‘Thanks, Uncle Scott. I’ll return the favour when you start dating again.’ The kid turned away before Scott could reprimand the cheeky blighter. ‘Come on, Nanny, let’s get you set up in front of the TV.’
Scott ruffled Ben’s hair as he wheeled Billie into the lounge. The kid was right though, he didn’t date. Nicole’s reaction to his mother’s stroke had left him wary of getting involved. He was better off sticking with casual hook-ups, rather than searching for ‘the one’.
Which was a shame, since he’d recently met someone who’d ignited his interest. The woman at the florist’s was just his type – a cute brunette with a curvy bum. He’d been mesmerised. Not just in a sexual way, but in a ‘I’d like to date you’ kind of way, which was not what he wanted, or could offer, so it was lucky she didn’t feel the same way.
Why was he thinking about a woman he’d only met once? Especially one who’d been less than enamoured with him. It was probably Ben’s talk of his ‘big date’, reminding him what he was missing out on. As if he needed any kind of reminder.
When social services knocked on the door shortly after eleven, all Scott’s insecurities resurfaced. The two women were nice enough, asking him how he was coping and making suitably sympathetic noises as they were shown around the adapted apartment, but Scott still felt like he was being interviewed, tested in some way, as though they didn’t quite think he was up to the task. This feeling was compounded when they walked into the lounge to find Ben re-enacting a scene from The Bourne Identity where Matt Damon rolls around the floor trying to disarm a rival agent with a bread knife. Add in Billie still wearing her nightclothes and a sink full of dirty dishes and Scott felt like the worst carer in the universe.
But they didn’t appear perturbed. Thankfully, they refused the offer of tea and made tracks to leave, but not before handing Scott another form to complete.
His heart sank. He hated forms.
He barely listened as the woman rattled on about his mum being transitioned from Disability Living Allowance to the new Personal Independence Payment. All he could see was a multi-page document with big empty squares requiring completion. It was bleeding obvious his mum needed help, anyone could see that. Why did he need to justify it to a bunch of red-tapers?
‘You have one month to complete the paperwork,’ the woman said, stepping into the communal corridor. ‘Unfortunately, there’s a backlog on claims at the moment, so you might find there’s a gap between DLA ending and PIP starting.’
Great. Just what he needed. ‘How much of a delay?’
The woman was already walking away, distancing herself from potential abuse over the inadequacies of the country’s welfare benefit system. ‘Anything up to nine months, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, any award will be backdated to the start of the claim.’
Well, that’s all right then, he thought, his sarcasm morphing into annoyance. Jesus, at this rate he might have to ask Ben for his twenty quid back.
Evie braked sharply as she pulled into the tight parking space at Peacock Court, narrowly avoiding an elderly resident wobbling on his walking stick. The last thing she wanted was to knock the poor man over. Having never owned a car, she was woefully lacking in experience since passing her test a few months earlier. But, as travelling by bus with an armful of flowers wasn’t an option, she’d overcome her aversion and leased a small Transit.
Climbing out of the van, she checked that the man was okay. He waved away her polite enquiries, seemingly unaffected by his instability. Most days one of her casual drivers made the deliveries so Evie could fulfil orders back at the shop. But Cordelia Harrison-Walker required a more personal service, one Evie was happy to provide.
Pushing the bell on the intercom, Evie was buzzed in. She carried her bag and tray of flowers along the corridor. Peacock Court was a generic collection of one-storey apartments, the communal areas decorated in uninspiring muted greys, until you reached the bright red door of number seventeen. When Evie had received a call from Cordelia Harrison-Walker a few weeks earlier, asking if The Forget-Me-Not Flower Shop were able to offer a home visiting service, Evie had formed a prim mental picture of the ninety-four-year-old woman. She’d assumed simplicity and moderation would be the key to fulfilling her client’s brief. How wrong she’d been.
Moderation wasn’t a word that described Cordelia in any shape or form. Her small apartment was painted dusky blue with matching carpets and curtains. Grand pieces of furniture were crammed into the limited space, the sofa and chairs upholstered in expensive gold brocade. The walls housed large and dominant pieces of artwork, but it was the baby grand piano filling the living space that had really caused Evie’s sharp intake of breath. Seventeen Peacock Court was an opulent and extravagant gem nestled inside a soulless box of bland local authority housing. Evie loved it.
With her hands full, Evie waited for the door to open. As per her previous visits, she was greeted by a strong waft of perfume and the tiny yet indomitable form of Cordelia Harrison-Walker, dressed in a red velvet wrap dress, her hair coiffed into a chignon.
‘Darling girl, do come in.’ Cordelia ushered her inside, her agility defying her ninety-four years. As always, she was heavily made up and her home spotless, not a sequined cushion out of place. ‘Can I assist you with your wares?’
Evie lowered the tray of flowers onto the sideboard. ‘I’m good, thanks, Mrs Harrison-Walker.’ Evie was treated to a double-cheeked kiss, as though she were a treasured relative, rather than a visiting tradeswoman.
‘Dispense with the formalities, my dear. It’s plain and simple Cordelia.’
Plain and simple weren’t adjectives that sprung to mind.
Cordelia squeezed her hand. ‘Now, I have a lovely fruitcake cooling in the kitchen, one of my specialties. Make yourself at home whilst I attend to the refreshments.’ She stared down at Evie’s feet. ‘Goodness me, what do we have here?’ Cordelia peered closer, inspecting Evie’s glass-heeled sandals. ‘Are they … fish?’
Evie nodded. ‘I found them at a garage sale. Great, aren’t they?’ She angled her foot so Cordelia could see the gold scaling covering the orange fabric. The front of the shoe formed the fish’s head, complete with wide eyes and an open smiling mouth, allowing Evie’s toes to poke through. They weren’t comfortable or practical, but she loved wearing them.
‘They’re original, I’ll say that. Colourful too.’ Her gaze drifted upwards, over Evie’s faded jeans and plain sweatshirt. Her expression indicated a little colour elsewhere might not go amiss, but she was too polite to voice any criticism.
Evie knew her attire was dull. She’d never been an outlandish dresser, but since leaving Guildford she’d stuck with neutral colours and plain designs, content to blend into the background. Evie never used to be self-conscious about her appearance, even if she didn’t always get it right, but Kyle had chipped away at her confidence, controlling what she wore and disapproving of her ‘silly’ shoes until she’d relented and stopped wearing them. Was it such a crime to be ‘silly’? She didn’t think so.
‘They make me smile,’ Evie offered, by way of explanation, not wanting to go into too much detail about her reasoning.
Cordelia patted her arm. ‘Well, nothing wrong with that. And you have such a pretty smile.’ She pinched Evie’s cheek before heading into the kitchen, shaking her head as she went. ‘Fish, indeed.’
Evie picked up the ceramic vases that had been left out for her and went into the bathroom to fill them. In keeping with the rest of