Chapter 2
Chapter Two
I spent the next couple of evenings throwing around ideas for Christmas promotions I could introduce into the shop.
Business had been good, but it could be even better. At least the locals seemed to be slowly embracing my new business, but there was always room for improvement. Even Joan Webber, a local farm owner and renowned recluse, had briefly dropped by to purchase some potted heather. I knew it would take time to build up a reputation, but there was no way I was about to rest on my laurels. I had to keep going and come up with bigger and brighter ideas.
Perhaps with the approach of the festive season, trade might pick up. I’d been very careful with expenditure and only recruited a couple of local girls as trainee florists. Amber McCabe and Rowan Moffat were studying floristry at college and their shifts helped me out when it was busy as well as providing them with the hands-on experience they needed.
If things picked up, I would advertise for another full-time florist, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself.
The weather had been sunny but icy cold the last couple of days, which meant the surrounding hills were peppered with frost. I looked up for a minute and sighed with pleasure at the view from the shop windows over the King Angus woodland. It looked like it had been draped in spun sugar.
While I served customers, my mind replayed the phone conversation I’d had with my brother on Monday evening.
“You can’t hide away in the back of beyond forever, little sister.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Yeah, right.”
My brother had sighed down the line. “Declan Rooney’s a hateful bastard who’ll get his comeuppance. You shouldn’t punish yourself for what he did to you.”
I had rolled my eyes and gazed around my flat.
Declan had had something of the air of River Phoenix about him – the same pretty boy features, the same petulant mouth and intense gaze. When we met, he’d been flirting with Lizzie McKinnon, the daughter of my mum’s personal stylist. I’d glowed when he switched his attentions to me, which at the time felt immensely flattering. Only in retrospect was I able to admit that his interest had shifted when he found out whose daughter I was.
It was because I had loved Declan with all my heart that my dreams had crashed and burned. Along with it went any notion of trusting another man, let alone starting a serious relationship. That was something I didn’t need – putting my feelings and emotions out there, to be deceived and trampled over again.
Whatever my brother said, I felt like I was striking out on my own, trying to put the past behind me, and let go of the betrayal and public humiliation Declan had inflicted on me. Ok, so my trust issues still festered like an open wound but at least I was making something of my future.
Still, it was a relief that Wednesday evening to climb the rear staircase to my flat above the shop. The couple who’d run it as a tearoom had also lived above it for many years, so when I bought it, the place had been clean but dated. I had done a complete renovation and it now boasted a sitting room in warm butterscotch, and was teamed with flashes of sunshine-yellow cushions on the toffee-coloured leather sofa and chairs. The shelves were decorated with wooden ornaments of cute foxes and dogs I’d thrifted from various charity shops.
The chintzy rose wallpaper in my bedroom was gone, replaced by muted lavender walls with blonde wood furniture and simple white cotton bedding.
The kitchen was the one room which hadn’t required as much attention, so I retained the cream cupboards and had a local tradesman freshen up the space with poppy-red and white tiles and a black marble breakfast bar.
It was a small two-bedroom flat, but it was cosy, it was above my new business, and it was mine. The perfect home for my fresh start.
I tapped my pen against my teeth as I mulled over possible ways to improve Flower Power’s fortunes. This would be the first Christmas for my new business and I was determined to make a splash. Marcus’s comments about me hiding away here in Heather Moore had fired me up to make sure I was doing everything I could to make a success of Flower Power. No one would be able to accuse me of not actively promoting my work.
As well as bouquets, I was planning to offer Christmas table centrepieces, festive wreaths and decorated boughs. There were a couple of hotels in the area; perhaps I could offer my festive floristry services to them.
And I still had to decide what I was going to do about decorating the shop window. Perhaps an ice palace theme with white tea roses, lilies, frosted cones, fake snow, and silver decorations might be a little more original than robins and reindeer.
I’d just finished scribbling down more actions on my to-do list, which now included contacting the local hotels as well as some of the restaurants and other businesses in the surrounding areas, when I shot up straighter in my seat in surprise. The landline telephone was ringing.
