Forget Me Knot (11 page)

“Yes, but you did it when you were tipsy,” Soph said. “Not to mention in the middle of a massive panic attack. It doesn’t count.”

“I’m with Soph on this,” Martin added. “She’s right. It doesn’t count. It’s exactly like calories stolen from somebody else’s plate or eaten after midnight.”

“Yeah, it’s exactly like that,” Soph said—her expression indicating that it was anything but. “Look,” she said, turning back to Abby, “let’s get a bit of perspective here: Toby’s never going to find out what you said and you’re hardly likely to meet this Dan again, so I’d forget it if I were you. There’s no harm done. All I would say is that if things are really this bad between you and Toby in the bedroom department, then maybe you should get some couples counseling.”

“We don’t need counseling,” Abby said, shaking her
head. “We’ve talked about it, and we both agree that the problem comes down to Toby overworking. Things will get better. We just have to wait until the work calms down a bit.”

Abby failed to pick up on the looks of concern that passed between Soph and Martin. Over the months, the two of them had become great friends. They could press each other’s buttons and wind each other up something rotten. Abby put it down to them both being neurotic and outspoken. But instead of like poles repelling, these two connected.

Once Soph and Martin established that Abby had suffered no physical ill effects, they asked her about how the rest of the evening had gone. Abby didn’t say anything about Lady P demanding that Abby take a fertility test and the row she and Toby had had about it afterward. She didn’t want to fuel her friends’ doubts about the relationship. For the same reason, she didn’t mention having confronted Toby about his sexuality. Instead, she decided to change the subject. “So, Soph,” she said breezily, “how are things with you?”

Soph lowered herself onto the stool in front of the counter. Her face became one massive grin. “Weeell, I have news.”

“Ooh, let me guess,” Martin said. “I know—Jennifer Lopez has been run over by a steamroller and is claiming a billion dollars on her ass insurance.”

“Guess again.”

“They’ve discovered the eighth dwarf, Horny.”

Abby and Soph both laughed at this. “Wrong,” Soph said. “My news is that I am seeing somebody.”

“You mean as in a man?”

“Yes.”

“No!” Abby cried.

“I don’t believe it,” Martin trilled.

“I’d be grateful if the two of you could look just a bit less surprised. Believe it or not, there are men out there who find short, curly-haired Jewish girls with a body mass index in excess of twenty-five attractive.”

“Oh, God, sorry,” Abby shot back. “It wasn’t that. Of course you’re attractive. You’re beautiful. It’s just that we’ve been so worried about you because it seemed like you were never going to get over Frank.” Until six months ago, a banker named Frank Feldman had been the love of Soph’s life. Then, with no warning, he dumped her. By e-mail. A week later, “Frank the Wanker” buggered off to Australia with an Aussie fitness trainer named Rayleen. “But why didn’t you say you were seeing somebody?”

Soph offered an apologetic shrug. “Up ’til now I wasn’t sure where it was going, and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself by blabbing.”

“But we’re your friends.” Abby frowned. “How could you possibly have made a fool of yourself? And it’s so unlike you. You talk about everything.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to shut you out, but believe it or not, I’ve been feeling a bit vulnerable since the split from Frank. You know me—I don’t do vulnerable very well, so I pulled back a bit. Anyway, the point is, we’ve been out a dozen or so times now and I seriously think he might be the one.”

Abby was beaming. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And he is to-tally gorgeous. I cannot believe my luck.”

“So is he Jewish?”

Soph giggled. “Who are you? My mother?”

“It’s just that I know how important this is to your parents. You’re always going on about how much they want you to marry a nice Jewish boy.”

“Actually, he’s half Jewish. His name is Lamar Silver-man.”

“Lamar?” Abby said, frowning again. “Isn’t that rather an odd name for a Jewish guy?”

“I’ve told you. He’s only half Jewish.”

“And what does Lamar Silverman do for a living?” Martin asked.

“He’s a doctor.”

Abby had her mouth open. “You’re going out with a Jewish doctor?”

