The Oddest Little Mistletoe Shop

by Beth Good

  Exactly as they would if someone was following her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rose dived round the next corner as quickly as possible. She ducked into the first darkened doorway she found, a sandwich bar she often frequented during the day but which was shut now. Flattening herself against the cold glass door, she listened to the footsteps slow, and then stop on the corner.

  An uncomfortable silence followed.

  It wasn’t hard to guess what was happening. Her pursuer had reached the corner, and was no doubt wondering where on earth she had gone.

  Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to hide rather than keep walking. She was only a short distance from the pub where she had agreed to meet Paul, yes. But she still had one main road to cross, and now she was trapped.

  A little shaky, she took out her phone and silently texted Paul again.

  Sheila’s Sandwich Bar. Being followed. Help!

  Almost immediately, the phone beeped loudly with a reply, and the screen lit up in the darkness.

  On my way.

  She grimaced, pushing the phone back inside her pocket. But it was too late. The damage was done.

  Her pursuer cleared his throat, and began to walk again.

  This time straight towards her hiding-place.

  Unable to contain her indignation a moment longer, she leapt out of hiding to confront the spy. ‘Why are you following me?’ she demanded hotly, and sucked in a breath when she saw who it was. The man who had come to the shop after closing time. The man with the scar. Annoyance clogged her throat, then she managed to say, ‘You again! I knew you were a journalist.’

  He had stopped in surprise when she jumped out at him, visibly retreating a step. Now his eyebrows rose. ‘I’m not a journalist, Miss Mistletoe.’

  ‘Ha!’ She jabbed a finger at him. ‘Then how do you know my name? Explain that, if you please.’

  ‘Everyone knows Rose Mistletoe round here.’

  His tone was a touch too languid for her liking, and what was worse, he showed no discomfort at having been found out.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘It’s not nonsense,’ he said mildly. ‘You’re quite famous. Didn’t you know that?’ When she merely glared, he sighed, and continued, ‘I saw a newspaper article about you the other day. There was a photo of you outside the Mistletoe Flower Shop, with your assistant. You run the place. Your father’s Henry Mistletoe, the owner. I don’t need to be a journalist to be able to glean all that from a newspaper report.’

  She folded her arms, still not quite satisfied. ‘And who exactly are you?’ He opened his mouth to reply, but a deafening beep was all she heard. ‘Sorry?’

  Then she realised the loud beep had come from a car, braking violently to avoid a man racing across the road towards them.

  It was Paul.

  The young driver beeped again, then flashed his lights before driving off at speed, his tyres screeching, followed by the other cars who had all been forced to stop.

  Paul reached them, leaping breathlessly onto the icy pavement and positioning himself between her and the stranger. For a heavy-set man, he was surprisingly agile, she thought, unable to suppress a flicker of admiration. But he was still crazy.

  ‘Good grief, Paul,’ she said crossly, ‘you nearly got yourself killed, you madman.’

  He did not seem to hear her. ‘Is this him? Is this the guy who’s been following you?’ he demanded, still trying to catch his breath as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the other man.

  She nodded.

  Paul swung to face the stranger, legs apart and fists up as though challenging the man to a boxing match. Right in the middle of a London street, passers-by staring at them with undisguised curiosity.

  Rose did not know whether to laugh, or intervene before Paul got himself in trouble with the police. As a lawyer, a public brawl could be damaging to his career.

  ‘Get lost, do you hear me?’ The contempt in his voice was unmistakable. ‘You pervert.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You heard me, you … you psycho!’

  The stranger had been smiling, as though vaguely amused by this intervention. But now his smile faded, and he slipped a hand inside his jacket.

  ‘Watch out, he might have a gun,’ a man said helpfully from an upper floor window, who had been watching this altercation with interest.

  Rose craned her neck to glare at him. ‘Mind your own business.’ He appeared to be naked, she realised, her eyes widening. ‘And put some clothes on!’

