Forget Me Knot: A Novel - Softcover

Margolis, Sue

 
9780385339001: Forget Me Knot: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0385339003 ISBN 13: 9780385339001
Verlag: Bantam, 2009

Inhaltsangabe


From the acclaimed author of Gucci Gucci Coo and Apocalipstick comes a funny, sexy novel about questionable engagements—and a love worthy perhaps of the big screen.

Florist Abby Crompton has a knack for arranging the most exquisite bouquets for the hippest clientele. If only her personal life could run as smoothly. Although her fiancé, Toby, proposed a month ago, Abby’s still waiting for the ring. An up-and-coming lawyer, Toby’s been far too busy to shop—let alone muster the energy for romance. If that wasn’t frustrating enough, the night she’s supposed to meet her future mother-in-law, Abby gets stuck in an elevator—with a sexy stranger bearing fine wine. Needless to say, a tipsy Abby arrives late for dinner and doesn’t make the best impression.

In the aftermath of the dinner disaster, Abby is thrilled to learn that a film studio wants to use her shop in an upcoming movie. But when she meets the director, Dan, she’s shocked to discover that he’s none other than the same man with whom she shared the elevator—and some highly personal information. Now, with Toby putting in more overtime, Abby’s feeling even more neglected. And her attraction to Dan is growing daily—as her own life begins to mirror the romantic comedy he’s shooting.

Featuring an irrepressible heroine, Forget Me Knot blooms with charm, wit, and fun.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sue Margolis is the author of six books, which have more than half a million copies in print from Bantam Dell. She lives in England, where she's at work on her next novel.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One


"HANG ON," SOPH SAID, "you're telling me, the corpse had an erection?"

Abby transferred her mobile to the other ear and with her free hand began setting the shop's burglar alarm for the night. "No, it was the dove."

"The dove had an erection?"

"Duh. Of course the dove didn't have an erection. It flew into the open coffin, found its way into the old man's trouser pocket and made it look like he had an erection."

"But why on earth were there doves flying around the house?"

Abby explained that the dead man, who had been lying in state in the front room of his Croydon semi-detached house, used to make his living as a children's party entertainer. "The doves were part of his magic act. Anyway, just before everybody was due to set off for the cemetery, his wife had the dotty idea of letting the birds out of their cages to say good-bye to their master. My guess is that when he was performing, he hid them in his trouser pocket. Right on cue, one of them headed straight for the clown suit."

"The corpse was wearing a clown suit?"

"Yeah. Red-and-white stripes with gold pom-poms down the front."

"Nice."

Abby stepped onto the pavement and closed the shop door behind her. It was thick plate glass with a stainless-steel handle shaped like a rose in full bloom. Abby was particularly proud of the handle. She'd designed it herself, taking great pains to get every fold, twist and angle of every petal exactly as she wanted it. If you looked carefully--not that anyone ever did, apart from Abby--there was even a tiny metal dewdrop on one of the petals. At first, the design had been meant purely as a business logo. Then she'd had the idea of e-mailing it to one of the cutlery firms in Sheffield and asking if there was any way they could fashion a rose door handle.

Earnshaw & Sons (By Royal Appointment) assured her the commission was well within their capabilities. Six weeks later, the exquisitely crafted tea-rose handle arrived by courier, along with Earnshaw's jaw-dropping bill for three thousand pounds.

In the middle of the door, in opaque lowercase letters,  was the name of the shop: "fabulous flowers." Sometimes, when there weren't many people about, Abby would stand with her nose pressed against the window and gaze at the outsize glass vases full of flowers, still not quite able to believe that the shop belonged to her.

"So, how come you were at this funeral in the first place?"

Another question. Soph was forever asking questions. How much did you pay for it? Why did your father need a colonoscopy? How come your uncle went bankrupt? Soph said all Jews were the same. They were genetically programmed to interrogate. They liked to take an interest in other people's lives. It was their way of showing that they cared. Soph's parents were the same. They even bickered in question marks.

"Sammy, do you have the time?"

"Tell me something, Faye. Do I look like a clock?"

