The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop

CHAPTER NINE

Sunday, 2 March

Anyone watching Patricia Robinson playing tennis would be full of admiration. Aged forty-five she was still a trim size ten, her hair tinted several shades of warm blonde, her youthful exuberance around the court keeping her opponents fully on the back foot. It was only after the game had finished and she was in the privacy of the changing rooms that her carefully honed veneer slipped. Stepping into the hot shower she allowed her face to display the discomfort she felt, rubbing away the ache in her left knee. But as her mother had always reminded her, appearance was everything. Like animals in the wild, it was imperative to hide any pain. It was the only way to avoid being eaten. Patricia’s mother had always favoured the dramatic. The sentiment, however, was clear enough. Never let your guard down.

Which was particularly testing when your joints had started to wear and your husband was a philandering charmer. But no one’s life was without challenges, and adversity only served to strengthen her resolve. After all, she had a daughter to protect. Amy’s happiness was far more important than her own.

On cue her mobile rang, allowing her just enough time to wrap herself in a towel. Lifting the phone to her ear, she forced a smile, checking her complexion in the harsh changing room mirrors. Time was definitely catching up with her.

‘Amy, love. How did you get on?’ Her daughter had been competing in a dance competition in London. It was the first time in eighteen years Patricia hadn’t been present at a key event in her daughter’s life. Amy had invited her boyfriend to go with her instead, and although the rejection stung, Patricia would never let on. Amy wasn’t being deliberately cruel. Far from it. She was just growing up, flying the nest, being the independent, talented, resourceful woman Patricia had raised her to be. Patricia could hardly complain, could she?

‘Mum, it was brilliant! I won both solo categories and placed second in the group section.’ The background noise was deafening.

Patricia battled with the conflicting emotions rising in within her. How she would’ve loved to see her daughter perform. ‘Darling, that’s amazing. Well done. I’m so proud. I’ll bet Miss Leigh is over the moon.’

Her daughter laughed. ‘You’d think! She’s accusing the judges of favouritism. The Jayne Middle dance team placed first. Miss Leigh’s furious.’

‘I can imagine.’ Her daughter’s dance teacher had never taken failure well. It was first or nothing. ‘Are you heading home now?’

‘Not yet. Ben’s taking me for a celebration dinner. There’s a Caribbean restaurant in Ealing he’s excited about.’

Patricia tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘Sounds wonderful.’ Her daughter finding love was yet another development Patricia was struggling to adjust to. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ben – he was a great kid, smart and funny. She just wished her daughter wasn’t quite so absorbed by the relationship. Amy was too young to be tied down. She should be seeing what the world had to offer. But then who was Patricia to talk? She’d been the same at that age, swept away by the attentions of a boy, married before she was twenty-one. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps her own experience was clouding her judgement.

‘Don’t be home too late, darling. You have school in the morning and exams looming.’

Her daughter’s giggle rippled down the phone. ‘Stop it, Ben! Sorry, Mum, I’ll call when we’re on the train. Got to go, it’s prize time. Bye!’

Patricia was left clutching the phone, her heart aching along with her knee. She wanted so much to see her daughter collecting her awards, but there was no way she’d ever let Amy know how she felt. She’d do what she always did and present a happy front, encouraging to the last, even if it killed her.

Regaining her composure, she set about fixing her face, applying blusher to warm her complexion, mascara to open her eyes and lip gloss to cheer her mouth. With a brush of her hair and quick whizz over with the travel straighteners, she was good to go. Appearance was everything, she repeated for the umpteenth time that day. It didn’t matter what was going on underneath. To the outside world you needed to appear perfectly content, in control, happily married and successful. No wonder she felt like a Stepford Wife.

Spraying herself with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, Patricia pulled on her skinny jeans and wrapped her shoulders in a soft camel cardigan, ready to join her tennis partner for a post-match drink.

As she left the changing rooms and headed across to the Bell Inn, she ignored the looks from the other women and their envious comments about her Pilates-toned physique. Don’t be fooled, she wanted to tell them, appearances can be deceptive. On the surface, Patricia appeared to have the perfect life, a beautiful home, a healthy, smart daughter, with regular holidays to the most luxurious places, but no amount of money could ever compensate for a faithless husband.

Patricia entered the pub and found Martin seated in the conservatory, checking his phone. The new owners had transformed the old-world pub into a pristine wine bar with modern artwork and quirky industrial lighting. Despite its monochrome theme the owners had managed to retain an intimate atmosphere, both welcoming and fashionable.

