The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop

by Tracy Corbett

  It’d taken three attempts to get hold of Lisa over the past week. When she’d finally called him back, he’d tried his best to persuade her to talk some sense into her son, but to no avail. Lisa had agreed that the idea of Ben marrying at eighteen was nuts, but she wasn’t overly worked up about it or keen to get involved in dissuading him, which was infuriating. But that was Lisa all over, clueless when it came to parenting.

  Scott wiped away a lump of excess solder.

  Leaving Ben with his nan might have been understandable when Billie was healthy, but her stroke had left her physically unable to look after her grandson. Lisa should’ve returned to the UK immediately and picked up responsibility for her son. And she had returned, fleetingly, but the timing wasn’t great for her. Relocating at such a crucial time could potentially compromise her chances of imminent promotion, she’d said.

  Scott dipped the soldering iron into the flux.

  It’d been a crass and selfish thing to say. And what about how the timing had affected Scott? Fair enough, he hadn’t objected to changing his life to care for Billie, it was something a son should do for their parent, but the assumption that he’d also pick up care responsibilities for his teenage nephew was grossly unfair.

  Scott unwound more of the solder from the reel.

  When he’d pointed this out to Lisa, she’d responded by saying that at nearly sixteen Ben didn’t need much parenting. He wouldn’t want or appreciate her interference at this late stage in his adolescence. It didn’t occur to Lisa that someone had to be responsible for the kid. More than that, Ben needed support, love and guidance, not to mention the occasional bollocking for pushing the boundaries.

  Scott wiped the valve and checked whether the piping was secure. It was.

  He should’ve been more forceful with his sister, insisted she put her son first. He’d set a precedent by backing down, so when he’d tried to stand up to her again this morning, laying on the pressure for her to engage with her son, it hadn’t worked.

  Lisa was, after all, the smart one, clever with words and at winning arguments – attributes she’d annoyingly passed on to her son. Scott was treated as the dumb one, left to care and clean and cook, but with no valued opinion. It pissed him off.

  Moving position, he took his frustrations out on the copper piping. Physical labour was great for de-stressing.

  One thing he did know, Lisa was wrong when she said it was too late to form a bond with her son. Over the last two years Scott had gone from being the cool uncle who visited infrequently, to supporting Ben, caring for him and loving him, all of which Ben had reciprocated in bucketloads. So his sister wasn’t always right, was she?

  An hour later, having replaced the cut-off valve and drained the pipes, he fired up the boiler. It worked. Thank God.

  He called Evie over and showed her how to reduce the pressure. ‘If this needle moves above level two on the pressure gauge then you’ll need to open this valve. See?’

  She strained to see past him. ‘Which one?’ Her fingers brushed against his arm as she touched the unit.

  He ignored the ripple of pleasure caused by her skin touching his and dropped his hand. ‘Wait for the red needle to dip below level one and then shut off the valve. Okay?’

  She frowned. ‘Can you write it down for me?’

  Oh, hell. He moved away from the boiler. ‘No need.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’

  He shrugged, refusing to make eye contact. ‘Because it’s straightforward. You just need to turn the valve—’

  ‘It might be straightforward to you, but it’s not to me. I need written instructions.’ She moved over to him.

  He kept his back to her. ‘Fine. I’ll post them to you.’ He’d type them up when he got home, or get Ben to do it for him.

  ‘Just write them down. I have a pen and paper under the desk.’ She bent down and opened a drawer.

  Panic flooded him. ‘I … I need to leave. I’m late for another job. I’ll send the instructions with the bill. Sorry.’ He packed his things away, ignoring her baffled expression.

  She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. How much will the bill be, exactly?’

  ‘Two hundred and seventy quid.’

  ‘How much?’ She clutched her apron. ‘Surely it can’t be as much as that. You haven’t been here that long.’

  His annoyance kicked up a notch. ‘My rates are very reasonable.’ He gave the pipes one last wipe. ‘You try getting someone else to do this job for under three hundred quid,’ he said, knowing full well she already had and failed.

