The Oddest Little Mistletoe Shop

by Beth Good

  THE ODDEST LITTLE MISTLETOE SHOP

  Beth Good

  Copyright ©BethGood, 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Beth Good has asserted her rights under Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. No part of this book can be reproduced in part or in whole or transferred by any means without the express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Any names of places or characters are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Thimblerig Books 2017

  Other charming romcoms by Kindle All Stars author Beth Good (UK links):

  Christmas at the Lucky Parrot Garden Centre

  The Cornish Colouring Book Club

  The Oddest Little Cornish Tea Shop

  The Oddest Little Book Shop

  The Oddest Little Gingerbread Shop

  The Oddest Little Chocolate Shop

  The Oddest Little Christmas Shop

  The Oddest Little Romance Shop

  The Oddest Little Beach Shop

  The Oddest Little Christmas Cake Shop

  The Oddest Little Shop Trio

  (a 3-story edition)

  CHAPTER ONE

  'This was my dad's shop, before he had his accident, and his dad's before him,’ Rose said hotly, ‘and I'm not going to give it up without a fight.'

  Following that stirring declaration, there was an unexpected smattering of applause from behind her, drowning out the journalist’s response on the other end of the phone.

  Startled, Rose turned round, phone in hand, to find she had an audience. An elderly couple, a mother and sticky-faced toddler, a man in a brown felt hat, and her neighbour Mrs Patel, were all standing in the open doorway to her flower shop. It was already dark outside, she realised with a shock, the heavy November dusk having slipped unnoticed into evening, and the air in the shop was chilly enough to make her shiver.

  She grinned at her audience, then took an exaggerated bow, mouthing ‘Thank you.’

  'You tell ’em, Rose,' Mrs Patel said enthusiastically. 'Is that the reporter from The Sun again? The one who came round yesterday?’

  Rose nodded, holding the handset against her chest in case her neighbour was about to say something indiscreet. It had been known, unfortunately.

  Mrs Patel was a lovely woman, owner of the Late Stop Shop next door, but since her husband’s death she had been known to take a sip or three of brandy in the late afternoon, which made her excitable at times. Luckily, her grown-up son Daljit was usually on hand to steer her back upstairs or into the stockroom. No doubt he was minding the shop right now, while his mum wandered about the Parade, as she often did at this time of day, a heavy winter coat buttoned up over her brightly coloured sari.

  ‘Well,’ Mrs Patel continued, ‘you can tell her from me that I’ll lie down in front of the bulldozers before I give That Man the satisfaction of my signature on his bloody sheet of paper. Christmas Parade is ours, and no fancy-pants developer is going to turn it into flats!' Clapping a hand to her mouth, Mrs Patel gazed down in horror at the toddler, who looked back up at her with a blank expression, seemingly unperturbed by her use of a mild expletive. 'Oh, I'm terribly sorry,' she whispered to his mother, a young woman chewing a piece of gum with her mouth open. 'I didn't see your kiddie there.'

  Rose said into the phone, ‘Sorry, can I call you back?’ then rang off in a hurry. She glanced at the wall clock, which told her it was nearly twenty minutes to six, then turned to survey her audience with a thinly disguised air of exasperation. ‘Okay, everyone. I thought I’d turned the shop sign round to Closed. But never mind.’

  ‘Isn’t Shantelle here to help you?’ Mrs Patel asked, puzzled.

  ‘I let her go early tonight. Dentist.’ She forced herself to smile, though inwardly she still felt a little shaken by her conversation with that reporter. Since her assistant had gone, she would have to deal with all these customers herself. Assuming they were bona fide customers, not just interested bystanders. It seemed everyone was getting very excited about the growing stand-off between her and Thimblerig Holdings. ‘Right, is anyone here for flowers?’

  Mrs Patel excused herself at once, closing the door behind her with a jangle of the old-fashioned bell on the back.