“No,” Soph said, her smile belying her impatience. “I’m going out with a half-Jewish doctor.”

“OK. OK. Sorry. But even so. Are you the perfect Jewish daughter or what?”

“Practically perfect,” Martin interjected. “He’s only half Jewish.”

Abby told him to stop splitting hairs and turned back to Soph. “Your parents must be thrilled.”

“Actually, they don’t know about him yet.”

“So,” Martin said, “what does he look like, this
half-
Jewish doctor of yours? Is he gorgeous? Will I want to steal him off you?”

“Absolutely,” Soph said, laughing. “He’s tall, with the most beautiful brown eyes. If I had to describe him, I’d say he’s a mixture of Wesley Snipes and David Duchovny.”

Abby and Martin frowned in unison and exchanged glances. “Hang on…” Martin said, “if he’s a mixture of Wesley Snipes and David Duchovny, that means …”

Abby’s eyes widened. “… that the half of Lamar that isn’t Jewish is … black. … Lamar Silverman is black?”

“Yes. He’s half Jewish, half Jamaican.”

“Blimey!”

“Oh, come on, Abby, surely you of all people don’t have a problem with me going out with a black guy?”

“Me? Don’t be daft. Of course I don’t have a problem. I’m just trying to get my head round the fact that he’s black and he’s called Silverman. You know, it’s like Whoopi Goldberg being called Goldberg.”

“I’m more interested in why she’s called Whoopi,” Martin mused. “I mean, what kind of parents name their kid after a farting cushion?”

“So, if this relationship is serious,” Abby said, “why hasn’t Lamar met your parents?”

Soph was shifting uncomfortably on the stool. “I don’t want to rush things. I’m thinking sometime in 2020 would be good.”

“Oh, come on, Soph, you know full well that your parents aren’t racists. They both lost family in the Holocaust. I’ve heard your dad going on about how he loathes all forms of racism.”

Soph was nodding. “I know. They also have nothing against gays, but if they found out I was a lesbian I know they’d struggle with it. On the face of it, they’re as liberal as they come, but I might be about to put their views to the test. Suppose they let me down?”

Abby took her friend’s hand. “They won’t let you down. I promise. I know your mum and dad. They’re crazy, they bicker, but they’re good people. They are not the types who simply talk the talk.”

Soph nodded. “I’ve always believed that, but a bit of me
is still petrified of bringing Lamar home. Can you understand that?”

“I can,” Abby said, “but I really think you’re worrying about nothing.” She paused. “So, is it OK for us to meet him?”

“Absolutely. I can’t wait.”

She said that Lamar was taking her to the theater on Friday. She suggested, and it was agreed, that the four of them plus Toby would meet up afterward for a late dinner at Tarantino’s in Camden Town.

Just then the shop phone rang and Martin disappeared into the back room to get it. He returned a minute or so later.

“Who was it?” Abby asked.

“That location-finder woman. She wanted to know if it would be OK for her and the film director to come over this afternoon. I said yes. Hope that’s OK.”

“Sure. No probs.” A week or so ago, Abby had received a phone call out of the blue from a woman named Katie Shaw. Katie explained that she was a film location finder and that she was looking for a trendy London florist to feature in a romantic comedy. Apparently she’d walked past Fabulous Flowers a few times and thought it would be perfect. She explained that it was a low-budget movie and that the film company could only pay a minimal fee. On the plus side, though, the shop would appear several times in the film and the makers would retain its name. Even though Abby knew filming would cause an enormous amount of disruption, she thought the end result would be great publicity for her business. She had agreed to the proposition at once, and Katie Shaw promised to ring back to arrange a
time when she and the director could come and look at the shop.

As Soph got up to leave, she made Abby promise to call her to let her know how the meeting went. “Oh, by the way, talking of business propositions,” Soph went on, “I’ve just taken on this Japanese client. His name is Takahashi. You probably haven’t heard of him, but he’s one of these software billionaires. Anyway, his daughter is planning an engagement party next month and I suggested you might do the flowers. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Why would I mind? That’s fantastic. Wow, Soph, thanks.”

