by Beth Good
He thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Okay, let’s give it a shot. And it would be good to spend Christmas in London for a change, go to a few parties. I’m sure my mother has some old friends she’d like to see too.’ His lids drooped over his eyes, hiding the sudden gleam there. ‘Perhaps if she says yes, you could come to stay at my place over Christmas too. And bring your father. There’s plenty of room.’
She was astonished. ‘You want to invite my dad?’
‘Yes, didn’t you see how my mother’s face lit up when she mentioned Henry Mistletoe and the flower shop? I think she’d love a chance to meet him again and talk about old times.’ He suddenly grinned, his angst falling away. ‘Maybe this Christmas won’t be such a disaster, after all.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Her dad was amazed when she told him about the invitation to stay at Nick’s town house over Christmas. He was a little uncertain too. ‘But I’ve bought our turkey now. And what would I wear? I’ve nothing smart enough for that kind of party.’
‘It’s not formal, or a party. It’ll be just you, me, Nick and his mum.’ She hesitated. ‘Apparently you knew her in the old days, when your dad was running the shop and you were his assistant.’
‘Did I?’
‘Her name’s Barbara. I’m not sure of her maiden name.’ Then she bit her lip. ‘Actually, it might be Grimsby. The same as his. She never married Nick’s father.’
Her dad stared at her, then his eyes widened. ‘Grimsby. I knew I’d heard that name somewhere before. Barbara Grimsby.’ He ran a hand through his hair, which, she noticed, was standing on end as though he hadn’t combed it since she’d left. ‘Tiny little scrap of a girl, used to come in begging for bits and pieces my dad would have thrown away. As I recall, she didn’t have two pennies to rub together, poor thing. Always had a lovely smile for me though.’ His voice rose. ‘You mean to say, that’s Nick Grimsby’s mother?’
Rose nodded, smiling.
‘Well, she did all right for herself in the end, didn’t she?’ He followed her to the foot of the stairs, sounding a little sad. ‘Not going back out already, are you?’
‘I have to, Dad, sorry about that,’ she told him regretfully. ‘Ebba’s waiting for me in the limo outside while I change into something … Well, into something more suitable for this weather. It’s cold enough to snow out there. Anyway, I have to talk to the other owners on the picket line before Nick holds his press conference at five o’clock. I can’t miss it.’
‘I see.’ He winked at her. ‘I knew you’d do it. Changed his mind for him, did you?’
That was a little too close to the truth to be comfortable.
‘I’d better get changed,’ she said huskily, and turned to go upstairs.
‘Hold on a minute, love. You can’t leave me hanging like this. The only person I’ve had to talk to lately is Mrs Toghear, and she’s taken a fancy to Bob at the Labour Club. Come on, what was it like, this castle in Scotland? You said something about Hogwarts on the phone.’
She smiled. ‘It was huge, intimidating … and a bit draughty in places. No ghosts or ghouls though, I’m pleased to say.’
‘I’m not surprised it was draughty if you were roaming the halls in that skimpy get-up,’ her dad said, nodding to her bare legs and short dress she’d worn home to London. ‘Hardly cold weather clobber, is it? It’s snowing quite heavily up there too, I checked on the telly. I was worried you might not make it back before Christmas. So was Paul. He called round here this morning, to see if you were back yet. He looked quite annoyed when I said you’d been out all night.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I thought you and Paul … ’
‘No, I was never really that interested in Paul. He’s a nice bloke, and fun to be with, but in fact … ’ She shook her head firmly. ‘I like Nick better.’
‘Nick’s got a nice smile. From the photos on his business website.’
She blushed.
‘It probably helps that he’s a billionaire,’ her dad added. ‘If he hadn’t been quite so rich, trust me, I would never have let you get into the limousine on your own. But he was so persuasive on the phone.’
She picked up a hat that he’d left on the newel post and threw it at him. He grinned, knocking it aside, then plucked at his jumper, frowning now. ‘Talking of clothes, and billionaires, I’d better pack if I’m going away for Christmas. Though God knows what I’m going to wear to keep up with the Grimsbys.’
