The Florist

by C.L. Pattison

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

A gripping, deliciously dark thriller about a florist who becomes convinced one of her wealthy clients is trying to frame her for murder. Perfect for fans of The Housemaid, T.M. Logan and B.A. Paris.

Every rose has its thorn...
Amy Mackenzie is on the up. Her florist business is thriving, with a roll call of wealthy clients. And none are more glamorous than architect James Elliott and his beautiful wife, Eleanor. But try as she might to become part of their world, Amy is always on the outside looking in.

Hired by the couple to provide the flowers for a lavish party, Amy sees an opportunity to have the kind of lifestyle she's always dreamed of. But when a guest suffers a violent and shocking death, the finger of blame is soon pointing at Amy. As the florist fights to clear her name, it isn't long before she uncovers some ugly truths about the Elliotts.

But Amy is hiding an even bigger secret. And by the time she realises the past has finally caught up with her, it might just be too late.

(P)2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: September 7, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 336

Sample

‘If you could just tell us in your own words what happened at The Sanctuary.’

I place two fingers on the tender spot between my eyebrows. ‘It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest,’ I say, the words feeling sticky in my mouth. ‘I think I’m still in shock.’

Detective Inspector Kate Kilner’s face fills with sympathy as she leans forward, resting an elbow on the starched white sheet of my hospital bed. ‘You’ve just had a very traumatic experience, it’s perfectly natural to feel a little confused.’

I lie back on the pillows and take a few long, slow breaths. It’s barely twenty-four hours since I regained consciousness and my brain feels sore. There’s a long silence. It stretches out, thinning until it becomes awkward.

‘What if we rewind . . . go right back to the beginning?’ says DI Kilner’s colleague, whose name has momentarily escaped me. He’s a big man; his corpulent bulk fills the room in a way that feels slightly intrusive. ‘How did you first come to meet the Elliott family?’

If only they knew the truth: that this all began way before I ever laid eyes on the Elliotts. Before I even knew they existed.

‘Through work,’ I tell him. ‘Darling Buds has been doing the flowers for James Elliott’s office premises for several years. He’s one of our best customers.’

‘And his wife, Eleanor?’

‘Also a client. We supplied the floral arrangements for a couple of social events at her home.’

DI Kilner steps in. ‘So were you at the Elliotts’ home in a professional capacity on the morning of the twenty-second of September?’

A wave of exhaustion washes over me. The kind of tiredness that creeps up behind you and climbs on your back, its clammy tentacles slithering round your throat. I don’t think I can do this now. I need more time to get the facts straight in my head; iron out any creases.

‘I’m sorry, I know you’re only doing your job, but I don’t think I’m in any fit state to answer questions right now. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow.’

DS Pearce, whose name has just popped into my head, smiles stiffly. ‘Your doctor’s given us clearance to speak to you. It really would be better to get this out of the way now, while events are still fresh in your mind. One person is dead and another is in a critical condition. You’re the only one who can tell us what happened.’

‘Actually, that’s not strictly true,’ Kilner corrects him. ‘We do have another witness.’

A flicker of surprise in the centre of my spine. What does she mean? It was just the three of us in that room.

She pulls out her mobile phone. ‘Here, let me show you.’ She presses a button to adjust the volume, then places the phone on the bed where I can see it.

As I look down at the screen, Kilner’s eyes are on me, alert to the smallest tell. I manage to maintain a neutral expression, but it takes every ounce of energy I can muster.

When the video has finished playing, I shut my eyes. I can feel the throb of a headache starting in my temples. My thoughts are like rats in a burning building, running along one wall after another, desperately looking for the escape route. I’m inclined to take DS Pearce’s advice. Tell them everything.

In light of the surprising new information DI Kilner has just presented me with, what other choice do I have?

The man on the end of the phone has a guilty conscience. His tone is slightly sheepish and he’s speaking a little more loudly than he needs to, trying to convince himself that this is just another boring business transaction in his oh-so-busy day. One he wishes he could hand off to his PA, except he’s not sure he can trust her to get it right – not when there’s so much at stake.

‘I’m looking for something really special,’ he says. ‘It’s for my wife.’

‘OK, what sort of thing did you have in mind?’

‘I don’t know; I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.’

‘That’s fine. How much did you want to spend?’

‘There’s no upper limit.’

Okaaay. Sounds like this guy’s really in the doghouse.

‘Is it a special occasion?’

‘Not as such.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s more a case that I’ve been taking my wife for granted. I need to show her how much she means to me.’

In other words he cheated and was careless enough to get caught. Pulling on my bottom lip, I run through a few options in my mind. Freesias won’t be enough to get him out of jail, or even a lavish bouquet of floribundas. Nope, I’ll need to bring out the big guns for this one.

‘What’s your wife’s favourite colour?’

‘I haven’t got a clue.’

