Cordelia plugged in a hairdryer and began giving an ecstatic Marlon a blow-dry. Whatever next? ‘Can I assume this ill-fated kiss was with a certain neighbour of mine?’
Evie nodded. ‘The one and only.’ She finished the third display, glad she’d prepped beforehand. She wasn’t in the mood for a lengthy visit. Not with damp underwear clinging to her chilly bottom.
The sadness on Cordelia’s face, wrapped up in motherly love and concern, might have been her undoing, but Evie shook away the onset of melancholy. It wasn’t reasonable to be this upset over one lousy kiss … Okay, not lousy. Phenomenal. Mind-blowing. Irrelevant.
She was feeling blue because her business was in jeopardy. She was in danger of losing everything she’d worked for. Who wouldn’t be down in the dumps? ‘Honestly, it’s nothing. We barely liked each other. Fought more often than not. It was hardly going to develop into anything meaningful.’ She wrapped silver ribbon around the displays. ‘It was a blip. One kiss and then he was gone. Bolted. Ran out the door like Superman avoiding kryptonite. Like I said, no big deal.’
Cordelia smoothed down the hair on Marlon’s ears, making his eyes flutter shut. ‘When was this?’
‘Friday night.’ Evie tidied up the remnants of the foliage. ‘Don’t get me wrong. He’s a nice guy, I get that. He found Marlon when he ran off and I’m so grateful. But as far as getting romantically involved, it’s not going to happen.’
Cordelia switched off the hairdryer. ‘Maybe he had a reason for leaving so abruptly.’
‘Like realising what a huge mistake he was making?’ Evie wiped the tabletop. ‘Yep, he made that abundantly clear.’
‘Or because his mother died.’
‘Or because …’ The words died on Evie’s lips. Her brain took a while to catch up with her ears.
Cordelia walked over and placed a hand on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry, dear. Billie died in the early hours of Saturday morning.’
Something cold shivered over Evie’s skin. She felt sick. ‘Wh … why? I mean, how?’
‘Another stroke. I saw the nurse yesterday and she told me.’ Sensing a change in atmosphere, Marlon nudged Evie’s hand. Cordelia patted his head, approving of his support. ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.’
Evie was finding it difficult to swallow. ‘So that’s why he left?’
Cordelia nodded. ‘I would assume so.’
‘His … his phone rang. It sounded like bad news, but I just assumed …’
‘He was making excuses?’ Cordelia nodded. ‘A natural assumption. You’ve had your heart broken in the past, why wouldn’t you jump to conclusions? But on this occasion I suspect his reason for running out was quite genuine.’
Evie shut her eyes. ‘God, I’m so selfish.’
Cordelia squeezed her arm. ‘Hardly. You didn’t know.’
‘But I was quick to assume the worst. And after he’d been so kind to me.’ She felt a weight settle in her stomach. ‘What do I do?’
‘May I suggest you offer your condolences?’ She handed Evie one of the finished displays. ‘Flowers are always an appropriate gift in such circumstances, and these are so beautiful.’
‘But these are for you.’ Evie shook her head.
‘I have enough to keep me cheered. Someone else needs them more.’ Her face was resolute.
Evie took the flowers. ‘Calendula represents grief.’
‘Then it’s a most suitable offering. I have a card you can use.’ Cordelia busied herself rummaging through drawers while Evie finished packing up.
Twenty minutes later, having been forcibly given a cup of strong and sugary tea, Evie and a very bouffant Marlon left Cordelia’s place and headed down the hallway. Pausing outside Billie’s door, a wave of tears threatened to surface. Evie felt rotten. Guilt, grief, disappointment, you name it. She raised her hand, intending to knock, but couldn’t carry out the task. Marlon whined, as if he knew what was happening. He lifted his paw and scratched the door.
Evie gently moved him away. ‘No, Marlon. We’d better not intrude.’
Placing the bucket of flowers outside the door, she tucked the card inside. It simply read, ‘So sorry to hear about your mum. With love, Evie & Marlon.’
