The Little Flower Shop by the Sea
Page 1
Further praise for From Notting Hill With Love… Actually:
‘Perfectly plotted, gorgeously romantic, has some great gags and leaves you with that lovely gooey feeling you get at the end of a good Hollywood rom com’ Lucy-Anne Holmes, author of The (Im)Perfect Girlfriend
Ali McNamara attributes her over-active imagination to one thing – being an only child. Time spent dreaming up adventures when she was young has left her with a head constantly bursting with stories waiting to be told. When stories she wrote for fun on Ronan Keating’s website became so popular they were sold as a fundraising project for his cancer awareness charity, Ali realised that not only was writing something she enjoyed doing, but something others enjoyed reading too. Ali lives in Cambridgeshire with her family and two Labradors. When she isn’t writing, she likes to travel, read and people-watch, more often than not accompanied by a good cup of coffee. Her dogs and a love of exercise keep her sane!
To find out more about Ali visit her website at www.alimcnamara.co.uk or follow her on Twitter: @AliMcNamara
Also by Ali McNamara
From Notting Hill with Love… Actually
Breakfast at Darcy’s
From Notting Hill to New York… Actually
Step Back in Time
From Notting Hill with Four Weddings… Actually
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-5862-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Ali McNamara 2015
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
The Little Flower Shop by the Sea
Table of Contents
Further praise for From Notting Hill With Love… Actually:
About the Author
Also by Ali McNamara
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue: 1993
One: Daffodil – New Beginnings
Two: Camellia – My Destiny in Your Hands
Three: Snapdragon – Presumption
Four: Snowdrop – Hope
Five: Hazel – Reconciliation
Six: Lavender – Mistrust
Seven: Gerbera Daisy – Cheerfulness
Eight: Monkswood – Chivalry
Nine: Lady’s Slipper – Capricious Beauty
Ten: Flax – I Feel Your Kindness
Eleven: Lilac – First Emotions of Love
Twelve: Acacia – Secret Love
Thirteen: St John’s Wort – Superstition
Fourteen: Passionflower – Faith
Fifteen: Columbine – Desertion
Sixteen: Periwinkle – Tender Recollections
Seventeen: Thistle – Misanthropy
Eighteen: Peony – Anger
Nineteen: Pear Blossom – Comfort
Twenty: Freesia – Lasting Friendship
Twenty-one: Striped Carnation – I Cannot Be with You
Twenty-two: Trachelium – Neglected Beauty
Twenty-three: Apple – Temptation
Twenty-four: Nasturtium – Impetuous Love
Twenty-five: Sweet Pea – Delicate Pleasures
Twenty-six: Chamomile – Energy in Adversity
Twenty-seven: Lobelia – Malevolence
Twenty-eight: Verbascum – Take Courage
Twenty-nine: Chrysanthemum – Truth
Thirty: Orange – Generosity
Thirty-one: Stephanotis – Happiness in Marriage
Thirty-two: Goldenrod – Careful Encouragement
Thirty-three: Pink Carnation – I Will Never Forget You
Thirty-four: Heliotrope – Devoted Affection
Thirty-five: Sweet William – Gallantry
Thirty-six: Potentilla – Beloved Daughter
Thirty-seven: Dianthus – Make Haste
Thirty-eight: Marsh Marigold – Desire for Riches
Thirty-nine: Orchid – Refined Beauty
Forty: Michaelmas Daisy – Farewell
Forty-one: Rosemary – Remembrance
Forty-two: Weeping Willow – Melancholy
Forty-three: Lily of the Valley – Return to Happiness
Forty-four: Baby’s Breath – Everlasting Love
For Jake, my Basil.
Acknowledgements
This book has been one of the hardest to write, but in a strange way one of the most satisfying now it’s fully in bloom!
Watching this book grow has been a long process, but during that time I had much support and necessary watering from my wonderful family – Jim, Rosie and Tom, and the constant calming breeze of my fantastic agent, Hannah Ferguson.
I would like to thank everyone at my publisher, Little, Brown, who helps me grow my books, especially my editors: Rebecca Saunders who planted the initial seed of this one, and Maddie West who helped harvest the final buds!
And finally, my fabulous dogs Jake and Oscar, who never fail to make me smile when life doesn’t, and who cast the essential sunshine into my life to allow me to grow my stories for you, my lovely readers, to enjoy.
