The Oddest Little Mistletoe Shop

by Beth Good

  CHAPTER FIVE

  For a moment she felt winded by that suggestion, and could not get her brain to engage gear. All she could do, in fact, was repeat stupidly, ‘D-Dinner? Tomorrow night?’ Then, even more stupidly, ‘With you?’

  ‘That’s the general idea, yes.’

  The world rushed back in a blur of shock and fury and ridiculous excitement. She almost laughed at his nerve. Except she was trying too hard not to show how breathless that invitation had made her. He was only a man, she reminded herself, struggling with her biological imperative. A wealthy, influential tycoon with a lean body and looks that left most women drooling, yes, but a man like any other, nonetheless.

  Nothing special.

  God, who was she kidding?

  ‘No way.’ Then, before he could say anything else, she added, with a sudden burst of inspiration, ‘Unless I can bring my lawyer.’

  ‘The man from the other night?’

  ‘Paul, yes.’

  ‘Oh, come on, I thought you were joking about him being your lawyer.’

  ‘Why would I joke about that?’

  ‘Because you’re clearly banging the guy.’

  Her cheeks were instantly hot. And not least because she had been thinking secretive naughty thoughts along those exact lines while his deep, sexy voice burnt her earlobe. Only about him, not lovely Paul. Who deserved it far more than nasty Nick Grimsby!

  ‘How dare you?’ she demanded. ‘I am not.’

  ‘Are too,’ he drawled.

  ‘Am not!’

  ‘Whatever,’ Grimsby repeated, sounding almost bored by this childish exchange. ‘Though that’s not what it looked like to me the other night.’

  Her voice rose furiously. ‘I am not banging my lawyer!’

  Rose became aware of a sudden silence, and turned to see Shantelle frozen in conversation with Mr and Mrs Tramontana. She managed a twisted smile, mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ at the elderly couple, and then turned away again, huddled over the phone.

  ‘Now listen here,’ she began in an angry whisper, but Nick Grimsby interrupted her.

  ‘Sorry, why are you whispering?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I whisper?’ she demanded, still in a low hiss. ‘It’s a free country. There are no rules against whispering.’

  Goodness, this man was so annoying, she thought crossly. Shantelle had been right when she said he sounded like he thought he was God. Rose glared out of the shop window at passing traffic, and imagined his enormous head being crushed like a grapefruit under a passing London bus.

  If only she could crush his massive bloody ego like that.

  But how?

  ‘Well, for starters,’ he said in a reasonable tone, ‘whispering makes it very difficult for me to hear you.’

  ‘That’s just tough.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, that’s just tough.’

  ‘What’s enough?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake … ’ She ground her teeth, then said icily, no longer whispering. ‘What exactly is it you want, Mr Grimsby?’

  ‘I told you. Dinner. You and me. Say, tomorrow night?’ His voice deepened, ‘After all, there’s still some unfinished business to discuss.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what business you mean.’

  ‘I know you have serious reservations about the redevelopment of Christmas Parade. I want a chance to address those concerns. Maybe turn it around for you.’

  Corporate speak. How she hated it. And him.

  Slick-talking son-of-a …

  ‘Well, hang on, let me just check my social calendar. Oh, wait … No, I don’t think that will be possible.’

  ‘That’s a pity.’ He hesitated. ‘I was hoping you could advise me.’

  What the hell?

  She looked at the phone suspiciously, then lifted it back to her ear. All her alarm bells were ringing again, and it wasn’t a cheery noise.

  ‘Advise you? In what way?’

  ‘You have a unique perspective on the local area,’ he said smoothly. ‘You grew up there. You know the community better than most. I have lawyers and advisors coming out of my ears, but you … You know more about Christmas Parade and the people who live and work around there than any of them.’

  She could not deny the truth of that. She did know the locals, and felt instinctively that she knew what this area needed. And it wasn’t yet more unaffordable luxury flats!

  But she did not want to give this horrid man even a sliver of satisfaction by saying yes. Not when it was probably a trap of some kind. She knew what Paul would say. Hang up on the clever bastard. He was trying to fool her somehow into giving up her shop.