  The man in the felt hat looked down at his smart phone, avoiding her gaze.

  The elderly couple turned expectantly to the young mother, who only stopped chewing in order to say, ‘Can my Billy use your loo?’

  ‘Public toilets are just across the road at the library,’ Rose said, still smiling. ‘They don’t close until six. So if you hurry …’

  The woman dragged her toddler out of there, muttering something under her breath that Rose chose not to hear.

  The elderly couple had started browsing her Christmas display, so she turned to the man in the felt hat instead. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m from the Evening Standard,’ he said brusquely, showing his credentials. ‘But if you’ve already spoken to the Sun … ’

  ‘Give me a minute, would you?’

  He shrugged, and went back to reading his smart phone.

  Rose came out from behind her counter to help the elderly couple choose a spruce fir and pine cone table centrepiece. ‘This one’s quite large,’ she said cautiously. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a smaller arrangement?’

  ‘Oh, it’s for a big table,’ the old lady said. ‘Seats fourteen people. And we do love the red velvet bow. It’s very festive.’

  ‘In that case, let me pop it in a box for you.’ She glanced dubiously at the couple. ‘Unless you’d like me to bring it round in the van one day next week?’ It was Friday and she was not sure she had room for any more deliveries over the weekend, the book was already full. ‘When do you need it?’

  ‘Not until Christmas,’ the gentleman said, and took out his wallet to pay for it. ‘So if you could deliver it, that would be very useful.’

  ‘Of course, my pleasure.’ She looked at them thoughtfully. ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Tramontana, isn’t it? You bought some flowers for your grandson’s wedding a couple of summers back. We should still have your address on file.’

  The lady clapped her hands in delight. ‘What a memory!’

  ‘I never forget a face.’

  Rose checked their address and telephone details on the shop database, which she had spent the past twelve months painstakingly transferring from cards to computer, and then booked in a delivery slot for Wednesday morning.

  ‘I’m glad you intend to fight the acquisition, by the way,’ Mr Tramontana said, handing over his credit card. He looked serious, despite his smile. ‘It’s an outrage, what’s happening to small independent shops round here. I know you must feel like Canute, fighting the tide of progress …’

  ‘More like David and Goliath, only without any weapons at all.’

  ‘Well, you can rely on our support, at least.’

  His wife nodded vigorously. 'Yes, whatever it takes. I'm not as steady on my pins as I used to be. But I’m happy to hand out leaflets. Sometimes I still help out in the library on a Saturday morning. They'll take a few hundred leaflets if you have that many spare.'

  'That's very kind of you,' Rose said, smiling, though it made her cheeks ache to keep up the impression of optimism and good humour, 'but I couldn't possibly ask you to –'

  'Honestly, it's no trouble at all. We'd love to help,' Mrs Tramontana said, and nudged her husband in the ribs. 'Wouldn't we, darling?'

  Rose kept smiling until the elderly couple had left the shop, pulling the door closed behind them, the bell jangling a
gain. Then she turned to the journalist.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Thank you for waiting. I’m not sure how I can help you though. I’ve already said everything I wanted to say.’

  ‘So you can’t give me an exclusive?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ She put her hands on her hips and looked him in the eyes. ‘But I do want people to know about the injustice going on here at Christmas Parade. Big business pitted against small independents. And why do we need more elitist apartments that nobody but the super-rich can afford? What we need is more affordable housing … ’

  While she spoke, the journalist held out his phone, recording her little rant against the business Goliath that was Thimblerig Holdings. When she’d finished – well, stopped to draw breath, actually – he stuck the phone back in his pocket, gave her a quick nod and left the shop, mumbling, ‘Thanks,’ as he walked away.

  Once he’d gone, she took a deep breath, the air redolent with flower scents – the intense, almost cloying scent of roses and lilies; the spicy richness of their Christmas arrangements – and then turned the shop sign to Closed. She was already late to meet Paul at the pub and hated not being punctual.

