Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  ‘What’s what?’ Defensive, too, Imo recognised the signs.

  She sighed. ‘Oh, nothing.’ She hoped Tiffany hadn’t been a mistake after all. Edward, of course, had disapproved of her …

  ‘Will she give the right impression?’ he had asked when Imogen first told him about the girl she was employing to help out on Saturdays and twice a week after school.

  Imo had hated that. Right impression? What about what was underneath? ‘Perhaps the wrong impression is valid too,’ she had said, knowing she was being childish.

  And that was Edward’s cue to sigh. ‘Honestly, Imogen, you think in riddles – it’s a business you’re running here, don’t forget.’

  Hah! As for riddles, she thought now, he could talk, couldn’t he? Well, not at this precise moment in time obviously, but with all this photograph and bank statement business …

  ‘Ivy?’ Tiffany looked as blank as only a teenager could. ‘With rings on her fingers and rings in her nose’ came to mind.

  ‘Yes.’ Imogen decided against confrontation. The benefit of the doubt was something she strongly believed in. ‘Ivy. Green-and-white variegated or sometimes just green. Pointy leaves, trailing, fast grower, people put it in pots and window boxes with pansies in the winter.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Tiffany disappeared again, muttering, ‘I’m not totally stupid, y’know,’ not even under her breath.

  Was she right to say nothing? A sharp ‘What’s going on?’ might just do the trick. Imo slid the greenhouse door to behind her, though it was so mild today she was tempted to leave it open. It was like that in the cottage too. She found herself wandering from room to room opening windows as if she had to clear every bit of air and start again. Ah, well. She knew Tiffany was more interested in money to buy make-up, studs and designer trainers than she was in flowers. But Imo didn’t want to lose her. More than anything – particularly since finding that photo – she didn’t want Edward, beyond the grave or wherever, to be proved right.

  Imogen had employed Tiffany because she was curious about a girl who looked so innocent and yet was so clearly compelled to make some sort of statement. And because in her interview Tiffany had said, ‘I like to watch things grow.’

  That had struck a chord with Imo. She’d had her share of office jobs and admin but the truth was she too liked to watch things grow. A hobby had become a passion and a passion had led – after a year’s training in floristry at the local agricultural college – to Say It With Flowers. What would Edward have had her do? Stick her inheritance money in a building society and work nine to five in a job she’d begun to hate?

  Imogen had taken on Tiffany, body piercing and all. And so far she had not regretted it. Nevertheless, the girl had looked decidedly guilty in the greenhouse, she thought, as she re-entered the shop through the back door.

  The one customer was a male browser, peering around in bemusement as if saying it with flowers was a language he’d never spoken in his life. Jude was right, Imo reflected, men rarely had any idea what they were looking for. But did Jude know what she was looking for? And how was Imogen going to help her write an ad designed to enable her to find it? Or him?

  ‘Can I help?’ He was in his twenties, she guessed. Tall, lean, and dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket; the kind of man they didn’t see in here too often.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, shooting her an intent glance. ‘I want some flowers.’

  Imogen bit back a sarcastic retort. ‘A mixed bunch?’ She indicated some chrysanthemums, carnations and stocks – they might not last, but there was such a wonderful, heady scent from those stocks. ‘A large spray?’ She practically embraced the lilies – the most elegant of flowers and definitely her favourites – touched the irises whose petals were mauve velvet. ‘A small arrangement?’ She selected some yellow freesias.

  ‘A small…? Ah.’ He smiled in understanding. His mouth was wide (Eat your heart out, Mick Jagger, Imo thought) and his eyes very blue. ‘I see what you mean. Let me think now…’

  Imogen shifted her position slightly. She knew the form – now she’d given him too much choice.

  But: ‘A few of those dark roses – hmm, almost purple, aren’t they? – and some of this white stuff, I think.’

  ‘Gypsophilia.’

  ‘Some irises too.’

  She moved her hand.

  ‘No, just those dark ones.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Two of these lilies.’

  Imogen selected them. She was beginning to think he had quite an eye for colour.

  ‘Where d’you want the ivy, Imo? Out the front?’ Tiffany sauntered back into the shop, armed with a tray of plants. She looked their customer up and down with some interest. ‘Horny,’ she mouthed at Imogen, eyes opening even wider than usual.