  ‘I’m … erm … too busy to talk right now,’ she said, and picked up a piece of silver tissue paper, rustling it noisily next to the phone. ‘Wrapping something for a customer. I’ll have to go.’

  ‘Rose,’ he said deeply, and something in his voice made her stop, keeping the phone against her ear. ‘Come to dinner with me. It’s important.’

  ‘Not without my lawyer.’

  ‘For God’s sake … ’ Then he cleared his throat, and said more crisply, ‘All right, bring the lawyer. If that’s what it takes.’

  ‘And my dad.’

  ‘Your … Sorry, are you insane? You want to bring your dad to this dinner?’

  ‘He owns half the business.’

  Another short silence. Then he sighed, and said more levelly, ‘Okay, you win. Dinner for four. Tomorrow night. I’ll send a limo for you at closing time.’

  A limousine?

  If he thought he could win her over with flash cars …

  ‘My dad will be at home tomorrow. I can ask Paul to meet us there, but my dad and I can take the bus, thank you,’ she said, and swivelled on one foot, reaching blindly for the notepad and pen on the counter, ‘if you could just give me the address.’

  ‘It’s a long journey by bus, frankly. Besides, you’ll be tired after work and want to change first, and that could delay things.’

  She looked down at her habitual jeans. ‘Is there a dress code?’

  ‘Smart casual should be fine. Look, my driver will take you home after work tomorrow, so you can change, and then drive you and your father to the restaurant.’ He paused. ‘How about that?’

  Rose blinked at his smooth way of manipulating people into doing his bidding. No wonder he was so obscenely successful as a businessman. But she was thinking hard too. It would be interesting to hear what Grimsby had to say, even if she had no intention of accepting even a higher offer on the property. She owed it to her dad to hear him out though. Besides, he might have changed his mind by tomorrow night. He was unlikely to want dinner with her once he discovered what she was planning, after all.

  But perhaps she could keep her plan under wraps until then. She knew her dad would enjoy meeting this ogre in person – and possibly giving him a piece of his mind.

  ‘My dad’s in a wheelchair. I hope there’ll be good access at this restaurant.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She considered it, chewing her lip. Then she said reluctantly, ‘Fine. So where is this place? And what time should I tell Paul to be there?’

  Grimsby gave her the address of the restaurant, and she wrote it down quickly. It was in Mayfair, and sounded like a posh, exclusive place where jeans would be a no-no. And the booze would be flowing. She was determined to have Paul meet them there, in case she and Dad ended up getting a bit tipsy and agreeing to some nonsensical offer on the shop. With her lawyer at the table, that kind of mishap was less likely to happen.

  Hitting the red button to disconnect the call, Rose turned to find Shantelle so close behind her, the two women bumped foreheads, both recoiling with a cry.

  ‘What the hell … ?’ Rose muttered, rubbing her forehead painfully.

  ‘Ouch, shit!’

  ‘Language!’

  Thankfully Mr and Mrs Tramontana had gone, she realised, her head aching as she turned to survey the empty shop.

  ‘Sorry, boss
.’ Shantelle made a face of excruciating pain, which was surely exaggerated, and added irritably, ‘But how was I to know you was going to turn round so damn quick? I was only trying to listen in, hear what that Grippley bloke had to say.’

  ‘Grimsby.’

  ‘Him too. Look, I thought maybe he was offering you more money. You know, for the shop? Or offering you something even better, eh? I heard that bit about dinner.’

  Her assistant winked, and nudged her arm so violently that Rose stumbled backwards, nearly knocking over a bucket of chrysanthemums, the water slopping onto the floor.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Shantelle, be careful.’ She bent carefully to right the bucket, then frowned up at Shantelle. ‘Wait, were you gossiping about me to a customer?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Shantelle said rather too quickly, and then bent her head, examining one of her long false nails. ‘Oh my God, I think it’s broke.’ She pointed it accusing at Rose, as though it were her fault. ‘That’s them alliums. Working the spray can for like an hour. Press. Press. Press.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And that was my fav sodding nail too.’

  ‘Language!’

