The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop

by Tracy Corbett

  If the sales woman felt as shocked as she did, she was professional enough not to show it. ‘In that case, may I suggest an off-the-peg design to ensure delivery.’ She gestured to a display of photos on the wall. ‘Do you have a style in mind?’

  Amy shook her head. ‘Not really. I don’t want anything too big or fussy.’ She studied the photos, stopping at a design labelled ‘Allure’. ‘Ooh, I like this one. Is it expensive?’

  Patricia touched her daughter’s arm. ‘Just pick a style you like and we’ll go from there.’ She didn’t want to discuss finance in front of the assistant. Plus, she was still hoping her daughter would have a change of heart and the issue of cost wouldn’t become an issue.

  Amy’s brow furrowed with concern. ‘But Dad’s not going to pay for it,’ she whispered, trying not to be overheard by the sales woman. ‘You heard what he said.’

  Patricia had indeed. Thankfully her grandmother’s advice that every wife should have a contingency plan meant that Patricia could more than pay for her daughter’s dress. It was sad to think she’d openly laughed at her grandmother’s need to save up ‘running away money’. Her nan’s upbringing in Ireland with an alcoholic father and downtrodden mother had been a harsh existence. It hadn’t occurred to a young, naive Patricia that such unhappiness would befall her own marriage. Maybe her grandmother had been more astute than Patricia had given her credit for.

  ‘You let me deal with your father. Just concentrate on finding the right dress.’

  Amy kissed Patricia’s cheek. ‘I love you, Mum.’

  Patricia swallowed awkwardly. ‘I love you too, sweetheart.’ She squeezed her daughter’s hand, feeling momentarily guilt-ridden about attempting to sabotage her big day. ‘Although … two months is very tight to arrange a wedding. Perhaps if you waited a while we’d be able to save up and plan a bigger occasion. Wouldn’t you like all the trimmings? A horse-drawn carriage, fancy venue, exotic honeymoon? Just think of the fun we could have planning it.’ Patricia tried to evoke some enthusiasm into her voice.

  Amy smiled. ‘Oh, Mum, you’re so lovely, but Ben and I don’t need anything fancy. We just want a small do with our close family.’

  Love–fifteen. Patricia had lost her opening serve.

  The assistant proved to be extremely helpful, pulling out several gowns she felt would complement Amy’s colouring. Nothing was too much trouble, no question too daft, no style left unexplored. Perhaps Patricia should enlist the woman’s help in derailing the wedding. She seemed a dab hand at the art of manipulation.

  Patricia was forced to admit that shopping for wedding dresses was enormous fun, especially seeing Amy so happy. But joyful as it was, she still worried that marrying at eighteen would leave her daughter miserable further down the road, saddled with a couple of kids and unmanageable debt before her life had really started.

  Look at her. Barely mid-forties and feeling like life was nearly over. The lovely home, money and leisurely lifestyle didn’t make up for living with a man who didn’t appreciate her. Ben may appear to be adoring and committed, but so had David in the beginning. Waiting a few years might allow Amy to be certain of her feelings once the initial giddiness of a new romance had subsided.

  After much deliberation, her daughter selected three dresses to try on. All were a simple maxi-cut design with a long floating skirt. ‘Ben would love these,’ Amy said, admiring the gowns.

  Patricia’s heart pinched. ‘You need to pick a dress that you like, darling. This is your special day too. Don’t dress for anyone else. Go with what you want to wear.’

  Amy smiled. ‘I will, Mum, I promise. I love these dresses. They’re exactly what I’d choose. But I also want my husband to love the dress too. Isn’t that what being married is all about, pleasing each other?’

  Love–thirty. There wasn’t a lot Patricia could say to that.

  Amy giggled. ‘Can you believe it? My husband,’ she repeated, sounding giddy as she followed the assistant into the changing room. ‘It’s like a fairy-tale dream.’

  More like a nightmare, thought Patricia, as she headed for the sofa.

  Just like Amy, she’d been brimming with love before her wedding day, her head full of plans and dreams, only seeing a future filled with good times. If only she’d known what was to follow.

  She settled into the comfy sofa, listening to Amy excitedly telling the assistant how handsome and talented Ben Castillo was. How well he treated her, and how they planned to live out their dreams and travel the world.

