-b02e-95b4592188c6)
Evie braked sharply as she pulled into the tight parking space at Peacock Court, narrowly avoiding an elderly resident wobbling on his walking stick. The last thing she wanted was to knock the poor man over. Having never owned a car, she was woefully lacking in experience since passing her test a few months earlier. But, as travelling by bus with an armful of flowers wasn’t an option, she’d overcome her aversion and leased a small Transit.
Climbing out of the van, she checked that the man was okay. He waved away her polite enquiries, seemingly unaffected by his instability. Most days one of her casual drivers made the deliveries so Evie could fulfil orders back at the shop. But Cordelia Harrison-Walker required a more personal service, one Evie was happy to provide.
Pushing the bell on the intercom, Evie was buzzed in. She carried her bag and tray of flowers along the corridor. Peacock Court was a generic collection of one-storey apartments, the communal areas decorated in uninspiring muted greys, until you reached the bright red door of number seventeen. When Evie had received a call from Cordelia Harrison-Walker a few weeks earlier, asking if The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop were able to offer a home visiting service, Evie had formed a prim mental picture of the ninety-four-year-old woman. She’d assumed simplicity and moderation would be the key to fulfilling her client’s brief. How wrong she’d been.
Moderation wasn’t a word that described Cordelia in any shape or form. Her small apartment was painted dusky blue with matching carpets and curtains. Grand pieces of furniture were crammed into the limited space, the sofa and chairs upholstered in expensive gold brocade. The walls housed large and dominant pieces of artwork, but it was the baby grand piano filling the living space that had really caused Evie’s sharp intake of breath. Seventeen Peacock Court was an opulent and extravagant gem nestled inside a soulless box of bland local authority housing. Evie loved it.
With her hands full, Evie waited for the door to open. As per her previous visits, she was greeted by a strong waft of perfume and the tiny yet indomitable form of Cordelia Harrison-Walker, dressed in a red velvet wrap dress, her hair coiffed into a chignon.
‘Darling girl, do come in.’ Cordelia ushered her inside, her agility defying her ninety-four years. As always, she was heavily made up and her home spotless, not a sequined cushion out of place. ‘Can I assist you with your wares?’
Evie lowered the tray of flowers onto the sideboard. ‘I’m good, thanks, Mrs Harrison-Walker.’ Evie was treated to a double-cheeked kiss, as though she were a treasured relative, rather than a visiting tradeswoman.
‘Dispense with the formalities, my dear. It’s plain and simple Cordelia.’
Plain and simple weren’t adjectives that sprung to mind.
Cordelia squeezed her hand. ‘Now, I have a lovely fruitcake cooling in the kitchen, one of my specialties. Make yourself at home whilst I attend to the refreshments.’ She stared down at Evie’s feet. ‘Goodness me, what do we have here?’ Cordelia peered closer, inspecting Evie’s glass-heeled sandals. ‘Are they … fish?’
Evie nodded. ‘I found them at a garage sale. Great, aren’t they?’ She angled her foot so Cordelia could see the gold scaling covering the orange fabric. The front of the shoe formed the fish’s head, complete with wide eyes and an open smiling mouth, allowing Evie’s toes to poke through. They weren’t comfortable or practical, but she loved wearing them.
‘They’re original, I’ll say that. Colourful too.’ Her gaze drifted upwards, over Evie’s faded jeans and plain sweatshirt. Her expression indicated a little colour elsewhere might not go amiss, but she was too polite to voice any criticism.
Evie knew her attire was dull. She’d never been an outlandish dresser, but since leaving Guildford she’d stuck with neutral colours and plain designs, content to blend into the background. Evie never used to be self-conscious about her appearance, even if she didn’t always get it right, but Kyle had chipped away at her confidence, controlling what she wore and disapproving of her ‘silly’ shoes until she’d relented and stopped wearing them. Was it such a crime to be ‘silly’? She didn’t think so.
‘They make me smile,’ Evie offered, by way of explanation, not wanting to go into too much detail about her reasoning.
Cordelia patted her arm. ‘Well, nothing wrong with that. And you have such a pretty smile.’ She pinched Evie’s cheek before heading into the kitchen, shaking her head as she went. ‘Fish, indeed.’
Evie picked up the ceramic vases that had been left out for her and went into the bathroom to fill them. In keeping with the rest of the apartment, the room was lavishly decorated in bold black-and-white stripes with wrought-iron accessories, the walls displaying several framed artsy photos of Cordelia’s two daughters and five granddaughters. Evie knew from previous visits that Cordelia was a woman who adored her family. By the sounds of it, she’d outlived more than one husband and had enjoyed a full and successful life. Both her daughters lived in Australia and had distinguished careers with large houses and wealthy husbands.
The images made Evie think of her own childhood in Surrey. Her life had been fairly normal: two doting parents, a younger sister, grandparents nearby. But her parents’ divorce, just after her twelfth birthday, had changed everything. The family home was sold and her mum moved in with a man called Bob who had three younger boys. Her dad rented a one-bedroom flat in Slough, claiming it was all he could afford thanks to their mum ‘fleecing him’ in the divorce. Her sister, Holly, moved in with him, sleeping in the only spare bed. Evie spent the next four years switching between Bob’s house and her grandparents’ house, never really feeling wanted, detached from any kind of family unit. When Evie was sixteen, her dad married a woman called Georgia who promptly relocated them to Penzance, severing what little connection she had with her dad. She’d barely seen him since.
Evie carried the vases into the living room and placed them on the sideboard. She began arranging the flowers, a sense of loneliness looming over her, as it always did when she thought about her family. They’d become acquaintances in her life, no longer a constant, but intermittent planets drifting in and out of her solar system, leaving a huge black hole in their wake.
Cordelia appeared, pushing a hostess trolley laden with matching china and a three-tier cake stand. ‘What flowers will you be treating me to this week? I did so enjoy the sunflowers.’
Evie had discovered pretty quickly that nothing was ever too colourful or exuberant for her client, which meant she was able to unleash her inner creativity. ‘I’m so pleased you liked them. The yellow looked beautiful against the blue of the walls. This week I’ve gone for something a little offbeat. I hope that’s okay.’
Cordelia beamed. ‘Excellent. Do help yourself to cake.’ She perched on the sofa, cup and saucer held delicately in her age-defying hands.
‘Maybe later.’ Evie separated out the pink gerberas and lisianthus and began filling the vases, weaving in green chrysanthemums to complement the bold scheme.
‘They’re an unusual colour.’ Cordelia watched Evie work as she always did. ‘Striking. Are they chrysanthemums?’
Evie nodded, adjusting the balance of colour as she went. ‘Did you know that chrysanthemums have been grown by the Chinese for over two thousand years? They were used as an antibiotic to treat high blood pressure and angina.’
Cordelia looked impressed. ‘Maybe I should substitute them for my beta blockers.’
Evie laughed. ‘I wouldn’t, if I were you, they taste horrible.’ She carried one of the vases over to the baby grand, knowing her client liked to look at the displays whilst playing Chopin. ‘They also symbolise compassion, friendship and secret love.’
Cordelia smiled. ‘Ah, no wonder I like them. I’ve always been drawn to symbols of love. My second husband used to bring me trinkets from all over the world that were claimed to be aphrodisiacs. Not that we needed any help in that department.’ She looked knowingly at Evie. ‘Todd was a very attentive lover. I was never left wanting.’
Evie nearly dropped the vase. ‘Right … Well, that’s good.’
Cordelia became contemplative. ‘I used to pity my girlfriends whose husbands left them unsatisfied. It’s really not very polite, or conducive to a healthy marriage.’
Evie wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She picked up the orange Alexander roses and busied herself cutting stems.
‘You’d do well to take a lover, you know.’
Evie looked around for the protective mat to place the vase on. ‘How do you know I haven’t?’
Cordelia sipped her tea. ‘My dear, a woman’s emotion shines through her eyes. Whether she’s experiencing joy or sadness or betrayal, it’s there for the world to see. And you, my dear, are clearly not getting any.’
Evie startled, only just managing to keep hold of the vase before it landed on the carpet. ‘Say it like it is, why don’t you?’
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I wrong?’
Evie placed the vase on the mat, angling it so she could check all aspects were perfect. ‘Let’s just say I’m kind of off men at the moment.’
‘That much is obvious. May I ask why?’
Evie carried the second vase over to the mantelpiece. ‘Bad experience.’
‘Well, love isn’t for wimps. But you don’t seem like the timid type. Get back on the horse. Life is so much more fun with a man in tow.’
Evie wiped her damp hands on her jeans. ‘That’s as maybe, but it’s not so easy. I mean, how can you know who to trust? A man might look like an Italian film star and appear sane, but underneath the facade he could still be a nutter.’
A glint crept into Cordelia’s expression. ‘And who might this Italian film star be?’
Evie gathered up the discarded leaves from the sideboard, an image of the plumber’s forearms tumbling into her mind. It was unnerving how often this had happened over the last week. Usually when she was daydreaming. Suddenly there he was, as clear as if he was standing right in front of her, running his hands through his dark ruffled hair, or laughing in response to something Saffy had said. She shook the image away, scolding herself for a moment’s weakness. ‘Oh, no one,’ she lied.
‘He sounds divine. An adventure waiting to happen. Dip your toe into that stream, my dear. You’ll enjoy the sensation.’
Evie felt herself blushing. ‘I wasn’t being specific. It was a generalisation. There isn’t anyone. I was just saying that you can’t know what someone is like until it’s too late. The next thing you know you’re trapped in a bad situation. It’s not worth it. I’d rather be on my own.’
Cordelia didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, you know what they say. Lose a love, find a life.’
‘Exactly. And that’s what I’m doing.’ Evie wiped down the surfaces, ensuring she left the place immaculate.
Cordelia tilted her head. ‘By wearing fish shoes?’
Evie looked down at her feet. ‘It’s a start.’
‘Hmm, we’ll see. Do come and sit down, you’ve earned a break.’ She handed Evie a neatly folded napkin. ‘Now, tell me about your family. I’m curious to hear more.’
