Forget Me Knot (10 page)

As she waited for the kettle to boil, she opened the shutters and put her hand to the window. The glass didn’t feel quite so icy today. Maybe the northerly wind had changed direction and a warm front was on its way.

She stared out the window onto Upper Street and watched a gaggle of Islington mummies with their baby harnesses and buggies—a few had toddlers in tow—piling into Caffe Nero. Part of Abby longed to be with them, sharing the chatter and gossip. She was thirty-four. It was time to at least start thinking about having a baby. The shop was doing well, and she knew it would be in safe hands if she left Martin in charge for a few months. The only problem was Toby. She had no doubt that he wanted children, but because of the hours he worked she knew he would be a less-than-involved father. This meant that in all but name, she would be a single mother. Parenting was hard enough when there were two parents involved. She didn’t want to face it alone. She wanted Toby to be a proper father, not one who got home long after the children were in bed and whose only real contact with them was on weekends and holidays.

Abby let out a long, slow breath. Motherhood would have to wait until Toby was made a partner at the law firm and he could reduce the number of hours he put in. A partnership had been in the cards for ages. Surely it couldn’t be long now.

She poured water onto the coffee granules and took the hot mugs downstairs to the shop. This morning the familiar cold damp air that greeted her was heavily perfumed. It was March, and the day before they’d had a delivery of lilac, irises and sweet-scented hyacinths.

The shop was deep and narrow but wide enough to accommodate the large tiered display stand that took pride of place in the middle. It was circular and made of molded shiny white plastic. It looked like a giant, futuristic cake stand, except that instead of cakes it held tall, oblong-shaped glass vases full of flowers.

Along with the lilac, hyacinths and irises, the shop was bursting with other spring flowers. There were orange and gold crown imperials, ranunculus with their dainty tissue-like petals, anemones in clashing reds and fuchsias, guelder roses and French tulips in white, red and deep purple. Of all the spring flowers, Abby liked white tulips best. To her, their simplicity was a reaction to the decorative excess of Christmas. She often took half a dozen up to her flat and arranged them in a clear glass rose bowl. She loved watching the tulip heads move as they craned their necks to catch the light. Then, after a day or so, the flowers would open and the stems would bend and droop and arrange themselves with such exquisite artistry over the edge of the bowl.

The counter was at the back of the shop. Behind it was the small workroom where they made all the floral arrangements and bouquets.

One of the shop walls had been left blank, to give a sense of space. The other was lined with trendy white “floating” shelves. These held displays of candles, vases, fancy metal urns and gift cards.

Martin Scoredaisy was standing in the shop window, his hipster jeans displaying six inches of black Calvin Klein boxers. He was holding a small hand mirror close to his elfin, not-quite-thirty-year-old face, which was covered in its usual fine stubble. She watched him prodding the skin around his eye.

“Hi, Scozza. Gawd, you might have put the heater on. It’s freezing in here.” Using her elbow, she carefully pushed a pile of purple tissue wrapping paper to one side and put the coffee mugs down on the counter. Then she bent down to flick the switch on the fan heater. It whirred softly, giving out a comforting jet stream of warm air.

“When you stand in the light, you can still see them,” Martin said by way of reply.

“See what?”

“My crow’s feet. Come over here and tell me they’re not still there. That wrinkle filler was totally useless. Five hundred quid those injections cost. I’ve a good mind to walk in and demand my money back.”

She abandoned the warmth of the fan heater and went over to Martin. He presented his face for inspection. She caught a whiff of Hugo Boss Energise. “I can’t see anything,” she said.

“What do you mean? Look at those lines, they’re like crevasses.”

She could just about make out a fan of fine laughter lines. “Martin, those are hardly crevasses.”

By now he was tugging on his sandy-colored eyebrows, making his eyes bulge.

“I’m wondering about an eye lift. What do you reckon?”

“What I reckon is that you went out carousing last night, ended up coming home alone and you’re still feeling depressed.”

“Ah, but darling, you know me so well,” he said, assuming a deep Noël Coward drawl and waving an imaginary cigarette in a holder. He paused for a second before slipping back into his regular working class Scouse accent. “Do you know I haven’t had sex in four months? And don’t you dare say, ‘No, you hum it and I’ll sing along.’”