Martin waved her over. ‘The drinks are on order. Just give me two minutes to finish this and then I’m done.’ His frown deepened as he typed, shaking his head with obvious frustration. Finally he sat back, dropping his phone onto the table. ‘Sorry about that.’

Patricia studied his troubled expression. ‘Work problem?’ When he grimaced, Patricia raised her hand in apology. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘You didn’t.’

The barman appeared with the drinks, handing Martin his pint of beer. He placed Patricia’s white wine spritzer in front of her. Martin took a long swig and then caught sight of Patricia’s raised eyebrow. ‘We won. I’m celebrating.’

She smiled. ‘We win a lot. You normally celebrate with orange juice. Not that I’m judging. You can drink what you like.’

He shrugged. ‘I needed something to dull the pain.’

Patricia sipped her wine. ‘Are you injured?’

He pointed to his chest. ‘Different kind of pain.’ When his phone beeped he checked the incoming message and promptly switched the thing off.

Patricia noted how anguished he looked. ‘Everything okay?’

He let out a long breath. ‘Not really. But I don’t want to bore you.’

‘You wouldn’t be. Besides, I’m a good listener.’ In the ten months they’d been tennis buddies they’d grown quite close. Not in a romantic sense, or even in a deep and meaningful sense – more a light-hearted friendship that revolved around a shared hobby and chatting about things that didn’t matter, rather than things that did, like crime fiction and Radio 4. But still, Patricia liked to think they were able to help each other out if needed.

Martin looked conflicted, as though not sure whether to unload. He was a handsome man with deep honey-coloured hair and intelligent blue eyes. But of late the energy in his demeanour had started to wane, turning his natural feistiness into agitation.

He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I can’t seem to get it right at the moment.’

Patricia deliberated how much to pry. ‘Are we talking about your wife? Laura, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Whatever I do is wrong. It feels like when I’m there she doesn’t want me around. And yet when I give her space she gives me crap for not being home enough.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorry, you don’t need this. And I don’t mean to be disrespectful about my wife. I love her, but … things aren’t good at the moment.’

Patricia could see it pained him to criticise the person he loved. And things must be bad if he was talking about his home life, he normally avoided discussing his marriage. They both did.

‘Admitting there’s a problem isn’t being disrespectful. It’s being honest. Facing up to the fact that something’s not right is the first step to resolving it.’ She could almost feel her mother turning in her grave. Problems should not be aired, she’d said on numerous occasions, which hadn’t always been helpful advice. Advice Patricia hadn’t passed on to her own daughter. Amy had been encouraged to be open, unguarded and outspoken. Consequently her daughter didn’t suffer in silence as her mother did. ‘Have you tried talking to your wife about it?’

‘We can’t seem to hold a conversation these days without arguing.’ He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Communicating never used to be a problem. We wanted the same things. A day didn’t go by when we didn’t laugh at something daft, talk nonsense or just feel content to hang out. Now it’s like we can’t be in the same room without pissing each other off. I don’t know what happened.’

Patricia’s heart ached for him. She knew how a relationship could change. She’d only been nineteen when she’d met the suave and handsome David Robinson and been swept off her feet. He’d adored her, made her laugh, charmed her with his wit and intelligence. She couldn’t believe he wanted to marry her. By the time Amy came along she was the happiest woman alive, living the dream – until she’d discovered David was sleeping with his secretary. ‘There’s no easy way to ask this, Martin. But do you think there might be someone else?’

He shook his head. ‘Laura hates cheats. She’d never do that. It has to be something else.’

Patricia didn’t respond. It would hardly be helpful to put doubt in Martin’s mind as to his wife’s fidelity. He might be right. Laura might be completely faithful, but just because someone says they hate cheating doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t do it. She knew this more than most.

When Patricia had confronted David about his affair, he’d denied it. Hoping it was an isolated incident, she’d let it go, but over time it became obvious that his PA was one of many. As the years passed, his behaviour became less discreet: he stayed away more often, treating Patricia with disdain and annoyance when she questioned him. He’d always deny having an affair, accusing her of mistrusting him and being paranoid, so in the end she stopped asking, sweeping her doubt under the carpet just as her mother would have advised. She’d figured finding out the truth would only hurt more, so she ignored reality and put on a brave face.

Martin finished his beer. ‘Sorry, I’m not good company today.’ He stood up and pocketed his phone. ‘See you on Tuesday for practice.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Take it easy.’