Knowing one of the main reasons Cordelia chose a home arrangement service was the chance to enjoy regular company, it was another forty minutes before Evie was packed up and ready to leave. She didn’t mind. Cordelia was a delight to visit, an unpredictable phenomenon, defying both age and expectation. Maybe a more mercenary service provider would charge extra for their time, but Evie wouldn’t be comfortable doing that. Besides, in the absence of family it was nice to have someone to chat to.
Bidding Cordelia goodbye, Evie lugged her kit towards the double doors at the end of the corridor. Thankfully, a woman wearing a white nurse’s uniform held the door open, allowing her to exit without having to put anything down. As she thanked the woman, Evie noticed a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair, one side of her mouth turned down. She had kind eyes. Evie was reminded of Cordelia’s mantra that a woman radiated her true emotion through them.
‘What lovely flowers.’ The nurse admired the leftover blooms in Evie’s tray. ‘Aren’t they pretty, Billie?’
The woman in the wheelchair nodded.
Opening the door to the adjacent apartment, the nurse angled the chair so she could wheel her patient inside. ‘Next time we’re out we’ll see if we can get some to brighten up the apartment.’
Evie made an instant decision. ‘These are left over from a display I’ve just finished. Would you like me to make a bouquet for you? No charge, obviously.’
The nurse looked down at her patient. ‘What a lovely idea. Would you like that, Billie? Flowers for the apartment?’
Billie nodded, mouthing something about money.
‘No, please, there’s no charge.’ Evie hoisted the tray onto her hip. ‘They’ll only go to waste. I’d rather see them enjoyed.’
The nurse looked delighted. ‘In that case, come in.’ She reversed the wheelchair through the doorway, beckoning Evie to follow.
As the woman was wheeled inside, she pointed to Evie’s shoes, a smile creasing one side of her face.
The inside of the apartment was nothing like Cordelia’s. The living area was sparse, with just a TV unit, a bookcase and two-seater sofa settled against the wall. Evie guessed they needed space to manoeuvre the wheelchair around. The soft ivory walls and various ornaments contrasted with the teal cushions, giving it a cosy if slightly masculine feel. It was a considered space, cared for.
The nurse positioned Billie in front of the TV. ‘Where will I find a vase, love?’ Her patient nodded towards the kitchen.
Evie followed, placing her bag on the kitchen table whilst the nurse hunted through the cupboards. She noticed the badge on her uniform. ‘Oshma. What a lovely name.’
The nurse smiled. ‘It means summer season. My father’s idea. I guess he wasn’t to know I’d turn out to be more of a hurricane.’ She handed Evie a cut-glass vase. ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’
Evie filled the vase with water. ‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ve just had one.’
‘Shout if you need anything.’ Oshma disappeared into the lounge.
Evie didn’t know why Billie was in a wheelchair, and it wasn’t her place to ask, but as she arranged the flowers she made a note to stop dwelling on her own problems and be thankful for the good things in life. She might have had a rough time in the past, but she’d moved to Kent to start afresh. And that’s what she needed to do. Okay, so she wasn’t a fan of relationships, but she had her business and her health, and that was a lot to be grateful for.
Glancing down at her feet, Evie grinned, cheered by the sight of two goldfish smiling back at her. Reintroducing novelty shoes into her life had definitely been the right decision. She was asserting her independence, giving her confidence a much-needed kick up the backside.
Yep, she was back on that horse.
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_fa5cb497-d053-53c8-87c5-c88160a461c9)
Friday, 28 February (#ulink_fa5cb497-d053-53c8-87c5-c88160a461c9)
Laura read through Jamie Oliver’s instructions again. Heat the oven to full whack. Check. Place rock salt in an ovenproof dish. Check. Place the oysters on top and cook for twenty minutes. Laura glanced at the kitchen clock, wondering if it was too early to put them in. It was eight forty. Martin promised he’d be home by seven. His promises didn’t seem to count for much these days.
She sent him another text. ‘Where are you?’
The clementine jelly was setting in the fridge, the Asian seared tuna was ready to warm up when required, but the salad was starting to wilt. Her romantic meal was in danger of turning into a shrivelled mess.
She went upstairs to check her appearance wasn’t doing the same.
The house wasn’t designed for a single occupant. It was a ‘highly desirable property with spacious living area’ and meant for a family. Laura hadn’t wanted something so vast, but Martin had convinced her it was an investment. Getting a bigger place would give them time to adjust to the mortgage payments before starting a family, preventing them from having to move again.
Martin was a good salesman, she’d give him that. She’d fallen for his spiel. But the modern design, white decor and three empty bedrooms only served to increase her trepidation about having kids, not endear her to the idea. It was too much, too soon. They should be living it up, relishing their early thirties, not behaving like wannabe parents in training.
She gazed into the floor-length mirror, checking her carefully chosen outfit was still intact. Her cheeks were a little flushed from cooking, but the black dress she’d purchased showed off her curves and auburn hair. More importantly, it advertised her intentions. With heels to enhance her calves and a hint of hold-ups showing through the clingy fabric, Martin couldn’t fail to want her … could he?
She had one more ace up her sleeve, her anniversary gift. Traditionally, five years meant something wooden, and she had come up with a rather naughty interpretation of what that might mean.
She picked up the wrapped parcel, carrying it downstairs. With any luck, the contents would be in play well before they reached the bedroom. Sex toys had yet to feature in their relationship, but intervention was required if she was going to save her marriage.
That intervention came in the form of fruity, juicy lube, a satin eye mask with ribbon ties and a set of sex-position playing cards. Martin wasn’t the only salesperson in the household. She also knew how to close a deal.
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Keep calm, she told herself. All will be fine.
Except it wasn’t. Nine thirty came and went. Nine forty-five. Ten o’clock. Finally, at ten thirty-five, when the oysters had retreated into their shells and she’d stopped bothering to reply to Martin’s apologetic ‘I’m running late’ texts, he walked through the door.
‘I’m so sorry, love.’ He dumped his briefcase and rain-soaked coat on the kitchen table. ‘I got away as soon as I could.’ He kissed her cheek, smelling of day-old aftershave and damp fabric. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Dinner smells good.’
‘I doubt that.’ Frustration overrode any desire to be sultry and seductive. ‘It’s ruined. I’ve binned most of it.’
He shrugged off his suit jacket. ‘That’s a shame. Order a takeaway and we’ll crack open a bottle of wine. It’s no big deal.’ He hooked his jacket on the back of a chair, placing a wrapped box onto the table. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’
She looked into his tired eyes. Love and tenderness stared back. They were at a crossroads and she was in the driving seat. She could park up and switch off the engine, accept his apology and order in a takeaway, making the most of what was left of their anniversary … Or she could run the bastard over. Why should she let him off the hook? Why was it always down to her to concede, to accept the shreds of affection he deemed to throw her way? It was time to make a stand. Revving the engine, ignoring all warning signs telling her to slow down, she hit the junction with full-on tyre-screeching, wheel-spinning throttle.
‘What do you mean, it’s no big deal?’ Her hands settled on her hips. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary, Martin. Of course it’s a big deal.’
He closed his eyes as if choosing his response carefully. ‘I just meant that we don’t have to sit down to a formal meal in order to celebrate our anniversary. What matters is that we’re together. I’m here now. Let’s make the most of what’s left of the evening, instead of disagreeing.’
She hated it when Martin tried to reason her out of an argument. ‘So it doesn’t matter that I’ve spent all frigging evening cooking? Preparing a romantic meal? Trying to make it a special night for you?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, of course it matters. And once again I’m sorry.’ He came over to where she was standing. ‘I was caught up at work. There was nothing I could do about it.’
She stepped backwards. ‘There was a time when you would’ve said stuff work. I was more important.’
He took her by the shoulders. ‘You still are. I left as soon as I could. I’m here now. Can we please try to enjoy what’s left of the evening?’ His eyes searched her face, pleading with her to relent. ‘Would you like your gift?’ He manoeuvred her over to the table, sitting her down. ‘I think you’ll like it.’
Her anger hadn’t abated, but it seemed churlish to refuse. She opened the card first. The words ‘you’re my world’ written in Martin’s bold scrawl threw another emotion into the mix. She didn’t want to cry. She opened the present, ripping away the paper in an effort to disperse any weakness. She needn’t have worried. The contents washed away any threat of blubbing.
Martin stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. ‘Do you like it?’
Words almost failed her. ‘It’s a blender.’ Even to her own ears her voice sounded lifeless.
‘I know. You said you wanted one.’ He stopped massaging, no doubt sensing her lack of delight at his choice of present.
‘I do, but …’
‘But what? You said you wanted a blender, I’ve bought you a blender. Tell me what I’ve done wrong now?’
Laura stood up. There was no way he was going to hijack her anger. How dare he play the wounded card. She was the one whose feelings had been hurt.
Actions spoke louder than words. So instead of explaining why his attempt at an anniversary present was woefully inadequate, she fetched her own gift.
There was a sense of trepidation radiating off Martin as he took the gift, as though being handed a grenade with the ring removed. He placed the package on the table, tentatively removing the ribbons and large bow.
Laura watched him, waiting for his expression to register the significance of her gift compared to the insult of being given a kitchen appliance. He unwrapped the scented tissue paper from each item and looked at it without comment before placing it on the table. Other than pausing longer over the playing cards, his expression gave nothing away.
Laura lost patience. ‘Don’t you like them?’
He rubbed his eyes, wearily.
She felt her anger increase. ‘Don’t just pull a face. Tell me what’s wrong?’
He picked up the tube of lube. ‘This is all a bit … juvenile, don’t you think?’
Laura wondered if she’d heard him right. ‘Juvenile?’
‘Yes, juvenile.’ He dropped the tube on the table. ‘It’s tacky. Cheap.’
She couldn’t believe it. ‘Oh, you mean unlike giving a sensible gift, like a blender.’
Martin flinched, but didn’t say anything.
