Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Anna Cheska

  Oh, well … Realising she’d been standing and staring like a brainless idiot, Jude walked away. Imagine if he’d looked up and seen her gawping at him. God knows what he would think.

  But the sight of him had darkened her day somehow. She was no longer so eager to get to Say It With Flowers, to hear Imo’s news. Instead, she found herself thinking of Florrie, so full of energy today, so hopeful. She didn’t deserve bad treatment from anyone. And if she were forced to live in an old people’s home, where would she put all her precious memories?

  Jude clenched her fists inside her coat pockets. Just let him try.

  * * *

  Jude strolled into the shop just as a grinning Tiffany knocked over a vaseful of gypsophilia. ‘Ooopsie!’ she sang.

  ‘Morning all.’ Jude looked from one to the other of them.

  ‘Hiya.’ Scowling at her assistant, Imogen bent to gather the delicate flowers.

  ‘Sorreee.’ Tiffany moved to help her, slipped on the water she’d spilt and promptly skidded to the floor. ‘Ouch!’ She began laughing hysterically.

  It was the last straw. Imogen sat back on her heels. ‘Are you drunk?’ she demanded.

  ‘No.’ Tiffany looked briefly indignant. Then giggled.

  ‘Stoned more like.’ Jude fingered the purple freesias that were in a glass vase by the till. ‘Have you been smoking wacky baccy, Tiffany?’

  Tiffany murmured something indecipherable, thrust her fingers through her blonder than blonde hair, and smiled benignly at them both.

  ‘Wacky…?’ Imogen got to her feet. ‘Go home,’ she said.

  ‘But Imo!’ Tiffany’s eyes widened. ‘I was only—’

  ‘Go home.’ Imogen was so cross she was shaking. And what she was most cross about was that Edward – damn him – had been right.

  Tiffany managed to get out of her overalls without further incident, although negotiating the sleeve of her coat proved more hazardous, while Imogen had to stop herself from yelling: And don’t come back!

  ‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow,’ she said instead, with what she hoped was appropriate menace.

  ‘All right, Imo, keep your hair on.’ Tiffany was still giggling as she left the shop.

  Imogen turned to her friend. ‘She’ll have to go.’

  Jude was standing, hands thrust in the pockets of her outsize rust-coloured wrap-around coat, watching the small figure weave erratically down South Street towards Market Cross. She shrugged. ‘Put a card in the window. You’ll be inundated with teenagers by the end of the week. And if you take my advice…’ she leaned closer ‘… which you never do, you’ll choose someone who wears low heels, no makeup and a thick fringe this time.’

  The words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ sprang to Imogen’s mind. ‘A bit boring,’ she protested. Though Edward would no doubt have approved.

  Jude wagged a finger. Her hair was still brown, Imo noted, though shorter, and her eyes were cat’s green. ‘Boring maybe. But unlikely to be a druggie.’

  A druggie? That was going a bit far, surely? ‘But Tiffany’s never done anything like this before.’ Imogen went to get a mop from the back of the shop to clean the floor. ‘I never trusted her boyfriend. But Warren hasn’t even been in. I barred him.’

  Jude laughed. ‘So if he was barred as you put it…’ She bent down to sniff the Christmas roses ‘… then where did she get the stuff?’ She flicked her scarf over her shoulder and wiggled her eyebrows at Imo.

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest.’ But Imogen remembered the time she’d seen Tiffany hand Warren a small package. She’d been suspicious then, hadn’t she?

  ‘Perhaps she’s growing it in one of your greenhouses,’ Jude suggested cheerfully, undoing the belt of the wraparound. ‘Imo’s Utopia. Flower Power returns to Chichester. The sixties revisited…’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ Imogen squeezed the mop out over the sink. But what about Tiffany’s guilty expression when Imogen had caught her lurking in the greenhouse? She’d even wondered – why, oh, why hadn’t she done something? – what was hidden there.

  ‘Stay here,’ she told Jude. ‘Look after the shop for me.’

  ‘But I can’t sell flowers,’ Jude wailed. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To look for a marijuana plant,’ Imogen whispered. This was serious. This was scary. She hesitated by the door. ‘What does it look like anyway?’

  ‘Oh, honestly.’ Jude flipped the Open sign over and shut the latch. ‘I’ll come with you. What sort of a florist can’t even recognise a dope plant?’

