The Oddest Little Mistletoe Shop Read online

  ‘Now you’re just being silly.’

  ‘Well, if I’m being silly, I might as well be even sillier. Because I did meet another single man tonight. Maybe he’d do for my list.’

  ‘Aha!’

  ‘At least I imagine he must be single,’ she added blithely. ‘Because I can’t believe any self-respecting woman would agree to marry him. Maybe a greedy one might. He’s probably worth billions.’

  ‘Billions?’ Her dad stared at her, puzzled. ‘Who on earth are we talking about?’

  ‘The devil himself.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘None other than Nick Grimsby,’ she said, hating the sound of his name on her lips. ‘You remember that name, surely? He’s the evil tycoon behind the acquisition of Christmas Parade.’ She corrected herself. ‘Attempted acquisition. Because he’s not going to bloody well succeed. Not if I have anything to say about it.’

  Her dad ran a grooming hand across his forehead, though there had been no hair there to smooth down for at least the past decade. He looked dazed.

  ‘You spoke to Nick Grimsby? I don’t understand …’

  Rose straightened and reached for her handbag, rummaging inside for the ogre’s business card. ‘There you go.’ She handed it to him, her lips pursed at the memory of the man who had given it to her, and nodded when he read the card silently. ‘That’s right. CEO of Thimblerig Holdings. Soon-to-be-owner of our shop, assuming he can manage to beat, bribe or plain bamboozle us out of there. Which he can’t, by the way!’

  His gaze flashed up to hers, suddenly uncertain. ‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’

  ‘One hundred percent positive.’

  Slowly, he nodded, then looked down at the card again. ‘So this guy, this Nick Grimsby character … He came to the shop?’

  ‘Pretending to be looking for flowers.’

  ‘Did you sell him any?’

  ‘I told him we were closed, so he went away in the end. But only after sticking his foot in the door.’ She shook her head. ‘The man’s a pest.’

  ‘So he made you a bigger offer for the shop, I take it?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I don’t understand … ’

  ‘Not my finest moment.’ Rose sighed, remembering that embarrassing moment when she’d leapt out on him. ‘I thought he was … I don’t know, a stalker. He said he wanted to talk to me. But I’d texted Paul by then, and he came along and rescued me before Nick Grimsby could say what it was about.’ She laughed uneasily. ‘Though I doubt he’ll bother contacting me in person again.’

  ‘What the hell did you say to him?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ She busied herself with making their tea, then added under her breath, ‘Much.’

  ‘Rose?’

  She turned to confront him. ‘The man’s a pantomime villain, Dad. Stealing from the poor to give to the rich. By which I mean him and his corporate stooges. Why do we need to worry about his feelings? We should be worrying about ourselves instead. About hanging onto this place.’

  ‘The mortgage is all paid up, don’t worry.’

  ‘And the loan on the extension?’

  He looked troubled. ‘Well, yes. That could become an issue if the shop goes under. But if he made you a big enough offer, we could – ’

  ‘The Mistletoe Shop isn’t just any old business, Dad.’ She stared at him in disbelief. ‘It’s a part of us, of our family history. Your dad’s pride-and-joy.’

  ‘I know,’ he said wearily.

  ‘You can’t let a creep like that railroad us into giving up what we’ve worked for all these years,’ she said earnestly, meeting his worried gaze, ‘what Grandad Mistletoe built and worked for, just so his company can make a pile of money building luxury flats so expensive that nobody will probably ever live in them.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She handed him his cup of herbal tea, the water slowly turning a dark purplish colour. He preferred the bag left in so it could get good and strong.

  ‘I know you’re saying now that we should take the offer,’ she said, trying to stay calm and reason with him, ‘but I still think we should fight the acquisition. That’s what we agreed in the beginning, after all, back when we first heard about the site being redeveloped. And nothing’s changed as far as I’m concerned. This is our heritage we would be giving away, not just retail premises.’

  ‘It would be such good money though, love.’ He banged his wheelchair bitterly, ‘And I’m stuck in this blasted chair while you’re having to work practically every hour of the day sends just to keep the place going.’

