CHAPTER SIX
The next day, Rose opened up the Mistletoe Flower Shop with a smile on her face for the first time in weeks. The meeting at the library last night might have got off to a lurching start, but it had been a huge success as far as she was concerned. Even Paul had been brought round to her way of thinking in the end, despite his initial reluctance.
‘I don’t know,’ he kept saying, amid shouts from the rest of the gathered shop and property owners, ‘I’m worried it might get you into trouble.’
Some owners agreed with him, and were highly vocal about it.
‘We’re happy with what Thimblerig Holdings have offered us,’ one man shouted out from the floor. ‘Why would we want to antagonise them?’
‘Because he might raise the offer?’ someone suggested helpfully.
‘Who cares about antagonising those big business tycoon types? These are our lives and properties we’re talking about,’ Mrs Patel said, thumping the table with her fist. They had formed a committee to deal with the acquisition early on in the process, and she was Secretary. ‘Let’s do it, I say.’
Paul shook his head. ‘As your official legal advisor, I have to counsel you against such a move. Stick to formal channels of protest and avoid anything that might be illegal.’
‘How is it illegal?’ Rose demanded, and then stood up, raising her voice to be heard at the back of the room. ‘I know some of you are planning to sell up. And that’s your decision. But others would rather stay put, including myself. I’ve worked in my dad’s shop on Christmas Parade most of my adult life, and I’d like to carry on doing so if at all possible.’ She paused, seeing a few angry dissenters out there in the crowd. ‘As Chair of the Parade committee, it falls to me to propose a vote on this matter.’
So they had voted, and to her amazement the motion had been carried.
By one vote.
Hers.
As Chair, she had the deciding vote. Not always a comfortable thing, but last night it had been desperately useful.
Yes, there had been some hate stares from those who were ecstatic with selling to Thimblerig Holdings, often for more than their properties were worth. But enough people, as Paul said later, were interested in seeing if they could push the offer price up by making life difficult for Nick Grimsby. That was why they had voted for her plan.
Well, she didn’t care if their motives were less than pure. So long as it meant more people to join her hastily arranged protest.
She had outlined what she expected from everyone participating, and then the meeting had broken up, the librarian waiting at the door to lock up after the last of them had left.
‘I just hope I don’t see you on the news afterwards, being dragged off to the cells,’ Paul said, only half joking as he dropped her off at home, their taxi waiting by the kerb.
‘Well, if I’m arrested, you can come and defend me. Or bail me out. Whatever it is lawyers do for their naughtier clients.’
‘Sure thing,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You can rely on me.’
‘Of course I can, Paul. Because you’re a really nice man, and you’ve been a great friend to me throughout this business.’
Rose gave him a quick hug, something she hadn’t done since their school days, and saw Paul blink, then hug her back. Rather more tightly than she had expected.
Gosh, could that horrible Grimsby man be right? Was Paul keen on her?
Within minutes of having opened up the shop, Shantelle appeared in the doorway, puffing and panting, her face almost entirely obscured by a gigantic knitted scarf of many colours. ‘They!’
That was ‘Hey!’ in scarf language, Rose extrapolated, waving hello in return as she disappeared into the back to put the kettle on.
When she came back out, the kettle boiling cheerily behind her, Shantelle had already started readying the display buckets for being put outside. The poor girl looked frozen. She was stamping her booted feet like a horse, presumably to warm chilly toes. But she seemed happy to be at work, all the same. She dragged off her woollen hat, tossing it wildly onto the counter, and then unwound her massive scarf, her breath steaming out despite being indoors.
‘Oh my Lord,’ she was muttering, ‘it’s so b-b-blooming cold!’
It was quite chilly this morning, Rose thought, and hurriedly snapped the three-bar heater on behind the counter. The streets were icy, and it looked like snow outside, gloomy grey clouds massed above the capital. But they had to keep the door open at least until the outside displays were in place.
‘Lights,’ Shantelle moaned.
Rose stared at her, then understood. She smiled. ‘Yes, let there be light!’
Bending, she reached down to switch on the plug board below the counter. The Christmas lights that decorated the shop windows came on, a bright cascade of lights flashing on and off around the frames, red, gold and green, their warm glow inviting. Their centrepiece display, a three-foot rooted Christmas tree, looked particularly lovely first thing on this dark winter morning, fairy lights nestled amid gold tinsel in its fresh, pine-smelling branches.
Shantelle gave a deep sigh, her lips curving in the most delightful smile as she gazed at the shop windows. ‘That’s crazy beautiful.’
‘Isn’t it just?’