  ‘An innocent one.’

  ‘You’re not joking.’ Jude took her arm. ‘Don’t you even know what little goodies you have in stock?’

  * * *

  They found them. Yes, them – there were eight plants – in the far corner of the big greenhouse. Imogen almost had a fit.

  ‘Hell’s bells…’ She stood goggle-eyed. Her hand flew to her mouth and she glanced guiltily over her shoulder, half expecting the appearance of the drug squad, armed police, or at the very least a sniffer dog.

  ‘They seem healthy enough,’ Jude pronounced approvingly. ‘She’s been looking after them. Giving them plenty to drink. And they’re in full sunlight.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that. Otherwise what on earth would we have done?’ Sometimes, Imogen despaired of Jude ever appreciating the seriousness of a situation. Couldn’t she see that Imo could be arrested for cultivation or drug dealing or harbouring criminal activities or something?

  ‘She’s harvested one.’ Jude poked the shorn plant. ‘That’s probably why she was testing the goods.’

  Harvested? Did that mean that Tiffany was a dealer? Imogen shuddered. How long had she been growing and incubating and harvesting on Imogen’s premises? How could she?

  Jude proceeded to sniff the leaves. She seemed very calm to Imo – but then, what did she have to lose? It wasn’t her place that had been used for illicit purposes. ‘She must have dried them out somewhere,’ Jude said. She looked up at Imo. ‘Any ideas?’

  Imogen frowned. She had no idea of the procedure involved. But she supposed it would work the same as dried flowers and herbs. ‘The old oven?’ She grew flowers for dried arrangements and used an old Baby Belling in the drying process.

  ‘Perfect.’ Jude rubbed her hands together, clearly enjoying this. ‘Lead on.’

  Imogen led the way back into the rear of Say It With Flowers, to the workshop area where she did the messier work of plant rearing and flower arranging. ‘Here.’ She glared at the oven as if it were somehow responsible for Tiffany’s misdemeanours.

  Jude shrugged off her coat to reveal a mustard-coloured sweatshirt, orange mini-skirt and black tights. She opened the oven door and sniffed long and hard. ‘You could get high in here,’ she giggled, sniffing again.

  ‘Don’t you start…’ Imogen pulled her out none too gently. ‘Wait till I get my hands on that girl,’ she muttered.

  ‘It’s pretty harmless though.’ Jude lit a cigarette. ‘Only a bit of grass, sweetie. We’ve all done it.’

  ‘What – grown it?’ Imo stared at her.

  ‘No, smoked it.’ She glanced back at Imogen and seemed to realise at last how upset she was. ‘Tell you what…’ She touched her arm. ‘I’ll go back to the greenhouse and destroy the grisly evidence.’

  ‘Destroy it?’ Imo had visions of a huge bonfire. All of their neighbours opening their windows and getting high as kites. Turning up their hi-fis, rediscovering their love beads. Tuning into their inner selves. Free love on the streets. Mass orgies in Chichester city centre.

  ‘Snip-snip.’ Jude made a scissors-motion. ‘Well, you don’t want to keep them, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And you’re not going to let Tiffany have them?’

  ‘You must be joking.’ The only thing Tiffany would be getting was a rollicking.

  ‘So…’ Jude shrugged. ‘No police, I presume?’

  ‘No way.’ Whatever Tiffany had done, Imogen wouldn’t wish
that on her. And the last thing she wanted was to have officious policemen nosing around. Besides, would they believe her if she said she simply hadn’t noticed the plants? Like Jude said, she was a florist, she was supposed to know about these things. They might think she was a silent collaborator.

  ‘Then I’ll give them the chop.’ Jude seemed to be looking forward to it. There was quite a gleam in her eye. ‘I could take care of them for you.’ She pulled up the sleeves of the mustard sweatshirt. ‘Shame to waste them on the compost, sweetie.’

  Imogen shivered. ‘Not on your life. They’re going in a black bin bag and being dumped. Today.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’ But Jude grabbed a fork and some shears from the shelf. ‘You’d better open up the shop and put the kettle on.’

  ‘And then?’ Imo felt quite shaken. It wasn’t every day you discovered your place of work being used as a … as a … well, whatever.