Prologue
1993
My brother and I run through the town, weaving our way through the holidaymakers as they bustle along Harbour Street. It’s a Saturday, and the town is packed with people; some eating ice creams and pasties, some choosing souvenirs from the many busy little shops, and some simply enjoying the fantastic sunny weather.
But Will and I don’t stop to browse in the shops or eat ice cream, though I do look longingly at a lady carrying a large, white, whippy ice cream with a chocolate flake. It’s a really hot day and I’d love an ice cream, even though we’ve just had our lunch. My grandmother says my tummy is an empty pit that she can never fill up, but I can’t help it, I’m always hungry, especially when we’re here at the seaside.
Today we don’t have time to stop for ice creams, however tasty they look. Because Will and I are on our way to see one of our favourite people.
As we run along together Will clutches a paper bag and I’m holding a posy of flowers my grandmother pressed into my hand moments before we left her flower shop and headed for the bakery.
‘Say hello to Stan for me,’ she’d said in the same way she always did. ‘Send him my love, won’t you.’
‘We will!’ we’d called before rushing out of the shop and up the street.
At last we escape the hustle and bustle of Harbour Street and run to the harbour, where people are crammed on benches soaking up the sun, trying to prevent the hovering seagulls from snatching their fish and chips, or their delicious cakes bought from the lovely bakers a few doors up from my grandmother’s shop.
Mmm, I think again as I see the cakes, I could just go a custard tart.
Finally we leave the holidaymakers and their tempting food smells behind, and begin climbing the narrow path up Pengarthen Hill.
‘Here you are, my lovely young friends,’ our old mate Stan says as we find him sitting high up on the hill, looking out over a glorious view of the town and harbour. ‘And you come bearing gifts – what might they be, I wonder?’
‘A pasty, of cour
se!’ Will says happily, handing him the bag.
‘And flowers from my grandma,’ I say, handing him the posy.
‘Ah, they always brighten up my little home so well,’ Stan says, smelling the flowers. ‘So what would you like to do today? A story, perhaps? Or straight up to the castle?’
‘Story!’ I cry, at the same time as Will says, ‘Castle.’
Stan smiles. ‘How about we do both? I’ll tell you a story as we walk up the hill to Trecarlan.’
Will and I grin with anticipation as we walk side by side with Stan, and he begins to tell us one of his strange and glamorous tales about his wonderful home.
It was so exciting back then. We had a friend who lived in a castle! I thought I was a fairy princess.
As I recall us all walking happily up the hill together, I wish I’d known then that those precious summers we spent in St Felix would be the happiest time of my life.
One
Daffodil – New Beginnings
This can’t be it, surely?
I stand in front of my grandmother’s old flower shop and gaze up at the sign. The Daisy Chain it states in curly yellow writing. But the paint is beginning to peel away from the edges, so in reality the sign reads he Daisy Chai, which makes it sound more like an oriental tearoom.
I look around me at the cobbled street where as a child I’d run up and down to fetch delicious cakes and pasties from the bakery, my grandmother’s daily paper from the newsagent, and where at the start of our holidays we’d spend ages choosing a shiny new bucket and spade from the beach supply shop at the end of the road.
Yes, this is definitely it; I can see the bakery a few doors up, but now it’s called The Blue Canary, not Mr Bumbles like it used to be back then. The newsagent is further up the hill that this street winds its way up, and there’s still a shop that looks like it might sell buckets and spades in the summer, but today, a wet Monday afternoon at the beginning of April, its doors are closed, and the lights are turned off.
I can’t blame them for shutting up shop early; it isn’t the best of days to be by the coast. A dank sea mist hovers over the town, making everything feel damp and lacklustre, and in the short time since I arrived in St Felix I haven’t seen many holidaymakers. Or come to think of it, many people, full stop.
It’s a strange phenomenon – the seaside wet weather effect. A resort can be packed with people out enjoying themselves in the sunshine one moment, then the next, as a changing tide brings dark showery clouds in with it, they will all suddenly disappear, back to whatever hotel, holiday cottage or caravan they are calling home that week.
When I used to stay here with my grandmother in the peak holiday seasons, I would sometimes pray for rain, just so I could wander the beaches and clifftops in total peace, away from any holidaymakers.