  The quip seemed to shut her up.

  He marched into the kitchen. ‘I didn’t even charge you for replacing the P-trap.’ He retrieved the bowl from under the sink.

  She followed, her close proximity adding to his flustered state. ‘The what?’

  ‘The P-trap,’ he said, washing his hands and watching in horror as the water gushed out of the exposed piping, reminding him he hadn’t fixed the new part.

  As water splashed over the floor, soaking her kitten shoes, she yelped and jumped out of the way.

  That’s what happened when you didn’t pay attention. Let a woman distract you and accidents occurred. He wasn’t normally such a klutz. It was probably the thought of writing out instructions that had messed with his composure.

  Apologising profusely, he grabbed the kitchen roll and dropped to the floor, waiting for a barrage of abuse.

  She surprised him by laughing.

  Joining him on the floor, she handed him a cloth. ‘Now, what was it you said about remembering to put the plug in?’ Her face was close, the expression in her eyes challenging, a hint of mischief mixed with defiance.

  His skin began to tingle, reacting to the sensation of a woman being in such close proximity. And then when she smiled at him he felt a bolt of something liquid and warm shoot up his spine.

  Holy shit. He was in big trouble, wasn’t he?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday, 17 March

  When Laura received a text from Martin suggesting they meet up at lunchtime, she’d foolishly assumed he was taking her out for a nice lunch. If Martin was prepared to skip work in an effort to save their marriage then things might not be as bad as she’d feared. Consequently, she responded by wearing Martin’s favourite bronze-coloured Karen Millen dress and best undies. Having made an effort with her make-up and treated herself to a manicure, it was something of a let-down to discover Martin wasn’t taking her out to lunch, but heading for the bed shop next door.

  Almost matching him in height in her heels, she glared at his striking yet weary face, her stomach complaining as the fragrances from the neighbouring Italian restaurant reached her senses. ‘Why on earth do you want to buy a new bed, Martin? What’s wrong with our current bed?’

  ‘The springs have gone and one of the legs is broken.’ Martin was in sales mode: straight back, assertive voice, confidence bordering on superiority.

  She gazed longingly at the sign advertising Ciao Bella’s daily specials. ‘Then we’ll get it repaired.’

  Martin wasn’t about to be dissuaded. ‘I don’t want to get it repaired. I want a new one.’ He attempted to usher her into the bed shop, steering her by the elbow.

  She pulled away, sentiment for their four-poster with its black art deco design and ornate headboard preventing her cooperation. ‘But our bed is antique, a one-off, with four very handy tie-me-to-the-bed posts. Why would we want to get rid of it?’

  Martin sighed. ‘Because it’s cumbersome and takes up too much room. I keep hitting my head.’

  ‘But it holds a lot of good memories.’ Maybe reminding him of a more playful time might evoke a flirtatious response. It didn’t. His disgruntled expression remained fixed. She tried again. ‘And besides, it has character.’

  Martin opened the shop door. ‘It’s dated and old-fashioned.’

  Laura folded her arms, refusing to move. ‘It’s a classic.’

  Martin gestured for her to enter. ‘I
t has woodworm.’

  She went to argue, but he overrode her. ‘Laura, you say you want things to improve between us. Well, I’m trying. I’ve taken time off work especially to do this. You’re not available on Saturdays to go shopping and I play tennis on Sundays, so this has to be done during the week. I’d appreciate it if you at least tried to cooperate. I honestly think this will help.’ He wasn’t backing down. ‘Now, can we please go inside?’

  Knowing her husband wasn’t about to concede, she stepped over the threshold, even though she had no intention of agreeing to anything. What was wrong with Martin? Had their existence really descended into mundane shopping trips and discussions over woodworm?

  Spotting them enter, a short blonde man wearing glasses and a patterned waistcoat weaved his way through the multitude of beds. ‘Welcome to Nighty-Night. My name is Roger. How may I help you?’

  Martin glanced at Laura. ‘We’re here to buy a new bed.’