‘Don’t worry about that. They all dress fairly casually at home,’ she said, and crossed her fingers out of his sight, hoping that would remain true once they were in Nick’s city pad. ‘Look, when is Sally due over this evening? Maybe she could help sort out what you’d like to take.’
‘Not until ten o’clock, to help me get ready for bath.’
‘Okay, then why not come with me to the picket line? I’ll help you pack later, when we get back home. I’ll ring Sally and tell her you’re going away for Christmas.’ When he began to shake his head, she decided it was time to put her foot down over his hermit-like existence, saying, ‘Now come on, you can’t stay home all the time. And I know Barbara is longing to see you again.’
Her dad hesitated, looking surprised. ‘She is?’
‘Would I lie to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dad!’
‘All right, but what about … ’ He looked down at his legs, head bent so she couldn’t see his expression. ‘Does she know I’m in a wheelchair now?’
‘Yes, and she doesn’t care one jot.’ Rose hesitated, then added quietly, ‘In fact, Barbara has not been exactly well herself lately. If you come with me, I’ll tell you all about it.’
He raised his head, staring at her.
Rose ran up the stairs, calling back over her shoulder, ‘Come with me, Dad. There’s plenty of room in the back of that limousine, trust me. We could probably cram most of our neighbours in there, let alone you and your wheels. I’ll be ready in about ten minutes, in case you want to, I don’t know, maybe comb your hair first? It does look a bit like a haystack.’
‘Why, you cheeky little … ’
She was surprised by how many people had turned out to picket Thimblerig Holdings. It was already getting dark, but there had to be at least forty or maybe even fifty people marching round and round the paved plaza outside his London headquarters. Not all of them could be Christmas Parade shop owners, of course, but members of their families, perhaps, friends, and other interested parties. Some held placards aloft, claiming that Nick’s company was robbing them of their livelihood and heritage. Others held up banners featuring catchy slogans along much the same lines, or chanted, 'Nick Grimsby, just go home! Leave Christmas Parade alone!' Their voices were hoarse, and they all looked cold and tired, many of them having been there most of the day, she guessed, the clouds above dark and threatening snow.
As the limousine pulled up along the curb, outside the shiny glass edifice of Thimblerig Holdings, their heads turned and several ran forward, shouting angrily at the car.
'Good God,' her dad said urgently, putting a hand on her arm, 'don't get out, Rose. Those people will tear you apart. Look at them! They’re ready to pick a fight with anyone. And you're getting out of the boss man's car.'
'I know what I'm doing,' Rose said calmly, trying to reassure him with a bright smile. Deep-down inside though, she knew he was right. She was unnerved herself at the prospect of facing down all these angry people. Yet what else could she do? She had told Nick that she would be here, and she was one of the ringleaders of this mob. She had stirred these people up to take action against their oppressors, and now it was up to her to make things right again.
Smoothing down her heather-red woollen skirt, she took a deep breath, then asked Ebba through the intercom to open the door for her.
'You stay here where it's warm, Dad,’ she added, climbing out as Ebba opened the back door for her. ‘At least until I tell you it’s stay to get out.’
The owners rushed fo
rward, but those at the very front stopped on seeing her, staring instead in bewilderment.
Mrs Patel was there, wearing a colourful woolly hat. She pushed past her son, who gave her an annoyed look. ‘Rose? Where on earth have you been? Everyone’s been looking for you, trying to ring you.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Rose began, but was cut off.
‘That’s Nick Grimsby’s car, isn’t it? And his driver?’ Mrs Patel pointed at Ebba accusingly, but the blonde merely raised her eyebrows in disdain. ‘I recognise her from last time we came here. For those negotiations, do you remember? She must be all of six foot, a total giant. But why were you in his car, Rose?’ She bent, trying to catch a glimpse of who else was in the limousine before Ebba shut the door firmly in her face. ‘Was that your dad too? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, Mrs Patel, everything’s going to be fine,’ Rose told her.
‘What’s that you said?’
Rose had to raise her voice, simply to be heard above the angry shouts and chanting from the picket line. ‘I’ve sorted everything out. Or at least, I hope it’s been sorted. We’ll know soon enough. Nick Grimsby is holding a press conference here at four-thirty.’ She checked her phone and winced as she realised how late it was. ‘In about five minutes, in fact. Then you’ll see what I’ve been doing.’