‘Christmas lights are the best. That’s what my mum says,’ Shantelle announced, snapping off a short sprig of mistletoe from the ceiling display, and tucking it behind her ear.
‘Christmas is the best, full stop.’
‘I love the music too … All those carols …’
Shantelle looked round at her, a spirit of mischief in her face, and Rose laughed at that expression. Because she knew what it meant. Shantelle’s mother was a ballroom dance instructor, and her daughter had a habit of dancing whenever she was happy. She also loved dragging other people into her arms if she possibly could, and forcing them to dance too. Even complete strangers had been yanked off the street once or twice for a waltz or the odd risqué tango, a long-stemmed rose between her teeth as Shantelle clasped some astonished old-age pensioner to her capacious bosom.
Suddenly bursting into song with the first line of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas,’ her assistant grabbed her hands and whirled her about, the tiny mistletoe sprig bouncing about, getting tangled up with her dreads.
‘Not now!’ Rose shrieked.
But it was impossible to resist Shantelle’s energy. Round and round the shop they danced to the popular carol, hand in hand, getting more and more breathless. Rose nearly collided with the counter at one stage, and then the flower buckets, and finally dislodged an impressive pyramid of gold-sprayed pine cones that had taken half an hour to arrange.
Shantelle broke off singing and swore under her breath – she’d been the one to painstakingly arrange the pine cones – and they came to a panting standstill, a dozen or so golden cones rolling about underfoot.
‘That was fun!’ Rose gasped. ‘Though we’d better get these pine cones picked up before a customer slips on them.’
She turned sharply at the sound of someone clapping in the doorway.
It was Nick Grimsby, damn him.
His gloved hands clapped loudly, then he stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, studying them both with lazy eyes. Lazy and undoubtedly predatory, Rose thought warily, if it was possible to combine those two. Which, going by the behaviour of male lions, it definitely was.
‘There’s a place for you both on Strictly if you keep up the practice,’ he said, that amused drawl back in his voice.
Rose met his eyes, and was consumed with embarrassment at the spectacle she and Shantelle must have presented, whirling about the place like a couple of lunatics.
But she refused to be cowed. Not by a man who wanted to bulldoze her lovely little shop and turn the whole of Christmas Parade into top-notch city apartments for people with more money than sense.
‘Hello again,’ she said boldly, and dropped Shantelle’s hands. She had not yet put up her flyaway red hair, and could feel it flopping wildly all over her face. Oh well, damn it. She had no desire to impress a man like him anyway. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here again, Mr Grimsby. Especially so early in the day. It’s only just after nine.’ Hurriedly, she slipped behind her counter for safety, and risked patting her disobedient hair while her back was turned to him. ‘Don’t fat cat executives like you sleep late on a weekday, while your minions do all the grunt work?’
Shantelle was clearly shocked by this outburst, her eyes wide with amazement. Rose never spoke to customers like that. But when she opened her mouth to say something, Rose shot her such a quelling look that the girl closed it again like a trap and scurried into the back room instead, muttering something about ‘making the tea.’
‘I doubt any executives who slept late would make much money,’ he remarked, and stepped inside the shop, closing the door after him. The bell jangled noisily and he glanced up at it. ‘Charming,’ he added. ‘Just like its owner.’
‘That bell belongs to my dad,’ she said pointedly, folding her arms across her chest in a defensive gesture. ‘I’ll tell him you said so.’
He smiled appreciatively.
'What do you want, Mr Grimsby?'
'I would have thought that was self-evident.'
Rose stiffened. 'Not to me, it's not.'
'How very odd.' His eyebrows rose as he gazed about the shop. 'I would like to buy some flowers, obviously. Why else would I be here?'
She battled with her instinct to be rude to him, and forced a polite smile to her face instead. 'I see,' she said politely, and busied herself preparing the till for the day's work. 'In that case, how can I help you?'
His smile sent tingles down her spine. 'That's a leading question.' When she glared at him, he shrugged and said merely, 'I need a Christmas wreath. I've been told this is the best place to get one.' He studied some of the pre-made wreaths already on display. 'What do you recommend?'’
Rose decided it was better to play along, and treat him like any other customer, rather than behave antagonistically. She had agreed to have dinner with him tonight, after all. And although Nick Grimsby was undoubtedly going to be very annoyed once he learnt about their meeting last night, and what had been decided there, there was no reason to put the cat among the pigeons just yet. Let sleeping pigeons lie, was her immediate thought. Even if it did mean mixing her metaphors quite horribly.
'What price range?' she asked.
His grin annoyed her. 'The sky is not quite the limit, but it's moving in that direction.'
'In other words, you don't mind paying a steep price for something that you very badly want?'