  Oh no, we’re not, she thought, adopting a stroppy stance. Think again, matey.

  The man clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent. You’ve come to the right place. As you can see we cater for all tastes. Do please follow.’ He bustled off, his tiny legs scurrying beneath him like a wind-up toy.

  Martin took Laura’s hand, no doubt to prevent her running off. ‘Could you please stop being so resistant and at least keep an open mind to the possibility that a new bed might be a positive thing?’

  Laura wasn’t in the mood to be compliant. ‘Oh, so this is about me being resistant, is it? I prefer to think of it as persistent. I don’t give up on things just because they’re a little tired and worn.’

  Martin looked over at the sales assistant, checking he was out of earshot. ‘For goodness’ sake, Laura. We need a new bed. The current one is lumpy and sagging in the middle.’

  She withdrew her hand. ‘I’m sorry that our current bed is no longer satisfying enough for you, Martin. But just because something loses its spring, you don’t just chuck it on the scrapheap.’

  The sales guy appeared, preventing Martin from responding. ‘Is everything okay?’

  Martin kept his gaze on Laura, his expression challenging. ‘Absolutely fine. We just have very different ideas about what we both want.’

  And wasn’t that the truth.

  Oblivious to the subtext, the sales guy removed his glasses, letting them hang on the chain around his neck. ‘Fear not, for that is why I am here. To assist, to guide, to empower your decision making.’ He moved between them, sliding his arms through theirs like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. ‘Are you aware the average person spends a third of their life in bed? Investing in a decent bed will help your slumber hours to be more comfortable and fulfilling, helping you to make the most of the time you’re awake.’

  What was he, a guidance counsellor?

  He stopped in front of a display. ‘Here we have our divan beds. The base is almost three feet high, with a lifting cover, providing ample space to store your bedroom items.’ He sat on the bed, his feet barely touching the carpet. ‘Divans are very practical and functional, appreciated for their sturdiness and supreme level of comfort.’ He bounced up and down, demonstrating its springy merits.

  Martin looked at Laura. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s a boring box.’ She wondered how in the world Martin could favour such dullness over their exotic four-poster.

  Martin sighed. ‘But it has good storage capacity.’

  ‘It’s dull and mundane.’ Like our marriage, she almost added.

  Martin mumbled something under his breath, redirecting his attention to the sales guy.

  Sensing a new tactic was required, Roger ushered them over to the next display. ‘Here we have our bedsteads with slatted frames as opposed to solid bases. They’re usually made of wood, providing a more decorative option, with different colours, finishes and styles to choose from.’ He gestured to a bed draped with a canopy. ‘From traditional pine to the more luxurious four-poster.’

  Laura couldn’t resist. ‘Like the one we already have.’

  Martin ignored her.

  Roger ran his hand down one of the posts, looking like a very dodgy pole dancer. ‘Upholstered bedsteads, clad with leather or faux leather, are an increasingly popular option.’

  Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘Kinky.’

  Martin turned to whisper in her ear. ‘Could you please be a little more adult?’

  She looked at him. ‘You used to enjoy my playful side.’

  He didn’t comment.

  She moved away, a sickening feeling settling in her stomach. Is this what happened when love died? All those quirky traits that had once drawn a person to you now caused nothing more than annoyance and frustration? She wanted so much to revert to how things used to be – in love, happy, carefree. But Martin wanted change. And she feared it wasn’t just a new bed.

  Roger had taken the hint and moved on, directing them to a huge wooden monstrosity. ‘Here we have what is known as a sleigh bed, a contemporary design famous for its bold statement. Sleigh beds are designed with beautiful, sleek curves with a smart and slender look, bringing style into your bedroom and enhancing the beauty of any room.’

  Martin ran his hand over the polished foot panel, caressing it with far more affection than he’d shown Laura recently. ‘Does this appeal?’

  Laura shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  Martin looked hopeful. ‘Maybe?’

  ‘Sure. If I was Father frigging Christmas.’

  Anger flashed across his face. ‘Now you’re being petulant.’