She picked up the satin mask. ‘There was a time when you would’ve loved getting stuff like this. You would’ve relished the opportunity to try them out.’ She shook the mask in his face. ‘You would’ve seen the funny side.’ She threw it on the table. ‘So what’s changed, Martin? Don’t you want a decent sex life?’
He looked stung. His face creased into a frown. ‘Of course I do, but this isn’t the way to do it. This isn’t us, Laura. We’ve moved on. Grown up.’
‘Grown up?’ Laura was in danger of throttling her husband. ‘So what, now we’re thirty we can’t play around? Next you’ll be telling me it’s the missionary position or nothing.’
Martin looked annoyed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous.’ She moved towards him. ‘I’m trying to keep our sex life from dying out completely. Is that such a crime?’
He reached for her. ‘And that’s the problem, Laura. You’re trying too hard.’
She shrugged him away. ‘Well, one of us has to. You’re not making any effort.’
‘That’s not true. What you have to appreciate, Laura, is that life moves on, it changes. People change.’ His voice was getting louder. ‘We’re not students any more. We have careers and responsibilities. The mortgage needs paying. My job does that.’ He overrode her attempts to object. ‘And yes, I work long hours. I don’t always want to, but I need to. If we’re going to become financially secure and have kids then that’s the reality.’
Laura threw her hands in the air. ‘I wondered how long it would be before you played the kids card.’
Martin groaned. ‘You know how I feel. I want kids, Laura. I always have. I thought you did too?’
‘One day, yes. But what’s the hurry?’
He had the audacity to look affronted. ‘We’ve been married for five years. It’s time we settled down.’
Laura rounded on him. ‘It seems to me we’ve already settled down. If we were any more settled we’d be dead!’
He backed away. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
She followed him, cornering him by the hot oven. ‘And you’re being a selfish prick.’
‘How am I being selfish?’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘I love you. I provide for you. I work stupidly long hours to give you the best life possible. How is that selfish?’
The pain in his expression mirrored her own. ‘Because it’s not what I want, Martin.’ His hands dropped from her face. ‘I never see you. We never go out. We never have fun any more. And now you want me to give up my business, the one thing I have left, and be stuck at home all day with screaming babies while you’re off building your precious career.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not suggesting that at all. And do you have any idea how ungrateful you sound? Most women would count themselves lucky to be in your position.’
‘Well, why don’t you go and be with one of them then, because I don’t want this. I don’t want—’
‘Me. Yeah, that’s abundantly clear.’ He brushed past her.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
He swiped up his jacket from the chair. ‘I’ll be in the spare bedroom if you need me.’
Why did he always do that? Back away before things had been resolved? ‘Is that it? You’re quitting?’ She followed him to the door. ‘Martin? Martin …’
He didn’t reply.
A few moments later a door slammed upstairs. The shudder rattled a vase of giant yellow roses balancing on the hall table. The words ‘Happy Anniversary, darling’ danced in front of her wet eyes.
Crap.
So much for a romantic night.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_fc2abd9b-85ab-5a1b-bd7e-726bd9a14166)
Saturday, 1 March (#ulink_fc2abd9b-85ab-5a1b-bd7e-726bd9a14166)
Evie pressed her hands against the wall and pushed her heel into the floor, trying to get the maximum stretch in her calf muscle. There wasn’t really enough room inside her tiny hallway for stretching, but running without warming up would only result in a torn muscle and as she hadn’t exercised for a while she needed to take it easy, allowing her body time to adjust.
Satisfied she was fully loosened up, she closed the door behind her and skipped down the steps onto the pavement. Adjusting her headphones, she set off down Folkestone Road, pleased to discover some bounce left in her old trainers.
Running at night wouldn’t usually be her chosen time to exercise. She much preferred the early mornings when the dew still glistened on the ground and the air was fresh and crisp, but early starts at The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop had put an end to any kind of activity before work. She was up at five most days, either visiting the wholesalers or waiting for them to deliver. It wasn’t that she minded getting up early – managing the florist’s was what she wanted – but the upshot of her new regime meant that if she was going to exercise then it needed to be after the shop closed.
Sport had always featured in Evie’s life. To deny herself exercise was like not eating or sleeping; her body just didn’t function as well without it. As a kid she’d been a member of her local athletics club, competing at events and showing promise as a sprinter until she’d developed hips, at which point her times had slowed and she’d had to accept Olympic gold wasn’t within her grasp. But it hadn’t stopped her enjoying running, and she’d switched to middle distance instead. In recent years she’d tried joining a gym, but with nothing to stimulate her mind or senses, other than watching others struggling with the machinery or showing off their bulging muscles, it felt too claustrophobic. She wanted to be outside, feeling the air in her lungs and the road beneath her feet, not constricted by a monotonous treadmill.
She turned into Biddenden Lane, ran past the church and headed towards the post office. There was a nice loop of the village, giving her a good five miles in which to stretch her legs and get the blood pumping. Running a circuit meant there was less temptation to turn back. Each time she ran she tried to improve her time. It was the incentive she needed to not stay tucked up indoors with a hot chocolate and mindless TV.
Ten minutes into her run she was feeling the effects. Her lungs were stinging from the chilly night air and her thighs were burning with a desire to stop. But Evie always hit a wall ten minutes into training. She just needed to jog through it, keep taking in oxygen and allow the acid in her muscles to reduce.
Distraction always helped, which was why running outdoors was so much better than a gym. There was more to look at, something to focus on other than how knackered you were.
As Evie reached the main crossroads she passed under the illuminated sign for Heatherton, a large feature depicting an image of the Allsop twins. According to legend, the twin sisters were born in the early 1100s, joined at the shoulders and hips. They lived in this state for thirty-four years, never leaving the village. When Rosetta died, Louisa refused to be separated from her sibling and took to her bedroom, where shortly after she too died. So attached to Heatherton were they that the sisters bequeathed the income from twenty acres of land to the church, hence their image being a permanent fixture in the village. Evie couldn’t imagine being conjoined to her sister Holly for three decades. They would have throttled each other before their second birthday.
As Evie crossed the bridle path adjacent to the cricket pitch, she became aware of someone behind her. There was nothing unusual about this – it was a well-populated area, the streets rarely deserted, even at nine o’clock at night. But still she glanced over her shoulder, spotting another jogger some thirty metres behind. He was male, dressed in dark clothing, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up, masking his face.
For one horrible moment she imagined it was Kyle – the man had a similar running style – but she quickly realised it wasn’t, it was just her mind playing tricks. Kyle was miles away. Thank God.
Evie picked up her pace. Maybe jogging alone at night wasn’t such a sensible idea, after all. She wasn’t exactly being streetwise. She switched off her music, figuring she’d better pay attention to whatever was going on around her.
Thankfully, her second wind had kicked in and she was now comfortably in her stride.
Letting her legs stretch out with each movement, Evie’s mind drifted back to a time before she’d met Kyle. Having finished her college course in floristry she’d moved into a shared house with three other girls and landed her first job at a big garden centre. Within two years she’d been promoted and joined a larger florist’s as assistant manager. Things were on the up. It was a time of personal achievement, transitioning from adolescence to adulthood, partying with her friends and enjoying life to the full.
And then she’d met Kyle Caplin.
Kyle had recently left the army, having served two tours of Afghanistan. At first he’d been charming and funny, always the life of the party, showering her with compliments and supportive of her career aspirations. But after ten months of dating the laughter had started to subside. Little cracks appeared. He started suggesting she change outfit when they went out, discouraged her from learning to drive, guilted her into staying at home rather than socialising with friends. When Kyle suggested they move in together, Evie hadn’t been keen, preferring to keep things as they were. He hadn’t taken the rejection well, wanting to know why she didn’t want him around. Was there someone else? Was she cheating on him? Who was she ‘dressing up’ for?
Unable to reason with him or cope with his irrational jealousy, Evie had broken things off. But he wouldn’t accept it was over and kept begging her for another chance, promising to change. So she’d relented. It became a constant cycle of breaking up and getting back together. Everything would be fine for a while, and then his old habits would return and things would deteriorate.
In hindsight, Evie knew her attempts to keep Kyle happy hadn’t been about loving him, but a fear of rocking the boat. Toning down her appearance, declining social invitations, constantly reassuring him she didn’t want anyone else – it had been exhausting. Ironically, it was Kyle who’d ended up cheating, hooking up with a woman at the support centre he attended for ex-army personnel struggling to readjust to civilian life. He’d tried to justify his infidelity by twisting the blame onto Evie, claiming his actions had been driven by his insecurity over her finding someone else and leaving him. Far from evoking forgiveness, his actions only strengthened Evie’s desire to end the relationship for good. So she moved away, severing all ties, leaving her friends and job behind.
Eager to rid her mind of Kyle, Evie glanced over her shoulder. The man was still there. She ducked into the porch of the brightly lit Bell Inn, letting him run past and disappear into the distance.
Digging out her phone, she called Laura, needing a companionable voice as she set off at walking speed, needing to keep her muscles from seizing up.
The moment Laura picked up, Evie knew something was wrong. ‘You sound terrible. Are you ill?’
Laura sniffed. ‘I’ve been crying. Damon’s just been killed.’
Evie skidded to a halt, her brain frantically scrolling through Laura’s family, trying to place someone called Damon. ‘Laura, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ A beat passed before she added, ‘Er … Remind me again who Damon is?’
Laura sniffed. ‘The hot brother in The Vampire Diaries.’
Evie resumed jogging, albeit at a slower pace, relieved Laura wasn’t talking about a real person. ‘You’re crying over a TV programme?’
Laura sniffed again. ‘I’ve also downed half a bottle of Shiraz. Why are you panting?’
‘I’m running.’
Laura groaned. ‘God, why?’
Evie laughed. ‘Because it helps clear my head. You should try it.’
‘Don’t you start. Martin’s always on at me to exercise.’ Her voice sounded slurred.
Although Martin could be a grumpy sod at times, Evie didn’t feel he was as ‘off’ Laura as her friend imagined. ‘Maybe you should take up tennis. You said you wanted to spend more time with him.’