  ‘Just trying to be helpful.’ But the man pulled his head in, like a turtle retreating into his shell, and slammed the window shut.

  Paul took another aggressive step towards the man with the scar. ‘Come on, then, what have you got in your jacket?’ he demanded, fists still up.

  The man met her gaze ironically, then slowly, very slowly, withdrew a wallet.

  Rose let go of the breath she had been holding.

  Paul lowered his fists slightly. But he was not backing down, his voice sharp as he continued, ‘You can’t pay me off, you know. So don’t bother. I’m a lawyer.’

  ‘Remind me not to hire your services,’ the stranger drawled, then flipped open his wallet and withdrew not money, but a white business card. ‘I’m Nick Grimsby, CEO of Thimblerig Holdings.’

  Rose stared at him in shock, feeling as though someone had skewered her insides. ‘You … You’re Nick Grimsby?’

  He held out the card.

  Paul took it gingerly, examined it under the nearby street light, and then handed the card over his shoulder to Rose.

  ‘Looks real enough to me.’

  She could not believe it. She had been shown Nick Grimsby’s photograph several times over the past few months, and this man did not look much like him. For a start, Nick Grimsby had long hair swept up in a ponytail. And she did not remember that scar from the pictures she’d seen …

  ‘You don’t look anything like Nick Grimsby,’ she said coldly, dumping the card in her handbag without even looking at it.

  He made a face, putting a hand to the short dark hair at his temple. ‘I was growing my hair for charity. But the fund-raiser finished, so I got it cut. You don’t like it?’

  ‘That’s not the only difference.’

  His eyes narrowed on her face, suddenly intent. ‘The scar?’

  ‘The scar.’

  ‘Thanks for the gentle reminder.’ He touched his cheekbone, tracing a fingertip lightly across the ridge of roughened skin. ‘I only got this beauty about six months ago. You’ve probably seen one of my publicity shots. Taken four or five years back, as I recall. I’m afraid I didn’t see much point in updating my publicity package just so strangers could recognise me in the street.’ His hand fell away from his face, his mouth twisting with derision. ‘Not now I’m such a great looker.’

  Rose looked away, embarrassed by his obvious sarcasm.

  It had been rude of her to mention his scar. She knew that.

  But Nick Grimsby was well-known as an unpleasant character, so she had not expected him to take her comment so personally. Grim by name, grim by nature, that was the media take on the reclusive business tycoon. She’d seen a few memes on social media using that slogan. But he was also a notoriously private person, almost never snapped in public by the paparazzi, hence the lack of recent photos.

  But all that would change soon, she realised.

  ‘Well, if you are Nick Grimsby, I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to have visited my shop earlier. Some people might see that as intimidation. And why decide to follow me tonight?’

  ‘I wanted to give you a private message.’

  ‘Don’t you have lackeys to deliver your messages for you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Again, his mouth quirked. ‘But it’s my lackeys’ day off. So I was forced to come myself.’

  She did not find him amusing. ‘So what did you want to say that couldn’t be said in an email? Or via my lawyer?’

  His gaze f
licked to Paul. ‘You mean, this guy?’

  ‘Yes, I am Miss Mistletoe’s lawyer,’ Paul said with cold dislike, clearly taking offence at his tone. ‘But I’m also her friend.’

  ‘Oh, friends? Is that what you’re calling it?’ Nick Grimsby looked them both up and down. ‘Hardly professional of you, but we’ll let that pass.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rose was furious at the implication.

  ‘Pay no attention, he’s just trying to get a rise out of us.’ Paul took her aside though, turning his back quite deliberately on the businessman. His expression was grave. ‘Look, has Grimsby been bothering you?’ he asked in a low voice, bending his head to hers. ‘Did he touch you at all before I arrived? Because we could probably get him for assault if he did.’ His serious blue gaze met hers. ‘Do you want me to call the police?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, honestly,’ she said, though nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to see Nick Grimsby dragged away and thrown in the cells. She smiled up at him. ‘But thank you for rescuing me.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Shall we get on to the pub, then? We must have missed most of the quiz by now, but we could still grab a drink.’

