‘I was a little preoccupied. I can’t remember where it was, plus he took me round the back.’ The moment the words left my mouth I heard Rosie’s childish laughter echo down the phone.
Rolling my eyes, I pulled my computer onto my lap, and opened a new tab. ‘Rosie.’
She cleared her throat, ‘Sorry, sorry. He didn’t mention the name of it though, why the sudden interest in flora?’ She was silent, then her breath hitched with a gasp. ‘Are you pursuing the book idea?’
‘I’m… considering it.’ I mused. Knowing full well that it was a brilliant idea, if slightly technically difficult to execute.
Rosie squealed. ‘That’s amazing.’
‘Okay, well, it’s not amazing because Oliver Blake has gone to great lengths to ensure no one can find him. I thought if I found his brother, I might be able to convince him to let me at leastpitchmy idea to Oliver.’
My stomach let out a low grumble. I needed food. Standing, I padded to the kitchen and opened my fridge. The onlyoptions were three-day-old pizza and a chocolate mousse that I didn’t remember buying. Shrugging, I grabbed the mousse and a spoon and dug in.
I was savouring the chocolatey goodness when a tiny voice in my head came through, sounding an awful lot like my mother.
That’s so unhealthy, Fallon. You need to watch that tummy you’ve got.
Thetummythat my mother used to stare at disdainfully as I grew up was the one Rosie had hugged and called beautiful every day of high school until I stopped hiding it behind oversized jumpers. No matter how much confidence I gained in my life or how much love I cultivated for the body that did so much for me, I couldn’t get rid of that voice. The tone that told me I was inadequate in some way.
I pulled myself away from that voice in time to hear Rosie’s next question.
‘Have you Facebook stalked him?’
I put the mousse down, going off the idea. ‘He only has official ones for the club and stuff-‘
‘Not Oliver,’ Rosie cut in, ‘George.’
I hadn’t thought about that.
‘I’ve decided to keep you as my best friend.’ I declared, grabbing my laptop with renewed purpose.
‘Delightful. Let me know how stalking the lumbersnack goes.’
I mumbled my assent. ‘And don’t pick any more fights with a parrot. One scrap a day is your limit.’
We said goodbye, and I typed George’s name into the search bar.
Through the shop window,Cora’s looked… incredible.
I couldn’t keep a cactus alive, so I had never needed to step inside a place like this. Rosie sometimes dragged me to the garden centre, usually at Christmas, when we’d get hot chocolates and browse the overpriced ornaments. This… was something else entirely. I thought as I pulled up into the busy car park.
After some serious online stalking that would have made Rupert Murdoch proud, I found the nursery George owned. I hoped I could convince him to pass along a message to Oliver and potentially give him my number. I wasn’t sure how I would convince a virtual stranger to let me contact his famous brother, but this was my last hope.Quite literally. A letter had emerged from my post box this morning with angry red lettering on it.
Why did things have to constantly cost money? No one warns you about this when you’re younger. You grow up, get thrust into the workforce and are expected to know how to deal with tax, water bills, electricity,andrent,with little to no help or explanation. If I had the will, I would strongly consider staging a protest against adulting.
But I seemed to be the only person struggling with it. Everyone else around me coped just fine. I didn’t see anyone else cry and down a whole bottle of red wine whilst trying to call a plumber to fix their toilet.
I went to great lengths to avoid my landlord. Missing several teeth and hair that appeared to be caked in decades worth of grease, Greg took the phrasecreepy old manto a whole new level. And in every conversation I’d had with him, he spent the entire time staring at my tits. That made calling him for a broken toilet or busted radiator a huge no-go.
As usual, it was my problem and no one else’s, which was precisely why I was standing outside of Cora’s, metaphorically pulling up my big girl pants—because the ones I was currently wearing had a bunch of tiny Piglets on them—andcommanding myself to take charge of my own life and handle my shit.
A crowd of around fifteen women stood at the glass door entrance. They all looked to be a part of one of those walking groups. Each one in their late sixties wearing tight leggings and neon headbands or wrist bands.
They congregated around, chatting animatedly. I tugged my bag up my shoulder, muttering a few apologies as I tried to move past them. Either they were so lost in their own world they didn’t realise they were blocking the entrance, or they didn’t care. I had a limited dose of confidence, and if I blew it all on this group of fitness freaks, I would be a bumbling mess by the time I found George. I meekly excused myself to a woman wearing a neon pink fitted jumper. She glanced down at me, gave a tight-lipped smile and shuffled her feet slightly before continuing her conversation with another woman in lycra. Her movement doing fuck all to let me pass.
I scanned the area and spied a gate standing open to the side.Staff Only.I wasn’t about to steal anything, I reasoned. From a quick glance, it led to an outside area where plant pots and crates of something I didn’t recognise were piled high. I turned away from the women and headed towards the gate. At least this might lead me round to the centre.
I slipped past the gate, a rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins. This act alone showed how little I left my flat after getting fired, particularly if walking around the back of a plant shop was setting my heart flapping about.