‘I do, but getting sweaty running around a bloody tennis court is not my idea of fun.’ She hiccupped. ‘I want to get hot and sweaty playing a different type of game, but he’s not interested. I’ve tried everything.’ Laura let out a big sigh. ‘My marriage is dead. Swept into the afterlife like Damon Salvatore, leaving Elena mourning for her loss, sucking blood from random strangers for eternity.’
Laura appeared to bordering on the delusional. ‘I’m not sure drinking wine and watching US teen horror shows is the best way of coping, Laura. Do you want me to come over?’
‘My head’s spinning. I’m going to bed.’
‘Sounds like a good idea.’ Laura was normally a happy drunk. Not tonight. ‘By the way, how was your anniversary dinner?’
‘Disaster. Martin slept in the spare bed.’ The slur in Laura’s voice became more pronounced.
Oh dear. The flowers Martin had purchased obviously hadn’t done the trick.
‘He doesn’t love me any more.’ Her friend sounded downright morose.
‘I’m sure that’s not true. Are you sure you don’t want company?’ Evie switched hands, trying to balance out her running rhythm.
‘No, thanks.’ She let out a sob. ‘You still love me, right?’
Definitely too much booze. ‘Yes, sweetie. I still love you. Stop watching programmes about dead people and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.’ Laura had already hung up.
Evie pocketed her phone. Things were not good in the Harper household, which was a shame. She was sure Martin did still love Laura, they were just miscommunicating. Still, coming from the woman who’d failed to rectify her own flawed relationship, she was hardly equipped to pass judgement.
A noise behind made her jump. She spun around to find the jogger had returned. Where had he come from? He must have done a loop.
Instinct made her speed up, increasing her pace. He upped his stride too. Was he really following her, or was she being paranoid? Only one way to find out.
She swerved across the road, looping around the traffic island, trying to get behind him rather than in front so she had the upper hand. He was too quick, his pace keeping him behind her. She was at full stretch now, her lungs burning from sprinting. She was running out of steam. She couldn’t keep this up.
She had two options, try and make it to the police station a few streets away, or stop running and confront her pursuer. Her body made the decision for her, cramping her calves, warning that if she continued she was likely to end up on crutches.
She spun around and stopped dead. The man had to swerve to miss her. He stumbled off the pavement, landing heavily on the road.
Evie stood over him, struggling for air. ‘Why are you following me?’
He groaned, trying to right himself. ‘What the fuck?’
She waved a fist at him as he stood up. ‘I said, why are you following me?’
‘I’m not.’ He backed away, looking at her like she was all manner of crazy. ‘Why the fuck would I be following you?’
‘You sped up. Why did you do that if you weren’t following me?’
He looked bewildered. ‘I’m training for an Iron Man competition. You were setting a decent pace, it was a challenge to keep up.’
‘Well, next time think about how it looks to the person you’re chasing. I’m a woman. It’s dark. A man is behind me and when I speed up to get some distance, he speeds up too. How do you think that looks from my perspective, eh?’
His anger seemed to abate as he rubbed his arm. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Evie started to feel foolish. It was clear he wasn’t about to attack her. ‘How’s your shoulder?’
‘Sore.’ He turned and ran off, a distinctive limp in his gait. ‘Fucking nutter.’
Evie took a deep breath, trying to ease the panic from her system. Go home, she told herself. But when she tried to jog she discovered her legs were spent. Feeling a mixture of embarrassment and utter exhaustion, she ambled home, still routinely checking over her shoulder.
Not exactly the best start to her new confidence regime, was it?
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_8697f713-440e-51a9-8925-642f483c16cf)
Sunday, 2 March (#ulink_8697f713-440e-51a9-8925-642f483c16cf)
Anyone watching Patricia Robinson playing tennis would be full of admiration. Aged forty-five she was still a trim size ten, her hair tinted several shades of warm blonde, her youthful exuberance around the court keeping her opponents fully on the back foot. It was only after the game had finished and she was in the privacy of the changing rooms that her carefully honed veneer slipped. Stepping into the hot shower she allowed her face to display the discomfort she felt, rubbing away the ache in her left knee. But as her mother had always reminded her, appearance was everything. Like animals in the wild, it was imperative to hide any pain. It was the only way to avoid being eaten. Patricia’s mother had always favoured the dramatic. The sentiment, however, was clear enough. Never let your guard down.
Which was particularly testing when your joints had started to wear and your husband was a philandering charmer. But no one’s life was without challenges, and adversity only served to strengthen her resolve. After all, she had a daughter to protect. Amy’s happiness was far more important than her own.
On cue her mobile rang, allowing her just enough time to wrap herself in a towel. Lifting the phone to her ear, she forced a smile, checking her complexion in the harsh changing room mirrors. Time was definitely catching up with her.
‘Amy, love. How did you get on?’ Her daughter had been competing in a dance competition in London. It was the first time in eighteen years Patricia hadn’t been present at a key event in her daughter’s life. Amy had invited her boyfriend to go with her instead, and although the rejection stung, Patricia would never let on. Amy wasn’t being deliberately cruel. Far from it. She was just growing up, flying the nest, being the independent, talented, resourceful woman Patricia had raised her to be. Patricia could hardly complain, could she?
‘Mum, it was brilliant! I won both solo categories and placed second in the group section.’ The background noise was deafening.
Patricia battled with the conflicting emotions rising in within her. How she would’ve loved to see her daughter perform. ‘Darling, that’s amazing. Well done. I’m so proud. I’ll bet Miss Leigh is over the moon.’
Her daughter laughed. ‘You’d think! She’s accusing the judges of favouritism. The Jayne Middle dance team placed first. Miss Leigh’s furious.’
‘I can imagine.’ Her daughter’s dance teacher had never taken failure well. It was first or nothing. ‘Are you heading home now?’
‘Not yet. Ben’s taking me for a celebration dinner. There’s a Caribbean restaurant in Ealing he’s excited about.’
Patricia tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘Sounds wonderful.’ Her daughter finding love was yet another development Patricia was struggling to adjust to. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ben – he was a great kid, smart and funny. She just wished her daughter wasn’t quite so absorbed by the relationship. Amy was too young to be tied down. She should be seeing what the world had to offer. But then who was Patricia to talk? She’d been the same at that age, swept away by the attentions of a boy, married before she was twenty-one. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps her own experience was clouding her judgement.
‘Don’t be home too late, darling. You have school in the morning and exams looming.’
Her daughter’s giggle rippled down the phone. ‘Stop it, Ben! Sorry, Mum, I’ll call when we’re on the train. Got to go, it’s prize time. Bye!’
Patricia was left clutching the phone, her heart aching along with her knee. She wanted so much to see her daughter collecting her awards, but there was no way she’d ever let Amy know how she felt. She’d do what she always did and present a happy front, encouraging to the last, even if it killed her.
Regaining her composure, she set about fixing her face, applying blusher to warm her complexion, mascara to open her eyes and lip gloss to cheer her mouth. With a brush of her hair and quick whizz over with the travel straighteners, she was good to go. Appearance was everything, she repeated for the umpteenth time that day. It didn’t matter what was going on underneath. To the outside world you needed to appear perfectly content, in control, happily married and successful. No wonder she felt like a Stepford Wife.
Spraying herself with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, Patricia pulled on her skinny jeans and wrapped her shoulders in a soft camel cardigan, ready to join her tennis partner for a post-match drink.
As she left the changing rooms and headed across to the Bell Inn, she ignored the looks from the other women and their envious comments about her Pilates-toned physique. Don’t be fooled, she wanted to tell them, appearances can be deceptive. On the surface, Patricia appeared to have the perfect life, a beautiful home, a healthy, smart daughter, with regular holidays to the most luxurious places, but no amount of money could ever compensate for a faithless husband.
Patricia entered the pub and found Martin seated in the conservatory, checking his phone. The new owners had transformed the old-world pub into a pristine wine bar with modern artwork and quirky industrial lighting. Despite its monochrome theme the owners had managed to retain an intimate atmosphere, both welcoming and fashionable.
Martin waved her over. ‘The drinks are on order. Just give me two minutes to finish this and then I’m done.’ His frown deepened as he typed, shaking his head with obvious frustration. Finally he sat back, dropping his phone onto the table. ‘Sorry about that.’
Patricia studied his troubled expression. ‘Work problem?’ When he grimaced, Patricia raised her hand in apology. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘You didn’t.’
The barman appeared with the drinks, handing Martin his pint of beer. He placed Patricia’s white wine spritzer in front of her. Martin took a long swig and then caught sight of Patricia’s raised eyebrow. ‘We won. I’m celebrating.’
She smiled. ‘We win a lot. You normally celebrate with orange juice. Not that I’m judging. You can drink what you like.’
He shrugged. ‘I needed something to dull the pain.’
Patricia sipped her wine. ‘Are you injured?’
He pointed to his chest. ‘Different kind of pain.’ When his phone beeped he checked the incoming message and promptly switched the thing off.
Patricia noted how anguished he looked. ‘Everything okay?’
He let out a long breath. ‘Not really. But I don’t want to bore you.’
‘You wouldn’t be. Besides, I’m a good listener.’ In the ten months they’d been tennis buddies they’d grown quite close. Not in a romantic sense, or even in a deep and meaningful sense – more a light-hearted friendship that revolved around a shared hobby and chatting about things that didn’t matter, rather than things that did, like crime fiction and Radio 4. But still, Patricia liked to think they were able to help each other out if needed.
Martin looked conflicted, as though not sure whether to unload. He was a handsome man with deep honey-coloured hair and intelligent blue eyes. But of late the energy in his demeanour had started to wane, turning his natural feistiness into agitation.
He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I can’t seem to get it right at the moment.’
Patricia deliberated how much to pry. ‘Are we talking about your wife? Laura, isn’t it?’