  ‘Oh, whatever.’

  Shantelle stormed off into the back of the shop and left Rose staring after her in silent fury. That girl! Still, Shantelle was about seven months pregnant now, and had been suffering back pains recently. Not to mention having to face the daunting prospect of raising a child alone, on her wages as a florists’ assistant, with only her own mum’s help at home. Assuming she didn’t lose her job here if the shop had to close …

  Small surprise, perhaps, that she had been freaking out quite regularly in recent weeks.

  But before Rose could go into the back to console her, her mobile phone rang, and she grabbed it off the counter, recognising the name on the screen.

  ‘Paul,’ she began in a rush, ‘I hope you’re free tomorrow night, because –’

  ‘Where the hell are you, Rose?’ he interrupted her grimly, and not without reason, she thought, suddenly noticing the time on the wall clock. ‘The meeting at the library is about to start. Which is fantastic, given that you called it and nobody else knows why on earth we’re here!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next day, Rose opened up the Mistletoe Flower Shop with a smile on her face for the first time in weeks. The meeting at the library last night might have got off to a lurching start, but it had been a huge success as far as she was concerned. Even Paul had been brought round to her way of thinking in the end, despite his initial reluctance.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he kept saying, amid shouts from the rest of the gathered shop and property owners, ‘I’m worried it might get you into trouble.’

  Some owners agreed with him, and were highly vocal about it.

  ‘We’re happy with what Thimblerig Holdings have offered us,’ one man shouted out from the floor. ‘Why would we want to antagonise them?’

  ‘Because he might raise the offer?’ someone suggested helpfully.

  ‘Who cares about antagonising those big business tycoon types? These are our lives and properties we’re talking about,’ Mrs Patel said, thumping the table with her fist. They had formed a committee to deal with the acquisition early on in the process, and she was Secretary. ‘Let’s do it, I say.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘As your official legal advisor, I have to counsel you against such a move. Stick to formal channels of protest and avoid anything that might be illegal.’

  ‘How is it illegal?’ Rose demanded, and then stood up, raising her voice to be heard at the back of the room. ‘I know some of you are planning to sell up. And that’s your decision. But others would rather stay put, including myself. I’ve worked in my dad’s shop on Christmas Parade most of my adult life, and I’d like to carry on doing so if at all possible.’ She paused, seeing a few angry dissenters out there in the crowd. ‘As Chair of the Parade committee, it falls to me to propose a vote on this matter.’

  So they had voted, and to her amazement the motion had been carried.

  By one vote.

  Hers.

  As Chair, she had the deciding vote. Not always a comfortable thing, but last night it had been desperately useful.

  Yes, there had been some hate stares from those who were ecstatic with selling to Thimblerig Holdings, often for more than their properties were worth. But enough people, as Paul said later, were interested in seeing if they could push the offer price up by making life difficult for Nick Grimsby. That was why they had voted for her plan.

  Well, she didn’t care if their motives were less than pure. So long as it meant more people to join her hastily arranged protest.

  She had outlined what she expected from everyone participating, and then the meeting had broken up, the librarian waiting at the door to lock up after the last of them had left.

  ‘I just hope I don’t see you on the news afterwards, being dragged off to the cells,’ Paul said, only half joking as he dropped her off at home, their taxi waiting by the kerb.

  ‘Well, if I’m arrested, you can come and defend me. Or bail me out. Whatever it is lawyers do for their naughtier clients.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You can rely on me.’

  ‘Of course I can, Paul. Because you’re a really nice man, and you’ve been a great friend to me throughout this business.’

  Rose gave him a quick hug, something she hadn’t done since their school days, and saw Paul blink, then hug her back. Rather more tightly than she had expected.

  Gosh, could that horrible Grimsby man be right? Was Paul keen on her?

  Within minutes of having opened up the shop, Shantelle appeared in the doorway, puffing and panting, her face almost entirely obscured by a gigantic knitted scarf of many colours. ‘They!’

  That was ‘Hey!’ in scarf language, Rose extrapolated, waving hello in return as she disappeared into the back to put the kettle on.