  Tough. He didn’t have the monopoly on disappointment. ‘Martin, we’ve spent years perfecting a stylish and minimalist home. Why would I now agree to a novelty bed? Why would you, for that matter?’

  He turned her away from the sales guy, lowering his voice. ‘I’m thinking about the future. It would be good to get the house finished so we can concentrate on other things. It might not always be just the two of us.’

  She frowned. ‘I’m not taking in a lodger, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  He sighed. ‘Not a lodger. Children … a baby,’ he added, when Laura’s top lip curled.

  ‘A baby? Is that what this is about? Some underhand scheme to coerce me into reproducing?’

  ‘Of course not, but you know I want kids. I think we’re ready.’ He looked hopeful.

  Laura couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Are you delusional, Martin? We can barely speak these days without arguing. And may I remind you that you need to have sex in order to make a baby, something we barely do these days either.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe we need a focus, something to unite us.’

  Laura shook her head. ‘It’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Kids don’t cure issues, they create them.’

  He shook his head. ‘Cut me some slack, Laura. I’m trying.’

  She prodded him in the chest. ‘Trying would’ve been taking me to lunch in that fancy Italian next door, not frigging bed shopping.’

  Roger coughed. ‘Er, everything okay?’

  Martin recovered first. ‘Sorry. It’s a no to the sleigh bed. What else do you have?’

  Roger steered them to another area of the showroom. ‘Here you’ll find our selection of waterbeds, initially formulated for medical therapies, but now equally in demand for domestic use. If you suffer from serious sleep disorders, a waterbed has the healing element to treat your sleep issues.’ He patted the flotation pad. ‘Come sit.’

  Martin didn’t look keen.

  Laura obliged, mostly to antagonise her husband.

  Roger wrongly assumed he was winning her over. ‘A waterbed provides sufficient support to your body’s critical points, resulting in less tossing and turning during sleep.’

  Martin approached the bed. ‘Did you hear that, Laura? He said it’s proven to cure sleep issues.’

  ‘We don’t have sleep issues, Martin. We have sex issues.’ The moment she said it she wished she could take it back. Airing th
eir bedroom problems in public wasn’t fair. Still, what did Martin expect? He was the one forcing her hand.

  He appeared visibly ruffled, despite his pristine suit.

  Roger made a tactful retreat.

  Martin leant over her. ‘That was uncalled for,’ he said, showing a rare loss of composure. ‘Our problems have nothing to do with sex.’

  Laura blinked, wondering how naive her husband was. ‘What is the problem, then?’

  ‘This isn’t the time or place.’ He straightened, glancing at Roger, who was pretending not to listen.

  Any sales person with an ounce of instinct would know a sale wasn’t on the cards, but Roger was either a poor reader of people or enjoying the disgruntled couple arguing too much to let it end. Laura suspected the latter.

  Her theory proved correct when Roger gestured to the neighbouring bed. ‘We also have a limited range of airbeds. This particular model is topped with a memory foam layer made from temperature-sensitive viscoelastic material.’ He stroked the surface. ‘Mattress toppers add a layer of extra padding to your existing mattress. But they won’t provide more support if your old mattress is already sagging.’

  Staying put on the waterbed, Laura kicked off her shoes and lay down next to Martin, who was sprawled out next to her. ‘It’s not the mattress that’s sagging.’

  Roger finally took the hint and backed away. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to test out the different mattresses. Take all the time you need.’

  They lay in silence for a while, side by side.

  Finally, Martin broke the quiet. ‘Our problems are not just about sex, Laura.’

  She turned to look at him, feeling the water move beneath her. ‘You have to admit it’s the nail in the coffin.’

  He shifted his head to look at her. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘We had such hopes and dreams, big plans for the future. One by one those dreams have evaporated, and for what? We’re both unhappy and frustrated. You’re working stupid hours and I’m stuck in a shop all day helping other people achieve what I once had – a happy marriage.’

  He frowned. ‘But I thought you enjoyed running the wedding dress shop?’