Forget Me Knot (5 page)

THE HEAVY STEEL DOORS
glided across the elevator entrance and met silently in the middle. She was locked in. Forcibly separated from the noise and bustle of the station platforms and, in effect, the outside world, she felt trapped and utterly powerless. Somehow she resisted the instinct to pound on the doors with her fists and scream to be let out.

Her heart racing, she closed her eyes and waited for the elevator to start moving. She tried to reassure herself that in a few seconds it would all be over. She imagined herself stepping out into the fresh air, exhilarated at having faced her fear. She began counting the seconds. One, a hundred, two, a hundred, three, a hundred… Come on. Move. After about six seconds, the elevator was still stationary. By now her heart was beating so hard and fast it felt like it was about to burst out of her rib cage. She needed air. She took several long, deep breaths and felt her head start to spin. In an effort to steady herself, she opened her eyes and placed the flat of her hand on the elevator wall. Her traveling companion was standing to her left, a couple of feet away. He
had white iPod buds in his ears. His head was jigging vaguely to music, which was reaching Abby as faint, tinny headphone leakage.

A few more seconds passed. The guy glanced at his watch and tutted. Abby caught his eye and smiled.

“I hope there isn’t a problem with the elevator,” she said, a broad smile disguising her terror.

He offered her an apologetic look to indicate he hadn’t heard her and removed his earphones. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“I was just wondering why the elevator wasn’t moving.”

“It’s been a bit slow last few times I’ve used it. It’ll get going in a tick.” He put his earphones back in his ears.

How long was a tick? she wondered. A few seconds? More? Was it longer than a jiffy? Shorter than two shakes or half a mo? Come to that, how long was half a mo? Clearly it was 50 percent shorter than the full mo, but unless one knew how long the full mo was, it was impossible to calculate the value of half.

As her interest in ticks, shakes and half mos waned, she became aware that another diversion was required to take her mind off her panic.

She found herself focusing on the elevator walls. There were three smallish posters advertising West End shows.
Les Mis
and
Chicago
, she’d seen. She hadn’t seen
The Producers
. Soph had taken her parents to see it for their wedding anniversary when the show first came to London. Abby remembered how they hadn’t stopped raving about how wonderful it was. That had to have been four or five years ago. It seemed the show was back in town for a second run.

Having finished studying the theater posters, Abby began scrutinizing the rubber-tiled floor. It was relatively
clean, she decided, but badly scuffed. Some candy wrappers had gathered in one of the corners. A few inches from her right foot, there was a dirt-encrusted pink bubble-gum pan-cake. She wondered how often the elevator got cleaned. Once a day, she decided—probably early in the morning, before the tube started running.

When she realized she had extracted all the information she could from the floor, she turned her attention to her traveling companion. It was hard to do this without giving the impression that she was staring, but she managed by keeping her head still and giving him the occasional furtive glance out of the corner of her eye.

He was tall—six foot, give or take—and about her own age. His hair was a dark roast-chestnut brown. He wore it short and spiky, with long, well-tended sideburns. His strong jawline was covered in light stubble, which suited him, she thought. He was wearing a trendy charcoal windbreaker—more expensive-looking and sophisticated than Gap, but edgier than Gant. Most likely Paul Smith, she decided. Underneath he had on dark-blue denim flares. A pair of black Converse completed the outfit. They looked pretty new. Probably got them in the Office sale. She’d seen them in the window, down to twenty-five quid.

What looked like a black beanie hat was sticking out of his jacket pocket. He had the right head shape for a beanie, she decided. So many men didn’t. Including—dare she admit it—Toby. Beanies were the only garments he didn’t look good in. Of course, she’d never said anything to him. She couldn’t possibly hurt his feelings by telling him that his head was too big for them and that whenever he wore one it looked as if there were a giant egg covered in an egg cozy perched on his shoulders.

The inventory of her traveling companion’s ensemble complete, Abby’s panic soared again.

“What about all that rain this afternoon?” she blurted, catching his eye again. “Talk about torrential.”

He removed his earbuds once more and offered her a bemused frown. “I beg your pardon? I missed that.”

“The rain. This afternoon. Pretty heavy.”

“Er, yes. I guess.” The earphones went back in again.

“I got splashed just before. By a car. Got mud all over my stockings. People really should drive more carefully in the rain.”

Out came the headphones. “Sorry again,” he said, with an awkward smile. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch that, either.”

“Drivers. Don’t you think they should be more considerate in the rain? Just look at my stockings.” She raised her foot and showed him her shin. He managed a polite, concerned nod and went back to his music.

Just then the elevator began to climb. Relief surged through Abby like squid ink in water. “Thank you, God,” she muttered. “Thank you.”

Then, just as she was feeling in her pocket for her train ticket, the elevator began to slow down. The journey was far quicker than she had imagined. She was just beginning to feel foolish about the way she’d panicked, when the elevator stopped with a sudden and violent jerk. It was so fierce that Abby was thrown against her companion. He, in turn, lost his balance and the two of them spent several seconds trying to right themselves and each other.

“You OK?” he said, once they were properly on their feet again. He looked shaken. She noticed his earbuds had come out of his ears and were dangling over the neck of his wind breaker.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Abby said, desperate not to let her panic show. “Why haven’t the doors opened?”

“Because we’re not at ground level. We were only going for a few seconds. It takes longer than that to reach the top.”

“You’re kidding?” She hadn’t meant to sound shrill, but the words just came out that way. “You mean we’re stuck?” Abby felt her fists clench and her nails dig into her palms.

“It looks like we could be.” He pressed the red emergency button.

“Shouldn’t an alarm ring or something?” she heard herself demand.

“You’d have thought so.” He jabbed the button a second and third time. Nothing.