  ‘Yes, outside, Tiffany, thank you.’ Imogen glowered at her.

  ‘And three white freesia stems to finish,’ the customer proclaimed, as if he were ordering a five-course dinner.

  ‘Very nice.’ She wrapped the flowers carefully, named a price, he handed over the money and for a split second their eyes met. No, not their usual customer at all, she decided.

  ‘Thanks.’ He seemed about to say something more, but only nodded and was gone.

  ‘Great bum,’ Tiffany commented.

  Imo watched his long-legged progress past the small shops, cafés and flint-fronted houses on South Street. It was rather. Looking away, she began rearranging cards on the stand that didn’t need rearranging at all. ‘I didn’t notice,’ she said.

  ‘As if…’ Tiffany joined her behind the till and nudged her with a bony elbow. ‘He was blatantly giving you the eye, Imo.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish.’ Imogen put a hand to her face. Her skin felt hot. The customer had been young enough to be of more interest to fifteen-year-old Tiffany than to Imo, who was over twice her age, she reminded herself sternly. And yet … the girl in the photo, she, could only have been a few years older than Tiffany. So young …

  ‘Why not?’ Tiffany draped herself decoratively over the counter. ‘What’re you like? You’re a good-looking woman, you are – for your age, I mean. Great bones.’

  Rattling bones, it felt like.

  ‘Even Warren says he could quite fancy you.’ She twiddled her eyebrow hoop.

  ‘Goodness.’ Imogen wasn’t sure whether or not to feel flattered. Warren was Tiffany’s boyfriend. He rode a motor bike, had long, greasy black hair and wore jeans in dire need of a good wash. According to Tiffany he was into leather in a big way (whatever that meant; it was probably safer for Imo not to know). ‘Well, I don’t have the faintest idea who he was,’ she said, distancing herself from the thought of Warren and leather. ‘But he was just a boy.’

  ‘How old do they have to be?’ Tiffany erupted into her dirty laugh. ‘Looked blatantly old enough to me. Arty. Sexy. Well wicked, in fact.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Perhaps because she was ten years his junior, Imogen had always – until she’d found her – thought of herself as Edward’s young girl.

  ‘You didn’t fancy him then?’ Tiffany was disbelieving. ‘Not even a bit?’ She shook her head. It didn’t seem to have occurred to her that Imogen’s husband had only just left the land of the living. Life and the men you fancied clearly went on regardless. ‘You must be crazy.’

  Perhaps she was. Gently, Imogen reached out to touch the white freesias – like the ones he had chosen. They were pure as untrodden snow. Owning a florist’s meant that a man would never dream of buying you flowers. Especially not practical, predictable Edward. Predictable? That was a joke. ‘Of course I didn’t fancy him.’ Nevertheless, whoever the bouquet’s recipient might be, Imo thought, that was one very lucky lady.

  * * *

  Alex let himself into the house with his key. ‘Hiya,’ he called, negotiating the narrow hallway and knocking on Sylvie’s open kitchen door.

  He went straight in because that was the way it was at Sylvie’s – home from home. ‘Happy birthday.’ He thrust
the flowers towards her surprised face.

  Quite a nice spray, even if he said so himself; it had been a laugh to show the woman in the florist’s (who clearly thought he’d never bought flowers in his life) that he knew what he was doing – at least as far as colour was concerned. An interesting-looking woman too. A kind of serenity about her … laughter, too, but hidden well under the surface, at least for now. He’d half wanted to stay and chat to her. But you didn’t do that in shops, did you? Especially not here in the South. You handed over your money, took the goods and walked.

  ‘You remembered.’ Sylvie blushed to the roots of her tightly permed grey hair. She was what his mother would call a treasure – though in this case his mam wouldn’t, actually. She would just wonder – and did, often and vocally – why the heck Alex was wasting his money living down South in lodgings, when he could be at home in Nottinghamshire with the rest of the family.

  ‘’Course I did.’ He kissed her soft pouchy cheek.