‘I know all about his bloody press conference. He got here about half an hour ago.’ Mrs Patel jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the glass building behind the picketers. ‘The journalists have been here for ages, waiting for him to speak.’ Her eyes narrowed suspiciously on Rose’s face. ‘Do you know something about that? Have you struck a private deal with that man behind our backs? Is that why you’re riding about in his limousine all high and mighty? Because if so – ’
‘No, honestly, it’s nothing like that.’ Rose put an arm around Mrs Patel’s shoulders. ‘Look, I tried but I couldn’t stop the acquisition. But I think something beautiful might come of all this. If you’re willing to be patient.’
‘Beautiful?’ Mrs Patel repeated, her expression blank.
Shantelle came running up, wearing a T-shirt that said mystifyingly, ‘Old Nick Can Get Stuffed This Christmas,’ and clutching a bent placard that appeared to have been trampled at some point. ‘There you are! I had to do all the church flowers on my own today, and those wreaths that were due for delivery. Where have you been?’
‘Sorry,’ Rose could only say apologetically. ‘I really am. And I’ll make it up to you, I promise. A big Christmas bonus.’ She was not sure where the money would come from, but the bank might be willing to be generous this once, given that she had accepted Nick’s offer on the flower shop. ‘How’s that?’
‘Oh, well.’ Shantelle grimaced, then kissed her on the cheek, bouncing about with apparent joy, chanting, ‘Christmas bonus! Christmas bonus! Now I can buy those edible knickers that my cousin told me about.’
Mrs Patel looked horrified. ‘Edible what?’
‘Never mind, Mrs P.’ Shantelle giggled. ‘Not meant for your ears. Or your bum, I expect!’ The pregnant teenager winked at them both, then jogged away, still waving her bent placard. ‘Knickers! Knickers!’
Rose looked at Mrs Patel, and shrugged.
Just then, the main glass entrance doors to the building opened, and everyone turned to stare through the gathering wintry gloom.
Several men in expensive but crumpled suits walked out of the building, looking as tired and determined as the owners and their supporters on the picket line. Behind them came Nick Grimsby, also looking quite tired, his mother Barbara, and, at the back, her own lawyer, Paul. So Paul had insisted on being in on the new negotiations, she realised, and was secretly pleased because she knew he would always drive the hardest bargain possible on behalf of the owners.
Paul spotted her, and hesitated, then raised a hand in greeting. His expression was awkward though. What on earth had Nick said to his boss? To leave her alone, she guessed. How embarrassing!
The journalists rushed forward at the sight of Nick Grimsby, pushing past the flimsy barricades erected to keep the picketers from getting into the building, all of them shouting out questions at once, flash bulbs going off everywhere.
Nick spoke briefly with his lawyers, then stepped forward to the space someone had cleared for him on the top step outside the entrance doors.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, but could hardly be heard above the shouting. He raised his hands, calling for quiet. ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, members of the press, I have something very important to say … ’
Their eyes met across the crowded plaza, and she caught her breath. For one instant, it felt as though nobody else was there, only the two of them and the dark afternoon closing in to lock them together in perfect happiness.
Then he smiled, and broke that gaze. ‘Welcome to my press conference, and to Thimblerig Holdings. I know it’s late, and a little cold, so I’ll be brief. Then we can all go home to our families and get ready for Christmas.’
Some of the journalists, and even the shop owners, stared up at him in amazement. No doubt they could not believe the tough, taciturn boss of Thimblerig Holdings was suddenly behaving like a human being, talking about families and Christmas at a press conference.
Nick cleared his throat and began, speaking without any notes. ‘The board and I have come to a decision about our acquisition of Christmas Parade. The bid is still going ahead as planned. But we have changed our minds about the eventual outcome of the project.’ He looked her way again, and this time he was smiling broadly. ‘Planning permission needs to be reapplied for and confirmed first. But what would you say to a new block of affordable housing on Christmas Parade, with a gym and a crèche, and a day care centre, and a range of independent shops for those who would like to continue serving their community?’