Abby turned the key in the lock. "I wasn't at the funeral exactly." She explained that Smarty Arty, the deceased children's entertainer, had lived across the street from her parents. "Mum had a soft spot for Smarty Arty and his wife. The feeling was pretty mutual, and when Mrs. Smarty Arty found out that Mum and Dad weren't going to be able to make the funeral, she was really upset. Mum was desperate to make it up to her, and since the Smarty Arties were pretty hard up and there was no way Mrs. Smarty Arty could afford more than a cheap wreath to go on top of the coffin, Mum insisted on paying for a really beautiful arrangement, which I put together. When I arrived to deliver it, the old lady invited me in for a cup of tea." A smile formed on Abby's face as she wondered whether her explanation would satisfy Soph or whether her friend would feel the need to come back with a couple of supplementary questions or raise points that, to her mind, still required clarification. In the end, all Soph said by way of reply was: "Oh, right."

"Three years I've been running this business," Abby went on, her tone becoming wistful, "and it's only the second time I've had to do funeral flowers."

"And do you remember the first time?"

Even now, two years later, Abby blushed. "As if I could forget."

Two orders had come in on the same day. One was from a woman wanting to wish friends good luck with their house move. The other was for funeral flowers. Somehow Abby managed to get the orders mixed up, and the dead person received a bunch of sunflowers containing a card that read: Congratulations on your new home.

Her monumental cock-up aside, Abby wasn't surprised that she received so few orders for funeral flowers. After all, Fabulous Flowers was in Islington, an area inhabited almost exclusively by hip, health-conscious and very much alive young professionals. Their floral requirements tended less toward funeral wreaths and more toward hand-tied calla lily bouquets, amaryllis centerpieces and giant zinc containers full of contorted willow to set off their edgy loft spaces.

As Abby carried on chatting to Soph, she pushed on the shop door to check that it was secure. Satisfied that it was, she set off toward the tube station, turning up her jacket collar as she went. The heavens had opened a few hours earlier, and the pavement was full of puddles reflecting light from the streetlamps. She couldn't help noticing the weary irritation on the faces of the commuters as they struggled to dodge the puddles as well as one another.

"Oh, for God's sake," she exclaimed at one point.

"What?" Soph said.

"Bloody car just went by and splashed my stockings." She stopped and began rubbing at her shins, which until now had been encased in grime-free, fresh-out-of-the-packet, nude satin stockings. The rubbing seemed to spread the dirt rather than remove it. Then, to her horror, she noticed there were more splashes on the hem of her brand-new three-hundred-quid Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress. She decided that as soon as she got to the restaurant she would make a quick dash to the ladies' room and have another go with a wet paper towel.

As she set off again, she glanced at her watch. It was after seven. She was cutting it fine if she was going to make it to the restaurant by half past. She couldn't be late. Not tonight of all nights. She attempted to pick up her pace, but it wasn't easy, what with the commuters and the puddles.
If it hadn't been for a mother and her daughter debating until after six about whether a bouquet that contained trailing stephanotis as well as longiflorum lilies might eclipse the daughter's wedding dress, she would have been ready on time. Abby, who had been provided with a photograph of the dress, was tempted to say that nothing short of a bunch of hand-tied asteroids could eclipse the meringue Gone with the Wind-inspired creation before her--but she bit her lip.

In the end, she had been left with only three quarters of an hour to get home and get changed. On the plus side, her flat was over the shop, which meant her traveling time was roughly fifteen seconds.

"So, your mum and dad enjoying their cruise?" Soph inquired.

"Er, less of the c word, please. This is an expedition, remember?" Abby's parents, Jean and Hugh, were on their way to the South Pole. They were going to visit the penguins--on one of those cruises designed to make the middle-aged feel better about being on a cruise by cutting back on cabin size, entertainment and rations and pretending it was really an expedition. A few days ago, they had flown to Buenos Aires,...

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Verlag
Bantam
Erscheinungsdatum
2009
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0385339003
ISBN 13 
9780385339001
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
400
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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