  Patricia didn’t like the cynicism filling her head. It felt sad to be distrusting of love, as though David had ruined her belief in the happy ever after. Thank God her daughter didn’t feel the same way.

  A glass of wine appeared before her. ‘I thought you might like something to help you relax. It can be stressful building up to a wedding.’ There was no hint of pity in the saleswoman’s voice, but Patricia suspected she’d seen enough young brides to know their mothers weren’t always on board.

  Patricia accepted the wine, but didn’t make eye contact. She might not agree with her daughter’s decision, but she wasn’t about to divulge this to anyone else. She respected Amy far too much. ‘Thank you.’

  The woman returned to the changing room.

  Patricia sipped the wine. Sometimes she tried to reason that David was simply having a mid-life crisis. Her marriage hadn’t always been bad, had it? But then she remembered his multitude of other indiscretions, the infidelities she suspected he’d had all their married life, but constantly denied.

  Patricia stood up, her determination strengthening. It wouldn’t do to keep quiet and be complicit. She needed to be heard. She would take Amy out for a nice lunch and explain that love wasn’t enough. She would advise waiting, plead if necessary.

  But her plan melted into a puddle of humiliating tears when Amy emerged from the changing cubicle wearing an oyster floor-length gown adorned with a sparkle of diamante crystals. The soft, clingy fabric and fitted bodice highlighted Amy’s dancer’s physique, the pale shade accentuating her natural blonde colouring. Her daughter shone, glowed like an A-list movie star on the red carpet. A vision. A Disney princess.

  Patricia’s legs went from under her. She dropped to the sofa, her emotions crumbling along with any hope of derailing the wedding.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, 12 April

  Having delivered floral-scented tissues to the mother of the bride and selected ‘Love Is a Many Splendored Thing’ on the music system, Laura retreated, allowing mother and daughter to bond over choosing the right gown. Laura had played her part, now it was time to make herself scarce.

  She took the opportunity to check her mobile. She had two new texts. The first was from Evie, waxing lyrical about the new ‘man’ in her life. Laura sighed, still unable to comprehend why Evie had chosen such a moth-eaten dog. Her friend normally had such good taste.

  The second text was more alarming: an abrupt message from Martin informing her he was ‘staying in London tonight. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the space’. He’d signed it ‘M’. What had happened to the Martin who’d written love poems on Starbucks napkins? There wasn’t even a kiss or smiley face. How depressing.

  She didn’t want Martin to back off, she wanted him to stay and fight. Avoiding her wouldn’t help them resolve their differences. In fact, distance was only serving to reinforce the void, weakening their desire to stay together.

  Without bothering to respond, Laura chucked her phone inside her handbag. What was the point? Martin didn’t want to be with her. She’d spend the evening alone, as she did so many nights, indulging in a girlie film and large bottle of vino. Better still, she might hit the town. When was the last time she’d danced the night away? Perhaps it was time to start acting like a single woman, rather than a miserable neglected wife waiting for divorce papers.

  The jangle of the doorbell alerted her to a new customer. She strode purposefully through to the front of the shop, indignation fuelling her ent
husiasm for a drunken night out on the tiles. If Martin thought she was going to sit around and pine, then he was woefully mistaken.

  She came to an abrupt halt. Standing in reception was six feet of chiselled male hunk. For a moment she lost her breath, her dormant hormones dizzy at being woken from their slumber. Against the cream decor and delicate furniture he looked very out of place. His tailored grey suit hugged his broad shoulders, the crease in his trousers accentuating his long legs. George Clooney, eat your heart out.

  He unashamedly checked her out, his dark eyes travelling the length of her body. His reaction indicated he liked what he saw. Butterflies danced wildly inside her, unsettling her composure. ‘May I help you?’

  His smile revealed a set of perfect tie-me-up-and-bite-into-me teeth. ‘I certainly hope so.’ He held out his hand. ‘David Robinson.’

  His hand was big, strong and warm. ‘Laura Harper. Welcome to Truly Scrumptious.’

  He didn’t release his grip. ‘A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.’