  ‘That’s not true. I’ve got Shantelle to help me now.’

  ‘She costs money.’

  ‘If you want to give me more time off, come and work in the shop a few days a week. You’d be more than welcome.’

  ‘I’ve told you, there’s not enough room. Not to keep turning the wheelchair.’

  ‘Then work at the counter.’

  He shook his head. ‘What about the loo? It’s up a flight of stairs.’

  ‘We could adapt it.’

  ‘At what cost, though?’ Her dad looked grim. ‘Take the offer, darling. Give up the fight. We can always start somewhere else with new premises. Better-equipped premises that can accommodate a wheelchair.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be the same!’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he said. ‘But nobody would think any the worse of you for taking the money.’

  ‘I would,’ she said pointedly, her cheeks flushed, and took up her own cuppa.

  He was making perfect sense, and she hated it.

  Argh.

  She didn’t like the way this conversation was going. Nor how upset and off-balance she was becoming. But he had never suggested before that they should take the money. Where had all this come from? Or was it simply the beer talking? She had fully expected her father to support her, not side with the enemy.

  This felt so wrong.

  She never lost her temper with her dad.

  Never.

  Something else to blame on that nasty, horrid man from Thimblerig Holdings, she thought, and sucked in her breath.

  It was him who’d put her in this bad mood, not her dad.

  Nick bloody Grimsby.

  ‘I love the Mistletoe Flower Shop,’ she said softly into the silence. ‘I never thought I’d say this, but it’s become my whole life. And I know you still own fifty percent of the business, so it’s your decision too. But to let it go would be … Well, it would feel like a betrayal of our family, and I don’t think I could bear that.’

  Her dad came forward to pat her hand, his smile lopsided. ‘All right, love, I get the message. I’m not going to force you to accept their offer.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But would you at least think about it some more,’ he asked carefully, ‘before saying no forever? Because you know how hard business has been recently, and it’s only going to get harder once the other owners realise it’s you who’s blocking the deal. Some of them are powerful people, and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’

  Rose closed her eyes briefly, controlling her desire to refuse outright, and then gave him a tiny nod. ‘Of course, Dad,’ she said, putting down her tea, ‘if that’s what you want.’

  But her hands had tightened instinctively into fists as she pictured Nick Grimsby’s knowing smile, and now she imagined strangling him with a strand of Christmas tinsel until that stupid grin set with rigor mortis.

  She knew then that she could never sell him the Mistletoe Flower Shop, not even if he doubled or trebled his offer. Not when she disliked the man so much that she was already dreaming up elaborate ways of killing him. That was not something she commonly did with men, however annoying. Especially at this festive time of year.

  Christmas!

  She smiled back at her dad, but her brain was racing now. Perhaps there was still a way to persuade the others to say no to Nick Grimsby.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Shantelle looked at her like
she had gone mad. Not just that, but she did so without any surprise, as though her assistant had always suspected she was crackers, and this was merely the long-expected end result of months of stress.

  ‘You want to do what, with who?’ Shantelle asked, blinking at her through heavy, silver-tipped mascara.

  ‘Whom,’ Rose corrected her gently.

  Shantelle looked even more confused, if that were possible. She flicked back her beaded dreadlocks, put a hand on her rounded belly, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and then repeated blankly, ‘Whom?’

  ‘Yes, it should be with whom, not with who.’

  ‘Oh, you’re calling the grammar police on me. I get it. Very funny, boss.’ Shantelle raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, looking far from amused. ‘Well, let’s hope you don’t get picked up by the real police, yeah? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you do something as stupid-assed as this.’

  ‘Language!’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Please don’t swear, Shantelle.’ Rose took a deep, steadying breath, determined not to lose her temper. ‘We’ve talked about this before. No bad language in the shop.’

  At this, her assistant glanced quizzically from side-to-side, then peered over the counter. ‘I think we’re okay, boss. There aren’t any customers hiding out round here to hear me.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll be the one swearing when you get arrested.’