'I resent paying more for something than it is worth. Unless there are benefits attached.'
She felt an insidious warmth enter her cheeks, and fought not to allow her indignation to show in her face. 'We appear to be talking at cross-purposes. I can't imagine what benefits are attached to buying a Christmas wreath.'
He came towards her, removing his black leather gloves and pushing them into one of his coat pockets. 'That's because you see it in terms of a simple purchase. You're not seeing the bigger picture.'
'Enlighten me.'
His mouth twitched. 'Now there's an invitation I can hardly resist. Unfortunately, I have a meeting very shortly, so I can't take you up on it. Suffice it to say, I'm intrigued and would like to take this further. But I wouldn't want you to think that means I can be … squeezed.'
Now it was her turn to raise her eyebrows. 'I don't remember ever offering to squeeze you,' she said coldly, and then desperately wished those idiotic words unsaid.
He laughed. 'More's the pity.'
'Do you wish to buy a wreath or not, Mr Grimsby?'
'Of course.'
'Then how about something like that one?'
She pointed to the most expensive wreath in the shop, a vast and elaborate affair liberally laced with fir sprigs, red-berried holly and mistletoe, and lightly sprayed with white ‘snow’ for an even more festive effect. It had taken her and Shantelle several hours to get it perfect. But of course the display models always took a little longer, because she was such a perfectionist, and she wanted customers to see their work at its best.
He studied the wreath, then nodded. 'Yes, it looks excellent. I’ll take that one. Can you have it delivered?'
'Of course, she said coolly, echoing his own words. ‘Just a moment.’
Rose clicked on the computer mouse, but nothing happened. The screen remained grey and silent. She clicked the mouse again. Still nothing.
From behind, she heard a slight coughing noise. It was Shantelle standing in the doorway, to the back room and clearing her throat.
‘Yes, Shantelle?' she asked sharply.
Shantelle pointed to the computer. 'You, erm, haven't turned it on yet, boss.'
Rose silently counted to five again in her head, something which she was beginning to do with alarming frequency.
She hadn’t yet turned it on. Well, didn’t that just make her look like an incompetent fool?
'No problem.’ She looked straight back at him, a bright smile on her lips as she picked up a ballpoint pen and flipped through the notepad on her counter until she found a clean page. 'That's a display model, so you can’t take that exact one. But I can have another wreath just like it made up this afternoon, if you're in a hurry.’
‘Oh, I am.’
‘In that case,’ she replied, pen poised in mid-air, smile brighter than ever, ‘if you could give me the delivery address, sir?'
'Sir?' he repeated, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
'Mr Grimsby, then.'
‘How about if you call me Nick?’ he said persuasively.
‘How about if I don’t?’
‘Okay.’ He smiled, shrugging. 'I tell you what, I'll have my personal assistant drop by some time and pick it up for me.’
She put the pen down with a snap. ‘Fine.’
Nick Grimsby took out his wallet and handed her a credit card. ‘There you go.’ He watched while she rang up the sale, and primed the card machine. ‘That thing turned on, is it? Did you check?’
She glared at him silently.
A loud snort came from behind her. When Rose turned, teeth bared and ready to eat her assistant’s brain, all she saw was the bead curtain swaying gently.
Shantelle had run away.
Once the sale was complete, Nick Grimsby put his card back in his wallet, and then said, almost casually, ‘So you and all the other major owners on Christmas Parade had a meeting at the library last night.’ He pocketed his wallet and raised his head, studying her face. ‘What was discussed?’
Her eyes widened, her heart suddenly speeding up as she met that hard, inquisitive gaze. For a moment she did not know what to say.
'That’s none of your business.'
His eyebrows were really quite skilled at talking for him, she thought, watching in fascination as they danced about. 'Miss Mistletoe,' he began, then stopped, his voice deepening persuasively as he said, 'Look, can't I call you Rose? You must admit, you're a bit of a tongue twister, Miss Mistletoe.'
'You can twist your tongue round me all day,’ she said hotly, 'for all I care.' Then stopped, staring back at him.
Once again, she wished she could grab those very unfortunate words straight out of the air and stuff them when nobody would ever hear them again. Preferably right up his…
'If you insist,' he said, smiling.
Oh, how she'd like to wipe that knowing look of his face.
'Let's just keep this business-like,' she told him, and closed the notebook with great dignity. 'Yes, all right, there was a meeting last night. But since it was not a public meeting, and you were not invited, Mr Grimsby, I can hardly be expected to divulge what we discussed privately.'
There, she thought, that should fox him.