He nodded. ‘Whatever I do is wrong. It feels like when I’m there she doesn’t want me around. And yet when I give her space she gives me crap for not being home enough.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorry, you don’t need this. And I don’t mean to be disrespectful about my wife. I love her, but … things aren’t good at the moment.’
Patricia could see it pained him to criticise the person he loved. And things must be bad if he was talking about his home life, he normally avoided discussing his marriage. They both did.
‘Admitting there’s a problem isn’t being disrespectful. It’s being honest. Facing up to the fact that something’s not right is the first step to resolving it.’ She could almost feel her mother turning in her grave. Problems should not be aired, she’d said on numerous occasions, which hadn’t always been helpful advice. Advice Patricia hadn’t passed on to her own daughter. Amy had been encouraged to be open, unguarded and outspoken. Consequently her daughter didn’t suffer in silence as her mother did. ‘Have you tried talking to your wife about it?’
‘We can’t seem to hold a conversation these days without arguing.’ He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Communicating never used to be a problem. We wanted the same things. A day didn’t go by when we didn’t laugh at something daft, talk nonsense or just feel content to hang out. Now it’s like we can’t be in the same room without pissing each other off. I don’t know what happened.’
Patricia’s heart ached for him. She knew how a relationship could change. She’d only been nineteen when she’d met the suave and handsome David Robinson and been swept off her feet. He’d adored her, made her laugh, charmed her with his wit and intelligence. She couldn’t believe he wanted to marry her. By the time Amy came along she was the happiest woman alive, living the dream – until she’d discovered David was sleeping with his secretary. ‘There’s no easy way to ask this, Martin. But do you think there might be someone else?’
He shook his head. ‘Laura hates cheats. She’d never do that. It has to be something else.’
Patricia didn’t respond. It would hardly be helpful to put doubt in Martin’s mind as to his wife’s fidelity. He might be right. Laura might be completely faithful, but just because someone says they hate cheating doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t do it. She knew this more than most.
When Patricia had confronted David about his affair, he’d denied it. Hoping it was an isolated incident, she’d let it go, but over time it became obvious that his PA was one of many. As the years passed, his behaviour became less discreet: he stayed away more often, treating Patricia with disdain and annoyance when she questioned him. He’d always deny having an affair, accusing her of mistrusting him and being paranoid, so in the end she stopped asking, sweeping her doubt under the carpet just as her mother would have advised. She’d figured finding out the truth would only hurt more, so she ignored reality and put on a brave face.
Martin finished his beer. ‘Sorry, I’m not good company today.’ He stood up and pocketed his phone. ‘See you on Tuesday for practice.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Take it easy.’
‘You too.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘And Martin … don’t give up. A good marriage is worth fighting for.’
He tried for a smile. ‘I hope you’re right.’
She hoped so too.
CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_be34d6f8-28d9-51d3-bf55-d70311b02cec)
Tuesday, 4 March (#ulink_be34d6f8-28d9-51d3-bf55-d70311b02cec)
It took all of Scott’s control not to tear the Personal Independence Payment application into a thousand pieces. Instead, he took a deep breath and re-read the question about ‘descriptors’. Each mobility activity had a score depending on the claimant’s ability to carry out that activity. The list included preparing food, dressing and undressing, washing and bathing. And his particular favourite, planning and following journeys. His mother was in a wheelchair, for God’s sake, paralysed down one side. Of course she couldn’t bleeding navigate a journey.
He got up and fetched a beer from the fridge, hoping to calm his frustrations. Whatever his objections to the government’s claiming process, he was forced to persist, because they needed the money. However much he hated it.
Taking a swig from the bottle, he returned to the form and read his last entry. He’d managed to write not only his Ns backwards but his Bs too. Great. The form looked like it had been filled in by a five-year-old.
Picking up the eraser, he amended his mistakes, channelling his humiliation into frantic rubbing. In his work life he’d learnt to control his environment, avoiding writing anything down, preferring to take his time over reading and writing in private. He’d also discovered the benefits of using a computer and spellcheck. Unfortunately, this particular form wasn’t available electronically, so he was stuck filling it in manually.
He was distracted from his annoyance by the sound of Ben returning from his latest date with Amy. The kid had been quieter than normal all week, ever since his ‘big date’ last Monday, leading Scott to the conclusion that all had not gone well. But the bubble of activity radiating from the lounge indicated a change in his nephew’s mood. He went to investigate.
He found Ben kneeling in front of Billie, his face lit up like he’d won a Golden Globe. He jumped to his feet when Scott walked in, tossing his baseball cap in the air. ‘She said yes, Uncle Scott!’
Feeling like he’d missed the opening scenes of a film, Scott responded with, ‘Who did?’
‘Amy.’ Ben bounced over, seemingly oblivious to his uncle’s puzzlement. ‘I asked her last week, but she needed time to think it over. Tonight she finally said yes.’
A sense of dread settled in Scott’s stomach. ‘Said yes to what, exactly?’ He seriously hoped his intuition was wrong.
Ben danced about, all arms and legs, like a drunken Bambi. ‘We’re getting married!’
Oh, hell. Scott became aware of a buzzing sound in his brain, alarm bells ringing, sirens blaring, but he was struck motionless by the shock.
Ben’s enthusiasm hadn’t wavered. ‘Isn’t it great?’
Scott tried for a response, but his brain refused to process the information.
‘Uncle Scott? It’s great news, right?’ Ben’s expression remained elated as he searched Scott’s face, looking for affirmation of his big announcement.
But Scott was far from thrilled. This wasn’t good news. This was a catastrophe. He looked at Billie, hoping his mum shared his reaction. She gave nothing away. Her face was its usual relaxed state, even though there appeared to be tears in her eyes. Good tears or bad, he couldn’t tell.
Ben tried again to force a response from his mute uncle. ‘You’re pleased, aren’t you?’
Scott wasn’t sure what he was, but he was pretty certain ‘pleased’ didn’t describe it. His instinct was to grab the kid and shout that it was a ridiculous idea, but he knew reacting in such a way would only strengthen the kid’s defences. He opted for a more muted response. ‘Surprise would better describe it. I had no idea this was on the cards.’
‘I’ve wanted to marry Amy from the moment we met.’ Ben’s face glowed with adoration.
‘You met at primary school.’ Scott tried not to sound patronising.
Ben bristled. ‘That’s when I knew. It was love at first sight. She’s the only girl for me. The person I want to spend the rest of my life with. She feels the same way.’
Scott chose his next words carefully. ‘I’m sure she does, but how you feel now might not be how you feel in five or ten years’ time.’
Ben looked disappointed. ‘I thought you of all people would understand.’
Nice dig. ‘Why, because I got engaged at a young age?’
Ben didn’t respond.
Scott tried again. ‘That only serves to prove my point. I was smitten, just as you are, sure of what I wanted. But look how things turned out.’ He tried not to look at his mum. He suspected she knew why Nicole had ended things, but he hoped not. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, but he didn’t want to lay more guilt onto everything else she had to deal with.
Ben looked defiant. ‘That won’t happen to us.’
Just what he’d said when his mates had commented on his decision to get engaged at twenty-five. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I’m an optimist. I believe in love. I believe in Amy. We’re good together. We have the same ideals, the same outlook. This is the real deal.’
Christ, the kid was even more of a hopeless romantic than he’d been. ‘I’m not for a moment saying it’s not. But if this is true love, then what’s the rush? Why not wait until you’re a few years older, just to be certain?’
Ben moved away. ‘Because we don’t want to. We have everything planned out.’ He settled next to Billie, allying himself with someone less averse to his announcement. Or at least someone less able to challenge his decision.
Scott’s mind raced for something to say, an objection that would hit home. Even though he’d taken over Ben’s care responsibilities, he’d never felt equipped to fulfil the fatherly role. He was only eleven years older than Ben, so their relationship was more along the lines of brotherly love. ‘What about film school? I thought you were set on becoming a director?’
Ben shrugged. ‘This doesn’t change that. We’re both going to take a gap year so we can travel and then go to uni next year.’
The kid had an answer for everything. It shouldn’t be Scott dealing with this, it should be Lisa, or Billie. Anyone but him. He wasn’t up to it. But thanks to bad fortune, neither was Billie, her communication skills reduced to one-word slurs. He glanced at her, hoping to see the same concern in her eyes as he had, but she was smiling, patting Ben’s hand with her good arm. Thanks, Mum. Really helpful.
Scott only had one card left to play. ‘Have you spoken to your mum about this?’
Ben’s expression hardened. ‘No, I haven’t spoken to Lisa and I don’t intend to. This has nothing to do with her.’
His nephew’s response wasn’t a shock, even if it was disappointing. ‘She’s your mum. Of course this affects her.’
Ben laughed. ‘Yeah, right. I haven’t seen the woman for two years. Our relationship has reduced to Christmas and birthday cards. We can stop pretending Lisa cares about me, because she doesn’t.’ He held onto his nan’s hand. ‘She doesn’t care about anyone other than herself.’
Scott wanted to dispute that fact, but how could he? When it came to applied and interdisciplinary mathematics, his sister cared deeply. Her whole existence was devoted to developing a highly successful career. But when it came to parenting her ‘mistake’, as she referred to it, she was as lacking in as many skills as Scott was in completing benefit forms.
Trouble was, it wasn’t entirely Lisa’s fault. At sixteen she hadn’t been equipped to care for a baby. Scott’s mum had taken over the main responsibilities and sent Lisa off to school, encouraging her studies, not wanting her daughter to be held back by having a kid so young.
Consequently, as Ben and Billie’s bond grew stronger, Lisa was pushed to the sidelines. When Ben cried it was Billie who comforted him. When he fell over it was his nan he wanted to nurse him better. Unintentionally, Lisa was relegated to the position of spectator in her son’s life. By the time Ben reached eleven the wedge between them was cemented. A job opportunity abroad offered Lisa the career she’d always wanted and an escape from the constant disappointment of not being the most important person in her son’s life.