Seriously?

‘No problem. Let me ask you this then: how would you describe your wife’s personality?’

He heaves a sigh. ‘Is this necessary? I just want some beautiful flowers for my wife; it’s quite simple.’

Except it isn’t; it’s actually very complex, but I wouldn’t expect a man like him – a man who doesn’t even know what his wife’s favourite colour is – to understand that.

‘Just run with it, all right? If your wife isn’t delighted with the end result, I’ll give you your money back, I promise.’

Another sigh. ‘She’s quiet and sensitive; definitely more introvert than extrovert.’ He gives a little snort. ‘Mind you, her inhibitions go out the window when she’s had a few gin and tonics.’

I ignore the barb. ‘Does she prefer the city or the countryside?’

‘The countryside, definitely. She’s been saying we should move out of London for ages.’

I scribble some notes on the pad in front of me; that’s narrowed down the field considerably.

‘What about her taste in interior decor? Traditional? Minimalist? Contemporary?’

‘Erm . . . how about rustic? Will that do?’

‘Rustic will do nicely.’

We proceed in a similar fashion for another minute or two until finally I’m ready to present my recommendation. ‘Based on the information you’ve given me, I suggest one of our handwoven willow baskets, filled with pink and white ranunculus, pastel Himalayan Musk roses – trust me when I say their scent is out of this world – purple delphiniums and pure white baby orchids.’ He won’t get much change out of a hundred and fifty quid for that lot – but hey, forgiveness doesn’t come cheap. ‘How does that sound?’

‘Good,’ he says briskly. ‘When can you deliver?’

I glance at the clock above the door. ‘It’ll be tomorrow morning now.’

‘Oh.’ He sounds disappointed. ‘Is there no way you can get them to her today?’

Poor bastard, he’s scared that by morning his wife could be gone.

‘Just hold the line a second for me, please.’

Pressing the handset to my chest, I turn to my assistant, Claire. The muscles of her jaw are tight as she strips the leaves from dozens of gerbera stems (not one of my favourite flowers, I must admit, but they’re such a crowd-pleaser we’d be stupid not to stock them). Our regular delivery guy’s already clocked off, but the van’s parked up outside and Claire’s job description is pretty loose.

‘How do you fancy a quick run over to Clapham in about half an hour?’ I ask her.

‘Whatever you need, Amy,’ she says, glancing up. ‘Just let me know when the order’s ready.’

I put the phone back to my ear. ‘Yes, Mr Prout, we can deliver this afternoon, but there will be a fifteen-pound surcharge.’

His relief is palpable. ‘That’s great, thank you for being so accommodating.’

I pick up my biro. ‘And what message would you like on the card?’

‘All my love, Antony,’ he says. ‘Without an H.’

My eyebrows knit in a frown. This guy really isn’t doing himself any favours. ‘I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I wonder if your wife might appreciate a few more words, something a little more . . . meaningful.’

There’s such a long silence I actually think he’s hung up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says at last and I hear the catch in his voice. ‘You can put that on the card. I’m sorry and I promise faithfully it will never happen again. All my love, Antony.’

Weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, make-up flowers, break-up flowers, flowers to celebrate new life, comfort the sick and honour the dead: my couture creations mark every milestone and human drama you can think of. Behind each and every order lies a story and if you want to get it right, then a grasp of basic psychology is vital. You see, floristry isn’t just about colour combinations and knowing what’s in season; it’s about being able to evoke an emotion and change someone’s mood in an instant. As I often say to people, I don’t just sell flowers; I sell feelings.

When I was younger, I was convinced my future lay in graphic design, but by the end of my first year at art college, I was already having serious doubts. During the summer break I answered an ad for a part-time job in a florist’s shop. And that was it – the beginning of my love affair with flowers. I never went back to art college.

Within six months, I was managing the shop and studying for a floristry qualification in my spare time. Within a year, I’d landed a much better paid job at a self-styled ‘artisan’ florist’s in Shoreditch. I worked there until five years ago, when I spotted a derelict shop on Forest Hill high street, not far from my flat. That was where Darling Buds was born.

Running your own business is hard work, and there were times I wondered whether I’d made the right decision. I plodded along for a couple of years, honing my craft and developing my marketing skills, but the truth was I was barely earning enough to pay the bills.

The turning point came when a boutique hotel in West London commissioned me to create a large and daring floral installation (think Amazon rainforest meets English country garden) for the launch of their new spa. I knew the hotel’s PR through a friend of a friend and agreed to do the job for a fraction of what anyone else would’ve charged, just for the experience.

The installation was a big hit – more popular even than the free hand massages, and I landed several lucrative commissions on the back of the publicity. Things just snowballed from there.