It was part of the fixtures and fittings and had belonged to Mr and Mrs Rankin, the tearoom couple who lived here before me. I never gave the number to anyone, because I never used it. Anyone who wanted to get hold of me either used my mobile number or rang me on the phone in the shop. It was only because the landline phone in the flat was such a gorgeous vintage treasure that I was loathe to part with it. It was an opal affair in a cream finish, with rotary dialling and a brass cradle for the receiver. It looked like something out of Downton Abbey , and I loved it.
Its ringtone, however, was sharp and insistent. I padded over and stared down at it for a few seconds. Ok, Bailey, looking at it isn’t going to help!
I lifted the receiver, as though it was about to burst into flames at any moment.
“Hello?”
There was a pause.
“Who’s that?” barked a deep male voice.
My spine stiffened. I had to stop leaping to conclusions, but the sound of a strange, questioning voice made my shutters clang down. The doubting whispers were back, insisting that it was only a matter of time before someone realised who I was. Had the moment finally arrived when I would be torn from the peace and quiet I was creating for myself here? Could this be it? My stomach pirouetted at the thought.
I tried to find a level of calm. Stop it , I told myself. Stop thinking the worst. This could be an innocent case of a wrong number. I took a breath. “Who are you looking for?”
I heard a sound like paper being crumpled at the end of the line, as though he were reading something. “I’m looking for Archibald and Hazel Rankin.” His accent was a cultivated English one.
A kernel of relief bloomed in me. “I’m sorry. They don’t live here anymore. They moved down to London to be near family.”
The male caller’s irritation was evident. “But what about this tearoom business of theirs? The Tea Cup…?”
“You mean The Little Teapot?—”
His gruff vocals interrupted me. “Yes. Well. Whatever. What’s happened to that?”
I blinked, taken aback at how abrupt he was. I clutched the receiver. “I’m the new owner of the business. It’s a florist’s now.”
“A florist?” he repeated, incredulous.
“That’s right.” I could feel my defensive hackles rising under my fleecy pyjamas. Anyone would think I’d just told him I was money laundering.
There was a series of growls down the line. “The Rankins are no longer around,” the rude voice relayed to someone else in the background. “This girl says she owns the place and it’s now a florist.”
Girl?! This man certainly hadn’t graduated from Charm School or, if he had, they needed to conduct an urgent review of their teaching practices.
I overheard another even gruffer male voice rear up in the background. This one was Scottish and fast-paced. “Och, well then, you’d better think of something else, hadn’t you? I’m not prepared to let this one slip through our fingers.”
Which one? What were they talking about?
I frowned. “Would you like me to try to find the contact details for the Rankins? I have them around somewhere.”
But I was talking to thin air. The caller had hung up.
I stood there, stunned, looking incredulously at the telephone receiver.
Talk about rude!
With my curiosity swirling, I dialled 1471 to see if I could retrieve the number of the man who’d just called me. No luck. The message, “The caller withheld their number” echoed in my right ear.
I replaced the receiver on its cradle and studied the phone. What on earth was that about? I gave the silent phone another frown. It was all very odd.
* * *
I forgot all about the call by Friday morning as I wrestled with updating the Flower Power website. I listed some new arrivals, boasted about our current discounts on offer and hoped to encourage people to think about their poinsettias, Christmas wreaths, and festive centrepiece decorations by advising customers that they could begin submitting their orders from the start of next week. I uploaded some new images of my latest handiwork to reiterate the point.
I also posted an advert for autumnal door wreaths. They were actually the leftover Halloween ones consisting of orange, tangerine and amber flowers, interwoven with black ribbon and studded with tiny bat and cat silhouettes. I’d decided to recycle them by removing the black ribbon, bats and cats and reinvigorating them with some berries and cones. I asked Amber to take a few pictures of them and upload them to social media sites. Waste not, want not!
Then I gave Amber some revision questions ahead of a theory test on her course. We went over everything, from the preferred size and shape of vase for an arrangement to how to trim stems in three varying heights like football stadium tiers to create more volume.
We also discussed what was currently trending – tropical flowers in a geometric vase without a lot of greenery; mounded arrangements of just one type of flower; and woody branches with fruit or berries – when the shop doorbell tinkled.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure entering huddled in an ankle-length, dove-grey coat with a flash of red scarf at the neck. It took me a moment to realise it was Ezra’s chauffeur, Jackson.