Scott tried again. ‘I’m not going to defend your mum’s decision not to visit more. I agree it’s lousy. But there’s no question she loves you.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Love is not buggering off to Bangalore and leaving behind your eleven-year-old kid.’ He stood up. ‘Apart from Amy, the only people’s opinions I care about are in this room. You’re my family, you and Nanny. As long as you’re behind me then I don’t care about what anyone else thinks.’ He walked over to Scott. ‘I can tell Nan’s okay with it. That just leaves you. Are you going to support me, Uncle Scott? Or abandon me like Lisa did?’
Scott flinched. It was a low blow, an unfair ultimatum, but Scott knew if he didn’t side with Ben it would be irreversible. ‘Abandoning you is something I would never do. And if you don’t know that by now then I’m sorry for not making it clearer.’
Ben’s challenging gaze softened.
Scott knew he was losing ground. ‘Would I prefer it if you waited until you were older? Yes. Would I be happier if you finished uni and fulfilled your dream to be a director before taking on the challenges of a family? Definitely. But if you’re determined to do this, then of course I’ll support you. We both will.’ He looked at his mum. She nodded her consent.
Ben threw himself at Scott. ‘Thank you.’
Scott kept eye contact with his mum, trying to read her expression. She nodded slowly, as if to say, ‘You’re doing the right thing.’ He wasn’t so sure.
Ben’s joyful exuberance was quickly restored. Within minutes he’d downloaded Slumdog Millionaire onto the TV and was curled up next to Billie, making her laugh with his off-key rendition of ‘Jai Ho’.
Leaving them to it, Scott went into the kitchen. He was no longer in the mood for tackling the PIP form, not after Ben’s bombshell. He finished his beer and went into his bedroom to phone Lisa. It felt like a betrayal, but Ben’s mother needed to know her son was planning to marry.
The estrangement between mother and son might not totally be down to his sister, but Lisa compounded the problem by not coming home more often. Countless times, Scott had pointed out that their relationship couldn’t improve with her living so far away, but his sister was convinced Ben was better off without her ‘interference’, as she called it. Whatever her reasoning, it didn’t justify her refusal to permanently settle in the UK after their mum’s stroke. That had been pure selfishness. Lisa had been offered a promotion, head of the new maths programme at the university, and she’d felt she couldn’t pass it up.
So here they were, another family drama, another request for his sister to step up and be a parent. How would she react this time? Would she be pleased? Angry? Indifferent? Would she offer to pay for the wedding? Suggest contacting Amy’s parents to discuss arrangements? Judging by Amy’s complaints about her father being too overbearing and strict, Scott couldn’t imagine news of his little girl’s upcoming nuptials would go down too well.
Scott needed an ally, someone to play bad cop to his good. And Lisa was the perfect bad cop. He wasn’t sure what the time was in India, but her voicemail kicked in. He was forced to leave a message asking her to call him back urgently.
There was no way he was dealing with this alone.
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#ulink_01435328-6cf3-5d2a-a5ed-a0ccdff63ce2)
Thursday, 6 March (#ulink_01435328-6cf3-5d2a-a5ed-a0ccdff63ce2)
Evie was slightly regretting her choice of footwear. Three-inch mules designed to look like an exotic cocktail might be a fun way to evoke cheerfulness, but when it came to walking any distance they were proving lethal. The plastic heels were shaped to look like ice-cubes, whilst the polka-dot enclosed front was decorated with a pineapple slice and topped with a bright red cherry. It was like trying to balance on stilts. But as it was all part of her master plan to re-engage with her playful side, she ignored the perils of a potentially broken ankle and continued to unload flowers onto the driveway of Sunning Lodge.
The home of the Bitars was a grand dwelling in the pricey part of town. Being booked to arrange flowers for their family party was a big coup. Spending over five hundred quid for half a day’s work was a drop in the ocean for the Bitars, but for Evie this was an account that could make all the difference. She was going all out, even if she was a little daunted by her surroundings.
As she’d pulled up in the van, she was greeted by manned security gates, uniformed guards with walkie-talkies, more CCTV cameras than Heathrow and Gatwick put together, and four very large Dobermans. Thankfully the dogs were on harnesses. They sniffed around the van, their owners viewing Evie with heightened suspicion as she carried a tray of oriental lilies up to the ornate entrance. Overriding her instinct to cower away from the dogs’ snarling growls, she lifted her chin. She was not going to be intimidated.
The front door was opened by an attractive woman wearing a turquoise satin tunic and trousers, combining traditional Indian style with western designer chic. Like the opulent house and vast expanse of landscape surrounding her, Mrs Bitar reeked of money and class. Evie questioned her choice of footwear even more.
She was greeted with a warm smile. ‘Welcome to our home. Please do come in.’ Rose-gold jewellery sparkled from the woman’s wrists as she ushered Evie inside. ‘Are you the lady I spoke to on the telephone?’
‘I am, yes.’ Evie tried to free up a hand, but the tray was too heavy. ‘Evie Armstrong. I’m the manager of The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop. It’s very nice to meet you.’
Mrs Bitar beamed. ‘The pleasure is all mine. My name is Farah.’
Two young boys appeared from nowhere, running across the expanse of the hallway, which opened into a large reception room decorated with glass lights and accessories and polished marble flooring. Scampering by the side of the young boys were two more dogs … neither on a leash.
Even though Mrs Bitar clapped her hands, ordering both children and dogs to ‘stay’, it didn’t prevent a collision. Being rugby tackled by either the boys or the dogs would have been enough to throw the sturdiest of beings off balance, but add in a large tray of lilies and daft shoes and a mess was inevitable.
Evie felt she did extremely well not to break anything, including herself. The tray landed upside down on the marble floor. Her bum made contact with the corner of a table, and one shoe spiralled into the air, was caught by a charging dog, and almost swallowed whole.
Amongst frantic apologies from Mrs Bitar, Evie was helped upright, her assailants receiving a right royal bollocking from their mother. ‘Naughty Ajit and Ankit.’ She turned to Evie. ‘Please accept my apologies. Are you injured?’
Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ If you discounted the throb in her left bum cheek. She probably had a bruise forming in the shape of the table corner. Nice.
‘That is no way to welcome a guest to the house,’ Mrs Bitar scolded her children. ‘Apologise and introduce yourselves properly to Miss Armstrong.’
Both boys bowed their heads, mumbling an apology.
Still recovering from the sudden adrenaline rush, Evie tried to regain her composure. ‘No harm done. It’s nice to meet you. Now, which one is Ajit and which one Ankit.’
Both boys snorted, overcome with a fit of giggles.
Mrs Bitar touched Evie’s arm. ‘Ajit and Ankit are the dogs.’ She pointed to each child in turn. ‘Havu and Anam.’
How to impress a client. Good one, Evie. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Mrs Bitar bent down to pick up the tray of lilies. ‘No worries. Can I provide you with some refreshment? I have homemade lemonade cooling.’
Evie was about to refuse when she realised a sugary drink might be very welcome. She didn’t normally accept drinks, not wanting to put her customers to any trouble, but adrenaline and embarrassment had sapped her resolve. ‘That sounds lovely. Let me do that, Mrs Bitar.’ Evie took over clearing up the upturned flowers.
‘It’s Farah, please. I am happy to help.’ She continued picking up the stems.
‘Perhaps you could retrieve my shoe?’ Evie tentatively eyed up the white wolf munching on her decorative footwear.
Farah Bitar followed Evie’s eye line. ‘Ankit!’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Come here!’
The dog tilted its head. It was a mean-looking, muscular thing with pointy ears and a wide neck. ‘I won’t ask again.’ Still the dog didn’t move, its jaws clamped down on Evie’s shoe. ‘The dogs belong to my husband. I’m afraid they only respond to his commands.’
In the end Havu had to tease the shoe away from the dog by offering it an alternative treat, a dirty great bone. Evie’s cocktail shoe was handed back, minus the cherry.
Sliding her foot into a sticky shoe smothered in dog saliva wasn’t high on Evie’s list of pleasant experiences. She tried to keep her expression neutral. ‘What type of dog is he?’ He wouldn’t look out of place as Vinny Jones’s sidekick in a Guy Ritchie movie.
‘An Argentine Dogo.’
Tempted as Evie was to ask, ‘Does your dogo bite?’ she refrained. Partly because she was a little afraid of the answer.
‘Ajit is a Brazilian Mastiff.’ The other dog caught sight of the bone and joined his bruiser sidekick.
‘They’re on the dangerous dog list,’ Anam announced excitedly, as though this would endear them to Evie. ‘They have to be shipped and everything.’
‘Chipped, darling. Not shipped. They’re very well-trained pets,’ Mrs Bitar added, no doubt for Evie’s benefit, as the blood had drained from her face. ‘They’ll cause you no harm.’
No, just murder my shoe. ‘I’d better make a start on the flowers, Mrs – er, Farah. Where would you like me to set up?’
Avoiding the evil stares of the Bitars’ ‘pets’, Evie was taken over to a large glass table. Her instructions weren’t specific, just fill a selection of grand vases ready for the party that evening. No problem.
‘I do enjoy having all the family together,’ Mrs Bitar said as she placed a tumbler of lemonade onto the table next to Evie. ‘Do you have a large family, Evie?’
Evie added eucalyptus leaves to the vases. ‘Not really. I have a younger sister. My parents are divorced, I don’t see them much.’
The confusion on Mrs Bitar’s face was evident. ‘That’s very sad.’
It struck Evie that it was. Prior to the divorce, everything had been fine, they were just like the Bitars. Well, not quite like the Bitars. They hadn’t lived in a mansion with more security and trappings than Barack Obama, but they had been happy. Evie had friends, she was close to Holly and doing well at school. She’d spent most evenings and weekends competing in athletic competitions, living a normal, uneventful life.
Fast forward two years post-divorce and she was sofa surfing on her grandparents’ couch, unable to commit to training sessions and missing her sister. She’d always thought giving up athletics competitions had been her own choice. Looking back, maybe it was another casualty of her parents’ break-up. Oh well, no point dwelling.
