Forget Me Knot (13 page)

“God,” Abby muttered. “Just what is his problem?”

Martin shrugged. “Dunno. He never talked much about
his past, but I do know his dad was a violent drunk, which would explain a lot.”

By now Martin seemed close to tears—about Debbie Harry rather than Christian’s miserable childhood. He wiped his eyes and turned to Abby. “God, Abby, I am so sorry about the ruckus when you came in, but you know how much I love that dog. I adore her. It’s breaking my heart not seeing her. And you saw how she looked at me with all that longing in her eyes.”

Abby said she did understand and she wasn’t without feeling. Nevertheless, she was adamant that today’s fiasco should never be repeated.

“If Christian comes into the shop and starts taunting you, you leave him to me. If I’m not here, you simply ignore him or go upstairs to the flat. Are we agreed?”

Martin nodded. “You know, if I don’t get shared custody of Debbie, I swear I’m going to dognap her and face the consequences.”

“You mustn’t do that. Christian will only retaliate, and the whole thing will escalate and get totally out of hand. There has to be another way.” They didn’t have time to discuss what that way might be, because just then not one but three customers came in. One wanted to place an order. The others required hand-tied bouquets. Abby dealt with the order and one of the bouquets. When she had finished, she told Martin, who was still in the back room putting the finishing touches to the second bouquet, that she was popping out for a few minutes. “I’ll be back well before the location finder and the film director get here,” she said.

Abby still hadn’t bought Aunty Gwen’s birthday present. One of her mother’s suggestions had been to get her a sweater, so the easiest thing—although perhaps not the
most imaginative—was to go across the road to Swan & Marshall.

Swan & Marshall—founded in 1887, as their carrier bags proclaimed in proud gold lettering—had until recently been the nation’s favorite chain store. S&M was as British as bad teeth, cream teas and rain during Wimbledon fortnight. Until two or three years ago, practically the entire population shopped there for its socks and knickers. Some people were so into S&M that they rarely shopped anywhere else. There was little need, since the store sold everything from dishwasher tablets to duck à l’orange ready-made meals, from lacy lingerie to lounge furniture.

Then things started to go wrong. The stores started to look dowdy. The old-fashioned fluorescent lighting was too harsh. The beige rubber floor tiles looked positively Soviet. The clothes were drab and lacking in style and sartorial oomph. Abby had lost count of the number of times she had walked into the store looking for a new top or a skirt, only to be greeted by a rail of long fawn cardigans or gray car coats.

S&M had lost its edge—big time. Not only were they failing to attract young, trendy customers but, in the big cities, sophisticated, fashion-savvy customers of all ages were deserting the store in droves.

Naturally the newspapers had picked up on what was happening. Tabloid headlines screamed: “Nation’s Knicker Shop Knackered.” The broadsheet banners were more sober but no less doom-laden: “S&M Share Price Slump,” “People’s Store Reports Another Year of Record Losses.”

Both the tabloids and the broadsheets accused the S&M board of arrogance and complacency. It was clear that the store bosses had always believed the nation’s loyalty to be so
great that there was no need to put so much as an iota of effort into retaining it.

Then, no sooner had the new millennium gotten under way than Gap awoke from its sartorial snooze and upped its act. Exciting middle-market stores like Zara and Mango appeared. Supermarkets started selling affordable fashion that actually looked OK. The country was inundated with cut-price outlets.

People had deserted S&M, but almost nobody took any pleasure in it. Women in particular mourned its decline. They would sigh and remember wistfully how their mothers had taken them there to buy long white school socks or their first bra.

These days, Abby rarely bought clothes at S&M. She did, however, pop in from time to time to buy a sandwich or one of their ready-made meals, which were still excellent. It was always depressing to see how dowdy the store had become. The pain got worse when it came to paying for her sandwich or whatever and the assistant asked if she had a loyalty card. She didn’t. She had no reason to feel guilty for this, but she did. It was as much as she could do not to crumble and say: “No, I don’t have a card anymore. I’m sorry, but I needed to get away, and, yes, your suspicions are correct, I have been seeing other stores.”

Everybody—not just women—had thoughts about how the company could get itself back on its feet. It was public knowledge that every day the chairman of S&M received literally hundreds of letters from concerned, well-meaning people offering advice.

Abby had never actually written a letter to the chairman, but she was in no doubt what she would do to get S&M back on track.

For a start, she would put more women in senior positions. For some reason S&M was run by middle-aged, middle-class men from Middle England, whose style and fashion sense were way off the money.

Then they needed to look at their tailoring. Their clothes were badly cut. People understood that mass-produced suits weren’t going to fit like designer ones, but everybody agreed that S&M’s tailoring was bad and getting worse. Then there was the color problem. S&M’s palette was always just a fraction off. Their colors were almost, but never quite, the shades that were actually in fashion. Some how S&M’s colors always managed to look mass-produced and cheap.

Clotheswise, the company’s attempts to cater to the younger market were pretty feeble. It was pretty obvious that their designers, having gone to all the major fashion shows and out onto the streets to see what was hot among twenty-and thirty-somethings, had gotten back to company HQ and decided to enhance the latest fashions with their own unique twist—the embroidered motif.

A couple of times recently, Abby had dared herself to go into a branch of S&M in the hope that the company had upped its act. To her utter surprise and delight, she would pick up what she thought were the perfect pair of black or gray trousers. She would be on the point of rushing up to embrace one of the shop assistants and tell said assistant that, for her part, at least, all was forgiven, when she would turn the trousers over only to discover a pink embroidered rose on a back pocket.

Despite the company’s attempts to attract a younger clientele, S&M’s target customers were undoubtedly middle-aged men and women from the counties. Abby suspected
that fear of alienating these core customers—who she suspected weren’t deserting the store in anything like the same numbers as the more-sophisticated city types—was the main reason the bosses at S&M had made no real attempt to update their image.