“Let me try. Maybe you’re not doing it right.” In her panic, she shoved him out of the way. His expression was one of mild amusement more than offense—as if to say, “How many ways are there to push a button?”

She pressed her forefinger down hard on the button and left it there. When there was no response, she pressed even harder. By now she was hyperventilating and starting to feel dizzy again. She had to get out of this elevator right now. She was gulping in air, and the dizziness was getting worse. “I think I need to sit down,” she announced, voice trembling.

“I thought you might,” he said. His voice was kind, concerned. He took her arm and helped her onto the floor. She sat with her back resting against the elevator wall. He crouched beside her. “Here, try this. I did this first-aid course years ago at school, and it really works.” He removed a bottle of wine from the smallish, upscale paper bag he’d been holding. “You need to hold the bag over your nose and
mouth. Then just breathe in and out slowly. It balances the oxygen and carbon dioxide. It’ll make you feel better.”

She took the bag and did as he said. Gradually, her head stopped spinning.

“Would I be right in thinking,” he said, “that you’re not particularly keen on elevators?”

She took the bag off her face. “I got stuck in one when I was a kid. I was there for over an hour in the pitch black. To me it seemed like a week. Ever since, I’ve been phobic about elevators and being in confined spaces. This is the first time I’ve been in an elevator for twenty-odd years. I only took it because I was running late.” She paused. “Do you think we should try calling for help? Maybe nobody knows we’re here.”

With that, the elevator started to move up again, but only for a few feet. After a couple of seconds it came to another juddering halt. “Bloody hell! What on earth’s going on?” She was aware that she was clutching his hand. Embarrassed, she withdrew it.

He got up, went over to the doors and administered a purposeful thump with his fist. “Hello!” he called out. “Anybody up there?”

Nothing. He hit the doors again. “Can anybody hear me?”

Judging by the silence, nobody could. “We must be too far down for anybody to hear,” he said. He turned to face Abby. “Look, try not to panic. The station staff are bound to know the elevator’s stuck. I’m sure they’ll have us out pretty soon. We just have to be patient.”

Abby rubbed her hand across her forehead. She wasn’t sure how long she could hold on before she would throw up or pass out. To add to her panic, she suddenly remembered Toby and Lady Penelope. She imagined Toby drumming
his fingers on the table, getting more and more wound up the later it got. She took her mobile out of her bag, but there was no signal. “Great. Just great.”

“You’re meeting people?” he said, sitting down beside her.

“My fiancé and his mother. I’ve never met her before.”

“And you wanted to make a good impression.”

She nodded. “Not much chance of that now. What about you? Where are you off to?”

He drew up his legs and rested his hands on his knees. “Friend’s birthday party. He’s got a flat round the corner. There are loads of people going. He won’t notice if I’m late.” He paused. “I’m Dan, by the way.”

“Abby.”

He held out a hand toward her. “Pleased to meet you, Abby.”

“You, too,” she said, taking his hand and managing a brief smile. Just then the lights began to flicker. Abby tensed and let out a tiny shriek. “Oh, no,” she said, her head tilted toward the ceiling lights. “Please don’t let the lights go out.” Finally the flickering stopped. Abby slapped her chest with relief.

“So, Abby, where do you live?”

“Islington.”

“And what do you do?”

“I own a flower shop.”

She was pretty sure that Dan was showing an interest only to calm her down and take her mind off her panic. Nevertheless, she was immensely grateful.

He asked her how she had gotten into floristry, and she found herself telling him about her grandfather’s garden. “He and my nan owned a bungalow in Brighton. It had over
an acre of garden. Granddad seemed to spend his entire life working out there. Every summer when I was a kid, I’d go and stay with them for a week or so. The garden would be bursting with roses, honeysuckle, sweet peas, lilies of the valley. I just fell in love with the scents, the shapes and the colors. Nan used to arrange the flowers for her church. She was really talented and produced these huge, wonderfully dramatic arrangements, which to me seemed just magical. I remember being about three or four and her giving me a chunk of Oasis foam soaked in water. I must have spent hours decorating it with daisies and forget-me-nots I’d found in the garden.” She stopped. “Sorry, I’m wittering on.”

“You’re not. Honestly.” His face seemed to display a genuine interest, urging her to continue.

She smiled as she remembered running into her grandmother’s kitchen from the garden, bursting with excitement, her tiny hands clutching yet more flowers to stick into the Oasis. “Later on I became a pretty moody teenager. My parents couldn’t handle it. Other people’s gloom and negativity makes them feel awkward and embarrassed. So, whenever I felt pissed off with the world, I’d go up to my room and arrange dried flowers. I found it comforting. I didn’t have the confidence to sell them, so I got my mum to donate them to local tag sales and bazaars. Then I got friendly with the local florist. She lent me books on flower arranging, and if I went in late on a Saturday afternoon, she would give me all the flowers that were past their prime. It wasn’t long before I realized I had a talent for flower arranging, just like my gran.” She stopped again, fearing she had been giving him the wrong impression. “Oh, God, you must think I was this sad, lonely weirdo with no social life, who
spent all her spare time alone in her room arranging flowers. You should know that I did my fair share of going to parties, smoking dope and getting rat-assed on cheap cider.”

He was smiling at her. “It’s OK. It didn’t occur to me you were a sad, lonely weirdo.”

“Really?” She thought back to when she’d told Toby about spending hours on end in her room, arranging dried flowers, and how he’d said that had she been his child he would have carted her off to the nearest shrink.

“With me it was diseases,” Dan said.

She tilted her head to one side. “How do you mean?”

“From the age of fifteen until I went to university, I used to spend nearly all my Saturday afternoons in the local library looking up illnesses and their symptoms. I had suddenly become aware of my own mortality and that it was possible to die of some pretty horrendous diseases. I decided that forewarned was forearmed.”