Page 2 of A Season for Scandal

I had the feeling Simon was parroting his father’s words here. It certainly sounded like his father, who had made it clear that he thought his son could do better than the granddaughter of a florist.

“I thought wewereserious.”

The look he gave me then was pitying. He reached out and patted my hand.Patted my hand!A surge of fury blazed within me. I had never hit anyone in my life, but my fingers curled into a fist.

“This is for the best,” Simon said, oblivious to the fact that I was fantasizing about squashing his head like a grape. “Now, let me take you home.”

The whole situation seemed like a bad dream. Could this really be happening? Could things fall apart so quickly, so easily? A handful of words spoken on a walk in the park upending an entire life. Several lives.

I shrugged his hand off. “No, thank you.” I ground the words out, determined to retain some shred of dignity. I was relieved to find I still had that thread of steel left inside me; I’m certain there was part of Simon that had been expecting a scene. Indeed, there was part of me that could happily have provided it, a part that wanted nothing more than to cry, to beg him to reconsider. I wasn’t going to let that happen; instead I kept my face and voice expressionless, a mask of bland indifference that only a fool would truly believe.

He didn’t even bother trying to hide his relief at my calm acceptance. “Oh, well then.” He was already stepping away. “I’ll let you get on your way. No hard feelings and all that. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

And on that incredibly anticlimactic note my relationship with Simon ended. Almost two years of my life, all my plans for the future … gone.

I stood, absorbing the moment like a blow, and breathing deeply as I settled back into my body.

Here in the park, you could almost forget you were in the middle of the city. Here, green shoots were bursting through the dirt, flowers were starting to bloom – splashes of vibrant colour that wanted to spill over on to the well-trodden footpaths. I wriggled my toes in my boots. Under the earth, I knew that life whispered, gathering itself, preparing to blaze upwards, reaching tender, twining fingers towards the sun. The breeze stirred through the newly uncurled leaves over my head, bright and fresh and full of promise.

I’ve always loved spring the most. It makes sense, I suppose, for a florist. It’s the time when the world seems to wake up and stretch, to shake off the dreariness of winter and come alive again. It is a time of new beginnings, fresh starts.

Nothing could be that bad, I reminded myself. Not really, not when the world was green and alive.

I tugged at my drab, grey coat. I’d bought it because Simon hadn’t liked my old one, with its bright crimson lining and pretty trim. He’d said it was flashy. That it drew the wrong sort of attention. Surely, he had said, the only attention I really wanted was his?

That would change now. Everything would change now.

Bending down over the riot of daffodils, I snapped one carefully at the stem, threaded it through my buttonhole – a defiant flash of gold against my throat.

I needed to tell my family what had happened. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that, not when Simon’s decision affected them almost as much as it did me.

I was going to need another moment before that, I thought on a ragged sigh. A moment to collect myself, a moment of steadiness.

There was only one place I wanted to be.

CHAPTER TWO

The sight of Bloom’s flower shop in all its glory was like a balm to my soul. I felt some of the anxiety slip from my shoulders as I approached the building where I spent most of my days. Not every young woman could say they loved their job as much as I did.

The door to the shop was painted a gleaming black, the wide picture windows to either side filled with frothy, unruly displays of spring flowers that I had put together myself, and that – I was pleased to say – often stopped passers-by in their tracks, tempting them inside. The sign above the door was gold on black,Bloom’s Est. 1845, with the shop’s logo – a bouquet of marigolds, roses and daisies in reference to the given names of the Bloom women – twined around the words. Green palms stood proud in pots on either side of the door, and on the street in front was a small grocer’s cart that we used to display posies and men’s buttonholes.

“Hello, Jane.” I kept my voice level, all signs of anxiety tucked away as I greeted the young girl who stood behind the cart, overseeing that side of the business. “Looks like you’ve had a good morning.”

Jane nodded, pleased. “Those white tulip buttonholes you made have gone down a treat, Miss Bloom. You were right – they look very handsome against the dark suits.”

“Lovely. We’ll make sure to pick up more at the market later if Jack has a decent supply. What about the pink anemones?”

Jane frowned. “Not so good. I think they’re drooping a bit.”

“I’ll have to see if I can do something better with the wire. They’re so delicate.”

“Right you are.” Jane was distracted then by an approaching customer, and I pushed my way through the door. The brass bell above rang out a greeting – a bright, happy sound.

I loved this shop. I loved the tall windows that faced out on to the sunny street. I loved the banks of elegant, fine-leafed palms that framed the black-and-white tiled floor in front of the counter. I loved the ever-changing baskets of flowers: today, slender purple irises, creamy magnolias, star-like golden narcissus, filling the room with their heady scent.

I loved the enormous brass till that sat beside the tray of pretty chocolates – violet and rose creams that my sister Daisy and I made in our kitchen, all available to buy in cream boxes stamped with the Bloom’s logo.

I loved the wall covered in different coloured ribbons, the vases spilling over with examples of the bouquets we could put together. I felt such a bone-deep sense of pride as I took it all in – a shop that I had helped to build. A shop that was so warm and welcoming that people wanted to linger.