  ‘Look, don’t worry about any of that. It’s not your concern, it’s mine.’ Rose sighed. ‘And even if you don’t think it’s a good idea, I do. In fact, it could be just what this community needs.’

  ‘They’ll never go for it.’

  Rose glared at her assistant. ‘They might.’

  ‘Only because you’re living in cloud-cuckoo-land. Sorry, boss, but that’s the truth. And you did ask what I thought of your plan. So this is me saying … Not much!’

  Shantelle was only nineteen and extremely gifted in the art of the sharp put-down, not to mention the contemptuous shoulder flick that accompanied such comments.

  So good, in fact, that she had occasionally been reprimanded for using the technique on bewildered customers, who had then walked out without buying anything. It was a skill that had probably worked well for Shantelle in her last job, as a fast-talking receptionist in a car mechanics’ workshop. After getting pregnant by her boss, who subsequently went back to his wife and five kids, she’d decided she wanted to slow down and work more with her hands, and so had gratefully accepted an assistant position at the Mistletoe Flower Shop instead. Sadly though, she’d failed to turn down the volume on her wisecracks and street attitude.

  Shantelle did construct rather beautiful floral displays for weddings though. And her Christmas baskets were to die for.

  And Rose had known her all her life, since Shantelle and her lovely mum Carol lived on the same street as her dad.

  Rose counted silently to five, then looked pointedly at the two dozen Allium christophii, long-stalked ornamental onions with beautiful flared seed heads, laid out ready for Shantelle to spray them gold and silver.

  ‘Let’s just concentrate on work today, shall we? We’ve had three pre-orders for Christmas bouquets with a gold theme, and one silver.’ She handed Shantelle a can of gold spray. ‘Start with the gold paint. Go light on the stalks, heavy on the seed heads. Nice and sparkily and festive, yeah?’

  ‘But – ’

  ‘Just leave the protesting to me, Shantelle. I know what I’m doing,’ she said firmly, and began to unfasten her work apron. ‘You crack on with spraying and drying those alliums, and when I get back, I’ll help you make up the rest of the arrangements.’

  At least, she hoped to goodness she knew what she was doing.

  Otherwise the shop was in serious trouble.

  On this dubious note, Rose gave Shantelle what she felt was an encouraging smile, tossed her apron in the wash basket, and pushed through the bead curtain into the small back room to wash her hands at the sink.

  One glance in the rectangular mirror attached to the splashback tiles left her grimacing. God, she couldn’t go out like this. She looked like a Blue Peter presenter, she thought, eyeing herself ruefully in the mirror. Her palms and fingers were covered in speckles of gold and silver from dipping pinecones in gold paint, with tiny abrasions after handling holly sprigs all morning. And as for her red tangle of hair …

  It took a few minutes bent over the hot tap with heavy-duty soap, but she eventually managed to return her hands to some semblance of normality, and then applied cream to prevent them from chapping. Her nails were unpainted but she could live with that. There were gold flecks in her hair too, but a few rigorous moments with a hairbrush chased them away. Then she dug in her fake Gucci handbag – last year’s Chrimbo pressie from her doting Dad, so she had to use it or he would sulk – for some lipstick and a powder puff, and carefully retouched her make-up, removing a few more stray glittery bits whenever she came across them.

  Not too shabby, she thought afterwards, studying herself intently in the mirror. She looked human again, at any rate. Not like an extra from a futuristic Doctor Who episode. That gold spray paint was such a nightmare to deal with.

  Did she need a dash of mascara though?

  Perhaps not. Her stomach was beginning to tighten with nerves, and she already looked like a frightened rabbit. Mascara would turn her green eyes into a pair of damp sea anemones and only serve to highlight her startled look.

  ‘Ooh, very tasty,’ Shantelle said in mock approval from the doorway, and grinned when Rose jumped, looking round in surprise. ‘Sorry to disturb you putting on all your slap, Ms Anarchist,’ she said archly, a gold-sprayed allium stalk in her hand. ‘But there’s a Mr Grindley on the phone for you.’