Of course, my bread and butter is still the gifting market, but every now and then I get the chance to do a large-scale project – an extravagant doorway arch for a restaurant opening, or a lavish flower wall for a high-end wedding. That’s when my creativity runs riot and I get the chance to show what I’m really capable of. Which reminds me – as soon as I’ve finished Antony-without-an-H’s order, I must update my Instagram. I post as often as I can. I have to, I can’t risk dropping off the radar, even momentarily, not when so many other florists – younger, hungrier, with perpetually churning Insta feeds and chirpy instructive vlogs – are competing for a limited amount of work.

An hour and a half later, I’m sitting in the studio, sipping a cup of peppermint tea and staring at my laptop screen. Social media has done wonders for Darling Buds. All those likes and shares are worth more than any ad campaign, and best of all, I get to be a whole other Amy Mackenzie – an Amy who’s flamboyant and fun-loving and completely at home in any social milieu. My fifteen-point-seven thousand Instagram followers would probably be horribly disappointed if they ever met me in person. Sometimes I feel as if I have lots of different versions of myself tucked up inside me – a whole cast of understudies, some more likeable than others, all waiting in the wings for their turn on stage.

Today’s photo is a delicate wedding corsage – a frothy confection of roses, snapdragons, sweet peas, pelargonium, phlox and eucalyptus. The bride was a total bitch, a pedantic control freak, who wanted to dictate the minutiae of the flowers a year in advance. I tried to explain to her that thanks to climate change, it was impossible to predict what would be available next spring and that she wouldn’t be able to have peonies for love or money if they finished flowering a month early. Of course, I’m not going to put any of that in my post. This isn’t reality after all; it’s a carefully curated, fragrant fantasy.

On the day of the wedding, I delivered the flowers to the venue – a historic pile in the arse end of nowhere (no pun intended). As I pulled up in the van, I spotted a vintage Norton motorbike, parked in the dappled shade of a cherry tree. I didn’t know who it belonged to and frankly, I didn’t care; I know a photo opportunity when I see one. Moments later, I was laying the posy carefully on the motorcycle’s worn leather saddle, praying that its owner wasn’t about to appear and ask me what the hell I was doing.

Navigating to the photos folder on my laptop, I open the half dozen or so pictures I took. They’re even better than I remember. The bike, with its sinuous curves and gleaming chrome, provides a pleasing contrast to the delicate flowers, while the early morning sunshine lends the scene a soft, almost ethereal glow.

After selecting one of the images, I spend several minutes editing it to perfection. All it needs then is a snappy caption. I think for a few moments and then my fingers return to the keyboard.

Put the petal to the metal! Thank you, Kayla, for being the loveliest bride to work with and for entrusting Darling Buds to inject some floral va-va-voom into your big day.

Perfect, I think to myself as I click Share. If only real life were this straightforward. Everything polished, filtered and posted in a neat little square.

I hoist the Venetian blinds and throw open the sash window overlooking the garden. The sun is glinting in the sky and I can hear the fluting song of a blackbird. I love the fact I have a private outdoor space; it’s part of the reason I wanted a ground-floor flat. When I bought the property last year, the garden was a complete mess, a sun-scorched patch of grass, surrounded by thuggish clumps of weeds and the odd diseased hosta. But slowly, painstakingly, I brought it back to life and filled it with my favourite flowers – azaleas, hollyhocks, pinks and hypericum. And roses, of course. Lots of them, in just about every shade of pink you can imagine, from the palest blush all the way through to deep raspberry. It’s such a beautiful, tranquil space. There’s something about the colours, the pleasing lack of symmetry that loosens the dark knots inside of me.

Shoving my feet into ballerina slippers, I make my way through to the kitchen. It’s the room where I spend most of my time – not because I do much cooking, but because of its pleasing proportions and the natural light that floods in through the lantern roof. As I move around the room, assembling my breakfast things, I think how nice it is having no one else to look after but myself. I’ve been single for a while now. I was with my last boyfriend, Rob, for six years. There was no big drama surrounding our break-up; it was more of a gradual withdrawal of love. However many times I go over the minutiae of our life together, there was never any satisfactory explanation as to how we had unravelled so spectacularly.

It took me a long while to even realise anything was amiss. After all, the fabric of our relationship was still there – the joint tenancy, the shared record collection, our Maine Coon, Delilah (I didn’t fight Rob for custody – she always preferred him to me). But slowly, drip drip slowly, the sparkle went and everything got just a little bit darker. At first, I pretended not to notice, but eventually it got to the point where I couldn’t ignore the warning signs any longer. Rob, sitting in the living room, a music magazine in his hands, not reading it, just gazing over the top into space. When I’d catch his eye, he’d give me a quick, over-bright smile before returning hastily to the gig guide. There were subtle changes in his appearance too: he lost half a stone and splashed out on some expensive linen shirts for work (this from a man who’d previously been perfectly happy to defile himself with a polyester blend). And then one day, he told me that he’d met someone at work; someone he’d rather be with than me. Some tears were shed, but no insults were hurled, no last-minute plea to stay was made. A civilised ending to a civilised relationship. I wish now I’d put up more of a fight.

