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
Monday, 24 February
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.’
&n
bsp; 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
Wednesday, 26 February
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 e
verything. 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.’
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop Page 4
