The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop: The feel-good romantic comedy to read in 2018. Tracy Corbett
here they were, another family drama, another request for his sister to step up and be a parent. How would she react this time? Would she be pleased? Angry? Indifferent? Would she offer to pay for the wedding? Suggest contacting Amy’s parents to discuss arrangements? Judging by Amy’s complaints about her father being too overbearing and strict, Scott couldn’t imagine news of his little girl’s upcoming nuptials would go down too well.
Scott needed an ally, someone to play bad cop to his good. And Lisa was the perfect bad cop. He wasn’t sure what the time was in India, but her voicemail kicked in. He was forced to leave a message asking her to call him back urgently.
There was no way he was dealing with this alone.
Evie was slightly regretting her choice of footwear. Three-inch mules designed to look like an exotic cocktail might be a fun way to evoke cheerfulness, but when it came to walking any distance they were proving lethal. The plastic heels were shaped to look like ice-cubes, whilst the polka-dot enclosed front was decorated with a pineapple slice and topped with a bright red cherry. It was like trying to balance on stilts. But as it was all part of her master plan to re-engage with her playful side, she ignored the perils of a potentially broken ankle and continued to unload flowers onto the driveway of Sunning Lodge.
The home of the Bitars was a grand dwelling in the pricey part of town. Being booked to arrange flowers for their family party was a big coup. Spending over five hundred quid for half a day’s work was a drop in the ocean for the Bitars, but for Evie this was an account that could make all the difference. She was going all out, even if she was a little daunted by her surroundings.
As she’d pulled up in the van, she was greeted by manned security gates, uniformed guards with walkie-talkies, more CCTV cameras than Heathrow and Gatwick put together, and four very large Dobermans. Thankfully the dogs were on harnesses. They sniffed around the van, their owners viewing Evie with heightened suspicion as she carried a tray of oriental lilies up to the ornate entrance. Overriding her instinct to cower away from the dogs’ snarling growls, she lifted her chin. She was not going to be intimidated.
The front door was opened by an attractive woman wearing a turquoise satin tunic and trousers, combining traditional Indian style with western designer chic. Like the opulent house and vast expanse of landscape surrounding her, Mrs Bitar reeked of money and class. Evie questioned her choice of footwear even more.
She was greeted with a warm smile. ‘Welcome to our home. Please do come in.’ Rose-gold jewellery sparkled from the woman’s wrists as she ushered Evie inside. ‘Are you the lady I spoke to on the telephone?’
‘I am, yes.’ Evie tried to free up a hand, but the tray was too heavy. ‘Evie Armstrong. I’m the manager of The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop. It’s very nice to meet you.’
Mrs Bitar beamed. ‘The pleasure is all mine. My name is Farah.’
Two young boys appeared from nowhere, running across the expanse of the hallway, which opened into a large reception room decorated with glass lights and accessories and polished marble flooring. Scampering by the side of the young boys were two more dogs … neither on a leash.
Even though Mrs Bitar clapped her hands, ordering both children and dogs to ‘stay’, it didn’t prevent a collision. Being rugby tackled by either the boys or the dogs would have been enough to throw the sturdiest of beings off balance, but add in a large tray of lilies and daft shoes and a mess was inevitable.
Evie felt she did extremely well not to break anything, including herself. The tray landed upside down on the marble floor. Her bum made contact with the corner of a table, and one shoe spiralled into the air, was caught by a charging dog, and almost swallowed whole.
Amongst frantic apologies from Mrs Bitar, Evie was helped upright, her assailants receiving a right royal bollocking from their mother. ‘Naughty Ajit and Ankit.’ She turned to Evie. ‘Please accept my apologies. Are you injured?’
Evie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ If you discounted the throb in her left bum cheek. She probably had a bruise forming in the shape of the table corner. Nice.
‘That is no way to welcome a guest to the house,’ Mrs Bitar scolded her children. ‘Apologise and introduce yourselves properly to Miss Armstrong.’
Both boys bowed their heads, mumbling an apology.
Still recovering from the sudden adrenaline rush, Evie tried to regain her composure. ‘No harm done. It’s nice to meet you. Now, which one is Ajit and which one Ankit.’
Both boys snorted, overcome with a fit of giggles.
Mrs Bitar touched Evie’s arm. ‘Ajit and Ankit are the dogs.’ She pointed to each child in turn. ‘Havu and Anam.’
How to impress a client. Good one, Evie. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Mrs Bitar bent down to pick up the tray of lilies. ‘No worries. Can I provide you with some refreshment? I have homemade lemonade cooling.’
Evie was about to refuse when she realised a sugary drink might be very welcome. She didn’t normally accept drinks, not wanting to put her customers to any trouble, but adrenaline and embarrassment had sapped her resolve. ‘That sounds lovely. Let me do that, Mrs Bitar.’ Evie took over clearing up the upturned flowers.
‘It’s Farah, please. I am happy to help.’ She continued picking up the stems.
‘Perhaps you could retrieve my shoe?’ Evie tentatively eyed up the white wolf munching on her decorative footwear.
Farah Bitar followed Evie’s eye line. ‘Ankit!’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Come here!’
The dog tilted its head. It was a mean-looking, muscular thing with pointy ears and a wide neck. ‘I won’t ask again.’ Still the dog didn’t move, its jaws clamped down on Evie’s shoe. ‘The dogs belong to my husband. I’m afraid they only respond to his commands.’
In the end Havu had to tease the shoe away from the dog by offering it an alternative treat, a dirty great bone. Evie’s cocktail shoe was handed back, minus the cherry.
Sliding her foot into a sticky shoe smothered in dog saliva wasn’t high on Evie’s list of pleasant experiences. She tried to keep her expression neutral. ‘What type of dog is he?’ He wouldn’t look out of place as Vinny Jones’s sidekick in a Guy Ritchie movie.
‘An Argentine Dogo.’
Tempted as Evie was to ask, ‘Does your dogo bite?’ she refrained. Partly because she was a little afraid of the answer.
‘Ajit is a Brazilian Mastiff.’ The other dog caught sight of the bone and joined his bruiser sidekick.
‘They’re on the dangerous dog list,’ Anam announced excitedly, as though this would endear them to Evie. ‘They have to be shipped and everything.’
‘Chipped, darling. Not shipped. They’re very well-trained pets,’ Mrs Bitar added, no doubt for Evie’s benefit, as the blood had drained from her face. ‘They’ll cause you no harm.’
No, just murder my shoe. ‘I’d better make a start on the flowers, Mrs – er, Farah. Where would you like me to set up?’
Avoiding the evil stares of the Bitars’ ‘pets’, Evie was taken over to a large glass table. Her instructions weren’t specific, just fill a selection of grand vases ready for the party that evening. No problem.
‘I do enjoy having all the family together,’ Mrs Bitar said as she placed a tumbler of lemonade onto the table next to Evie. ‘Do you have a large family, Evie?’
Evie added eucalyptus