After breakfast, I shower and dress, taking a little more care with my outfit than usual. Then I get in the car for the short drive to work.

When I arrive at the shop, Claire’s standing outside, helping a customer choose from the colourful selection in our pavement display. I’m very proud of our frontage. There are no ugly plastic buckets in sight, just an eclectic array of ‘props’ that include a milk churn, some old packing crates, a pair of ornate jardinieres and my personal favourite – a vintage pram. I give Claire a nod of acknowledgement before making my way down the narrow alley at the side of the shop, which leads to my studio. It used to be the storeroom for the greengrocer’s that once occupied the premises, but now it’s where we make up our custom orders. It’s not luxurious, but it has natural light from several large windows and there’s room for a long workbench, big enough for two of us to work side-by-side, as well as a compact kitchen area with a table and chairs.

Inside, I find Ewan tucking into a McDonald’s. Ewan’s our part-time courier. He’s only been with us a couple of months. He’s a nice guy. Late thirties. Fit-looking. Split up with his long-term partner last year and is living with a friend while he looks for a place of his own. He’s certainly a vast improvement on his predecessor – a surly man with a deathly pallor who would furtively sniff-check his armpits when he thought no one was looking.

The minute Ewan sees me, he puts down his food and starts rising to his feet. ‘Sorry, Amy, I was just grabbing a bit of breakfast before I hit the road, but if I’m in your way . . .’

‘It’s fine, Ewan, there’s no rush.’

He sits back down. ‘Busy day ahead?’

‘I’ve got a funeral later.’ I take off my denim jacket and hang it on one of the wall hooks. ‘For a young lady called Iris.’

‘When you say young . . .’

‘Twenty-two.’

‘Shit,’ he says, looking at me aghast. ‘Was she sick?’

I shake my head. ‘Car accident. Her best friend was driving. She took a corner too fast and the car hit a tree head-on.’

‘And the friend?’

‘Survived with barely a scratch.’

Ewan takes a gulp from his cardboard cup, then dabs the corners of his mouth with surprising delicacy. ‘Don’t you find those sorts of jobs a bit depressing?’

I give a one-shouldered shrug. ‘I actually like doing funeral flowers. It feels good knowing I’ve done something – albeit a very small something – to help people who’ve lost a loved one. It’s amazing how flowers can help turn a really ugly occasion into something quite beautiful.’

‘That’s a nice way of looking at it.’

I take down an apron and slip it over my head, looping the strings twice around my waist and tying them in a double knot at the front. ‘Of course, back in the day flowers at funerals weren’t there to make the place look pretty – they served a much more practical purpose.’

‘Oh yeah, what’s that?’

‘To mask the stench emanating from the coffin.’

He makes a gagging noise. ‘That’s gross.’

‘Sorry, am I putting you off your McMuffin?’

He pats his stomach. ‘Don’t worry, it’s already down the hatch.’ He stands up and carries the packaging from his meal over to the swing bin. ‘I’d love to stick around and hear more of your grisly anecdotes, but it’s time for me to hit the road.’

‘Do you have the delivery schedule?’

‘Yep, Claire printed it off for me. I asked her to give me a few business cards as well, just in case any customers ask for one.’

I smile at him appreciatively. I like an employee with initiative.

As I watch him go I find myself wondering – and not for the first time – why someone like Ewan would want to do a monotonous, low-paid job like this one. It was actually one of my interview questions, although I didn’t put it quite so bluntly. He said he’d found his previous job in sales very stressful and wanted to do something less demanding. I got the feeling there was a bit more to it than that. I wondered if perhaps he’d had some sort of breakdown, but that’s not the sort of question one can ask in an interview these days without finding oneself in front of a tribunal. In any case, it’s none of my business. I liked Ewan, his references checked out and he had a clean driving licence which, at the end of the day, is all that really matters.

Brushing the thought aside, I refocus my mind and set to work. First port of call is the metal storage unit that was custom-built to my exacting specifications. Filling an entire wall, it’s loaded with water-filled buckets of blooms in every size, shape and colour. I make my selections quickly, confidently, going back and forth between shelf unit and workbench until I have everything I need. Next, I go to a rack on the wall and remove a handful of tools: knife, stem strippers, spool wire, twine.

I start by preparing my raw materials, carefully stripping excess foliage, removing any damaged petals and trimming the stems to the required length. It’s only then the fun part begins: the construction. My aim is not just to create something beautiful, but to bring out the inner qualities of the flowers, the same way a sculptor brings life to a lump of clay. Although each one of my creations is highly individual, I do have a certain aesthetic and it’s important that everyon. . .