The crowd of waiting journalists exploded with shouts and questions, and several placards were dropped in the dark as the protesters rushed forward to hear more …
Rose turned, hearing her dad’s voice in the gloom. There, at the kerb, was the slender figure of Barbara Grimsby being helped into the limousine by Ebba, and her father shaking hands with the poor woman before she was even properly inside the car.
‘Hello again,’ his voice boomed noisily, ‘how lovely to see you, Barbara. Do you remember me, Henry Mistletoe? My goodness, how many years has it been?’
Smiling at the unfamiliar note of hope in her father’s voice, Rose hugged herself with secret delight. What an astonishing way to end the year. Only a few days ago, their very lives had seemed on the edge of a precipice, with nothing going right for them. Now everything was swinging upwards at a colossal rate, most of the protesters were eagerly listening to Nick’s new and improved plans for Christmas Parade, and her lonely dad was out of the house at last, and making small talk with lovely Barbara.
All that remained was the unknown factor of spending Christmas at Nick’s place to get through, and then …
Well, she did not know what the rest of the day had in store for them, let alone the festive season. But from the hungry look in Nick’s eyes as he kissed her goodbye this afternoon, she was willing to bet this Christmas Day would be better than all the rest of her Christmases combined.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The last few days before Christmas Eve was an exhausting blur of holly, mistletoe and festive wreaths as customers flooded in following Nick’s announcement to the press. The news had been greeted with almost universal relief, for it meant owners could sell their shops to Thimblerig Holdings, yet still retain the option to reopen a shop on site after the apartments had been built. Some shopkeepers were happy not to take up the option, preferring to move their business elsewhere or close their doors forever.
But Rose knew what she wanted, and it was certainly not to close the business her green-fingered grandfather had founded so many years ago.
Not only was the unique Mistletoe Flower Shop to be saved in the redevelopment of the Christmas Parade s
ite, but she had already given an exclusive interview to the Guardian in which she’d outlined plans for the new florists’ shop she envisaged coming out of this deal. Local interest had grown after her interview, curious new customers had popped in for festive bouquets, Poinsettias in pots decorated with bows, and spiky miniature Mahonias, plus the usual cluster of gold-sprayed allium stalk requests for floral arrangements, while some big orders had been turned away, sadly, down to an inability to process them before the Christmas break.
At last, it was five o’clock on Christmas Eve, and over a few celebratory glasses of Prosecco and some brandy-filled chocolate truffles, Rose exchanged gifts with Shantelle. She had bought the girl an iTunes voucher, knowing how much she loved listening to music on her headphones while she worked. Meanwhile, Shantelle had bought her a gorgeous pink cushion embroidered with daisies and buttercups, perfect for Rose to lean against when reading in bed late at night.
Though, in fact, she had been daydreaming in bed more than reading recently, before falling into a restless sleep usually punctuated by dreams in which she and Nick relived their romantic tryst in the turret room at Ben Glassie Castle. Only much more thoroughly, and with some shocking variations that made her question her lust-ridden subconscious …
‘Something to keep you warm at night,’ Shantelle said brightly.
‘Thanks,’ she said, embracing Shantelle with a big smile, and hoping the girl would not notice her cheeks, now almost as pink as the cushion. ‘Merry Christmas!’
Such wicked thoughts!
Once Shantelle had left for Christmas, hurrying home to download some new music to her iPhone, Rose checked round the shop for the last time, grabbed up the pretty festive bouquet she’d made up herself for Barbara, and then set the alarm. As she locked up the outer door, the sound of an engine idling at the curb caught her attention, and she turned, seeing Ebba there, holding open the back door of the limousine for her.
‘Ready, madam?’
Her heart leapt and she felt her mouth curve into the most ludicrous smile. Good grief, she was in love with Nick Grimsby. What else could this be? And now she had to try and conceal it over the Christmas break, in case he did not feel as strongly as she did. Which was going to be a terrible strain on her acting abilities, which had never been strong, leading to her only ever being in the chorus in school pantos. Ironically enough, since she now felt rather like Cinderella faced with Prince Charming’s carriage. She only hoped the sleek black limousine would not turn back into a pumpkin before they reached their destination.