Midway through assembling an abundance of freesias, there was another flurry of activity by the doorway. The dogs started barking, setting off the kids into a frenzy of frantic jumping, accompanied by the low rumble of an engine. Ajit the Invincible – as Havu had informed Evie the Brazilian Mastiff was officially named – had acquired a long stick and was gripping it between his teeth. As the dog charged under a chair, the stick caught on the legs. Momentum bounced him backwards, rolling him over like a cartoon.
Evie made the mistake of laughing. As if seeking revenge, the dog bounded over to where she was standing and knocked into the table. The force sent one of the elaborate glass vases into a spin, and then it tipped off the table and smashed onto the marble flooring. The dog dropped the stick, as if to say ‘Wasn’t me’, and legged it over to the door to greet the man currently swooping into the house.
The sound of smashing glass alerted the man to Evie’s presence. He looked her up and down, and then at the mess on the floor. What was she supposed to do, blame the dog? Somehow she didn’t think that would go down very well with the master of the house.
Thankfully, Mrs Bitar appeared. ‘Look at this mess! Umal, take the kids upstairs. Those bloody dogs!’ She sounded more English than Indian.
Evie breathed a sigh of relief. Client relations were still intact … just. Even if Mr Bitar did ignore her as he carried both kids upstairs.
Mrs Bitar returned with a dustpan and brush. ‘If I didn’t love my husband so much, those dogs would be locked in the garage.’ She knelt down. ‘Do you have a husband, Evie?’
Evie kept her tone neutral. ‘Er, no, I don’t.’
‘Men can be such trouble.’ She waved the brush about. ‘More so than the children.’
Evie laughed. ‘I’m happy to concentrate on running my business for now.’
‘A wise decision.’ She scooped shards of glass into a wastepaper basket. ‘How long have you owned the flower shop?’
Evie returned to arranging the flowers. ‘Oh, I’m not the owner, not yet. I hope to be one day. The present owner lives in the States. If she stays permanently, she’s promised me first refusal on the business.’
‘That is exciting news.’
‘I just hope I can convince the bank to loan me the money.’ Evie picked up a lump of missed glass and added it to the bin.
‘But the business is a success, yes? You come recommended from many people I know.’
It was a relief to know word of mouth was good. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bitar – er, I mean, Farah. That’s very kind of you. But I’m a start-up and I don’t have much equity. The business is doing well, really well, but the overheads are high, so it’s taking me time to save up a decent deposit.’
Mrs Bitar smiled. ‘I will talk to my husband. Umal is head of loans at Harrods Bank. I will tell him you are a good investment.’
Evie wasn’t so sure he’d agree with his wife. His first impression had been of her surrounded by shattered glass and staring accusingly at his dog. Still, it was a great contact to have. ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
Mrs Bitar studied the arrangements. ‘You are very talented. Look at these flowers, so beautifully displayed.’
Evie felt chuffed. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Bitar seemed struck by an idea. ‘You should enter a competition. This would be a good idea, yes? Have you considered this?’
Evie carried the vase of freesias over to the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve not done anything since college. I’m too busy trying to build up my clientele – I don’t have much free time.’
Mrs Bitar shook her head. ‘But you should make time. Think of the prestige. My niece in India won a product design competition. She was offered a much better job with a big architect firm in New Delhi. It was a good career move.’
Evie was touched. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She would too. Not because she necessarily thought it was a great idea, but if it meant securing the Bitars’ custom and persuading Mr Bitar to consider a loan, then it might be worth the effort. However much of a long shot it might be.
‘I am sure you would win first prize.’ Mrs Bitar admired the vase of lilies. ‘Your parents would be proud, yes?’
Evie considered this. Would they be proud? She hoped so. They were just so preoccupied with their new families that they no longer knew what Evie desired or strived for. They lived their lives, she lived hers. That was how it was. Sad really.
Maybe if she’d been closer to her family, like the Bitars, then perhaps they could’ve helped her deal with the Kyle situation. As it was, she’d never told them about it, not in any great detail. She certainly couldn’t imagine Mr Bitar tolerating any man who made his child unhappy, that was for certain. He’d set the dogs on them.
And then a thought struck. Perhaps she should get a dog? Not a vicious thing like the Bitars’ brutes, but something more … sociable. It might help boost her self-worth having a doting pet. A companion to curl up on the sofa with in the evenings. Plus, it’d give her some protection when she went out running.
What an inspired idea.
She was going to get herself a dog.
CHAPTER TWELVE (#ulink_ecaf5699-8216-5e07-bedd-6a03e91429b7)
Saturday, 8 March (#ulink_ecaf5699-8216-5e07-bedd-6a03e91429b7)
These were the kind of Saturdays Patricia enjoyed. An early game of tennis, lunch with girlfriends, followed by a spot of shopping before coming home and relaxing with a glass of wine. David was rarely home at the weekends any more, which suited her. She’d stopped asking where he went a long time ago, figuring his answers weren’t truthful anyway, so what was the point in torturing herself.
As she lay on the sofa, enjoying her second glass of wine, she spotted a line of cobwebs running across the ceiling. Knowing the sight of them would annoy David, she got up and fetched the handheld hoover.
Turning up the volume on the stereo, she climbed onto the leather sofa and stretched up so she could reach the wooden beams.
Maybe she should care more about the state of her marriage. But life without David around was much easier than life with him, so she ignored the elephant in the room and dusted around it.
If she removed David from the equation, her life was good. She enjoyed her ‘lady of leisure’ status, spending precious mummy time with her beautiful daughter, and found entertainment in the form of friends and home furnishings. Their house, The Pines, was all her dreams come true. Five double bedrooms, a swimming pool, two acres of garden and a kitchen that Gordon Ramsay would be envious of. The house was large enough that even if her husband was home she could engineer it so their paths didn’t cross for several hours.
It wasn’t an ideal situation, and she was aware that she suffered from a hefty dose of denial, but what were her choices? Leaving David would only cause Amy distress and reduce her own standard of living, which she’d worked flaming hard to achieve. She’d put up with his philandering ways for over twenty years. She was owed this luxury, she’d earned it.
As she sang along to Aretha Franklin’s ‘I’m Every Woman’ she knew her reasoning for staying in the marriage was flawed. Her submissive attitude towards David’s womanising would hardly endear her to the feminists of this world. Well, tough. She was no Germaine Greer. She had ‘made her bed’, as her mother used to say, and there was no one to blame but herself.
The music abruptly switched off. She nearly fell off the arm of the sofa.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ David’s annoyance sent a chill of dread through her.
She hadn’t heard him arrive home. Bang went her relaxing Saturday. ‘I’m dusting. What does it look like I’m doing?’
His expression conveyed just what he thought about her churlish response. ‘Get down. You’ll break your neck, you stupid woman. We pay a cleaner to do that.’
Such touching concern. At what point had ‘babykins’ become ‘stupid woman’? She climbed down from the sofa. ‘You’re home early?’
‘I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to come home.’ He switched on the TV.
She was about to point out that she’d been listening to music when she realised her feelings no longer mattered. ‘I was merely making an observation.’
He slung his leather jacket over the armchair and flicked onto Sky Sports. ‘Did you pick up my dry cleaning?’
She internalised a sigh. ‘Of course I did.’ When had she ever not? ‘They couldn’t get the stain out of your suede coat, I’m afraid.’
Annoyance dominated his handsome features. And he was handsome, there were no two ways about it: tall, his hair thick and dark with flecks of distinguished grey, broad muscular frame. He was a classic model of a man, chiselled and timeless. He’d fit right into the cast of Mad Men, both in looks and attitude. ‘Did you complain?’
Patricia unclipped the nozzle from the cleaner. ‘No, because they’d warned me when I dropped it off that it might not come out.’
‘I hope they didn’t charge you.’ He was as tight with money as he was with his affections. Well, towards her at any rate.
Before she could comment, the front door slammed. Amy came rushing into the lounge. ‘Mummy, are you here?’
‘In here, darling.’ She placed the hoover in its box. ‘Is everything okay?’
Amy didn’t see her father sitting in the chair. She rushed over, enveloping Patricia in a hug. ‘Guess what, Mummy? I’m getting married!’
Whatever Patricia’s initial reaction to this news might have been, it was overridden by David rising from the chair like a mythical creature emerging from the sea. ‘No, you most certainly are not, young lady.’
For the briefest moment Amy looked thrown. She clearly wasn’t expecting her dad to be home when she made her big announcement. But any doubt was fleeting, and her confident demeanour quickly returned. ‘Yes, I am, Daddy. Ben asked me to marry him and I said yes. This is what I want.’
‘It might be what you want, but it’s not happening.’ David turned back to the TV, his interest caught by a Chelsea goal. In his mind the conversation was over. He was used to winning arguments with very little resistance. Patricia thought him a fool if he imagined his daughter would be as easily dismissed as his wife normally was.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy. But my mind is made up.’ She turned to Patricia, taking her hands. ‘You’ll support me, won’t you, Mummy?’
Before Patricia could answer, David interrupted. ‘No, she won’t. Now stop being ridiculous.’ He pointed a finger, using the same tone he used with Patricia when she tried to stand her ground. ‘You are not getting married and that’s final. Instead you’ll concentrate on finishing your A levels, go to university as planned and stop being ridiculous. Do you hear me?’
Far from backing down, Amy calmly responded with, ‘I’m eighteen, I don’t need your permission. I love Ben and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.’
The veins in David’s temples throbbed. ‘You cannot possibly know what you want. You’re a child. Grow up and use your brain, you’re a smart girl.’
‘Smart enough to know what I want.’ Amy folded her arms.
Go, Amy! thought Patricia, before registering that perhaps she should be siding with her husband on this issue.
‘Clearly not.’ David took a step towards his defiant daughter. ‘And what’s more, I forbid you to see Ben again. It’s time I put my foot down. I’ve been too lenient. No boys until you’ve finished school.’
Her husband could be such an arse at times. Fancy making such an ultimatum. Didn’t he realise that Amy would rebel against such a dogmatic approach?
