“Oh, come on, Bel,” I murmur as I lean against the counter. “Shedidapologize. Several times. I heard her.”
But Belinda only flicks her pink-streaked hair from her forehead and hitches her nose higher in the air.
“She was clearly devastated after you left,” I add. “The moment you were out the door, she sat right down and started making a list of ways to get back in your good graces. Action item number one was begging for your forgiveness on her hands and knees. Then, on her belly, if necessary.”
Belinda pauses, one wrinkly twig poised above her vase. “Seriously?”
“As the grave,” I assure her. “There was also something on there about offering to de-thorn roses for you until she’d worked off her debt. I’m not sure if that’s a thing florists actually do, but she really was quite sorry.” I exhale a meaningful sigh. “Though not as sorry as she was this morning, when the bullying from the Who’s Who of the London floral community hit her inbox full force.” I arch a brow her way. “Your doing, I presume?”
Belinda has the grace to look slightly abashed. “I made a few calls. As a gesture of professional courtesy. We look out for each other in our industry. We have to. You wouldn’t believe the way people try to take advantage of vendors in the hospitality field, Oliver.”
“Well, no, I can’t, but I imagine it’s awful. So many entitled people making unhinged demands.” I cock my head and furrow my brow, begging for a scrap of empathy like a homeless puppy. I’m not too proud to beg, especially if there’s even a chance I can get Belinda to give Em the benefit of the doubt. “But Emily isn’t one of those people, Bel. She’s a party planner. In the hospitality field trenches, just like you. She’s a comrade in arms, not your enemy.”
“I’m not so sure aboutthat,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of doubt in her tone that wasn’t there before. “Though Idohave sympathy for anyone trying to pull together a pitch for an event like the Fletchers’ gala. That’s nearly as much pressure as a royal engagement.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, before adding idly, “Speaking of society functions, my mother’s looking for someone to do the floral design for our New Year’s Eve party at Swallow House.” She isn’t, actually. We never do flowers for the New Year’s event, not since Edward and I both grew quite serious about sustainable holiday decorating in our teens. Shipping a massive load of blooms in the dead of winter isn’t environmentally responsible. But we can make an exception. Just this once… “It isn’t a massive event, but the royal family always stops by for dinner before they’re off to their other engagements. And when they do, I’d be happy to mention who did the centerpieces for the table. I hear they haven’t decided who’s doing the flowers for the princess’s wedding summer after next, so…”
Belinda’s hands go completely still, and I’m sure dreams of being the lucky florist who lands the next royal wedding dance behind her eyes.
“I mean, if you would have time to fit in a few centerpieces and something for the entry hall.” I examine my nails with studied casualness. “I know you’re very busy. What with all theholiday parties and events and crushing the dreams of accident-prone, but very hardworking, veryapologeticAmericans…”
She wrinkles her nose. “Subtle, Featherswallow.”
“No, just hopeful, darling,” I counter. “I’ve never seen a woman so broken up about tripping over her own feet. And that’s all it was, Bel. Just a silly accident.”
Belinda sighs, setting down her stem as she turns to face me fully for the first time. Then, with the air of someone making a great and noble sacrifice, she pulls out her phone.
“Fine. One last chance.One. I’ll shoot her an email, offering her another opportunity for a consultation.” She types quickly, her thumbs flying with impressive speed. “But if she destroys anything else, I’m billing you personally.”
I grin, some of the tension easing from my chest as I thank her.
Profusely.
“I’m serious,” she adds as she finishes the email and sends it on its way with a final tap to her screen. She sets the phone down before pinning me with a stern finger, “If she’s late or pushy or shows the slightest sign that she’ll be difficult to work with, I’m done.”
I nod, sobering. “Understood. But I’m sure she won’t be. Emily’s delightful. Completely delightful. Once you get to know her, of course.”
“Clearly, you think so.” Her lips hook up in a knowing smirk. “But try and keep your enjoyment of her ‘delights’ indoors from now on, all right, Oliver? I don’t know about you, but if shots of me snogging by a lamppost were all over social media, my mother would be having a meltdown.”
“My mother doesn’t pay much attention to social media. Or any media at all, really,” I say, before adding with a dry smile, “But my grandmotherhastexted a dozen times.” I lift my cell as I back toward the door. “Speaking of, I should get back to herbefore she sends the mounted police to fetch me. As for the New Year’s Eve party, I?—”
“I’ll have sketches to you by early next week, and you can forward them to your mother.” She waves me off. “Go on. Call your grandmother and beg forgiveness for being a slag.”
She softens the words with a laugh, which I appreciate.
I have no shame about being a slag, but I’m grateful that I’m no longer on Belinda’s shit list. She reallyisthe best florist in London.
As I step outside, the cold hits me afresh.
The sight of another text and two missed calls from my grandmother increases the chill. Her meddling makes my mother’s attempts at matchmaking seem quaint by comparison. Her mother, the Dowager Baroness Plimpton, is a shameless bully who steamrolls through her grandchildren’s lives with zero apology. When you’re on her good side, she can be an invaluable ally and fantastic, silly fun.
But get on her bad side…
Bracing myself for another charm offensive, I tap her contact, booming a warm, “Grandmother! Happy Christmas, how are you?” when she answers.
“Oliver. Good gracious! Finally!” Her voice carries the kind of authority that once commanded diplomatic missions and now leads the Corgi Appreciation Society with zero tolerance for shirking or shenanigans. “I was beginning to think you’d been kidnapped. Or worse, were avoiding me…”
“Never, Grandmother. Simply had some business to attend to.”