  It was a corny line, but delivered with such confidence she melted just the same. His playful eyes oozed seduction. Christ, she’d missed this. ‘I don’t believe you have an appointment booked?’

  His smiled turned roguish. ‘I like the spontaneous approach.’

  Laura licked her lips. ‘I can’t imagine we have anything that’s of interest to a gentleman like yourself.’ She checked out his left hand. No ring.

  The deep vibration of his laugh heightened the electricity fizzing through her blood. ‘On the contrary, I’m very interested in what you have to offer.’ His thumb circled the back of her hand. ‘And I do have an appointment. Or at least my daughter does. Amy Robinson.’

  So he had a grown-up daughter? He looked good for his age. ‘Of course, yes. She’s just through the back trying on dresses with her mother …’ The penny dropped. Mother. He was married. Shit. Laura removed her hand. ‘If you’d care to follow, I’ll take you through to where your daughter and wife are.’

  He caught her arm. ‘We stay together for the sake of our daughter. You know how it is.’

  He wasn’t backwards in coming forwards, was he? Cheeky git. Regaining her professionalism, she smiled and moved away. ‘Hopefully we can help your daughter find the perfect dress.’

  Scolding herself for feeling disappointed, she led him through to the changing area. So what if he was married? So was she. Still, it didn’t lessen the thrill of being found attractive. It wasn’t like she was looking for anything. Being flirted with was enough to repair the hurt from Martin’s text. Married or not, it was the reassurance she was still fanciable that counted.

  Pulling back the heavy brocade curtain, the sight that unfolded was a familiar scenario. The bride glowed, dancing in front of the mirrors while admiring her reflection. Proud mother looked on, all misty-eyed, struggling to keep her emotions in check. Amy Robinson was beautiful, adorably cute with wide smile, heart-shaped face and flawless skin. Her mother was equally stunning, blessed with good bone structure and an inherent elegance. Throw in the father’s good looks and it was an impressive gene pool.

  But far from adding to the happy family scene, the appearance of David Robinson killed any frivolity quicker than if Laura had dragged roadkill into the room and offered it up as a headpiece. Spotting her dad in the mirror, all joy drained from Amy’s face. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Laura bristled. What a rude way to greet your father. Especially as he was probably footing the bill.

  Amy’s mother pinned him with a hard gaze. ‘You found my note, then?’ Her disdain was palpable.

  Laura felt a prickle of alarm, wondering if a scene was about to unfold.

  Amy rounded on her mother. ‘Why did you invite him?’

  Patricia Robinson angled her body away from Laura, not wanting to be overheard.

  Whatever was said, the daughter wasn’t appeased. She turned to her father. ‘If you’re here to cause trouble then please go. Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.’

  Laura raised an eyebrow, suspecting there might be more to the situation than met the eye.

  Far from looking wounded, David Robinson remained stoic. ‘I wouldn’t consider myself a decent parent if I didn’t try to make you see sense. You’re too young to be getting married. You’re making a mistake.’

  Laura didn’t normally involve herself with wedding disputes. On this occasion, though, she couldn’t help agreeing. The girl did seem scarily young.

  The wife raised her hand in warning. ‘Not here, David. Not now.’

  He didn’t back down. ‘When then? Whenever I try to talk to you it’s the wrong time.’

  Amy stamped her foot. ‘But you don’t talk, Daddy. You shout and demand, you bully.’

  David looked hurt. ‘You’re too young to be tied down. You don’t know your own mind.’

  Patricia Robinson stepped in front of her daughter. ‘That’s a little patronising, David. And like I said, now is not the time.’

  Mother and daughter stared David Robinson down.

  Laura sighed. Poor bloke didn’t stand a chance. Her sigh must have been audible, because all three turned to look at her. Oops.

  ‘Would you give us a moment?’ David’s tone was unfailingly polite.

  Laura backed away, scolding herself for not leaving earlier. She’d been so caught up in the unfolding drama she’d lost her normal sense of propriety. Shame on her. ‘Give me a shout if you need anything.’ She closed the curtain and left them to it.

  Friction over weddings wasn’t uncommon, but it didn’t normally manifest itself in such hostility. Dad was clearly not on board with the wedding. Which wasn’t surprising really, the girl couldn’t be more than eighteen. No wonder he was unhappy. Laura could empathise. She knew only too well how miserable an unhappy marriage could be.

