Forget Me Knot (41 page)

She frowned. “A consultancy post? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“It means we’d like to use you—purely on an ad hoc basis—to take a look at what our fashion designers are coming up with each season. We want your advice on style, cut and color. We’d like you to supervise the redesign of our shop interiors.”

“Sir Malcolm—”

“Malcolm, please. The
sir
makes me sound like such an old fart.”

She laughed. “Malcolm… I’m very flattered, but I’m not a fashion or interior-design expert. I was only telling Dan the things that most of your customers have been saying for ages. It wasn’t rocket science.”

“That may be, but it’s you we have to thank for giving
us our wake-up call. All of us on the S&M board have been resting on our laurels for too long. We became arrogant and complacent—not to say stubborn. As chairman I should have taken the lead, but I admit I was too scared to modernize and change. We surrounded ourselves with accountants when we needed designers. Even when our share price began to tumble, we refused to listen to criticism and take advice—that is, until Dan started talking about you. He was so fired up. You should have heard him. When he talked about your creativity, your energy, your passion for S&M, he got so carried away. He told me how you took him round the stores, critiquing all the clothes. He said in particular you singled out the dreadful floral motifs. His enthusiasm for you and yours for S&M were catching, and finally—almost too late in the day—I took notice. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful we all are. It wouldn’t be putting it too strongly to say you’ve pretty much saved our bacon at S&M. And we want to show you how much we value what you’ve done.”

“Thank you, but I was more than happy to offer you my suggestions about how to improve S&M. I wouldn’t dream of taking any kind of reward, and although your offer of a consultancy post is incredibly generous, I really am committed full time to my business.”

“But we would require your services only once a month or so, and the financial package we have in mind for you is extremely generous.”

“I don’t doubt it, but as I say, I am trying to build a business and I really must stay focused.”

Sir Malcolm smiled. “I respect that. Look, maybe we could come to some other financial arrangement? A onetime payment, maybe?”

“What? No. I wouldn’t think of taking money.”

“It would be our gift. A thank-you present.”

“That is very kind, but I really don’t want anything.”

He chuckled. “You know, Abby, I’m not sure you have quite grasped how much value you have been to S&M. We are not some struggling charity, you know. We can afford to pay you.”

“I know. But that really is my final word.”

“Never say that in business. In any negotiation, you always need to leave yourself room to maneuver. I suggest you sleep on it.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I have to get going. I’ve got a plane to catch. I’m having dinner with one of our suppliers in Seville.”

“Malcolm,” Abby said, biting her bottom lip, “I don’t want to be the bearer of bad tidings, but haven’t you heard? The Spanish baggage handlers are on strike. There are no Spanish flights taking off or landing.”

He looked distinctly awkward. “Yes, I have heard about the strike, but it doesn’t really affect me. I… you see, Dan’s mother and I… we… we have our own private jet. We take off and land at small airports and tend to be able to bypass strikes.”

“Wow, that is amazing. I’d love to have my own private plane. Imagine, jetting off to Cannes when you feel like it, or Rome or Istanbul—” She didn’t so much stop in mid-sentence as screech to a halt. “Omigod! Hang on, if you have a private plane and you are able to bypass strikes, then that means…”

“Yes?”

“Oh, God… no, this is awfully nervy… I’m not sure I can even ask. OK, there is one thing you could do for me.”

“Name it.”

“Well, you see, there are these lavender plants sitting in a garden center in Majorca…”

She explained about the stranded lavender, Mr. T, and how tomorrow’s party might just make her career, if it weren’t for the Spanish baggage handlers’ strike.

“Consider it done. Fudo Takahashi is such an old tyrant—did some business with him years ago, before I came to S&M. Impossible man. You definitely don’t want to let him down. I’ll send my pilot over to Majorca to pick up the lavender. We’re leaving Spain first thing in the morning. The plants will be in the country by lunchtime. We land at a small airport in the Cotswolds. I will see that the plants are put in a van and delivered to Mr. Takahashi by mid-afternoon.”

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you so much.” The next thing she knew, she was on the other side of the counter, hugging Sir Malcolm.

“My pleasure,” he chortled. “It’s the very least I can do.” He handed her his business card. “E-mail me the addresses of the garden center in Majorca and old Takahashi’s place in London.”