What more was there to say?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Thursday, 22 May
The premises of Brooker, Alexander & Sons felt more like someone’s home than a funeral parlour. The chairs were soft and comfy, and faced a modern wood burner. Pale lilac walls adorned with scenic paintings swam in and out of focus. Gentle classical music played in the background, adding to the atmosphere of serenity, which was at odds with the torture twisting inside him. If not for the shiny black hearse parked outside, Scott might be forgiven for thinking he was having tea with elderly grandparents rather than arranging his mother’s funeral.
Another wave of grief rolled over him. He’d read somewhere that dealing with death was like negotiating a violent storm in a rowing boat. It was a good analogy. He felt stranded, fighting against something stronger than he was, unpredictable and unrelenting.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself against another surge, exhausted from trying to stay afloat. There was no rescue boat on the horizon, no shelter from the squalling winds. All he could do was hold on and hope the ferocity would ease.
The owner of the funeral home reappeared, a middle-aged woman with short white hair and a consoling voice. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
Scott shook his head. ‘I’d rather wait for Josh.’
She seemed nice enough, but he wasn’t in the mood for kindness. He was barely holding it together. Sympathy would just send him over the edge.
If the woman was surprised by his preference for dealing with a teenage emo over the experienced proprietor, she didn’t show it. Instead she straightened a few magazines and left him to wait in peace. Peace? If only.
He didn’t mind waiting. He had no place else to be. Amy was helping Ben study for his exams. Oshma had moved on to another patient, and Lisa was still in India. He’d turned down work, unable to face normality, but with Billie gone his days were scarily empty. His routine and purpose had ceased. All he’d ever craved was a release from the burden of responsibility, and now that it had happened, he hated it. Ironic, really.
Josh arrived a while later, wearing a large blue TARDIS hoodie. ‘Sorry, mate. Crap traffic.’ Removing the hoodie, he threw it over the back of a chair and slipped on a formal jacket. He held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Scott shook his hand, taking a moment to regroup. ‘Thanks, mate.’
Josh was the embodiment of professionalism: his tone consoling, his expression sombre. ‘I’ll do my best to assist you through this difficult time. Anything you need, just let me know.’
Scott rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I need two things.’
Josh looked ready for the challenge. ‘Fire away.’
‘Firstly, I’m not good with paperwork.’ Scott didn’t want to explain further.
‘Not a problem.’ Josh nodded. ‘I can take care of that.’
‘And I don’t want sympathy. People being nice to me isn’t doing me any favours.’ He hoped he didn’t sound rude.
Josh didn’t appear offended. ‘Sure. Whatever you need, mate – er, I mean, sir.’ He flinched at his blunder.
Scott managed a smile. ‘Mate is better.’
Josh let out a breath. ‘Good to know. So, let’s focus on the practicalities and leave out sentiment. Follow me.’
Scott was shown through to another room. More comfy chairs and more soft music. A display cabinet held various urns, the sight of which caused another rip tide to surface. Scott gritted his teeth.
Josh gestured for him to sit down. ‘The next available funeral slot I can offer is the second of June.’
Scott checked his phone – though he didn’t need to, it wasn’t like he had any plans. Caring for Billie had prevented booking anything in advance, so there was no need to check dates, but he did so anyway, waitin
g for the latest swell of pain to subside. ‘That date is fine.’
Josh scribbled something on a pad. ‘We have a couple of weeks to organise things. Don’t feel you have to decide on everything today. Some people come in here knowing exactly what they want, others don’t. No pressure, okay?’
This was welcome news. Having never arranged a funeral, Scott was clueless.
‘I’ll run through a list of questions. If you have any thoughts let me know. This will give us a rough plan to work with.’ Josh picked up a large black folder. ‘In here is a solution for everything. If you don’t have any fixed ideas you can pick from a list of options. Whether it’s what to write in the eulogy—’
‘Eulogy?’ Panic sent another wave crashing into his boat.
Josh immediately backtracked. ‘Hey, it’s not a requirement. Some people like to say a few words. Others ask a family member or the vicar to say something. It doesn’t have to be a big thing. Seriously, mate. It’s no biggie.’ Josh flinched again. ‘I mean, it’s no big deal.’