  A few minutes later David Robinson emerged from the changing room, his handsome face flushed with frustration. Laura felt a pang of pity. ‘I hope everything’s all right?’

  He touched her arm. ‘Not really, but thank you for asking. Things are difficult, as you can see. Am I wrong for wanting what’s best for my daughter?’

  Laura shook her head, trying to ignore the weight of his hand on her arm. ‘Of course not. Your concern is natural and understandable. You love your daughter.’

  He leant closer. ‘Thank you.’

  A shiver ran across her skin. ‘We aim to please.’

  A flash of something flickered in his eyes. ‘Good to know.’ He paused as he reached the door. ‘I hope to see you again, Laura.’

  She didn’t respond. Flirting was one thing. Encouraging him was quite another. Still, nothing wrong with a spot of harmless toying, was there.

  She returned to the stroppy bride and icy mother, feeling more buoyed than she had in ages. Stuff Martin. If he didn’t want her then someone else would.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, 14 April

  Evie was having the kind of Monday morning when she wished she’d stayed in bed. The boiler had packed up again, the blossoming April foliage was making her eyes itch and Marlon was causing havoc in the shop. Leaving him at home for the first few days had resulted in three shredded cushions and one badly scratched door panel. Consequently, drastic measures had been called for. She couldn’t afford to lose any more of her rental deposit, so she’d been forced to bring him to work.

  Holly had diagnosed a fear of abandonment as the root cause behind Marlon’s destruction of Evie’s soft furnishings. Her sister might be right, but it wasn’t as though keeping him with her had cured the problem either. So far this morning he’d run off with one of the display teddies, knocked over a bucket of pampas grass and eaten the chicken from Scott’s roll.

  Being forced to contact the plumber again had been bad enough, not just because of the inconvenience and cost, but because, much to her annoyance, her heart rate had betrayed her by increasing when he appeared in the doorway. Why, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she was inte
rested in him. It was simply her DNA reacting to a nice-looking bloke, she reasoned.

  Unshaven and wearing a faded blue Hard Rock Café T-shirt, he’d caused further unwanted pheromone activity when he’d unpacked his tool bag and handed her a jar of locally produced honey. ‘I’m told it’s a cure for hay fever.’ This was followed by a nonchalant shrug, as though presenting his customers with gifts was perfectly normal behaviour. ‘No idea whether it works.’

  Any further attempt by her sensible brain to remain composed flew out the window when she spotted Marlon with his head inside Scott’s bag, devouring his roll. ‘Marlon, no! Bad dog.’ She tried to grab him but the mischievous hound slipped through her grasp.

  Far from looking annoyed at the demise of his lunch, Scott laughed as he watched Evie chase her wayward dog around the shop, struggling to run in her puppy shoes, complete with hind-leg heels and curly-tail straps.

  Hindered by their instability, she kicked them off. But Marlon was too quick. He changed direction, swallowing the chicken filling in one gulp. ‘Come here, now!’ The damned dog picked up one of her shoes and disappeared under the table. ‘No, not my shoe!’

  Scott tried to coax Marlon out from under the table, snapping his fingers to focus the dog’s attention. ‘Here, boy.’

  Tail wagging, Marlon trotted over to Scott as if he were the most well-trained dog in the universe. Evie tried not to feel put out.

  Scott eyeballed Marlon. ‘Drop it,’ he said, using a deep, commanding voice that did nothing to dampen Evie’s attraction towards him. Marlon dutifully let go of her shoe. ‘Good boy.’ He was rewarded with a ruffle of his ears, sending him to doggy heaven. ‘Nice animal.’ Scott handed Evie her shoe.

  Evie wasn’t so sure. ‘What is it with dogs and footwear? That’s the second time I’ve lost a shoe.’

  Scott nodded at her furry footwear. ‘It’s because they look like toys. He thinks it’s a game.’ Marlon rolled onto his back, allowing Scott to rub his tummy – a far cry from the nervous animal who’d cowered away from all human contact at the animal shelter. ‘Much as I’d love to stay here and pet you, old fella, I’d better get on with some work.’