The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop: The feel-good romantic comedy to read in 2018 - Tracy Corbett

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made her speed up, increasing her pace. He upped his stride too. Was he really following her, or was she being paranoid? Only one way to find out.

      She swerved across the road, looping around the traffic island, trying to get behind him rather than in front so she had the upper hand. He was too quick, his pace keeping him behind her. She was at full stretch now, her lungs burning from sprinting. She was running out of steam. She couldn’t keep this up.

      She had two options, try and make it to the police station a few streets away, or stop running and confront her pursuer. Her body made the decision for her, cramping her calves, warning that if she continued she was likely to end up on crutches.

      She spun around and stopped dead. The man had to swerve to miss her. He stumbled off the pavement, landing heavily on the road.

      Evie stood over him, struggling for air. ‘Why are you following me?’

      He groaned, trying to right himself. ‘What the fuck?’

      She waved a fist at him as he stood up. ‘I said, why are you following me?’

      ‘I’m not.’ He backed away, looking at her like she was all manner of crazy. ‘Why the fuck would I be following you?’

      ‘You sped up. Why did you do that if you weren’t following me?’

      He looked bewildered. ‘I’m training for an Iron Man competition. You were setting a decent pace, it was a challenge to keep up.’

      ‘Well, next time think about how it looks to the person you’re chasing. I’m a woman. It’s dark. A man is behind me and when I speed up to get some distance, he speeds up too. How do you think that looks from my perspective, eh?’

      His anger seemed to abate as he rubbed his arm. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

      Evie started to feel foolish. It was clear he wasn’t about to attack her. ‘How’s your shoulder?’

      ‘Sore.’ He turned and ran off, a distinctive limp in his gait. ‘Fucking nutter.’

      Evie took a deep breath, trying to ease the panic from her system. Go home, she told herself. But when she tried to jog she discovered her legs were spent. Feeling a mixture of embarrassment and utter exhaustion, she ambled home, still routinely checking over her shoulder.

      Not exactly the best start to her new confidence regime, was it?

       CHAPTER NINE

       Sunday, 2 March

      Anyone watching Patricia Robinson playing tennis would be full of admiration. Aged forty-five she was still a trim size ten, her hair tinted several shades of warm blonde, her youthful exuberance around the court keeping her opponents fully on the back foot. It was only after the game had finished and she was in the privacy of the changing rooms that her carefully honed veneer slipped. Stepping into the hot shower she allowed her face to display the discomfort she felt, rubbing away the ache in her left knee. But as her mother had always reminded her, appearance was everything. Like animals in the wild, it was imperative to hide any pain. It was the only way to avoid being eaten. Patricia’s mother had always favoured the dramatic. The sentiment, however, was clear enough. Never let your guard down.

      Which was particularly testing when your joints had started to wear and your husband was a philandering charmer. But no one’s life was without challenges, and adversity only served to strengthen her resolve. After all, she had a daughter to protect. Amy’s happiness was far more important than her own.

      On cue her mobile rang, allowing her just enough time to wrap herself in a towel. Lifting the phone to her ear, she forced a smile, checking her complexion in the harsh changing room mirrors. Time was definitely catching up with her.

      ‘Amy, love. How did you get on?’ Her daughter had been competing in a dance competition in London. It was the first time in eighteen years Patricia hadn’t been present at a key event in her daughter’s life. Amy had invited her boyfriend to go with her instead, and although the rejection stung, Patricia would never let on. Amy wasn’t being deliberately cruel. Far from it. She was just growing up, flying the nest, being the independent, talented, resourceful woman Patricia had raised her to be. Patricia could hardly complain, could she?

      ‘Mum, it was brilliant! I won both solo categories and placed second in the group section.’ The background noise was deafening.

      Patricia battled with the conflicting emotions rising in within her. How she would’ve loved to see her daughter perform. ‘Darling, that’s amazing. Well done. I’m so proud. I’ll bet Miss Leigh is over the moon.’

      Her daughter laughed. ‘You’d think! She’s accusing the judges of favouritism. The Jayne Middle dance team placed first. Miss Leigh’s furious.’

      ‘I can imagine.’ Her daughter’s dance teacher had never taken failure well. It was first or nothing. ‘Are you heading home now?’

      ‘Not yet. Ben’s taking me for a celebration dinner. There’s a Caribbean restaurant in Ealing he’s excited about.’

      Patricia tried to keep her voice neutral. ‘Sounds wonderful.’ Her daughter finding love was yet another development Patricia was struggling to adjust to. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Ben – he was a great kid, smart and funny. She just wished her daughter wasn’t quite so absorbed by the relationship. Amy was too young to be tied down. She should be seeing what the world had to offer. But then who was Patricia to talk? She’d been the same at that age, swept away by the attentions of a boy, married before she was twenty-one. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps her own experience was clouding her judgement.

      ‘Don’t be home too late, darling. You have school in the morning and exams looming.’

      Her daughter’s giggle rippled down the phone. ‘Stop it, Ben! Sorry, Mum, I’ll call when we’re on the train. Got to go, it’s prize time. Bye!’

      Patricia was left clutching the phone, her heart aching along with her knee. She wanted so much to see her daughter collecting her awards, but there was no way she’d ever let Amy know how she felt. She’d do what she always did and present a happy front, encouraging to the last, even if it killed her.

      Regaining her composure, she set about fixing her face, applying blusher to warm her complexion, mascara to open her eyes and lip gloss to cheer her mouth. With a brush of her hair and quick whizz over with the travel straighteners, she was good to go. Appearance was everything, she repeated for the umpteenth time that day. It didn’t matter what was going on underneath. To the outside world you needed to appear perfectly content, in control, happily married and successful. No wonder she felt like a Stepford Wife.

      Spraying herself with Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, Patricia pulled on her skinny jeans and wrapped her shoulders in a soft camel cardigan, ready to join her tennis partner for a post-match drink.

      As she left the changing rooms and headed across to the Bell Inn, she ignored the looks from the other women and their envious comments about her Pilates-toned physique. Don’t be fooled, she wanted to tell them, appearances can be deceptive. On the surface, Patricia appeared to have the perfect life, a beautiful home, a healthy, smart daughter, with regular holidays to the most luxurious places, but no amount of money could ever compensate for a faithless husband.

      Patricia entered the pub and found Martin seated in the conservatory, checking his phone. The new owners had transformed the old-world pub into a pristine wine bar with modern artwork and quirky industrial lighting. Despite its monochrome theme the owners had managed to retain an intimate atmosphere, both welcoming and fashionable.

      Martin waved her over. ‘The drinks are on order. Just give me two minutes to finish this and then I’m done.’ His frown deepened as he typed, shaking his head with obvious frustration. Finally he sat back, dropping

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