  ‘And then…’ Jude grinned. ‘You are going to tell me everything about this Alex character.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no future in it.’ But Imogen couldn’t help smiling. Once again, it sort of crept up on her and spread. But she was doing well. She hadn’t thought about him for ten whole minutes.

  ‘Good God.’ Jude shook her head in despair. ‘Look at you. Anyone would think you were in love.’

  Chapter 23

  ‘Marisa Gibb’s fella?’ Jude was agog. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Well, we…’ Imogen was clearly distracted. Her hair had escaped the confines of the tortoiseshell comb that was supposed to keep it up and back, and there were dark rings around her grey eyes. ‘Um…’ She snapped a bud off one of the white lilies and didn’t even seem to notice.

  ‘You went to bed with him,’ Jude reminded her.

  ‘Er … mmm.’ Dark rings apart, all of a sudden Imo looked as dewy-eyed as a Mills & Boon heroine.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Jude took a deep breath as the shop door opened with a ping. ‘You mean, you slept with your step-daughter’s boyfriend?’

  Imogen jumped. ‘Hello, can I help you?’ she asked brightly, tucking one of the stray wisps of hair behind one ear.

  There was a touching vulnerability about her today, thought Jude with a pang of envy. And she guessed that it had little to do with discovering illegal substances in her greenhouse.

  The customer selected roses and stocks and went on her way with only a brief curious glance behind her.

  ‘Did you have to say that?’ Imogen hissed as soon as she was out of earshot. She began rearranging the white lilies once again.

  ‘But he is Marisa’s boyfriend. And you did go to bed with him.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that…’

  ‘How would you put it?’ Jude was amazed. This whole thing was so unlike Imo. She was so level-headed, so sensible, so innocent (look how shocked she’d been over the marijuana plants). So how on earth had she managed to get herself into this mess? ‘A meeting of minds?’

  Imogen shrugged. ‘It just happened.’

  And how many times had she heard that old chestnut? Jude paced the floor, desperate for a cigarette but knowing Imo would shoo her outside if she lit one. ‘How old is he?’ she demanded.

  Imogen hesitated. ‘What does that have to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing. Only asking.’ Young though, she’d seen that much.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ Imogen mumbled.

  Jude whistled, taking by surprise a grey-haired senior citizen slowly making his way towards them.

  ‘Do you have any African violets?’ he asked Jude.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ She indicated Imogen. ‘But this lady might be able to help you.’

  Twenty-five … Jude didn’t know whether to commiserate or congratulate her. But on balance she would have clapped Imo on the back, she decided, if her friend hadn’t been busy explaining the difference between what was clearly a white flower and equally clearly a purple flower to the senior citizen in the mac.

  ‘Isn’t it awful?’ Imo said when he’d finally left the shop. She went over to the sink and brushed the soil from her hands.

  ‘Awful?’ Jude wouldn’t have put it quite like that. ‘It’ll do you good, Imo,’ she laughed. ‘If you’re going to have a one-night stand, you may as well have it with a young—’

  ‘It’s not…’ Imo’s voice trailed off as yet another customer entered the shop. The wreath and a cheque exchanged hands.

  ‘Not what?’ But Jude knew what she was going to say.

  ‘Not a one-night stand.’ All of a sudden, Imogen strode over to the door, shut it firmly, closed the latch and turned the Open sign. She took Jude by the hand, dragging her out back to her little working area and planting table.

  ‘So you’re going to see him again?’ Relieved to be able to smoke at last, Jude dug into her bag for her cigarettes and lighter. She could see the temptation, but doubted the wisdom. To be brutal, she also doubted that Imo would get the chance. Jude knew Marisa, and she knew men. Experience told her that Imo wouldn’t stand a chance, poor love. And if that were the case then Jude must stick around to pick up the pieces.

  ‘I don’t think I can help it.’ Imogen rolled up the sleeves of her green Say It With Flowers overalls and plunged her hands into the tub of compost on the work bench in front of her. ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘Ye … es?’

  ‘And he keeps phoning me.’

  ‘Really?’ Jude tried not to sound surprised. She drew in the smoke and exhaled with a sigh. Perhaps a reassessment was required. After all, Marisa Gibb was a cold fish. And Imogen was warm, serene and one of those rare women who could be beautiful even without make-up, she thought wryly.