‘You too.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘And Martin … don’t give up. A good marriage is worth fighting for.’

He tried for a smile. ‘I hope you’re right.’

She hoped so too.

CHAPTER TEN

Tuesday, 4 March

It took all of Scott’s control not to tear the Personal Independence Payment application into a thousand pieces. Instead, he took a deep breath and re-read the question about ‘descriptors’. Each mobility activity had a score depending on the claimant’s ability to carry out that activity. The list included preparing food, dressing and undressing, washing and bathing. And his particular favourite, planning and following journeys. His mother was in a wheelchair, for God’s sake, paralysed down one side. Of course she couldn’t bleeding navigate a journey.

He got up and fetched a beer from the fridge, hoping to calm his frustrations. Whatever his objections to the government’s claiming process, he was forced to persist, because they needed the money. However much he hated it.

Taking a swig from the bottle, he returned to the form and read his last entry. He’d managed to write not only his Ns backwards but his Bs too. Great. The form looked like it had been filled in by a five-year-old.

Picking up the eraser, he amended his mistakes, channelling his humiliation into frantic rubbing. In his work life he’d learnt to control his environment, avoiding writing anything down, preferring to take his time over reading and writing in private. He’d also discovered the benefits of using a computer and spellcheck. Unfortunately, this particular form wasn’t available electronically, so he was stuck filling it in manually.

He was distracted from his annoyance by the sound of Ben returning from his latest date with Amy. The kid had been quieter than normal all week, ever since his ‘big date’ last Monday, leading Scott to the conclusion that all had not gone well. But the bubble of activity radiating from the lounge indicated a change in his nephew’s mood. He went to investigate.

He found Ben kneeling in front of Billie, his face lit up like he’d won a Golden Globe. He jumped to his feet when Scott walked in, tossing his baseball cap in the air. ‘She said yes, Uncle Scott!’

Feeling like he’d missed the opening scenes of a film, Scott responded with, ‘Who did?’

‘Amy.’ Ben bounced over, seemingly oblivious to his uncle’s puzzlement. ‘I asked her last week, but she needed time to think it over. Tonight she finally said yes.’

A sense of dread settled in Scott’s stomach. ‘Said yes to what, exactly?’ He seriously hoped his intuition was wrong.

Ben danced about, all arms and legs, like a drunken Bambi. ‘We’re getting married!’

Oh, hell. Scott became aware of a buzzing sound in his brain, alarm bells ringing, sirens blaring, but he was struck motionless by the shock.

Ben’s enthusiasm hadn’t wavered. ‘Isn’t it great?’

Scott tried for a response, but his brain refused to process the information.

‘Uncle Scott? It’s great news, right?’ Ben’s expression remained elated as he searched Scott’s face, looking for affirmation of his big announcement.

But Scott was far from thrilled. This wasn’t good news. This was a catastrophe. He looked at Billie, hoping his mum shared his reaction. She gave nothing away. Her face was its usual relaxed state, even though there appeared to be tears in her eyes. Good tears or bad, he couldn’t tell.

Ben tried again to force a response from his mute uncle. ‘You’re pleased, aren’t you?’

Scott wasn’t sure what he was, but he was pretty certain ‘pleased’ didn’t describe it. His instinct was to grab the kid and shout that it was a ridiculous idea, but he knew reacting in such a way would only strengthen the kid’s defences. He opted for a more muted response. ‘Surprise would better describe it. I had no idea this was on the cards.’

‘I’ve wanted to marry Amy from the moment we met.’ Ben’s face glowed with adoration.

‘You met at primary school.’ Scott tried not to sound patronising.

Ben bristled. ‘That’s when I knew. It was love at first sight. She’s the only girl for me. The person I want to spend the rest of my life with. She feels the same way.’

Scott chose his next words carefully. ‘I’m sure she does, but how you feel now might not be how you feel in five or ten years’ time.’

Ben looked disappointed. ‘I thought you of all people would understand.’

Nice dig. ‘Why, because I got engaged at a young age?’

Ben didn’t respond.

Scott tried again. ‘That only serves to prove my point. I was smitten, just as you are, sure of what I wanted. But look how things turned out.’ He tried not to look at his mum. He suspected she knew why Nicole had ended things, but he hoped not. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, but he didn’t want to lay more guilt onto everything else she had to deal with.

Ben looked defiant. ‘That won’t happen to us.’

Just what he’d said when his mates had commented on his decision to get engaged at twenty-five. ‘How can you be so sure?’