ABBY GOT
straight on the phone to Martin. “Omigod,” he cried. “I don’t believe it. This is fantastic news. What an amazing coincidence, Sir Malcolm going to Spain. I’ll tell Ichi to expect the plants tomorrow afternoon. You do realize that this is the second wonderful thing to have happened. First I get Debbie Harry back, and now Fabulous Flowers is going to live on to fight another day. They say things always happen in threes. Maybe you and Dan will work this thing out and get back together.”

“After the way he has behaved, I really can’t see that happening.”

“No, maybe you’re right.”

No sooner had Abby gotten off the phone than her mobile started ringing. She assumed it was Dan and ignored it. When she went to check on who had called, the message turned out to be from her mother. “Darling, we are leaving New York tonight. Flight gets in Sunday at lunchtime. Please, don’t worry about meeting us. We’ll be fine with a cab.”

Abby phoned straight back to say that of course she was meeting them and how could they even think of taking a cab. “I’ve missed you both so much. I can’t wait to see you.”

“We’ve missed you, too, poppet. There’s so much to tell you. I don’t know where to start. And I can’t wait to catch up with your news. How’s Toby?”

Abby had been dreading this question. “Yeah… he’s … fine.”

“And we really do need to finalize all the wedding plans. Maybe Dad and I should invite Toby and Lady Penelope for dinner next week.”

“Tell you what, Mum, why don’t we talk about everything tomorrow?”

“All right. You seem a bit down. Everything OK?”

“I’m fine, just a bit preoccupied. I’m doing the flowers for this huge A-list party tomorrow night.”

“Ok, darling. See you tomorrow.”

That night, Abby couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned in bed, convinced that something would go wrong and the lavender wouldn’t make it to Mr. T on time. Then she started worrying about the rest of the flowers. What if
some disaster befell them on the way to Mr. T’s? Eventually she fell into a restless sleep, her dreams filled with images of crushed cherry blossoms and limp, drooping peonies.

She woke around nine and found herself thinking about Dan. Despite her restless night, things had clarified in her mind. Until now, speaking to him was the last thing she wanted to do, but her thoughts had performed a complete U-turn. “Dan wants to talk. OK, let’s talk.” Her emotional strength had returned. Suddenly she was fired up and filled with the overwhelming need to tell Le Compte d’Anjou Jonelle Bergerac Chipault precisely what she thought of him. What was more, she wanted to do it in person. She decided to pay him a call.

On the drive over to Camden, Abby rehearsed everything she was going to say. She would tell Dan what a cruel two-timing bastard he was. Then she would tell Cinders— assuming she was there, too—that she was a selfish, spoiled, predatory beast whose only interest was satisfying her own needs and to hell with anybody else’s happiness. She would leave them rendered speechless by the power of her rhetoric, her dignity intact, her point well and truly made.

When she rang the buzzer, there was no answer. She assumed the pair were still asleep and tried twice more. Nothing. There was only one other place he could be. If Cinders hadn’t stayed here, then he had slept at her place. Abby had no trouble remembering the address. She must have heard Katie telling umpteen deliverymen where to send various orders of detox herbs.

The Notting Hill house was exactly as she’d imagined, a white rendered Victorian villa with pretty arched windows and ornate black wrought-iron balconies. Abby parked the
car in a resident’s bay. To hell with it if she got a ticket, she thought. She walked toward the house. Somebody was opening the living-room curtains. It was Cinders. Her hair was tied back and she was wearing a black silk kimono. A man appeared behind her briefly. She didn’t get a good look at him, but it could only be Dan. This time Abby wasn’t about to run away. Instead, she marched up the steps and picked up the heavy brass knocker.

A Filipino maid came to the door. “I’ve come to see Cinders,” Abby said, marching past the poor woman, who couldn’t have been more than four foot ten. She threw open the door to the living room. Cinders and Dan were standing in front of a huge roaring fire, locked in an embrace. Dan was wearing a white terry-cloth dressing gown. For some reason he looked taller than usual.

Cinders jumped and pulled away. “Oh, my God!”

“Not so blinkin’ cocky now, are we, Miss I-can-have-whoever-I-like-and-sod-the-rest-of-the-world.”

“Abby, please—”

Abby turned to Dan. “So, let’s have it. You’re the one who’s been wanting to talk. What have you got to say for yourself?”