“Good morning,” I said, closing the lid of my laptop.
Jackson’s features were open and friendly as his eyes shifted from left to right, checking out who was around.
Amber afforded Jackson a brief, disinterested glance, before turning her attention to a young couple who were admiring the potted heather.
Jackson strode over and dropped his voice. “Ezra’s out back. Would it be too much to ask for you to let him in through the fire door please?”
“Of course.”
I hurried to the back of the shop and clanged open the heavy door. Blimey. This was unexpected. Why was Ezra back again so soon?
Ezra stood facing me with a cheerful smile plastered across his face. He swiped off his hat and jammed it into his coat pocket.
“Good morning, Bailey. How are you? Sorry about the cloak-and-dagger stuff, but I’ve got to be careful.”
I smiled. “I’m well, thank you, Ezra. How are you?”
“I’m quite chipper.”
Jackson emerged, told Ezra he would wait in the car, and then slipped out of the fire door as Ezra made his way in.
I snuck a peek over the shop floor. Amber was striding around, all Cleopatra eye make-up and Doc Martin boots, as she guided the couple over to where we housed some hanging baskets.
“I don’t suppose you have a minute?” he whispered.
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I made sure Ezra was safely ensconced in my office with the door closed. “Amber, can you keep an eye on things here for a few moments please?”
“Sure.”
I slipped into the office and closed the door behind me. Ezra was appreciating the potted orchid on my desk and the framed pictures of artistically photographed flowers on the walls.
He sat himself down. “I wanted to thank you again for the other day.” His wide mouth slid into a lopsided smile. “You were so kind and understanding.”
“You’re welcome. How are you feeling now?”
Ezra dismissed my concern with a wink. “Like I’m twenty-five again.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “The reason I’ve dropped by is because there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I couldn’t imagine what he was going to say and my eyes grew wider as Ezra explained. “I mentioned to you the other day that I’m a huge flower and gardening fan. Always have been.” He threw me a coy look. “I love to be surrounded by fresh flowers and I used a charming young gentleman when I lived in Knightsbridge. But now that I’m here, I’m looking for a new florist to supply me with stunning floral displays for my new home.”
He paused again for effect. Ever the actor , I thought.
“I wondered whether you would be interested in supplying regular flower arrangements for my home here. I envisaged every couple of weeks?” Ezra steepled his tanned hands together on top of my desk. “Your displays are gorgeous and I suppose it’s also my way of thanking you properly for what you did for me the other day.”
Although this felt a little close to my old celebrity business for comfort, I found myself agreeing. “But I didn’t really do anything.”
“In a way, that’s right. Some people would’ve gone straight to the papers and capitalised on having me in their shop like that. You didn’t. You kept your word, and for that I’m very grateful.”
Empathy for his situation radiated out of me; he was trying to get some peace and equilibrium in his life, just like I was. He had no idea how easily I could relate to his predicament. “I would never do something like that,” I assured him.
My hand flapped to my chest and rested there. Since I’d gone to ground after what happened with Declan and closed down my former floristry business, my previous clients had understandably gone elsewhere for their decadent floral displays.
Flower Power was a fresh start – and a whole new type of client and business model.
But the opportunity presenting itself now with Ezra to get my creative skills noticed again in a new market was priceless. I did worry that perhaps one of his friends might ask for my details and recognise me, since word-of-mouth was how I had grown my old business, but it seemed unlikely and the risk felt small. I was old news, after all, and his Scottish retreat was miles from the social hub of London where famous friends might drop by and ask for local recommendations. How many celebrities needed a Highland florist?
I’d changed my name too and my appearance. In my mind, I had done and would continue to do everything I could, to move on from the mess of my past.
I was aware I still hadn’t said anything. I was delighted, but conflicted. This was such an amazing opportunity for the business. I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to.
The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to take on this commission – and do Ezra’s new home in Heather Moore proud. I’d just have to hope that any of the visitors to his home weren’t keen readers of the society columns, or interested in floral arrangements.
Ezra was appraising me from his chair. “And Bailey, I’m not expecting … what is it you call it? Mates’ rates? You’ve only been open a matter of months, so I insist on paying you the full whack for your services.”
I knew it would be a lot of hard work, but it would be worth it.