  ‘They’re beautiful, Alex, lovie.’ She sniffed the purple and white blooms. Behind her thick-framed glasses he thought he could see her eyes misting. When, he wondered, had he become her lovie? ‘I’ll get them in water right away.’

  ‘You do that.’ Alex watched her wipe her free and floury hand on the faded wraparound apron before she turned to bustle over to the old-fashioned stainless steel sink. He observed the wrinkled brown stockings and battered carpet slippers, and smiled. Sylvie was a good woman – and uncomplicated too. Since her own children had flown the nest, the most she wanted was to ‘do’ for a replacement. He could tell. Most women weren’t like that any more, were they? They needed different things, more complicated things. They were more exciting, yes, but more exhausting too. He chuckled. According to Sylvie, most of the new breed couldn’t even make custard – and weren’t interested in learning either.

  She ran the water till it was lukewarm, sprinkled some sugar into an old glass vase and picked the flowers up almost reverently. ‘You’re a good lad, you are.’

  He would buy her a new vase for Christmas, he decided. ‘Tell that to me mam.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she knows already.’ Sylvie nodded her grey head but still looked smug, bless her. She and his mam were two of a kind, Alex thought. If they were ever to meet they would be best friends or deadly enemies.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘What’re you baking?’ Hopefully something good for his dinner. Because Sylvie, like his mam, wasn’t just good at custard. She specialised in jam roly-polys and spotted dick puds that were straight from heaven.

  ‘Just a birthday cake.’ Sylvie was still fiddling away. She’d managed to all but destroy the rich velvet contrast of the purple and white flowers that the florist had created so effortlessly.

  ‘For yourself? You should have let me buy you one from Marks.’

  She sniffed. ‘Thanks all the same, Alex, lovie, but no.’

  He grabbed the bowl containing the mixture she’d been beating. ‘Let’s have a go, then. You shouldn’t be making your own cake, you know, Sylv. It’s bad luck. Let me finish it off.’

  ‘Oh, Alex, honestly…’

  But she wasn’t really objecting. He knew she liked him to be here in her kitchen while she worked, to take the odd turn with the mixing and the wiping up, so long as she remained in charge. ‘Who’s this in aid of then?’ No way would Sylvie bother to make a cake for herself. Perhaps her daughter was coming round? Alex began beating with the wooden spoon. Trixie by name and tricksy by nature – even Sylvie admitted she led her husband a merry dance.

  Alex scooped the mixture from the sides of the bowl with the back of the spoon, as his mam always did. If Trixie was coming round, he’d go out with Marisa, he told himself. Deal. He should call her – they had a kind of open arrangement about tonight, but he was a bit Should I, shouldn’t I? about the whole thing.

  ‘Esther and Pammie.’ At last Sylvie seemed satisfied with her efforts in the flower-arranging department. She stuck the mottled glass vase in the centre of the dresser, squashed between the big Toby jug and the brass donkey. Ah, well … ‘They’re coming round for a drink later,’ she told him.

  ‘Champagne, I hope?’ Alex’s thoughts were still centred on Marisa. He had never intended this thing to get … what? Serious? He could hardly accuse Marisa of that, just because she had taken him to meet her mother. Naomi Gibb had proved to be a nice lady. They’d sat in the small lounge of Chestnut Close, sipping tea, and, yes, Naomi Gibb had brought some flowers home with her too. He could see her now, making small talk while she arranged them in a brown vase; could see Marisa’s expression and the eyebrow raised while her mother’s back was turned when Naomi had asked, ‘And what do you do, Alex?’ A bit of a mouse, Naomi Gibb, not at all what he had expected. But all right.

  Sylvie, he realised, was watching him. Perhaps he had been beating a bit energetically. Or perhaps (again, like his mam – was it surprising he hadn’t wanted to stay at home?) she was a mind-reader. But she only smiled. ‘Champagne? Get on with you. It’ll be a nice cup of tea and like it.’

  ‘Anything else to go in?’ He stopped beating. Perhaps he had never intended it to go on with Marisa. Once things went on they were harder to stop; a couple became an item to the rest of the world. There were expectations; someone would feel let down and hurt.

  ‘No, that’s the lot, lovie.’ She pushed the greased cake tin towards him.