Amy turned to her mum, her golden hair lit up from the early evening sun spilling through the windows. Her blue eyes flickered with love, hoping for support.
David’s stare was no less intense, although it dared Patricia not to side with him. She was caught in the middle.
It was a while before she found her voice. ‘Shouting isn’t getting us anywhere. We need to sit down and discuss the situation in a sensible manner, like the adults we all are.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss.’ David wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable. ‘She is not getting married.’
‘Yes, I am!’ As Amy had inherited her stubbornness from her father, Patricia thought David could hardly complain that his feisty daughter wasn’t backing down.
‘Both of you, please. This isn’t helping.’ She squeezed Amy’s hand. ‘Sit down, darling.’
‘I’m fine standing,’ David said.
Instead of pointing out that he wasn’t the ‘darling’ she’d been referring to, Patricia led Amy over to the sofa. ‘This has rather come out of the blue, sweetheart. You can’t expect us not to react to such life-changing news or query your decision.’
‘But he’s not querying it, Mummy. He’s telling me no without even hearing my side of things.’
‘I don’t need to hear your side!’
Patricia placed her palm gently against Amy’s cheek, ensuring she had her daughter’s attention. ‘I’m listening, sweetheart. Talk to me. Tell me your side of things.’
Ignoring various interruptions from her dad, Amy raced through her and Ben’s plans for the future. ‘He adores me, Mummy. He has our whole lives planned out. We’ll marry in the summer, spend a year travelling, he’ll go off to film school and I’ll go to university. In four years’ time we’ll move to Hollywood where he’ll get a job working at one of the film studios and I’ll set up a dance company.’
David advanced on the sofa. ‘Dancing is a hobby.’
Amy glared at him. ‘It’s what I want to do. To become a famous choreographer and run my own dance company.’
David laughed, a mean, hard sound. ‘You need to stop daydreaming and focus on your academic studies. Aim for a career in something useful, like teaching or nursing. Something that won’t waste your talents.’
‘My talent is for dancing. Something you’d be aware of if you’d taken any interest and come to watch me compete.’
‘Dancing is not a proper career.’ He banged his fist down on the back of the sofa. ‘And neither is film-making. How deluded are the pair of you? This is nonsense.’
Amy returned to Patricia, ignoring her dad as if he’d never spoken. ‘In ten years’ time Ben will be directing films, I’ll be the successful owner of a chain of dance studios and we’ll be financially secure, with three kids, a dog, a convertible and living happily ever after.’
David swore, something he rarely did. ‘Of all the idiotic, childish …’
Patricia tuned out. She was torn. Her gut reaction was that eighteen was far too young to marry. She hadn’t been much older herself and look how things turned out. She didn’t want that for Amy.
But her daughter was a different creature. She’d always been so mature for her age, a determined child who’d achieved everything she’d ever set out to do. Telling her not to do something would never work. David should realise that. After all, he was exactly the same. And who was to say Amy wouldn’t succeed just as predicted? If anyone could do it, her daughter could. But still, it didn’t alter the fact that getting married before you’d finished education wasn’t the best idea.
Patricia needed to reason with her daughter, not dictate. ‘Weddings cost a lot of money, darling. Not to mention all this talk of travelling and living abroad after university. How are you planning to pay for all this?’
‘It doesn’t matter how they’re planning to pay for it, it’s not happening.’ David’s yelling made her jump. ‘Stop asking stupid questions and tell her to grow up.’
Sadness and humiliation settled over Patricia, weighing her down. It was one thing to put up with David’s rudeness in private, but allowing him to be so dismissive in front of Amy was no example to set for her daughter.
‘Don’t speak to Mum like that.’ Amy stood up. ‘How dare you be so rude to her? At least she’s trying to be reasonable. If anyone’s acting childishly it’s you.’
Oh, God. This was just getting worse. Her eighteen-year-old daughter had more gumption than she did. No wonder Amy couldn’t wait to fly the nest and make a life of her own. Look at her role models.
‘I’ll talk to your mother any way I choose.’ David shook his fist at Amy.
‘And you do, don’t you? You’re always putting her down and making unkind remarks. Well, you’re not going to bully me the way you do Mum. I’m out of here.’
‘Come back, I haven’t finished,’ David shouted to Amy’s retreating back.
‘Yes, you have!’ Amy stormed out of the front door, followed by David.
And then there was silence.
Patricia slumped against the sofa, alone with her thoughts, the unfinished dusting and flaming Sky Sports.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#ulink_db1e7fd6-9412-5460-8cd6-8061754ec31e)
Tuesday, 11 March (#ulink_db1e7fd6-9412-5460-8cd6-8061754ec31e)
Scott had learnt long ago that life was full of surprises. The latest one was being called back to the florist’s in Heatherton to fix the boiler, which had packed up again. It’d been three weeks since his last visit. The owner hadn’t exactly warmed to him or his plumbing skills during his previous call-out, so why she was engaging his services again he wasn’t sure. But business was business and he wasn’t about to refuse.
The gentle tinkle of the bell above the door announced his arrival. Despite the warming spring weather outside it was chilly inside, and he was glad he’d worn his fleece. The smell of cut flowers was potent and heady, the floor space covered with buckets of roses and various other blooms.
As the proprietor appeared from the rear of the shop, he could almost sense the air temperature drop another few degrees. She looked far from pleased. He tried not to feel affronted.
Her long, dark hair was clipped up, a tumble of messy waves framed her unsmiling face. She was dressed in faded jeans and jumper, her petite figure hidden underneath a shapeless apron. And then he spotted her shoes.
The shock of such contrasting footwear caught him off guard. He openly laughed, tapering his reaction when she folded her arms across her chest. ‘Something amusing?’
He nodded at her pink and white wedges. ‘You can’t blame me for laughing. What are they, anyhow?’
She shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Kittens.’
‘Kittens?’ He peered closer. True enough, two cute faces smiled back, complete with whiskers and woeful button eyes. ‘They’re very … unique.’
She made a derisive noise. ‘I booked you to mend my boiler, not comment on my footwear.’
He sighed. It was going to be a long day. ‘I was surprised to hear from you.’
‘Yeah, well, you were the only plumber available and I need it mended urgently.’ She gestured for him to follow. ‘Maybe this time you could fix it so it lasts.’
Talk about unreasonable. ‘Like I said last time, it’s an old boiler. You’re lucky it’s still working at all.’ He dropped his bag on the floor. ‘I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any promises.’
She shrugged. ‘Fine. Do what you can. Please,’ she added, almost as an afterthought. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
He hesitated. Was this a trick question? Last time he’d been served up brown sludge.
He nodded, cautiously. ‘Tea would be great, thank you … Evie. I assume you remember how I like it?’ He smiled, hoping remembering her first name might thaw her frostiness.
His efforts were met with a stony response. Okay, maybe not.
‘White, no sugar, please.’
She sneezed and disappeared into the kitchen.
He scratched his head. When had he lost the ability to make a woman smile? He might not be looking for a deep and meaningful relationship, but it would be nice to know he wasn’t repugnant to the opposite sex. The idea that he was past his prime was highly disturbing.
As he unloaded his tools, Evie’s assistant arrived. She was wearing huge sunglasses and a woollen hat pulled low over her head. Dragging her feet in typical teenage fashion, she crossed the shop floor, her gait straightening when she spotted Scott. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you again.’
He returned her smile, grateful someone seemed pleased to see him. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to see me again, either.’
Evie appeared from the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. She placed it on the countertop without looking at him. ‘Morning, Saffy.’
Saffy removed her sunglasses and stared at the mug of tea. ‘Blimey. That’s a first.’
Scott sniffed the contents, checking for signs of cyanide. At least it was warm this time. ‘I’ll need to turn off the mains. You might want to fill the kettle so you have water for later.’
Evie glared at him. ‘I won’t be on hand to make you tea all morning, you know. I am trying to run a business.’
Flipping heck she was testy. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you fill the kettle so you could make me tea. You might want a general store of water on hand whilst the main supply is turned off.’
Her cheeks coloured. ‘Right, okay. I’ll do that. Sorry.’ She went into the kitchen.
Jesus. Scott removed the boiler cover. ‘Is she like this with all men, or just me?’
Saffy removed her coat, leaving her hat on. ‘Just you. She’s very polite to everyone else.’
Scott wasn’t sure this was helpful. ‘Makes you wonder why she booked me to come again.’ He aimed his torch at the panel on the side of the boiler, trying to make out the faded writing on the instruction sticker.
Saffy hopped onto the countertop and crossed her legs. ‘The firm she tried last week were too expensive and the one she contacted yesterday never bothered turning up.’
Scott laughed. He was more amused than offended, even if he did feel a little put out she’d taken such a dislike to him. What the hell was wrong with him? He was a nice guy … Wasn’t he?
The doorbell tinkled. A young guy entered wearing funeral attire, a top hat tucked under his arm. ‘Hey there, Saffy-with-the-hat.’ His grin was toothy and enthusiastic, his interest in Saffy as apparent as the nature of his employment.
Saffy’s reaction to the lad’s arrival was about as welcoming as Evie had been to Scott. ‘What do you want?’
The lad laughed. ‘Great sales technique. I’m just checking on an order for later. Will it be ready?’
Saffy peered at him from under the brim of her hat. ‘Have any of your orders ever not been ready?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope.’
‘Then no reason to suppose it’ll be any different this time.’ Her top lip curled into a sneer. ‘If there’s nothing else?’ She waved her fingers. ‘Bye bye.’
Evie emerged from the kitchen. ‘Oh, hi, Josh. Your order’s not ready yet, I’m afraid. Can you come back in a couple of hours?’
Josh smiled. ‘No worries, I was just passing. Thought I’d drop in.’ He hesitated, stealing a sideways glance at Saffy. ‘I’ll come back then.’ When she didn’t reply, he headed for the door. ‘See you later, Saffy-with-the-hat.’
Saffy feigned a smile. ‘Not if I see you first … Josh-with-the-ears,’ she mumbled once the door had closed behind him.
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