Forget Me Knot (9 page)

AFTER A SHOWER AND
a mug of warm milk, Abby went to bed and slept so deeply that she didn’t hear her alarm the next morning. At a quarter to nine, her mobile finally woke her. Still drowsy, she reached out from under the duvet and fumbled for the phone, which she’d left charging on the bedside table. She assumed it was Toby phoning to check that she’d slept and was suffering no aftereffects from the elevator fiasco.

“Helloo?… Abby?… Mum here,” Jean boomed, as if she were on a walkie-talkie in a war zone. Abby felt a momentary pang of disappointment when she realized it was her mother calling rather than Toby. “I’m… on… the… ship’s satellite phone. Can… you… hear… me?”

“Loud and clear.” Abby winced, moving the phone away from her ear. “There’s no need to shout.”

“Sorry, dear.” Jean lowered her voice. “This any better?”

“Much.”

“I’m not dragging you away from something important, am I?” This was how Jean began most of her phone calls to Abby. From the moment Fabulous Flowers took off, she
seemed to develop an image of Abby as this wheeler-dealer, hotshot businesswoman who led such a high-octane existence that she couldn’t be disturbed—even by her own mother.

If there was one thing Abby wished she could change about her mother, it was her lack of self-esteem. Jean had been brought up in a strict, God-fearing family with a sweet but weak mother and a thunderous, table-banging, lay-preacher father who would frequently address his wife and small children on eternal damnation and the fires of hell that awaited sinners and nonbelievers. Grandpa Enoch had died years ago—when Abby was a baby—but the fear he had instilled in Jean, although much diminished, hadn’t gone away entirely. She still couldn’t have her highlights done without feeling she was a harlot. The other legacy that Enoch had left his daughter was her inability to confront or challenge others.

It was no surprise to Abby that Jean had married the gentle Hugh. They had met at work. Hugh worked for the local council, in the planning department, inspecting house extensions. Jean was a typist in the same department. Unlike Enoch, Hugh was soft-spoken and kind. When it came to Jean, he was her most ardent supporter and admirer. They never went out without him telling her how lovely she looked. They never sat down to a meal she’d cooked without him telling her how tasty it was.

Hugh was also an agnostic—although he took care never to mention this to his father-in-law.

Once Abby had started school, Hugh encouraged Jean to take a part-time job—not because they needed the money, but because he thought it would help build her self-confidence. Jean never did. Having been at home for six
years, what little confidence she’d acquired when she worked for the council was gone.

Abby remembered classmates coming to tea after school. A few of these girls had mothers who went out to work. Some were professional women—lawyers, doctors, teachers.

Jean would serve up her homemade shepherd’s pie and make wistful comments like: “You must be so proud of your mum” or “I bet you want to grow up to be just like her.”

Usually the children shrugged. Abby knew—because they told her—that they hated being met by the au pair when they got back from school.

As Abby got older, she began to understand the inadequacy her mother was feeling and needed to reassure her. Time and again she would hug Jean and tell her she was the best mother in the whole wide world. “You’re always waiting for me when I get home. You always come to assemblies and plays and you make real food for tea, not fish fingers.”

Jean would return the hug and thank Abby for being so appreciative, but there was always this faraway look on Jean’s face. It was as if part of her was aching to climb to the top diving board and jump off but the rest of her was petrified that she might not surface again.

Abby lay on her side, phone pressed to her ear. “No, Mum, of course you’re not disturbing me,” she said kindly, “and even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. Actually, I’m still in bed.”

“Oh, my goodness, I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Yes, but you did me a favor,” she said, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was nearly nine. “Somehow I managed to sleep through my alarm.” She decided not to
mention the elevator incident. Jean would only get into a flap and suggest that Abby may have sustained some as yet asymptomatic injury and insist she go to the hospital to get herself checked out.

“So, Mum, why are you calling? Is everything OK?”

“Oh, yes, fine. Bit choppy through the Drake Passage last night. Your dad threw up most of his boeuf en daube and half a bottle of chardonnay. And the lavatory situation is still a bit iffy. All the cabins seem to be affected. The gangways were awash with smelly water this morning, so it was quite literally all hands on deck with buckets and disinfectant. Still, mustn’t grumble. We’re managing to keep our chins up. As they say, worse things happen at sea.”

“But you are at sea.”