The mere thought of writing something, let alone standing up and speaking, was enough to cause a full on capsize. No way could he do that. But what did that say about him if he didn’t? Billie was his mother. She deserved a eulogy. The boat began rocking. Panic gripped. He was sinking, drowning.
Josh’s voice surfaced through the noise in his head. ‘Have you registered the death?’
The fog cleared. The waves subsided. ‘Yes.’ At least that was something he had done. Scott handed Josh the certificate.
Josh noted something down. ‘Do you have any thoughts about the type of funeral?’
Scott frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
Josh pointed to a few examples in the folder. ‘We cater for all sorts, from simple to elaborate. Plain wood coffins to gold-gilded caskets, plush velvet interiors to biodegradable materials. And then there’s the service. Humanist or religious. Burial or cremation. The choice is yours.’
Scott flicked through the pages. It felt pointless. Irrelevant. None of it was what he wanted to be doing. But it was important to give his mum a proper send off. What would she have wanted? He had to focus. ‘Simple, I think. Mum wouldn’t want a big fuss. Religious definitely. She asked to be cremated.’
Josh nodded. ‘Good to know. Helpful.’
Scott shrugged. ‘I guess.’
Josh turned over a few more pages. ‘Any thoughts around music, poetry or readings?’
Scott tried to think. It was like he was taking part in a quiz based on how much he knew about his mum. The weight of responsibility dragged his boat further out to sea. How good a son was he really? ‘Her favourite song was ‘Little Things Mean a Lot’, Kitty someone.’
Josh wrote down the details. ‘I’ll look it up. Anything else?’
Nothing. Did he even know his mum? ‘Can I think about it?’
‘Sure. No rush. Just give me a couple of ideas then I can put together a draft Order of Service.’ Josh showed him the designs. ‘This one?’
It was plain and simple, edged with irises, like the flowers Evie had left for him on Tuesday. His heart tightened at the thought of the florist. He pushed the thoughts away. Later. ‘That’d be good. Cheers.’
Josh closed the book. ‘Have you thought about a reception after the funeral?’
Scott nodded. ‘They have a function room at Peacock Court. The manager offered to arrange something. I think they have quite a lot of funerals there.’ Sad, really. But only to be expected with sheltered housing. Still, he was grateful. One less wave for his boat to navigate.
‘Okay, how about we book another meeting next week. You let me know any thoughts you have and I’ll come up with a suggested schedule. We can discuss costs once we have an outline.’ Josh must have seen Scott flinch, because he tactfully added, ‘We have various payment options. Nothing needs to be paid up front.’
Thank fuck for that.
‘I assume you’ll be arranging flowers through Evie?’
It was a natural assumption. Logical too. Why wouldn’t he use Evie? He’d be daft not to. Having run out on her the least he could do was organise flowers from her shop. ‘I’ll head over there when I leave here.’
‘I’m sure she’ll do something amazing to honour your mum.’
Scott felt his stomach clench. ‘No sentiment, remember?’
Josh grimaced. ‘My bad. I’m still learning my craft.’
Guilt kicked him in the shins. The kid was trying his best. ‘It’s not your fault. You’re good at this. You’ll be running this place someday.’
Josh beamed. ‘That’s the plan.’ Couldn’t fault the kid’s ambition.
Needing to call it a day, Scott stood up, suddenly weary.
Taking his lead, Josh showed him to the door. ‘One last question. Will you want to visit Billie before the funeral?’
Another surge. Shit.
Scott shook his head. He couldn’t deal with that question, not today. He had no idea whether he was being a coward or justifying it with wanting to remember his mum as she was. Whatever the reason, there was no way his little fishing boat could cope with the tidal wave of seeing his mum lying in a coffin. ‘Ben might. I’ll ask him. And my sister, assuming she makes it over for the funeral. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Sure. No rush.’ Across the road Saffy was getting off the bus, walking towards the florist’s. For all Josh’s professionalism, his eyes followed her, his expression dreamy.
‘How’s it going with Saffy?’ It was a relief to talk about something other than death.
Josh shrugged. ‘A work in progress. She’s still resisting. I’m not done trying to win her over. She pretends to hate me, but it’s a fine line between love and hate.’