She stood looking at him. She blinked. She even rubbed her eyes like some cartoon character, hoping the man in front of her would morph into the person she was expecting. Her stomach lurched. She felt sick.

“Omigod, it’s you!”

The exquisite dark-haired man cleared his throat with embarrassment. He turned to Cinders. “This is Abby? The woman you told me about who owns the flower store?” He spoke with a strong American accent.

Cinders nodded.

“Hi, Abby. Good to meet you.” Then, to Cinders: “I think maybe I should go upstairs and take a shower.”

Abby wanted the ground to swallow her up and deposit her at the earth’s core. “Omigod… Liam… I mean, Mr. Heggarty… sir… what have I done? This is awful. I thought you were somebody else. What can I say?”

“It’s fine.” He smiled. “No harm done.” He walked toward the door.

“I love all your films,” she called after him. “And if you ask me, you actually do Hank Reno’s songs better than he does.”

He closed the door behind him. Abby turned to Cinders. “I don’t understand. How did I get it all wrong?…” Then a dastardly thought occurred to her. “Unless, of course, you’re seeing Liam and Dan.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Abby, of course I’m not. I’ve never been interested in Dan. He and I are friends. Nothing more. Without putting too fine a point on it, darling, I don’t think he’s quite in my league.”

“But the other night I overheard you telling him how much you wanted to be with him and how he should tell me about his relationship with you.”

“What you couldn’t see from outside the room was that I was on the phone. I wasn’t speaking to Dan. I was speaking to Liam in California. We’ve just bought a house in the Hollywood Hills, and the woman we hired to oversee the renovation work has turned out to be hopeless. I was trying to persuade him to sack her.”

Abby lowered herself onto a velvet fainting couch and suspected it might be about to be used for the purpose it was intended.

“Bloody hell! What have I done?”

“Quite a lot, actually. For a start, Dan is inconsolable. I’ve kept on and on at him, offering to phone you, but he insists on sorting this mess out for himself. You could at least have taken his calls.”

“I was too angry… I’m so sorry, Cinders. I’ve made a total ass of myself. Will you apologize to Liam for me?”

“Of course I will, but he’ll be fine. It’s Dan you need to speak to.”

Abby explained how she’d already been round to his flat and there was no answer.

“Well, he told me he would be home Saturday night. Maybe he popped out to get the Sunday papers.”

ABBY TRIED
calling him on his mobile, but it seemed to be switched off. She looked at her watch. Her parents were due at Heathrow at twelve. She would head out to the airport and try him again when she got there.

Construction meant the traffic heading onto the M4 was bumper to bumper. It eased up once she hit the motorway, but she was still more than half an hour late. She parked the car in the short-term parking lot and ran to the arrivals hall. She stopped to look at the arrivals board and, to her relief, discovered that the plane had been late and had only landed twenty minutes ago. Jean and Hugh would probably still be at the carousel, waiting for their luggage.

She carried on toward the barrier. There were three camera crews waiting, along with dozens of photographers and journalists. She shook her head in amused disbelief. Part of her wanted to turn to the rest of the people waiting for their friends and relatives and cry: “Do you know who
the TV crews and journalists are waiting for? My mum! That’s who.”

The trickle of people coming through the barrier became heavier. Abby spotted her dad first. He was wearing a check sports jacket and a Chicago White Sox baseball cap. Perched on top of the trolley he was pushing was a three-foot-high, inflatable pink Empire State Building. Jean was a couple of paces behind. She was wearing a navy blazer over tailored beige trousers. Her hair and makeup were immaculate. She looked cool and poised—less like Jean Crompton, Croydon housewife, and more like a senior business executive.

“That’s her,” shouted one of the cameramen. The press pack surged forward. “Jean, how does it feel to be home?” “Hugh, you must be very proud of your wife.” “Jean, there are rumors that you might be considering a career in politics.”

Abby tried to fight her way through, but in all the commotion she didn’t stand a hope. She stood waving her arms. “Dad! Mum! Over here.” But Jean and Hugh couldn’t see or hear her. Jean smiled for the cameras. “OK,” she said brightly, giving the impression she had been dealing with the press for years. “If you can all hang on, we have a press conference arranged in the first-floor conference room in half an hour. You will all have your chance to ask questions then. Right now we would like some private time to say hello to our daughter, who we believe is here somewhere.”