  Rose stared. ‘Mr Grindley? Never heard of him. Can’t you deal with it?’

  ‘Tried to, didn’t I? He got all lippy, said only you would do.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake … ’ Rose thrust her lipstick back into her handbag, and glanced at the time on her phone. ‘I told them I’d be at that meeting at five o’clock, and it’s gone quarter to.’

  ‘Shall I tell him you’ve gone, then? He did sound kinda urgent though. Like it was So Effing Im-Port-Ant, you know?’

  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously on her assistant’s face. ‘Shantelle, what did this “Mr Grindley” sound like?”

  Shantelle shrugged, inspecting the allium seed head with apparent fascination. She had gold flecks all over her face and hair too. On her though, they looked beautiful and somehow perfect. She was an angel, out of place in this dingy back room, glittering fabulously under the cracked strip light.

  ‘Like he thinks he’s God.’

  ‘Oh for …’ Rose clamped her lips shut on that instinctive expletive. She closed her eyes for about three seconds, gathering her strength, then shook herself and strode past Shantelle, fake Gucci handbag slung over her shoulder like a semi-automatic weapon. ‘Grimsby,’ she muttered at the girl through gritted teeth. ‘Mr Grimsby, Shantelle, not Mr Grindley.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘God,’ she threw back over her shoulder, then realised what she was saying. ‘I mean, the opposite.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Grimsby. He’s the devil. The enemy. The CEO of Thimblerig Holdings. The guy who’s planning to drag us out of this shop and turn the whole block into luxury residential flats.’

  ‘Holy sh … ’

  ‘Language!’

  ‘Sh … ugar.’ Shantelle had followed her, sounding shocked. Now she watched in obvious apprehension as Rose picked up the phone handset so gingerly it might have been a live snake. ‘Sorry, boss. If I’d known, I would have told him to do one.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Rose steadied herself. ‘Just … give me a minute, okay?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  The door jangled, and they both jumped, looking round in horror.

  But it was only the elderly couple who
had ordered the Christmas centrepiece. Mr and Mrs Tramontana. No doubt they were back to change their order, or maybe buy additional pieces.

  Rose managed a smile for them, and even a cheery wave, the handset pressed to her chest. ‘Merry Christmas! How lovely to see you again. Is it okay if Shantelle … ?’ She indicated the phone, lowering her voice. ‘I just have to … erm … ’

  Mr Tramontana nodded, smiling. ‘Merry Christmas, Rose. You carry on, we only need some lilies for a friend’s funeral.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m so sorry for your loss.’ She looked sympathetically at Mrs Tramontana. ‘And at this time of year too.’

  Mrs Tramontana, who was a little red-eyed, nodded silently, and lifted a handkerchief to her nose.

  Shantelle bustled forward, large and comforting, her smile like a burst of sunshine. ‘What would you like, then? Lilies? These big ones have just come in … ’

  Gratefully, Rose turned away and took a deep breath, then spoke briskly into the handset. ‘Mr Grimsby?’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Rose.’

  She did not return the traditional greeting. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Straight down to business, is it? Very well.’ His deep voice tingled in her ear, disturbingly sexy and male. No man had a right to sound so sexy when he was such a bastard, she thought irritably. ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Says who?’

  There was a short baffled pause.

  ‘Me.’

  ‘No, I meant … ’ She blinked, unsure if he was mocking her or not, then continued coldly, ‘We don’t need to talk.’

  ‘Then why not just say so?’

  Rose stared at the lush crimson Poinsettias ranged in individual pots on the floor below her. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Then she finally said, ‘It was sarcasm. Don’t you understand sarcasm?’

  ‘It didn’t sound like sarcasm, sorry. But whatever.’ Nick Grimsby paused again, and she could hear the rustle of papers, as though he was reading something while on the phone to her. ‘Look, I’m busy. You’re busy. Let’s not beat about the bush anymore, okay?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘So, how about having dinner with me tomorrow night?’