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 dec
ision.’ 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
Saturday, 8 March
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.
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop Page 8