  Rose took his arm. ‘Yes, why not?’

  She shot Nick Grimsby a fulminating glance as she and Paul headed back towards the pedestrian crossing.

  ‘Stop following me, Mr Grimsby,’ she told him tartly. ‘And please don’t come to my shop again. If you genuinely have something to say to me, you can do so through official channels.’

  Nick Grimsby said nothing, but watched them go with his hands in his pockets. He seemed almost nonchalant about the situation, Rose thought with some surprise, dragging her gaze away from that scarred face. She got the feeling he was not the kind of man to give up easily though.

  ‘What a strange man,’ she murmured as they crossed the road together. ‘I wonder what he wanted to say to me.’

  Paul’s face was grim. ‘I expect he wanted to raise the individual offer on your shop. You and Mrs Patel are the only ones left who’ve refused his buy-out. No doubt if that’s the case, I’ll hear from his lawyer soon enough.’ He hesitated. ‘Which could put you in a dangerous position.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Hard to predict the future,’ he said cryptically. ‘However, if you reject this new offer, don’t be surprised if someone puts a brick through your window in the next few days.’

  Rose was astonished. ‘Who would do something like that?’

  ‘I’m guessing, obviously. But I don’t like the way things are going. Once the other business owners in the block realise it’s only you and Mrs Patel standing between them and a very lucrative offer from Thimblerig Holdings, you may find they become less than friendly.’

  ‘But I know them all. I grew up here, for God’s sake, like you did. Played with most of their kids. Those people are my friends.’

  Paul squeezed her arm as they entered the bright, noisy warmth of the pub, smiling down at her. ‘I love how idealistic you are, Rose. You’re a light in a dark world. You always have been, ever since our school days. But you can be incredibly naïve at times too, and that could land you in trouble.’ He sighed. ‘I know how passionate you are about keeping the Mistletoe shop. But promise me you’ll be careful over this business, okay?’

  ‘I promise,’ she agreed.

  But she kept her fingers firmly crossed while she spoke. That meant it didn’t count as a real promise, didn’t it?

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Dad?’

  The house was dark as Rose closed the door quietly behind her, and tiptoed down the hall towards the kitchen. Time for a wee herbal tea before bedtime, she thought, thinking there might even be time to catch up on her favourite show on Netflix.

  Suddenly, she heard a groan from the living-room.

  ‘Dad?’

  Rushing in there, she snapped the light on, and was faced with her dad sitting bolt-upright in his wheelchair, dressed in blue flannel pyjamas and wearing a Santa hat.

  ‘Surprise!’ he shouted, rattling a metal tin marked DONATIONS. It sounded almost full. ‘Welcome home, my sweet Rose petal.’

  She clutched her chest and reeled back, breathing hard. ‘Good grief, Dad, you almost gave me a heart attack. What on earth are you doing, lurking about in the dark?’ As Rose recovered, she fixed her eyes suspiciously on the tin. ‘What’s that? Have you been out collecting again?’ When he nodded, she hesitated, leaning over him and sniffing the air. ‘And is that lager I can smell on your breath?’

  ‘Beer,’ he said with dignity. ‘Never touch lager, as well you know. Disgusting pigswill. Good only for twenty-year-olds with no sense of taste.’

  ‘You’ve been to the pub again, have you?’

  ‘I visited several establishments tonight, actually.’ He shook the collecting tin proudly. ‘And took donations in every one.’

  ‘Dad, I’ve asked you not to go out in the evenings, it’s not safe round here. When will you listen to me?’ Rose shook her head, shrugging out of her coat and throwing it down on the sofa. ‘It’s the Terrible Toggle, isn’t it? That woman’s a bad influence on you.’

  A shadow of irony struck her even as the words left her mouth, but she pushed it aside. It was one thing for Paul to warn her against trying to save the shop, and quite another for her disabled father to be mooching about the streets with their crazy, elderly neighbour, collecting money towards the fund for saving Christmas Parade, as their block of shops was popularly known.