My eyes follow the cobbles up the winding street. Beyond the bakery, newsagent and beach shop, I can see a small supermarket, a charity shop, a chemist, and what looks like an art gallery – it’s right at the top of the street so it’s difficult to make out from here. But that’s it: a few small businesses in amongst an awful lot of empty shops with white paint covering their windows. Where have all the gift shops gone? They were always so popular when I used to come here. St Felix prided itself on the quality and variety of its souvenirs; none of that tacky seaside stuff like Kiss-Me-Quick hats, or T-shirts with rude slogans. St Felix had always been a haven for local artists and their work. What has happened?
My grandmother’s shop stands at the bottom of Harbour Street, at the point where the cobbles lead out on to the harbour. My first thought was that it looked a bit ramshackle, but having seen all the other derelict shops, I’m just glad it’s still here. Down in the harbour I can make out a few fishing boats, and a patch of pale yellow sand – the tide must be on its way out. Maybe it will take this miserable weather with it.
It’s been a long day already, with a tiring drive from my flat in north London to St Felix, the little town on the north Cornish coast where my grandmother’s shop was. My mother had hired a car for me, a brand-new black Range Rover, thinking it would help cushion the journey. But for all the car’s comfort and luxury, it hadn’t made the journey to somewhere I really didn’t want to go any easier.
My stomach grumbles as I stand looking forlornly at my slightly bedraggled reflection in the shop’s window. No wonder that guy at the service station I’d stopped at had given me a look when I’d pulled up in the Range Rover; with my long black hair dangling around my pale face, I look much younger than my thirty years. He probably thought I should be sitting in the back rather than the driver’s seat.
An elderly couple holding hands with two cute toddlers – twins, by the look of their matching outfits – pass by. The lady stops briefly to help one of the twins fasten her coat, and as she pulls the hood over the child’s face to shield her from the strong wind gusting today, she gives her a kiss on the cheek.
I feel my heart tug.
My grandmother used to do that to me when I was small…
I turn away from them and stare up at the shop again, feeling guilty – not for the first time today. Guilty about moaning so much about returning to St Felix, and guilty I hadn’t done so sooner.
You see my grandmother has just died.
Not passed on, moved to a better place, or any other term that people use to make the obvious sound easier to accept.
She’d simply died and left us – like everyone does eventually.
Afterwards everyone had cried. Not me, though. I never cry now.
Worn black – that part was easy, I liked that.
Went to her funeral and talked about how wonderful she was; eaten all the food they could stuff inside them at her wake – again, neither of these proved difficult for me.
Her family had been summoned to a will-reading with a solicitor who had travelled up from Cornwall to meet us at a posh London hotel.
We being myself, my mother and father, Aunt Petal, and my two annoying cousins, Violet and Marigold. Actually, after the awfulness that was the funeral, the will-reading was quite amusing to begin with. The look on Violet and Marigold’s faces when my name was read out as the sole beneficiary of my grandmother’s estate was hilarious – for a few seconds. But then as everyone recovered from their shock, and my mother with tears in her eyes hugged me and proclaimed that this would be the making of me, the reality of what my grandmother had done began to envelop me in a way that made me feel so claustrophobic it was all I could do to breathe.
‘I’m afraid you won’t get any flowers in there today, miss,’ a voice behind me says, making me return to the present with a start.
I turn to see a very tall young policeman with a mop of black curly hair protruding from underneath his hat, standing with his hands behind his back. He nods at the window of the shop. ‘There’s no one in there on a Monday – not any more.’
‘And there is the rest of the time?’ I ask, surprised to hear this. As far as I’m aware no one has been in the shop since my grandmother became too ill to look after herself just over a year ago, and was admitted to a specialist private hospital in London which her daughters had insisted paying for.
He shrugs, and I note, from the lack of rank insignia on his shoulders, that he’s a police constable.
It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, knowing how to spot the rank of the police officer you’re dealing with, but when you’ve had as many encounters with the police as I have… let’s just say it becomes second nature.
‘Yes, there’s someone in there five days a week. Well, sort of…’
I wait for him to continue.
‘You see, the florist that was there before sadly passed on. Lovely lady she was, apparently.’
‘Apparently?’
‘Yes, I never knew her. I’m new to this patch, only been here a few months.’