“I’m sorry, Martin. I know it’s hard—”

“That’s the point. It’s always bloody hard and I’ve got nowhere to put it. The way I’m going, my genitals are going to wither and die through lack of use.” He hoisted up his jeans, and he and Abby headed back to the counter.

“Still, what can you do?” he went on, picking up his mug of coffee. “Get up, curl your eyelashes and seize the day. That’s my motto.”

Martin Scoredaisy’s eyelashes were gorgeous. There wasn’t a woman who knew him who didn’t covet those dark, lightly scrolled lashes. Only Abby knew they were permed and that, in addition, he curled them with tongs every morning, but he had sworn her to secrecy.

He picked up the worksheet from the counter and read the list of the day’s orders.

“OK, we’ve got another mother and daughter coming in to discuss wedding flowers. Three customers have ordered conterpieces for tonight. I’ll make a start on those if you
like. … By the way, do you think I’ve got small nipples?” He was already lifting up his skinny ribbed turtleneck. She peered at his chest. “Tell me honestly,” he went on. “I only ask because this gorgeous guy I met the other night— absolute spitting image of Naomi Campbell, he was—said he thought they were really small.”

Abby looked up. “They’re perfectly normal—all three of them.”

He slapped her playfully on her arm. “Ooh, you’re a cruel woman, Abby Crompton, do you know that?” He pulled down his sweater and went back to his coffee.

“Scozza, can I ask you something really personal?”

“Not if you’re just going to make fun of me,” he said, pouting and turning his head away.

She smiled. “No, this is serious. Honest. What I don’t get is, if this boy was the image of Naomi Campbell, why don’t you fancy Naomi Campbell?”

He turned back to face her and shifted his weight so that one hip was jutting out. Then he rested his hand on it, I’m-a-little-teapot style. At the same time he was looking at her as if she had just teamed a Lacroix evening dress with a check Burberry baseball cap and flippers. “OK, I think we need to go back to basics here. The reason I don’t fancy Naomi Campbell is because Naomi Campbell doesn’t have a penis.”

Abby didn’t have time to reply, because just then the shop door opened and Soph walked in. The fledgling PR company she ran was just round the corner, and occasionally before work she would pop into the shop for a quick coffee and a chat with Abby and Martin.

“Hi, guys. OK, tell me honestly, am I too short and dumpy for this suit? I can’t help thinking that the bright
pink makes me look like a five-foot-three jelly bean.” Apparently, as a child, Soph was always being told not to worry about her lack of inches and that any day now she would experience a “sudden growth spurt.” Between the ages of fourteen and seventeen she gained maybe an inch. By the time she reached eighteen, it was clear that five foot three was as good as it was going to get. These days she had finally been forced to acknowledge that, despite endless diets, her “puppy fat” was simply part of her makeup. The upshot was that when it came to her attitude toward her looks, Soph’s air of confidence tended to thin.

Abby rolled her eyes. “Good morning,” she said. “I would like to welcome everybody to this inaugural meeting of Body Dysmorphics Anonymous. Soph, meet Scozza. He’s worried about facial wrinkles and the size of his nipples. Scozza, meet Soph. Maybe you could reassure her that her stunning dark hair and eyes, not to mention her perfect olive skin, look fabulous against bright pink and that she looks nothing like a jelly bean.”

Soph gave a harrumph. “That’s easy for you to say, with your size six figure and never-ending legs.”

“Then there’s the cheekbones,” Martin added. “Don’t forget the cheekbones. And the brown doe eyes that perfectly accessorize the lustrous, shoulder-length chestnut hair.”

“Come on, guys, give me a break,” Abby said, an unintentional note of sharpness entering her voice. “I was only trying to help.”

Soph and Martin exchanged bemused looks. Then Soph turned to Abby. “You seem tense. I take it last night didn’t go so well.”

“Actually, it wasn’t brilliant.”

“Omigod,” Martin broke in. “I totally forgot. Of course, you were meeting the dragon. So, c’mon, dish. What’s she like?”

“Pretty dragonlike,” Abby said with a half laugh, “but she wasn’t the problem.” She explained about getting stuck in the elevator at Covent Garden.

