The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop: The feel-good romantic comedy to read in 2018. Tracy Corbett
Cordelia’s. The living area was sparse, with just a TV unit, a bookcase and two-seater sofa settled against the wall. Evie guessed they needed space to manoeuvre the wheelchair around. The soft ivory walls and various ornaments contrasted with the teal cushions, giving it a cosy if slightly masculine feel. It was a considered space, cared for.
The nurse positioned Billie in front of the TV. ‘Where will I find a vase, love?’ Her patient nodded towards the kitchen.
Evie followed, placing her bag on the kitchen table whilst the nurse hunted through the cupboards. She noticed the badge on her uniform. ‘Oshma. What a lovely name.’
The nurse smiled. ‘It means summer season. My father’s idea. I guess he wasn’t to know I’d turn out to be more of a hurricane.’ She handed Evie a cut-glass vase. ‘Can I get you a cuppa?’
Evie filled the vase with water. ‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ve just had one.’
‘Shout if you need anything.’ Oshma disappeared into the lounge.
Evie didn’t know why Billie was in a wheelchair, and it wasn’t her place to ask, but as she arranged the flowers she made a note to stop dwelling on her own problems and be thankful for the good things in life. She might have had a rough time in the past, but she’d moved to Kent to start afresh. And that’s what she needed to do. Okay, so she wasn’t a fan of relationships, but she had her business and her health, and that was a lot to be grateful for.
Glancing down at her feet, Evie grinned, cheered by the sight of two goldfish smiling back at her. Reintroducing novelty shoes into her life had definitely been the right decision. She was asserting her independence, giving her confidence a much-needed kick up the backside.
Yep, she was back on that horse.
Laura read through Jamie Oliver’s instructions again. Heat the oven to full whack. Check. Place rock salt in an ovenproof dish. Check. Place the oysters on top and cook for twenty minutes. Laura glanced at the kitchen clock, wondering if it was too early to put them in. It was eight forty. Martin promised he’d be home by seven. His promises didn’t seem to count for much these days.
She sent him another text. ‘Where are you?’
The clementine jelly was setting in the fridge, the Asian seared tuna was ready to warm up when required, but the salad was starting to wilt. Her romantic meal was in danger of turning into a shrivelled mess.
She went upstairs to check her appearance wasn’t doing the same.
The house wasn’t designed for a single occupant. It was a ‘highly desirable property with spacious living area’ and meant for a family. Laura hadn’t wanted something so vast, but Martin had convinced her it was an investment. Getting a bigger place would give them time to adjust to the mortgage payments before starting a family, preventing them from having to move again.
Martin was a good salesman, she’d give him that. She’d fallen for his spiel. But the modern design, white decor and three empty bedrooms only served to increase her trepidation about having kids, not endear her to the idea. It was too much, too soon. They should be living it up, relishing their early thirties, not behaving like wannabe parents in training.
She gazed into the floor-length mirror, checking her carefully chosen outfit was still intact. Her cheeks were a little flushed from cooking, but the black dress she’d purchased showed off her curves and auburn hair. More importantly, it advertised her intentions. With heels to enhance her calves and a hint of hold-ups showing through the clingy fabric, Martin couldn’t fail to want her … could he?
She had one more ace up her sleeve, her anniversary gift. Traditionally, five years meant something wooden, and she had come up with a rather naughty interpretation of what that might mean.
She picked up the wrapped parcel, carrying it downstairs. With any luck, the contents would be in play well before they reached the bedroom. Sex toys had yet to feature in their relationship, but intervention was required if she was going to save her marriage.
That intervention came in the form of fruity, juicy lube, a satin eye mask with ribbon ties and a set of sex-position playing cards. Martin wasn’t the only salesperson in the household. She also knew how to close a deal.
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Keep calm, she told herself. All will be fine.
Except it wasn’t. Nine thirty came and went. Nine forty-five. Ten o’clock. Finally, at ten thirty-five, when the oysters had retreated into their shells and she’d stopped bothering to reply to Martin’s apologetic ‘I’m running late’ texts, he walked through the door.
‘I’m so sorry, love.’ He dumped his briefcase and rain-soaked coat on the kitchen table. ‘I got away as soon as I could.’ He kissed her cheek, smelling of day-old aftershave and damp fabric. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. ‘Dinner smells good.’
‘I doubt that.’ Frustration overrode any desire to be sultry and seductive. ‘It’s ruined. I’ve binned most of it.’
He shrugged off his suit jacket. ‘That’s a shame. Order a takeaway and we’ll crack open a bottle of wine. It’s no big deal.’ He hooked his jacket on the back of a chair, placing a wrapped box onto the table. ‘Happy anniversary, darling.’
She looked into his tired eyes. Love and tenderness stared back. They were at a crossroads and she was in the driving seat. She could park up and switch off the engine, accept his apology and order in a takeaway, making the most of what was left of their anniversary … Or she could run the bastard over. Why should she let him off the hook? Why was it always down to her to concede, to accept the shreds of affection he deemed to throw her way? It was time to make a stand. Revving the engine, ignoring all warning signs telling her to slow down, she hit the junction with full-on tyre-screeching, wheel-spinning throttle.
‘What do you mean, it’s no big deal?’ Her hands settled on her hips. ‘It’s our wedding anniversary, Martin. Of course it’s a big deal.’
He closed his eyes as if choosing his response carefully. ‘I just meant that we don’t have to sit down to a formal meal in order to celebrate our anniversary. What matters is that we’re together. I’m here now. Let’s make the most of what’s left of the evening, instead of disagreeing.’
She hated it when Martin tried to reason her out of an argument. ‘So it doesn’t matter that I’ve spent all frigging evening cooking? Preparing a romantic meal? Trying to make it a special night for you?’
He sighed. ‘Yes, of course it matters. And once again I’m sorry.’ He came over to where she was standing. ‘I was caught up at work. There was nothing I could do about it.’
She stepped backwards. ‘There was a time when you would’ve said stuff work. I was more important.’
He took her by the shoulders. ‘You still are. I left as soon as I could. I’m here now. Can we please try to enjoy what’s left of the evening?’ His eyes searched her face, pleading with her to relent. ‘Would you like your gift?’ He manoeuvred her over to the table, sitting her down. ‘I think you’ll like it.’
Her anger hadn’t abated, but it seemed churlish to refuse. She opened the card first. The words ‘you’re my world’ written in Martin’s bold scrawl threw another emotion into the mix. She didn’t want to cry. She opened the present, ripping away the paper in an effort to disperse any weakness. She needn’t have worried. The contents washed away any threat of blubbing.
Martin stood behind her, massaging her shoulders. ‘Do you like it?’
Words almost failed her. ‘It’s a blender.’ Even to her own ears