Ezra’s brows arched, expecting an answer.
Come on, Bailey! Say something!
Dismissing any more debate with myself, I managed a huge, silly grin.
Ezra’s laughter lines feathered. “Is that delightful smile a yes? Can I rely on you to furnish my house with the most extravagant and dazzling flowers?”
I jumped to my feet, almost knocking over my potted orchid. “You bet you can! Thank you, Ezra! Thank you so much!”
I couldn’t contain the fizzing in my chest. This was such a coup and meant so much for my fledging business.
I darted round my desk, shook his hand and, forgetting myself for a moment, delivered a grateful kiss to his cheek. “Thank you so much, Ezra. I’ll make sure your flowers are something special.” Crikey. My voice sounded like Minnie Mouse.
Ezra’s craggy complexion popped pink as he hitched up the collar of his coat. “I’ve no doubt about that, young lady.”
He plonked his hat back on his head as I escorted him out of the office and towards the fire door, where Jackson was waiting in a big black car. Ezra slipped his sunglasses and scarf back on and glanced up and down the quiet car park. He dug his hands into his coat pockets. “Right. I’d better go. I’m expecting a new sofa delivery at three o’clock.”
My curiosity was piqued. I couldn’t envisage him moving into one of those new-build houses on the estate out towards the farmland. Ezra didn’t seem like a “new build” type of guy.
“Erm… I probably need your address, if that’s ok?”
He rolled his eyes melodramatically. “Oh, I’m a stupid old sod. Of course.” He chuckled to himself. “I’ve bought that old property towards the reservoir. It needed quite a bit of work.” He shifted from foot to foot to keep warm. “You must come over and see inside the house, of course. You’ll need to see what I’ve done with the place so you can design appropriate arrangements.”
“You live at Duxbury Hall?” I said. “Oh wow. I’m sure it’s looking fantastic.”
Situated a couple of miles away, Duxbury Hall was a secluded property – a mix of dry-stone walls, sash windows and stacked chimney pots on a considerable plot of land. I’d heard stories about a flurry of activity in the area since last autumn and the Heather Moore gossips had wagered that a person of note was planning on taking up residence there.
I remembered hearing it had once been owned in the 1900s by a silent movie actress who’d taken refuge there after her fiancé had gone off and married someone else. It seemed fitting, therefore, that Ezra should take ownership of it now. No doubt he’d turned it into something special.
Ezra smiled. “It’s not too shabby.”
As he turned towards his waiting car, he called over his shoulder. “I’ll drop by again in a day or two.”
A thought struck me. “Oh, Ezra, I have two part-time students who will be helping with the arrangements. What do you want me to tell them?”
Jackson leapt out of the car and opened the back door for Ezra to clamber inside. “I’d rather you didn’t say anything for now. I just think the fewer people that know about me being in the area, the better.”
“Of course.” I nodded. “I understand.”
I watched him wave and Jackson gave me a nod as the car glided away.
I’d just have to be discreet where Amber and Rowan were concerned. Ezra was trusting me and I wouldn’t betray that trust. Both of the girls were lovely, but Amber could talk for Scotland and one word in the wrong direction and Ezra could find himself under siege from fans and reporters. I’d just have to come up with something to explain this new influx of work.
With my stomach still tumbling over with excitement, I burst back into the shop. Amber was unpacking a box of new satin ribbons in a kaleidoscope of colours. “I love this one,” she commented, holding up a sheaf of the deepest blue.
“It’s very pretty,” I agreed, struggling to pay proper attention to what she was saying. I checked my watch and tried to unscramble my thoughts. “You should be heading home now.”
“Thanks, Bailey. I will do once I’ve finished unpacking these ribbons and draping them over the hooks in the store room.”
I swallowed hard, my adrenalin pumping.
Amber frowned at me. “What did that old guy want?”
It took me a moment to realise who she was referring to. Shit. She must’ve caught sight of Ezra leaving the office.
One of Britain’s most revered actors and she was referring to him as an “old guy”. I’m sure Ezra would’ve been delighted to hear himself described as such. “He’s not old,” I replied, avoiding her question.
Amber arched one brow as if to say, “That’s your opinion.” She returned to pulling swathes of ribbon out of the box.