  Rose was locking the door when a shadow darkened the glass, and she looked up in surprise to see a man outside the shop. In the gloom, she couldn’t make him out clearly, except that he was a tall man in a dark coat, with a scar across one cheek. A thin, cruel scar that looked as though he’d met the working end of a scimitar.

  'I'm sorry,' she said loudly, 'but we’re closed.’

  That would have sent most people away without comment. But not this man. He raised his eyebrows, and then glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. ‘Closed already?’ he mouthed through the glass.

  ‘Already?’

  She would have laughed, only it wasn't particularly funny. Hadn’t he noticed that evening had fallen over an hour ago, and the streetlights were on? People in London were so used to shops staying open twenty-four-seven that they found it hard to believe some shop owners had lives of their own and kept more traditional hours.

  'It's nearly six o'clock,’ she pointed out as politely as she could manage. ‘I’m afraid we usually close at five-thirty.’

  'Can't you make an exception?'

  Although she was surprised by his persistence, she continued to be calm and polite. A smile costs nothing, her dad always said, teaching her to keep smiling even with the most irritating of customers.

  'Sorry, I can’t tonight. I'm already running late.'

  'Not much of a businesswoman, are you?' He dragged a bulging wallet out of his coat pocket, opened it and dragged out several twenty-pound notes. The notes looked crisp and unused, as though he had withdrawn them from the bank only that afternoon. 'Does this change your mind?'

  She was annoyed by his dogged attitude, but the money was tempting. Business had not been good recently. Not since news had gone around that the block had been acquired by Thimblerig Holdings, and was due to be demolished and turned into luxury flats. That kind of news tended to put a damper on sales. Already people were walking past her shop doorway and looking in as though they expected to see her swinging from the gallows. It was not a comfortable sensation. And there was no denying that she needed all the money she could get, just in order to fight for her survival. The survival of her florists’ shop.

  The man came forward into the light, closer to the glass, and she saw him more clearly: he was the archetypal tall, dark and, in his case, extraordinarily handsome stranger. A shade over six foot, by her guess, with short, dark hair that looked freshly-cut, and eyes as deathly sharp as the razors that had cut it. Velvety-black razors, at that. They seemed to look straight into her heart, and beyond. At her display of chocolate hellebores, perhaps.

  He was totally and utterly gorgeous in physical terms.

  However, there was something about this man she did not quite trust. Something in those dark eyes. Or perhaps it was the scar across one cheekbone that gave him a rakish air.

  And was he laughing at her?

  Warily, she opened the door a crack, and studied him through it. 'What exactly is it you're looking for?'

  'I won't know until I see it.'

  That response unsettled her. He was a joker, winding her up. He had to be, otherwise why say something like that? Unless he had a hidden agenda.

  'Do you work for the papers?’ she asked suddenly, looking him up and down. ‘Are you a journalist?'

  'No, absolutely not.’

  Now the man was laughing at her, there was no doubt about it. And possibly lying too. She caught the twitch of his lips, and felt inexplicably angry. She suppressed her desire to snap at him though. They wanted journalists to be on their side. They had been talking to the national papers for weeks, and for the most part the media had been sympathetic and very useful in stirring people up.

  Something told her this man was not on her side.

  So what did he want?

  He looked past her into the shop, that intent gaze moving over her Christmas display. ‘Do you get a lot of journalists buying flowers here?'

  She narrowed her eyes at him, deeply suspicious now. 'Okay, this conversation is over,’ she told him flatly. ‘I suggest if you want to buy some flowers, you walk on a few blocks until you reach the tube station.' She pointed him in the right direction, though he almost certainly knew where it was. 'You can't miss it, and there are several flower sellers around there.'

  ‘Wait a minute …’

  She pushed the door shut in his face and tapped the Closed sign with her finger, banging it against the glass. 'We’re closed.'