  Alex began to dollop it in. It reminded him of childhood, of licking out the bowl, that sugary, fatty mix that had been so delicious. God knows why that should be. He frowned. And yet it might be – should be? – hard to give up a girl like Marisa. Sexy, beautiful, all frost on the outside and hot heady liqueur when you dug deep.

  Sylvie took it from him and smoothed the top with a palette knife. ‘So I was wondering…’ She hesitated. ‘And Pammie was asking if you’d be around, you see…’

  ‘Tonight?’ Alex grinned. Three old biddies or Marisa. What a choice.

  ‘If you’d like to pop down – just for a few minutes.’ She finished in a rush as she opened the oven door, her glasses steaming up from the heat.

  Alex smeared some of the mixture on to his finger, but it didn’t taste the way it had in childhood. What did? ‘Sure I will.’ He knew how much it meant to her. Anyway, it would give him time to look at a sketch he was working on, and to phone Richie later. Three good reasons … Besides, seeing Marisa meant complications and Alex didn’t feel like any complications tonight. He felt like a generous slice of Sylvie’s birthday cake and being fussed over. ‘Did Pammie want anything particular?’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell her I said.’ Sylvie glanced over her shoulder as if Pammie might be lurking on the other side of the custard-and-cream-coloured kitchen. ‘But…’ she turned back to squirt washing up liquid into her yellow plastic bowl ‘… I think she wants to book you for her grandson’s seventh.’

  Alex groaned. Seven-year-old boys were not the most receptive audience. But man could not live by art alone – well, this man couldn’t – and the graphic design work promised by Richie had dried up lately.

  ‘Don’t you want the work, lovie?’ Sylvie immediately looked concerned, and he regretted the groan. He had arrived in Chichester from London broke and dependent on Richie – the only person he knew around here – for part-time work that often didn’t materialise. Sylvie’s name (third in the lady-looking-for-lodger list obtained at Tourist Information) had come up, she had welcomed him with open arms and an iced chocolate sponge, and it was she who – on discovering that he had often entertained friends with his amateur juggling – came up with the idea of children’s parties.

  He had done a dozen already – combining juggling with balloon-animal making – for a selection of Sylvie’s grandchildren and her friends’ grandchildren. The list seemed never-ending; Sylvie must be doing a great job on publicity. And all this had apparently qualified him for the crème de la crème, namely the job of Father Christmas at Kirby’s department store where Sylvie’s daughte
r Trixie worked in lingerie. Alex grinned. So to speak.

  ‘’Course I do.’ He flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘But if you’re too busy…’

  Alex knew Sylvie well enough to recognise a reference to Marisa. He smiled. Twice last week he’d missed dinner. ‘Doing what I shouldn’t be doing?’ he teased.

  ‘Not at all.’ Sylvie became almost prim as she rinsed her mixing bowl. ‘I’m not your mother and it’s none of my business.’

  ‘Right.’ He waited.

  ‘But I have told you to feel free to bring her round.’

  ‘Who would that be?’ He was beginning to enjoy himself now.

  Sylvie blushed. ‘Your new girlfriend, of course.’

  ‘Hmm. But Marisa…’ How could he put this? ‘Isn’t a girlfriend exactly.’

  But she only laughed and blew a soapsud in his general direction. ‘Oh, I know you young lads, don’t think I don’t.’ She finished the last pot and wiped her hands once more. ‘A girl’s got to be careful…’

  Alex picked up the tea towel and started drying. If she were to meet Marisa she’d soon change her mind. Marisa was far too much in control to have to be told to be careful. Sylvie wouldn’t take to her, he was sure of that much. Neither would his mam. But the question was – had Alex taken to her? And why did he get the feeling he was being drawn – very carefully, very slowly – into a web that was very much of Marisa’s weaving? He couldn’t make her out. He wanted her. So why was he practically climbing the walls trying to get away from her?

  Chapter 8

  Independent … blonde … Which first? Jude sat back in the chair behind The Goddess Without’s reception desk and considered. Independence was most important to her, that went without saying. And hair colour could be found in a bottle, spray, mousse, or even a mascara wand these days. She cast a glance towards her colour and tint trolley. But was independence off-putting? Did it also say bolshie? She sighed. And so what if it did?