“Oh, dear,” Jean giggled, “so we are.”

“Mum, I’m really worried about what’s happening. I mean, you could get really ill if this leaking sewage thing isn’t fixed.”

“Please stop worrying. Everything’s under control. Dad and I have gotten rather pally with this solicitor chappy— lovely wife, very elegant, image of the Duchess of Kent, owns an artsy-crafty gift ship in Brockenhurst. … Anyway, Gerald—that’s the solicitor—suggested we get up a petition to present to the captain.”

“Saying what—that if he doesn’t get the problem fixed, you will be forced to instruct counsel and, in the fullness of time, pursue a claim for damages in the county court? That’s bound to have him quaking in his boots. Mum, something needs to be done right away. This is serious.”

“We all know that, so the passengers are pulling together. In fact, there’s a real camaraderie built up. You know, Dunkirk spirit and all that. We’re pooling our baby wipes
and bottles of Dettol. Now, the reason I rang was to remind you that it’s your aunty Gwen’s birthday the day after tomorrow, and I thought you might like to send her a card and a nice Il Divo CD. Or you could get her a sweater or a bottle of that Body Shop white musk scent she likes.”

Abby had completely forgotten her aunt’s birthday. She said she would pop out at lunchtime and buy a card and present.

“Look, Mum, I have to go. It’s past nine and I need to go downstairs and open the shop. But please promise me you’ll get this problem sorted. You and Dad need to take some direct action for once and stand up for yourselves.”

“We will, dear. Now stop fussing—ooh, before you go. Aren’t you meant to be having dinner with Lady Penelope this week?”

“Actually, it was last night.”

“How did it go? I bet she was lovely. Is she very beautiful? I’ve always imagined her as very elegant and chic, with a perfect figure—a bit like Princess Grace of Monaco.”

“Well, she’s certainly got a figure,” Abby said, grinning to herself.

“And she’s nice?”

“She’s a real character,” Abby said—ever the diplomat. There seemed little point in furnishing Jean with a description of Lady P’s personality, as it would only leave her anxious and frightened. “Look, I really do have to open the shop,” Abby said. “I’ll tell you all about last night when you get home.”

AFTER ABBY
hung up, she lay in bed, aware that all she wanted to do was go back to sleep. On top of that, her head
was filled with a dull ache. She wasn’t surprised. Getting trapped in the elevator had been traumatic, to say the least, and she was probably still in shock.

She knew she had to get up, but for the moment her body wasn’t inclined to move. Instead, she lay gazing up at the ceiling, reliving the desperate panic and claustrophobia she’d felt when she realized she was trapped in the elevator. Then she remembered her elation at being rescued and her certainty that her phobia had disappeared.

She felt herself flush with embarrassment as once again she recalled telling Dan about Toby’s inability to perform in the bedroom. On the upside, though, she was unlikely to ever meet him again. She imagined how much more excruciating it would be, waking up this morning knowing that she had revealed her most intimate secrets to a boss or work colleague—somebody she would have to face again in a few hours.

Finally she remembered Toby’s behavior in the restaurant. Even though he had apologized and she’d forgiven him, she realized that she was still cross with him for not supporting her. Hearing him try to convince his mother that she was one of the Dorset Cromptons had made her feel small and socially inferior. And as for his agreeing to her taking a fertility test, part of her was still struggling to believe she had heard him correctly. On the other hand, she had been massively disloyal to him while she was in the elevator—though admittedly while drunk and in the throes of a massive panic attack. Then, to cap it all, she had ended the evening by accusing him of being gay.

She decided to ring him to say hi and let him know she was OK. She tried his direct line at work but got his voice mail. When she tried his mobile and the same happened,
she decided to leave a message. “Hi, Toby, it’s me. Just to say I’m fine and that I’m sorry I got so cross with you last night. I’m sorry about the other thing, too. It had been on my mind, that’s all, and I thought we should discuss it. Hope you weren’t too upset. OK, let me know if you’re coming to mine for dinner tonight and I’ll get something in. Bye. Love you.”

She glanced at the clock again. It was half past nine and the shop opened at ten. She absolutely had to get up. She allowed herself a few more glorious seconds of being horizontal before kicking back the duvet, sitting up and swinging her legs onto the floor.