Scott patted Josh’s shoulder. ‘I like your optimism.’
‘A man’s got to try, right?’ Josh smiled, his focus back on Scott.
He certainly did. ‘Thanks for your help, Josh. I appreciate it.’
With a shake of the hand Josh went back inside, leaving Scott to head over to The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop, not quite sure how his boat was going to weather the next encounter.
After the pain of Nicole leaving and his decision to steer clear of relationships, Scott had successfully stuck to his plan, until he’d met Evie Armstrong. All his concerns over juggling multiple responsibilities had faded with the onset of attraction. He’d reasoned that as Evie knew Billie she’d understand why his life was complicated, and then he’d ended up kissing her last Friday night. In that brief moment of lust his stresses had vanished, the sheer physical pleasure of being intimate allowing his mind to stop thinking and just feel. The price for such a lapse? Monumental. He hadn’t been there when his family had needed him.
The shop was empty of customers. Saffy must be out back with Marlon. Only Evie was visible, on the floor tying up bunches of something long and green. On hearing the bell, she stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. The sight of him caused her movement to falter, but only momentarily. ‘Hi,’ she said, coming over to where he was standing.
Shoving his hands inside his jeans pockets, he pushed down the rising sense of loss threatening to undermine his composure. ‘I need to arrange flowers for Mum’s funeral.’ There. He’d said it. The words had come out. Flat, lifeless, sullen, but without cracking.
She hesitated before responding, seemingly disappointed. He didn’t know why and he wasn’t about to ask. He couldn’t offer her anything at the moment. She was better off keeping her distance. ‘Come over to the counter.’
Seeing her in the flesh was harder than he’d feared. He’d hoped to find comfort in her lovely face, that their growing friendship might stabilise the gathering storm. If anything, seeing the smudge of dirt on her cheek, the strawberries on her feet, made holding it together all the more challenging. But he had to say something. He was making her uncomfortable with his silence. ‘Thank you for the flowers.’ Polite. Appropriate. Pathetic.
She nodded. When nothing more was forthcoming, she cleared her
throat. ‘I’m glad you liked them. I was very sorry to hear Billie had died. Please accept my condolences.’
Another wave battered against his resolve. Sometimes it was like reality hadn’t truly sunk in. His fists balled inside his pockets as he fought to keep control.
‘How is Ben holding up?’ Her words were kind, but he felt no connection any more. The barrier was back up, all intimacy gone. They’d returned to being acquaintances. Worse. They weren’t even close enough to argue.
‘Better than he was, thanks.’ Which was true. Two days of relentless crying, followed by yelling and more crying, had purged Ben of the initial shock of losing his grandmother. Plus he had Amy. She was taking good care of him. ‘How are you?’ he managed, trying for politeness.
She looked puzzled. ‘I’m fine.’ She didn’t sound it. ‘Will you be ordering a standard arrangement from the catalogue or a bespoke wreath?’
The switch to more practical matters should have been welcome. He was here to order flowers. Nothing more. ‘Can you do something with lilies?’
Her expression softened. ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps a large spray using white longiflorums.’ She fetched a sample for him to look at. ‘These are beautiful. I’ll remove the pollen so they don’t stain.’
He looked at the flowers. She was right, they were beautiful. ‘Ben wants the word “Nan” made into an arrangement. Can you do that?’
She nodded. ‘Not a problem. Are you using Brooker, Alexander?’
He nodded, his jaw stiff from clenching his teeth. ‘I had an appointment with Josh this afternoon. He was very helpful.’
She looked away. ‘I imagine he would be. I’ll liaise directly with Josh and ensure the wreaths are ready for the day. What date?’
‘Second of June.’ He was already dreading it.
She offered him a selection of cards. ‘Would you care to write a message?’
Pain jabbed at his temples, his literacy inadequacies surging like a thunderbolt. He shut his eyes, fighting the onslaught. He couldn’t cry, not here, not now. Hold it together, his head screamed.
Rescue came in the form of Evie’s next words. ‘I could always write the card for you. Or you could take it away and drop it in another day.’
The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop Page 23