Abby’s mum and Aunty Gwen were perfect examples of the type of customers S&M was desperate to hang on to: conservative, middle-class housewives in their early sixties who had lost confidence in their fashion sense the moment they hit menopause. Poor old Aunty Gwen had also put on weight. Abby could just about remember her as young and slim, with a hand-span waist. These days she looked like a pretty woman whose body had been poured into one belonging to a 1950s district nurse.

Every autumn, Jean, Aunty Gwen and their ilk went to S&M, moved in on the gray lamb’s wool cardigans, the tweed A-line skirts and the “practical” navy slacks. They were practical because they contained so much man-made fiber that, after an hour on the fast colored cycle, they would emerge from the washing machine barely wet.

Just before Christmas, Jean would pop into S&M and treat herself to something “seasonal” to wear on Christmas Day. This was usually a loose-fitting scarlet sweater, which she chose because it was comfortable and she “just loved” the “cheery” snowflakes and holly motif on the shoulder.

As Abby looked round the store today, she felt the same sense of frustration and gloom she usually felt. Judging by the clearance-sale array of lackluster attire, it was clear that the bigwigs at S&M were either incapable or for some reason unwilling to put in the effort required to get the company back on track. Their latest move to attract custom was to slash prices. For months now, everything in S&M had
been on sale. The huge, blazing 40-percent-off signs only served to make the place look cheap and uninviting. It was clear that, rather than take advice from fashion experts and interior designers, the S&M board preferred to bury its head and surround itself with money men—not one of whom had a creative or imaginative bone in his body.

Then a rail of cashmere cardigans and twin sets caught Abby’s eye. One thing that could be said for S&M was that it had always stocked cashmere at an affordable price. And now it was even cheaper. She picked up a twin set in a shade that was heading toward, but not quite making it to, baby blue. Not that it mattered. She knew that Aunty Gwen, bless her, didn’t have much of an eye for color and that she would love it.

Realizing she hadn’t had lunch—or breakfast, come to that—and feeling a bit light-headed, Abby added a tomato-and-mozzarella wrap and a strawberry yogurt smoothie to her basket and headed for the checkout.

As she walked back into Fabulous Flowers a few minutes later, she noticed that Martin was serving a young woman. Since there were no other customers waiting, she thought she might nip into the back room and quickly eat her sandwich before the location finder and director arrived. Her mouth was already filling with anticipatory juices when Martin looked up and saw her.

“Here’s Abby now,” Martin said to the customer. “Abby, this is Katie Shaw—you know, the film-location finder.”

“Oh, right, yes, of course,” Abby said, slightly thrown because she wasn’t expecting Katie and the director for at least another half hour. She extended her hand.

“Awfully sorry to be early,” Katie said as they shook
hands. Her accent could have cut crystal. “I know turning up early is awfully bad form, but our last appointment canceled on us.”

“No problem.” Abby smiled. She was busy taking in Katie’s untidy, chin-length thatch of overprocessed hair and scruffy cashmere coat covered in dog hair.

“Are you absolutely sure? Because we really wouldn’t mind going across the street for a coffee and coming back later.”

“I’m completely sure. Really.”

“Brill.”

Abby had been in Katie’s company for less than a minute, but she already had her down as one of those terribly nice, upper-class country girls who had been raised to believe that concern for one’s appearance was distinctly bad form and was working merely to fill in time before marrying a chinless merchant banker called Charles or Henry and moving back to Wiltshire to breed and do good works.

“D.J.—he’s the director,” Katie continued, “shouldn’t be long. He’s just parking the car.” As Katie spoke, Abby detected a faint whiff of tobacco breath.

“There’s really no hurry,” Abby said. “Look, why don’t you take the weight off your feet.” Abby reached for a stool and slid it toward Katie.

“You know,” Katie said as she sat down, “this shop is so totally spot on for D.J.’s film. The location couldn’t be more perfect and it’s just the right size. D.J. doesn’t want anything too big.”

While the three of them chatted and waited for the elusive D.J., Abby asked Martin if he would mind nipping upstairs with her shopping and putting the tomato-and-mozzarella
wrap in the fridge. He had just disappeared when the shop door opened.

“Ah, here he is,” Katie said. “Finally, the man himself. Abby I’d like you to meet…”

Abby turned toward the door.

“Omigod—Dan!”

“
ABBY! I DON’T BELIEVE
it. This is incredible.” Dan, who had clearly not picked up on Abby’s less-than-welcoming “omigod,” was now standing beside her at the counter, smiling and shaking his head in astonishment.

“I know. I mean, wow … amazing or what?” Abby prayed she sounded sufficiently effusive and that she wasn’t betraying the shock and embarrassment she was feeling. London had a population of six million people. Until last night she had never met Dan. Then she got trapped in an elevator with him, had a panic attack, got legless and revealed a list of cringe-inducing intimate details about her sex life. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, here she was, face to face with him again. If God was playing a practical joke, He was the only one laughing.

“So you own Fabulous Flowers?”

Abby barely had a chance to nod in the affirmative before Katie broke in.

“Hang on, you two know each other?” she said, her eyes wide with surprise.

“Yes,” Abby said, her face still on full beam. “We met last night. We got stuck in an elevator together.”

Katie looked at Dan. “Good Lord. This is the woman from the elevator? The one you told me about? Wow! Spooky or what.” She started making
whoo-ooo
noises.

Just then a thought seemed to hit Dan. “Hang on, I’m confused,” he said to Katie. “I thought you said the shop was owned by a woman named Gabrielle.”

“God, Deej,” Katie said with a theatrical sigh, “you are so dyslexic with names. I told you it was
Abigail
. Abigail Crompton.”