  When she came back out, the kettle boiling cheerily behind her, Shantelle had already started readying the display buckets for being put outside. The poor girl looked frozen. She was stamping her booted feet like a horse, presumably to warm chilly toes. But she seemed happy to be at work, all the same. She dragged off her woollen hat, tossing it wildly onto the counter, and then unwound her massive scarf, her breath steaming out despite being indoors.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ she was muttering, ‘it’s so b-b-blooming cold!’

  It was quite chilly this morning, Rose thought, and hurriedly snapped the three-bar heater on behind the counter. The streets were icy, and it looked like snow outside, gloomy grey clouds massed above the capital. But they had to keep the door open at least until the outside displays were in place.

  ‘Lights,’ Shantelle moaned.

  Rose stared at her, then understood. She smiled. ‘Yes, let there be light!’

  Bending, she reached down to switch on the plug board below the counter. The Christmas lights that decorated the shop windows came on, a bright cascade of lights flashing on and off around the frames, red, gold and green, their warm glow inviting. Their centrepiece display, a three-foot rooted Christmas tree, looked particularly lovely first thing on this dark winter morning, fairy lights nestled amid gold tinsel in its fresh, pine-smelling branches.

  Shantelle gave a deep sigh, her lips curving in the most delightful smile as she gazed at the shop windows. ‘That’s crazy beautiful.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’

  ‘Christmas lights are the best. That’s what my mum says,’ Shantelle announced, snapping off a short sprig of mistletoe from the ceiling display, and tucking it behind her ear.

  ‘Christmas is the best, full stop.’

  ‘I love the music too … All those carols …’

  Shantelle looked round at her, a spirit of mischief in her face, and Rose laughed at that expression. Because she knew what it meant. Shantelle’s mother was a ballroom dance instructor, and her daughter had a habit of dancing whenever she was happy. She also loved dragging
other people into her arms if she possibly could, and forcing them to dance too. Even complete strangers had been yanked off the street once or twice for a waltz or the odd risqué tango, a long-stemmed rose between her teeth as Shantelle clasped some astonished old-age pensioner to her capacious bosom.

  Suddenly bursting into song with the first line of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ her assistant grabbed her hands and whirled her about, the tiny mistletoe sprig bouncing about, getting tangled up with her dreads.

  ‘Not now!’ Rose shrieked.

  But it was impossible to resist Shantelle’s energy. Round and round the shop they danced to the popular carol, hand in hand, getting more and more breathless. Rose nearly collided with the counter at one stage, and then the flower buckets, and finally dislodged an impressive pyramid of gold-sprayed pine cones that had taken half an hour to arrange.

  Shantelle broke off singing and swore under her breath – she’d been the one to painstakingly arrange the pine cones – and they came to a panting standstill, a dozen or so golden cones rolling about underfoot.

  ‘That was fun!’ Rose gasped. ‘Though we’d better get these pine cones picked up before a customer slips on them.’

  She turned sharply at the sound of someone clapping in the doorway.

  It was Nick Grimsby, damn him.

  His gloved hands clapped loudly, then he stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, studying them both with lazy eyes. Lazy and undoubtedly predatory, Rose thought warily, if it was possible to combine those two. Which, going by the behaviour of male lions, it definitely was.

  ‘There’s a place for you both on Strictly if you keep up the practice,’ he said, that amused drawl back in his voice.

  Rose met his eyes, and was consumed with embarrassment at the spectacle she and Shantelle must have presented, whirling about the place like a couple of lunatics.

  But she refused to be cowed. Not by a man who wanted to bulldoze her lovely little shop and turn the whole of Christmas Parade into top-notch city apartments for people with more money than sense.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said boldly, and dropped Shantelle’s hands. She had not yet put up her flyaway red hair, and could feel it flopping wildly all over her face. Oh well, damn it. She had no desire to impress a man like him anyway. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here again, Mr Grimsby. Especially so early in the day. It’s only just after nine.’ Hurriedly, she slipped behind her counter for safety, and risked patting her disobedient hair while her back was turned to him. ‘Don’t fat cat executives like you sleep late on a weekday, while your minions do all the grunt work?’