Once she was fully vertical, she threw on yesterday’s work jeans and one of the long-sleeved T-shirts she always wore in the shop. Next came her denim jacket and the violet cashmere pashmina that Toby had bought her and that she always wore as a scarf, tied round her neck. The shop had to be kept cool for the flowers. During the cold months, like now—particularly with the shop door constantly opening and closing—she was always frozen.

She was on her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth when she heard a key in the shop door. It was Martin Scoredaisy. “Hiya,” she called downstairs. “Sorry—I’m running late. I’ll be down in a sec with coffee.”

Martin Scoredaisy was Abby’s assistant. He had been with her almost a year. Until then she had run the shop alone. Now she couldn’t imagine how she had managed without him. Before coming to Fabulous Flowers, Martin had worked at Carnation Nation, up the road.

Of course, Scoredaisy wasn’t his real surname. Martin’s actual surname was Roberts, but back home in Liverpool, his mates had nicknamed him Scoredaisy on the grounds
that it seemed an appropriate epithet for a gay florist named Martin.

From the outset, Martin had insisted that Abby call him Scoredaisy. At first she’d felt shy using his nickname. After all, nicknames assumed a degree of intimacy, and she was his employer, not his friend. Then, as they grew closer and actually became friends, she started to feel more at ease with it. Soon she was so comfortable with the name that she even took to calling him Scozza for short. These days she counted Martin among her closest friends. She loathed the term
fag hag
, but there really was a great deal to be said for having a gay best friend. Like most gay men, Martin came with an added bonus. He possessed a sensitive feminine side. This meant that he could talk about his emotions and feelings, cook the best ever mushroom risotto, as well as deliver a stinging discourse on the sartorial imprudence of wearing Miu Miu past twenty-five. He frequently did all three at the same time, although it has to be said that when it came to expressing emotions and feelings, more often than not the focus of Martin’s passionate outpouring was himself.

When she had finished brushing her teeth, Abby went into the kitchen and took two clean mugs out of the dishwasher. She put a teaspoon of instant coffee in both— regular for herself, decaf for Martin Scoredaisy. Whenever they wanted to make coffee, they had to come upstairs to the flat. There was a storeroom at the back of the shop, but no kitchen. The truth was there wasn’t much of a kitchen in Abby’s flat. The real estate agent’s blurb had described it as a galley kitchen. In fact, it was nothing more than a row of—admittedly new—Ikea kitchen units at one end of the living room cum dining room. The arrangement was great
for entertaining, because she could cook and chat to her guests at the same time. The downside was she had to keep the kitchen area spotlessly clean and tidy. For Abby, there was nothing worse than sitting watching TV while being able to see—not to mention smell—stacks of unwashed dishes and rubbish overflowing the waste bin.

The living area was sizable—over three hundred square feet—with a high ceiling and plaster coving. It also had the original black marble fireplace and tall, wooden-shuttered windows overlooking Upper Street. The shutters were original, too. She’d painted them white, along with the walls. She liked plain white walls because in her opinion they provided the best background on which to hang paintings. Not that she owned a single canvas. Even though the business was doing well, by the time she reached the end of the month, she didn’t have much cash left over. Apart from all the usual bills, her money went to rent and paying Martin—not that he wasn’t worth every penny. On top of that she was also paying back the bank loan she’d gotten to set up the business. That was costing her a couple of hundred pounds a month.

In theory, the living-room shutters obviated the need for curtains or blinds, but although they blocked out the light and offered privacy, they weren’t brilliant draft excluders. In winter they offered no protection against the wind that rattled through the ancient, ill-fitting sash windows. Besides that, there were the drafts that whooshed up between the floorboards she had so painstakingly sanded and covered in white floor paint. If only she’d had the strength to stick her finger up to style and put down carpet. Keeping the central heating on max all day was costing her a fortune. Even then it only took the edge off the cold. Each winter
she promised herself she would go to Habitat and buy a couple of rugs, but she never seemed to get round to it. Then the warm weather would arrive and she would forget. She was aware that much of her time was spent battling the cold, both in the shop and in the flat. Some times, when she was lying in bed with her hot-water bottle, bundled up in her flannel PJs and bed socks, she would imagine it was summer and she was in Provence, lazing by the pool on the grounds of a vine-clad farmhouse. If she concentrated, she was able to summon up the fragrance of lavender, jasmine and sweet-scented myrtle.