But his smile merely broadened. 'Luckily for me, not all your fellow owners are so careful and conscientious. I already know what was discussed, so there's no point concealing your… plan.' He waited, but when she said nothing, Nick Grimsby shrugged as though it were of little consequence if she denied or confirmed the particulars of her plan. 'Well, no matter. We can discuss all that tonight.'
Rose gaped. 'You still want to have dinner with me? Given you claim to know what we discussed at the meeting last night?'
She was treading warily, suspicious he might not really know anything at all, and could be trying to trick her into giving away their plan.
'Why not?'
She hesitated. 'It just doesn't seem like a good idea now.'
He made an impatient gesture. 'Nonsense, I'm looking forward to it. The limo will be here to collect you at closing time, as we arranged.' Nick Grimsby nodded almost benignly at her, called out, 'Goodbye,' to Shantelle in the back room, and then strolled out of the flower shop, pulling on his leather gloves with the deliberate air of a strangler.
As soon as he had gone, Shantelle rustled out from behind the bead curtain, eyes wide with astonishment.
'Wow, that scar!’
‘I know.’
‘I wonder how he got it.’
‘Probably a punch in the face,’ Rose said tightly, her own fists clenched as she realised how smoothly he had manipulated her into having dinner with him. ‘It’s a good thing he left when he did. I was about ready to give him a matching one on the other side.’
‘And you're having dinner with him?'
'Yes.'
'Oh my God. It's going to be like one of them rags to riches films… Oh! Oh!' Shantelle pointed at her wildly, jabbing her finger almost in her face. 'Pretty Woman. That's what this is. He's Richard Gere, the billionaire, which makes you…'
'I am not a prostitute.'
'I'm very glad indeed to hear it,' said a voice from the doorway.
Rose whirled in horror to see the vicar standing behind her, a mild smile on his face, his silver hair partly hidden beneath a vast Cossack-style hat.
Nick had not closed the door when he left, she realised, only just understanding why she was feeling so cold, and wondered how many passers-by had been able to follow what they had been discussing.
'Forgive me,’ Reverend Wick said gently, ‘if I’m intruding on what sounded like a very private conversation, but I need to discuss the floral arrangements for the Christmas services. Mrs Potter, one of my church wardens, is supposed to be in charge of the flowers this year. But unfortunately she fell off the altar yesterday and has broken her leg.’ He paused, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘I believe she was … erm … dusting our Lord’s cross when it happened.’
‘I see,’ Rose said faintly.
‘Are you available to speak to me now?’ The vicar was still smiling, and in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of Nick Grimsby’s knowing grin. ‘Or should I come back at a more convenient moment?'
'Of course I can speak to you now, Reverend Wick,’ Rose said hurriedly, her cheeks hot with embarrassment at what he must have overheard. ‘I'll be just one moment, if you don't mind waiting?'
The vicar seemed amused by her confusion, rubbing at his silvery stubble. ‘I don't mind waiting at all,' he said.
And Reverend Wick moved discreetly away, humming the opening bars of Good King Wenceslas as he bent to scrutinise the festive display of lights in the shop windows.
Pulling Shantelle aside, Rose muttered in her ear, 'Look, I won't be having dinner alone with that awful man. I'm going with my dad too, and my lawyer. It's business, not –'
'Personal?'
‘Exactly.’ Rose pretended not to have seen her assistant’s disbelieving grin. 'Meanwhile, silly fantasies aside,’ she hissed, ‘we have a large Christmas wreath to make.'
She glanced covertly back at the vicar, who was fiddling with some glossy red baubles, a delighted smile on his face, and then checked the wall clock.
'Right,’ she said quickly, ‘I have to speak to the vicar first, and then I have a few bouquets to arrange for today's deliveries. Jason will be here to collect them in less than an hour. But you could get going on the large Christmas wreath for Mr Grimsby, that would be a great help.’
Rose take a deep breath, pushing aside the worrying thought of dinner with Nick Grimsby tonight. She would not be alone with him, after all, so what was there to fear?
‘There's wire for the frame in the store room, okay?’ she added, pushing a reluctant Shantelle that way. ‘Take what you need and make a start on weaving in the laurel sprigs.'
Shantelle was looking disappointed, but to Rose’s relief, she did not argue. 'Whatever you say, boss.’ With a sigh, she shuffled through the bead curtain, and a moment later could be heard rooting noisily through boxes in the store room.
Rose mustered a brave smile and returned to the vicar, who had accidentally detached a large red bauble from the tree and was attempting to hide it among the tinsel.
'Now then, Reverend Wick,’ she said calmly, holding out a hand so he could place the errant red bauble in her palm, 'about these flower arrangements for the church … '