  ‘He says it’s over with Marisa,’ Imogen remarked carelessly.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Jude watched Imo as, with practised hands, she filled some pots with earth. How could she stand all that filthy soil trapped under her finger-nails? Ugh!

  ‘And he says that age doesn’t matter.’

  Did he indeed? Jude found she was quite enjoying her Aunt Marge routine. She flicked ash into the waste bin in the corner. ‘And what do you think?’ she asked.

  Imogen looked up from the compost and faced her squarely. ‘I think he might be right,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Jude squashed her cigarette into an old glass ashtray usually reserved for Imogen’s seeds. Poor old Imo. She really had got it bad.

  * * *

  ‘Now then, Alex.’ Sylvie Price poured out another cup of tea. They were in her comfy kitchen, the scent of baking in the air, warm, soothing, normalising. But was he no longer her lovie? Alex wondered. ‘Have you got in touch with that young lady of yours yet?’

  Sylvie, he could see, meant to have an answer. ‘She’s not my young lady,’ came to mind. But Sylvie wouldn’t be satisfied with that. ‘I tried earlier.’ Gloomily, Alex helped himself to another piece of treacle tart. ‘And there was no reply.’ Clearly Marisa was lying low.

  ‘You tried to phone, maybe,’ Sylvie corrected. Her eyes behind the thick lenses were faintly sceptical. ‘But you haven’t been round there yet, have you?’

  ‘Not much point if she’s not there,’ Alex said, mouth full of treacle and pastry. What was it to Sylvie anyway? He looked up as she moved away, standing by the sink now in her Marigolds, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, lines of disapproval and laughter contouring her face. Life lines.

  ‘There’s something wrong with that girl.’ Sylvie stacked cups and plates, neatly, side by side ready for washing.

  Why did she do that, Alex wondered, if they were all destined for the washing-up bowl, higgledy-piggledy, anyway? But order was important to Sylvie, just as it was to his own mam. If things could be put in order, they could more easily be dealt with and controlled, he supposed. Anything – from errant sons and lodgers to washing up.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ Sylvie went on. ‘You can tell by looking at her.’

  Alex shrugged. What had happened to Marisa was that she hadn’t got her
own way for once.

  ‘And you could at least make more of an effort.’ This last word was clearly the important one. With some effort Sylvie splashed in the cutlery, planted her feet apart, firm and balanced, hands working nineteen to the dozen with effort on the washing up.

  Wonderful! Alex reached for the sketch pad and pencil that were never far away. Perversely, he began with the saggy green slippers. Faded and shapeless, thick wrinkled ankles sprouting out of them like stalks of broccoli. ‘You don’t even like her,’ he reminded his landlady, adding a little shade. And Sylvie had always struck him as a woman of extremes. No shades of grey for her. How would she respond to Imogen? he wondered. Imogen … There were life lines in her face too – faint and fine. And a new lease of life for Alex?

  ‘Liking doesn’t come into it. You should go and see her.’ Sylvie got into her rhythm. Wash, rinse, plop into tub on the drainer … wash, rinse, plop … wash, rinse … ‘Right is right.’ Plop into tub on the drainer.

  ‘And left knows best,’ Alex mimicked, making strong, sure strokes with his pencil. No waist. Sylvie’s aproned figure was a blurred rectangle. Waste not, want not. He chuckled. But she was a fascinating subject – this wasn’t the first time he’d caught her in full cleaning regalia. She was one of those women, his mam’s generation of women, often to be found in full cleaning regalia. That was, he supposed, what wraparound pinnies were for.

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’ Sylvie marched over, snatched his plate, dripped on to his sketch pad.

  ‘Careful.’ Alex pulled it away. ‘No need to damage a valuable masterpiece.’

  ‘Valuable, my foot,’ Sylvie said with confusing logic. ‘You didn’t see her face – there’s something wrong with that girl, I tell you.’

  Lack of expression? That was his main complaint when painting Marisa, though it made her something of an artistic challenge. There had to be something more, something naked and raw, hidden under that inscrutable cool. But lack of expression meant the artist had to dig so deep, sometimes it didn’t seem worth the effort. Now, you couldn’t say that about Sylvie. Not only expression but years of experience on that face and in those eyes behind those thick lenses of hers. Years of lovies and honesty and right is right. And she was too. ‘I’ll go round and see her later,’ Alex promised.