The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop: The feel-good romantic comedy to read in 2018. Tracy Corbett
Evie ignored their collective laughter. Saffy might be fooled by his charming persona, but she wasn’t. She was older – as Saffy had kindly pointed out – and wiser. She’d been duped by a smooth-talking Lothario before and she wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it a second time.
Unfortunately, Scott chose that moment to look up, catching Evie staring at the muscles in his forearms. She turned away, unsure of why she’d been ogling.
The front door chimed and Martin Harper burst into the shop, accompanied by a chilly gust of wind. He looked harassed and a lot older than his thirty-something years. He didn’t even glance at the flowers, just strode over to Evie, briefcase swinging by his side. ‘I need a bouquet. Can you deliver today?’
Ignoring his brusque manner, Evie wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Hello, Martin. How are you?’
‘What? Oh, fine. Sorry, I’m in a rush. I need flowers for Laura’s birthday.’
Evie raised an eyebrow. Leaving it a bit late, wasn’t he? Evie couldn’t imagine it would help their marital difficulties if he had forgotten her friend’s birthday. ‘Certainly. What did you have in mind?’
He pulled out his wallet from the inside pocket of his pristine blue suit. Evie glimpsed a Savile Row label. ‘I don’t care. I just need them delivered today, whatever it costs.’
She opened the order book. ‘Would you prefer a basket or a hand-tied bouquet?’
‘Whatever. Just charge the flowers.’ He handed her an Amex card.
‘The bouquets come at different prices.’ She took his credit card. ‘Twenty-five pounds, thirty, forty—’
‘Forty.’
‘How about a lovely tied bouquet of irises, the birth flower of February, combined with some beautiful violet primroses and mixed foliage.’ Laura loved purple flowers. Something Evie felt Martin should know.
‘Sounds great.’ He wasn’t really listening.
‘Would you like to write a card?’
He shook his head. ‘Do it for me, I need to go.’ Not exactly going all out, was he? No wonder Laura was getting increasingly depressed.
Whilst Evie ran the credit card through the till, she nodded towards the selection of gift cards displayed on the counter. ‘Would you care to choose a design?’
‘I’m not fussed. Just write, “Happy Birthday, Laura. Love, Martin.”’ He punched in his PIN and extracted a business card from his wallet. ‘She’s at work today, deliver the flowers there.’ He replaced his wallet and straightened his jacket. ‘Do you need anything else?’
‘No, I have everything I need.’ She handed him his receipt. ‘The flowers will be delivered this afternoon. I hope Laura enjoys them.’
‘I hope so too. I don’t fancy sleeping in the spare bed.’ Without a backwards glance, he was gone.
Evie shook her head. She’d become good friends with Laura since moving to Heatherton, but Martin remained a mystery. He worked long hours and didn’t socialise with them much, so it was difficult to know whether he really was a grump or just stressed about his job. Poor Laura. Not much of a birthday for her.
Evie turned to find her assistant looking smug. ‘You were right, boss. Flowers carry meaning, as in “I’m a complete git and I forgot your birthday, darling.”’ She clutched her chest, faking a swoon. ‘What a touching sentiment.’ She then proceeded to mime throwing up in a bucket, making the plumber laugh.
‘Thank you, Saffy. Very insightful. Have you finished cutting those stems?’
Her assistant begrudgingly picked up a pair of secateurs.
The rest of the morning progressed without incident. Saffy went about her duties while Evie continued working on a funeral wreath. Occasionally, Evie glanced over at the sink to watch Scott fiddling with the water pipes. At one point, she thought she caught him checking her out, but she could’ve been wrong. It was probably just puzzlement. After all, she did have remnants of breakfast cereal staining the front of her apron.
By midday the boiler was fixed, much to Evie’s relief. Mostly because they needed hot water, but also so she could be rid of the plumber. ‘What’s the damage?’ she asked, getting out her purse.
He washed his hands in the sink. ‘Eighty-three pounds including VAT. I had to replace the thermocouple. I’m not sure how long it’ll last, it’s an old boiler. The whole thing might need replacing.’
This was not good news. She was trying to save up in case Diana decided to sell the business. News of her boiler’s impending doom sent her into a sneezing fit.
The plumber politely waited until she’d stopped. ‘Do you have a cold?’
She shook her head, fumbling for a tissue in her pocket. ‘Hay fever.’
He did that laugh again, the one that sent a shiver racing up her spine. ‘A florist with hay fever? That’s brilliant.’
‘Oh, yeah, hilarious.’ Like she hadn’t heard that one before. She opened her purse and paid him the money. ‘Can I have a receipt, please?’
He frowned, as if no one had asked him that before. ‘I’ll send you an invoice in the post.’ He picked up his tool bag and made for the door.
‘But can’t you write me out something to show I’ve paid?’
‘No need.’ He continued walking. ‘You can trust me.’
She doubted that very much.
‘I’ll see myself out. Call again if you need me.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ she mumbled, channelling Saffy. As the door shut behind him she turned to her assistant. ‘Let’s hope that’s the last we see of him.’
Saffy went over to the window and watched him climb into his van. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I rather liked him.’
‘Come away from the window, we don’t want to encourage him.’
Saffy turned and looked Evie square in the eye. ‘You sure about that, boss?’
Evie felt a blush of heat on her cheeks. ‘Absolutely. Now get on with some work.’
Laura could always sense when intervention was needed. It was partly why she was so good at her job, even if she did say so herself. The ability to read a person was an essential trait when selling wedding dresses. Brides weren’t just purchasing a dress, they were buying into the dream, creating a wondrous fairy tale that would export them into a romantic whirlwind of perfection. Weddings were about excess and style, accessories and glamour, the whole event organised with military precision, choreographed down to the last scented petal, ensuring the guests were left in spellbound awe, watching as the stunning bride and slightly stunned groom sailed away on a cloud of wistful bliss, their bank accounts empty, their hearts filled with love.
And then there were brides like Anita.
Laura moved her client through to the alcove at the side of the shop, behind the rails of pricey designer gowns, and opened the curtain with a dramatic swish, as if revealing the sparkling contents of Aladdin’s cave. ‘I think we might have what you’re looking for through here.’
With some hesitation, the woman followed. ‘I don’t want anything fancy. It’d be ridiculous at my age to turn up in one of those big frilly gowns. I just want something simple. You know, tasteful, appropriate for a woman in her fifties.’
Laura