  The man stood there for a few minutes, watching as she moved busily about the shop, turning off lights, checking the watering system was on for her plant displays, and starting to cash up. Then, quite abruptly, he gave up and disappeared into the darkness.

  Rose heaved a sigh of relief and went back to cashing up by the soft glow of her counter lamp. It did not take as long as it used to. Not because of her experience, but because the till was almost empty, and the credit card sales only took a few minutes to tot up with the help of her calculator. She entered the total figure into the accounting app on her phone, uneasily aware that she was taking roughly half what she would normally make at this time of year.

  Easter and Christmas were key sales periods for florists, and for her own shop in particular. Her grandad Percy Mistletoe had opened the shop back in the fifties, naming it after himself and specialising in Christmas displays. After he passed, her dad Henry ran the shop until a cycling accident five years ago had left him in a wheelchair, and then Rose had stepped in. She’d just finished university that summer, so it seemed logical to take over running the Mistletoe Flower Shop, where she’d worked part-time during all her weekends and school holidays since she’d been old enough to hold a watering can.

  ‘Bloody luxury flats!’

  She shook her head, trying to dispel the sense of gloom that had been plaguing her for weeks. There were still nearly three weeks to Christmas, after all. She might yet make enough to tide her through until the next big flower season in the spring. And she had taken an order for a local funeral next week. Bernie, a popular old chap with a large family. She was sad to profit by someone’s death, but there would almost certainly be further orders to come for wreaths and lilies. She preferred the weddings, of course. Such joyous occasions, full of hope – and extravagant floral arrangements. Or Happy Birthday and Thank You bouquets. But the festive season was her favourite, for obvious reasons.

  Rose and her dad had learnt early on that their little shop could not compete with the big florist chains. So they had focused instead on building good relationships with the local community, and on their shop’s speciality, Christmas.

  Still, festive orders were way down on the same period last year. If things did not pick up soon, she might be forced to accept the very generous offer Thimblerig Holdings had made for her shop. Because it was either that, or let the business st
ruggle on until it went under ignominiously.

  And that would break her dad’s heart.

  Her phone beeped just as she was dragging on her coat.

  It was a text from Paul.

  Where are you?

  Rose sighed, and texted back awkwardly with one thumb while wrapping her green woollen scarf twice about her throat.

  Had to work late. On my way.

  Then she set the alarm, stepped out into the cold evening, locked up the shop, and began to walk briskly. After she’d gone two streets from the shop though, another text appeared.

  Hurry up, FGS. It’s starting.

  She grinned.

  Keep your pants on. I’m 3 mins away.

  Sliding the phone back into her pocket, Rose paused to cross a road, pulling on her leather gloves, then increased her stride on the other side. Which was not much of an improvement, as at just under five foot, her stride had often been compared to a glorified bunny hop. Especially in heeled, fur-lined boots like the ones she was wearing, chosen more to ward off the bitter cold than for their practicality.

  She pressed the button on a pedestrian crossing, then waited for the light to turn green. It could get perishing in the shop, since by tradition the door was kept propped open to entice passers-by inside, and when the temperature plunged to minus zero, as had happened several times in the past week, she needed thermal leggings as well as fur-lined everything, Rose thought wryly. In fact, it had been so nippy today, if she could have found a pair of furry knickers, she would have worn them too.

  On the other side, she strode out again, gloved hands sunk in her pockets, her breath steaming out in little white puffs. So cold tonight!

  Gradually, she became aware of someone behind her.

  Someone in soft-soled shoes.

  Not close behind, but walking at roughly the same pace.

  She glanced in each shop window that she passed, trying to see who it was without making her suspicions obvious. But he or she was too far behind. It was probably perfectly innocent, she told herself. There were plenty of people about tonight, after all, walking home from work or the shops, or queuing at bus stops. Except that this person had been behind her since she left the shop, she was convinced of it. Also, their footsteps slowed down whenever she did, and sped up again when she hurried on.