  ‘Her name’s Mrs Toghear, as you know very well,’ he said with an attempt at dignity, and jerked forward in his chair, setting the collection box down on the coffee table. ‘And it’s beneath you to refer to her in such unfriendly terms. She’s a good-hearted lady, and she’s been very kind recently, helping us out with the cause.’

  ‘Yes, because she’s got her eyes on your pension,’ Rose said bluntly.

  ‘Rose!’

  ‘Sorry. Did you think it was your charming conversation she was after? Or maybe your stunning Santa Claus impersonation?’ Rose pulled off the festive hat, and bent to kiss him on the forehead. ‘I love you to bits, Dad, and I would never want to hurt your feelings. You know that, I hope. But when will you learn to be more careful with women?’

  ‘More briar Rose than sweet Rose tonight, is it?’

  ‘That’s hardly fair, especially when I’m just looking out for you.’ But she made a face. ‘I admit though, it’s not been the best day ever.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Rose shrugged. ‘I’m trying to put it behind me and … move on, or whatever it is they say in Self-Help books.’

  ‘Or kick the bastard in the goolies.’

  ‘Dad!’ She pretended to be shocked, because she knew that would amuse him. But really she had been thinking something vaguely similar herself. Except for the ‘goolies’ bit, perhaps.

  ‘Too rude?’

  ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’

  ‘Not sure about what? If it was rude, or if he has any goolies to kick?’

  Rose bit back a smile. ‘That’s the beer talking.’

  ‘So what?’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing like a spot of beer in the run-up to Christmas. Oils the parts that other men get kicked in.’

  She shook her head in mock disapproval. ‘How about a cup of tea instead? To bring you down from that cloud of hyperbole?’

  ‘Oh, big words now. Very posh.’ Her dad followed her swiftly into the kitchen, the downstairs of the house having been remodelled after his accident to allow for the easy passage of his wheelchair. ‘This guy must have really got under your skin.’

  Hardly.

  But she didn’t say anything, and thankfully he did not push it.

  The door to their former dining room, now his bedroom, was open, and as she passed it, she made a mental note to nip in later and tidy up. It was a sizeable room, with the addition of an en-suite toilet and wet room that had been built onto the back of the house, but he st
ill managed to get it in a mess, dropping books and magazines everywhere. Not that she begrudged him the freedom to make a mess. Before he’d been in a cramped bedroom upstairs, unable to leave his bed for days sometimes, simply because the stair lift was on the blink. The major renovations downstairs had only been completed six months before, but at least he was self-sufficient now, which had been his primary concern since learning he would have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

  ‘Ordinary or herbal tea?’ she asked.

  ‘Blackcurrant Sizzler, please.’

  ‘Feeling a bit tart?’

  ‘A corrective after the beer.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to risk caffeine. I need it.’

  She selected a sweet-smelling herbal tea bag from the glass jar, and a cheap-and-cheerful brand teabag for herself from the supermarket box.

  ‘So what happened tonight? It’s obvious that some undeserving man gave you hassle.’ He watched intently as she busied herself about the kitchen. ‘Come on, you can tell your old dad.’ He paused. ‘Did you break up with Paul?’

  ‘What?’ She looked round at him then, almost shocked. That was the second time today someone had made assumptions about her and Paul, and she was not sure she liked it. ‘I’m not going out with Paul. He’s my oldest friend, for goodness’ sake. We went to school together.’

  ‘And you’ve started spending quite a lot of time together too.’

  ‘Only because of the court case.’

  Her dad raised his eyebrows, his smile knowing. ‘Is that the only reason? He’s single, you’re single …’

  ‘Dad, there are millions of single men in London.’ She shook her head, and leant against the kitchen cupboards, folding her arms as she waited for their kettle to come grudgingly to the boil. ‘Does that mean I should put them all on my ‘potential marriage material’ list?’