Chapter 1
It was when Abigail got to the bathroom section that she knew she was truly lost, both physically and metaphorically.
The physical had happened somewhere after ‘lighting’ but before she had reached the rugs and throws.
Her total downfall came when she found herself standing between a row of pristine sinks; gleaming chrome reflected in white porcelain.
For a young woman who had experienced all the privations of early Regency ‘bathroom solutions’ this was indeed something.
It was here among the granite tops and ceramic bathroom accessories that Abigail first spotted Lara; the woman she had been searching for.
Abigail was standing with one gloved hand hovering over an eau-de-Nil soap dish, the other hand tucked cosily into a large sable muff.
Her cherry-red pelisse was buttoned to the throat and her dove-grey French muslin gown fell in graceful folds to a row of frills.
From under the hem of her dress peeped black-buttoned boots.
Her profile was half hidden by a small, stylish hat that combined the grey of her gown with cherry ribbons.
Abigail’s first impression of Lara was of a woman of roughly her own age – approaching thirty – but whereas Abigail knew herself to be as precise as a pin, with brown curls tucked up and artfully arranged around her hat, Lara was fair, with long, ash blond hair scraped back into an untidy ponytail.
Abigail sniffed, taking in the worn workman-like boots, scruffy jeans and faded, rather holey jumper.
Lara also appeared to be talking to herself.
Abigail caught a muttered, ‘tea lights, candles, baskets,’ which Lara seemed to be reading off a list scribbled on a scrap of paper.
Abigail studied her for a moment longer, her head tilted to one side.
Well, she had seen worse. She also supposed that florists did not have to dress with elegance but needed to take a more practical approach to their apparel.
She already knew a few things about Lara, and the fact she was a florist was one of them.
Through narrowed eyes she noted her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes. Eyes which looked indescribably sad.
Abigail straightened her shoulders and stepped forward, saying pleasantly, ‘Ah, there you are. I have been waiting for you.’
Lara swivelled squeakily on one booted heel, glancing left and right, but the rest of the section was momentarily empty. ‘I’m sorry?’ Lara offered tentatively. ‘Were you talking to me?’
‘Of course,’ Abigail said simply. ‘After a while,’ she continued, moving towards Lara, ‘you get to recognise the signs. I am not saying it wasn’t difficult to start with and I still blush when I think of the mistake I made with the Bishop of Durham.
I really had no wish to upset such a venerable old gentleman. ’
Lara stared at her blankly. ‘Ah… I’m sorry, but I’m pretty sure we’ve never met. I think maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’
Abigail could tell Lara was trying to sound reassuring and pleasant – which she took as a good sign – but at the same time her quarry started to edge away.
‘No, it is definitely you I have been looking for,’ Abigail pleasantly assured her.
Her words and smiling confidence did not seem to have the required effect. Lara frowned vaguely in Abigail’s direction, shook her head, before turning and hurrying away.
A young couple on their way to buy a sofa walked through the watching form of The Hon.
Abigail Rossmore (deceased). They neither saw her nor heard her when Abigail murmured, ‘Well, that might have gone considerably worse.’ There was only one person who could have heard her, and by now she was well on her way to the car park.
Setting her hat at just the right angle and pulling her pelisse about her, Abigail cast one last lingering look back at the bathroom section and followed Lara into the cold of the car park.
She eventually found her standing in a secluded corner by the side of a sage-green van, her hand poised on the driver’s door handle.
Abigail could make out the words: ‘Miss McGregor’s Garden’ written in a flowing script on the panel beside her.
Even in the dim light Abigail could sense the uncertainty in the silent form. She looked miles away. Lost.
Lara was lost. Why had she walked away just because some stranger had spoken to her?
Should she go back or just go home? She hesitated, trying to calculate if she could make do with the stock she had in the shop or if she should retrace her steps through IKEA.
She had forgotten to order the extra sundries she needed from the florist wholesaler (just one of a number of things she had let slip), hence the trip.
She shook her head attempting to clear her thoughts.
Since that week in late August she had found it more and more difficult to make even the simplest decision.
Two months of lying awake, night after night, wondering and worrying were taking their toll.
In the end, the prospect of fighting her way back through the crowds in IKEA clinched it, and she was just fitting the key into the lock when she heard a voice.
‘I have no wish to cause you distress, Lara, but I hope that later on this evening we can get to know each other better.’
‘Whoa!’ Lara dropped her keys as if scalded and spun to face the speaker.
It was the same woman who had accosted her in the store.
‘God! You made me jump. Look, I’m sorry, but I really have no idea what you’re talking about.
’ Lara squatted down and reached her hand behind her, feeling for her keys on the ground.
It was from this strange half-crouching position that she gazed up at the gently smiling figure.
What was the woman wearing? Was something wrong with her?
She felt suddenly ashamed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, ‘I really think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.
Maybe if you go back inside you might find them there?
’ For a moment Lara wondered if she should escort this woman back into the store.
She didn’t seem confused or vulnerable but there was no doubt this was strange behaviour.
But the idea of spending any more time in IKEA was just too daunting.
She was exhausted and she wanted to go home.
By now, Lara had caught hold of her key ring and was fumbling to fit the key into the van door.
Nodding in what she hoped was a reassuring manner towards the store’s entrance, Lara swung into the driver’s seat and slammed the door on her rising guilt.
As she drove out of her parking space she looked in her rear-view mirror and watched with a kind of fascinated dismay as the woman inclined her head, dropped into a stately half curtsey and bowed her out.
Lara quickly navigated the tangle of intersections and dual carriageways that surrounded the city, keen to get away from the endless retail parks and unremitting traffic.
She estimated it would take about an hour at this time of day to travel back to the market town in North Dorset where she lived in a cottage behind her flower shop.
Before the afternoon light had faded completely, she turned off the grey, monotonous motorway and followed the undulating roads that led deep into the countryside she now thought of as home.
Or was it home? Maybe she had made a huge mistake uprooting her life and moving here?
It wasn’t really working out as she had hoped if she was completely honest with herself.
Lara had first explored this part of the country as a student when she had visited the parents of a university friend.
As the rest of the world seemed to rush past, oblivious, on their way to Cornwall and Devon, Lara had discovered a glorious landscape of countryside and villages that nestled forgotten in the area where the counties of Dorset, Wiltshire and Somerset met.
It occurred to her that the inhabitants’ eyes held a certain smug gleam as they looked at those queuing in the traffic jams to the beaches of the Southwest. She wondered if her eyes now held the same look when she saw the queues forming on a Sunday night back to London and the sprawling suburbs where she used to live.
It might not be working out exactly as she had hoped, but she did still love the countryside with its picturesque landscape of villages.
As she drove through lanes banked with the last of the autumn leaves and skirted a hillside forest of neatly regular conifers, Lara relaxed.
She turned on her headlights and moved the dial on the radio to Classic FM, reminding herself she must turn it back before she parked up in case Becky was the next one to drive the van.
She knew it didn’t really matter but she was strangely reluctant to let her young assistant know she much preferred listening to classical stations rather than the music most of her contemporaries liked.
Lara was on the last bend just before her cottage when a thought suddenly struck her with an almost physical force.
How did the woman know my name is Lara?