“OK, great. Point is that Mr. T has many VIP contacts. I know that if it all works out, he’ll put in a good word for you with his friends. Anyway, gotta run. His PA will phone you.”

ABBY SPENT THE MORNING
working on three large flower displays for Hugo at Hugo, the Mayfair hair salon. Since her rave review in the Sunday
Times
“Style” section and the piece in the
Evening Standard
, Abby had acquired several upmarket corporate clients. With a bit of luck, she could now add Mr. Takahashi to that list. Even then she wouldn’t have quite enough big names on her books to put her on the London florists A list, but she was getting there.

The interior of Hugo at Hugo called for outsize floral displays that made a statement. The salon was made up of several large, high-ceilinged rooms with ornate plaster moldings. Hugo—or, rather, his interior designer—had gone for a rococo feel. To wit, he had filled the place with vast crystal chandeliers and flamboyant French antiques. There were cupids peeing into marble fountains, gold-filigreed chairs covered in cherry velvet, gilt mirrors and heavy silk drapes at the vast bay window.

Martin, who, stylistically speaking, worshipped at the altar of industrial piping and twisted metal, sneered at the interior of Hugo at Hugo and branded it a “drag queen’s
boudoir.” Abby was inclined to agree, but since Hugo was paying her a fortune to fill his distressed-stone urns each week, she didn’t grumble.

Since the urns were far too heavy to transport, Abby would arrange each display in a plastic inner container, which she would then deliver to the salon. Today she was putting together a mass of trailing ivy and adding tall stems of flowering cherry. When the three displays were finished, even Martin said they looked magnificent.

By the time she had fought through the traffic, delivered the flowers and got back to Islington, it was nearly lunch-time. She remembered she had to pop out to buy Aunty Gwen’s birthday present.

She parked the van and headed back to the shop just to check that no problems had cropped up while she was out.

As she approached the shop, she could see that Martin had been busy. The ready-made hand-tied bouquets they always had standing by for customers in a hurry were sitting on the pavement in zinc containers. Next to them were the hyacinth plants, snowdrops and candle pots. One of the candle pots was particularly stunning. Martin had invented the design, and it had become one of their most popular. Overflowing a galvanized pot was a broad garland of dried red chilies. In the center stood a tall, chunky, creamy-white candle. At Christmas he’d done something almost identical using Brussels sprouts. Martin had such an eye for the quirky. She smiled to herself as she realized how lucky she was to have him.

Her smile vanished the moment she opened the door and heard the raised voices. Martin and his ex-boyfriend, Christian, with whom he had been at loggerheads since their acrimonious split almost a year ago, were fighting again.

“You have absolutely no right to deny me access to Debbie,” a red-faced Martin cried, shaking his forefinger at the older man, who was standing on the other side of the counter.

“Don’t you start lecturing me about rights,” Christian shot back. “You gave up your rights the day you walked out.”

“I walked out on you—not Debbie. And how could I have stayed? After what you did.”

“For God’s sake,” Abby hissed, “will the pair of you just put a sock in it.”

The two men ignored her and carried on arguing. At one point, Martin, who seemed to be in the middle of making a flower-and-fruit centerpiece, picked up a lime and ran it through with a length of thick florist’s wire. He then thrust the fruit’s metal tail into a wicker basket full of Oasis. “You promised faithfully that we would have joint custody, and now you’ve gone back on your word. Have you any idea how Debbie must be grieving? I was listening to this psychotherapist on the telly and she said that parental abandonment causes irreparable trauma. It can be responsible for bed-wetting, inappropriate anger in adult life, eating disorders and phobias.”

“I see nothing’s changed,” Christian snarled. “You still can’t put one thought in front of another without reference to Doctor Phil.”

“Are you calling me ignorant?”

“You tell me. Despite my best efforts to school you in the high arts, it’s you who still thinks Plato invented china. … Anyway, Debbie is staying with me, so you’d better get used to it.”