By the time she had finished telling the tale, Martin looked utterly shamefaced. “And here was me moaning on about me nipples like a centerfold with frostbite. Why didn’t you say something?”

“But you never take elevators,” Soph broke in. “What on earth made you take one last night?”

Abby explained about running late.

Naturally, Soph’s inquiries didn’t end there. A barrage of questions followed. Was Abby OK? No, was she
really
OK or just saying she was? Was she sure she didn’t need post-traumatic stress counseling? Did she think she should maybe go to the hospital to get herself checked out? Who else was in the elevator? How long was it before the police rescue team arrived? Was she suing London Underground? She wasn’t? Why not? Were they going to offer her compensation? Didn’t she realize the sum they would offer would be paltry, derisory, an insult and she should see a lawyer now? Toby might not be the best person, because really she needed somebody who specialized in personal-injury claims. She had a friend she could recommend. What did Abby mean, she didn’t want to make a fuss? Now she was sounding like Jean and Hugh. She could have died, already.

Martin seemed to sense that Abby was feeling a bit browbeaten.

“So, this guy who was with you in the elevator…” he broke in. “What was he like?”

“Dan? Oh, he was lovely. He immediately sensed I was in a state. He really looked after me.”

“I
see,”
Soph came back, with a lascivious grin.

“What do you
see?”
Abby laughed. “God, you’ve got a one-track mind. He got me talking, that’s all… to calm me down.”

“So, what does
Dan
do for a living?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, but he said something about having a degree in engineering.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Is he in a relationship?”

“Dunno. Didn’t come up—although I got the feeling he wasn’t.”

“So, what
did
you talk about?”

Abby shrugged. “This and that. I told him all about how I got into floristry. Actually, we shared a bottle of wine. He’d been on his way to a party and was carrying a bottle of something really classy. Must have cost a fortune, but he insisted on opening it because he thought some wine might help calm me down.”

“And did it?”

Abby’s face flushed.

“Don’t tell me,” Soph chuckled. “You got pissed, didn’t you?”

“OK, maybe just a bit, but I was in a state and I hadn’t eaten.”

“So, apart from you getting totally rat-assed, did anything else happen?”

“Not really, no. And I wasn’t remotely rat-assed. I was relaxed, that’s all.”

“What do you mean,
not really?”
Soph paused. Suddenly
her face lit up with excitement. “Omigod, you made a pass at him!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I absolutely did not make a pass at him!”

“Well, something happened. You’ve got that same guilty look you always have when you’re holding something back.”

“Look, nothing happened. Stop interrogating me.”

“OK, but I know something went on.”

Martin was leaning across the counter, his chin propped up on his hand. “Better out than in, that’s my motto,” he said. “Mark my words, whatever it is will only fester. But it’s up to you. We’re your friends, and we totally respect your right to privacy and space.” He threw Soph a conspiratorial look. “Don’t we, Soph?”

“Don’t we what?”

“Respect Abby’s right to privacy and space.”

“God, yeah. Absolutely. You know me, I never pry.”

Abby burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.”

“All right, so maybe I do,” Soph conceded. “But it comes from a good place. You know how much I care about you.”

“Plus you can’t stand not knowing everything that’s going on in my life, because not knowing makes you feel rejected and left out of the loop.”

“OK, yeah, well, there is that.”

Abby took a deep breath. Soph and Martin would get the story of what happened in the elevator out of her eventually. She might as well tell it now and get the embarrassment over with. “OK, like I said, I hadn’t eaten. The wine went to my head and I ended up…” Another breath. “I ended up telling him what we were talking about the
other day… you know… that Toby and I don’t do it very much.”

“That’s nothing,” Martin piped up. “I once slept with this pizza delivery guy. All I did was suggest that if he didn’t come in thirty minutes it should be free and he punched me.”

Abby turned on him. “You don’t get it. I told him details. Intimate details. It was the wine that made me do it. I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Hey, come on, it’s not that bad,” Martin said. His flippant, jokey manner had disappeared. “So you got drunk,” he said gently. “You said a few things you shouldn’t have. We’ve all done it.”

“I know, but when I look back I just cringe with embarrassment. I can’t believe I said the things I said, and on top of that I was so disloyal to Toby.”