If you could please attend a meeting with myself and other relevant parties at the offices of Cavendish, Crags and Clerk LLP, Upper Bank Street, London, at 11 a.m. on June 13th, we would be most appreciative.
Sincerely,
Hugo Crags, Partner
Standing in the tiny kitchenette of the floristry shop she worked in, fingers curling and uncurling around a warm cup of tea, Bo glanced once more at the letter before her. The paper was crisp, the text neatly typed and professional. At first glance, nothing about it seemed out of the ordinary, the content inoffensive and almost inconsequential. All the same, Bo swallowed hard as she read over the words once again, trying not to flinch as one phrase stood out above all the others.
Other relevant parties.
Bo sipped at her tea worriedly. Really, she should have known this would eventually happen. Should have expected this letter with its fancy crest and legal jargon to land upon her door. Geoffrey had been dead for four months now, more than long enough for his will to have been read, probate settled and for theother relevant partiesto have been told of their inheritance. She’d been on borrowed time since the moment Geoffrey’s hearthad given out, and now, with this letter, it seemed that time was finally up. Theother relevant partieswould be in, and she would be out — most likely on her ear.
Defeated, Bo thought about her small home, sadness gripping her hard. Certainly, the small space wasn’t much, but it was hers and had been for nearly four years now. She’d worked hard to make the two-roomed summer house into a home. She’d added physical warmth by insulating the walls and emotional warmth by painting them. She’d sanded floors, cleared the plumbing and wired in electricity. She’d bought furniture from Vinted and eBay and Facebook Marketplace — vintage, Geoffrey had once kindly remarked, although Bo knew he really meant cheap. The only thing in the whole space that was new was her bed. That had been Geoffrey’s last gift to her.
“You’re too young to get yourself a bad back from sleeping on that old lump of springs,” he’d told her, when the new mattress — queen sized, with six layers of supportive foam — had been delivered. “It’s ready to fall apart at any moment. Besides,” he’d added cheekily, “what if you have any evening guests?”
Bo had coloured red at Geoffrey’s words. She couldn’t admit to him that the onlyevening companyshe’d recently had had been his nephew, just as she couldn’t admit that the old lump of springs had done quite well at withstanding the vigorous sexual workout she and Max had undertaken upon it. Still, she spluttered and stammered even as she accepted the new mattress with thanks, and Geoffrey had waved his hand at her easily.
Geoffrey. Another wave of sadness washed over Bo when she thought of him. His death had been unexpected, but mercifully quick and painless. He’d gone to bed one night, his stomach full and face clean, with a glass of his favourite VSOP cognac on his bedside table and never awoken from his sleep. A heart attack,the doctors told Bo kindly the next day, after she’d found the old man lifeless in his bed. They assured her it would have been over in a moment; that he wouldn’t have known anything was amiss or wrong. Bo had cried herself to sleep that night, and then again the next. Geoffrey, kind-hearted, respectable and considerate, had been one of only a few people to show her kindness over the past few years. He’d taken her in when she’d been at her lowest, giving her a home and companionship and a sense of purpose, and she missed him terribly.
With a new stab of worry, Bo read over the letter one more time, wondering what to do, and where she would go when theother relevant partiesarrived.
A sudden bustling from the doorway interrupted her thinking however, and Bo looked up just as Ida walked into the room, her arms full of flowers.
Ida Dynowsiak owned the floristry business where Bo worked part-time, and for a woman nearing seventy, she was surprisingly full of energy and irrepressible pep. She had no issue with the early-morning trips to New Covent Garden Market to pick up flowers for the store, just as she had no issue with sticking her nose into Bo’s business.
“What’s that?” Ida asked instantly, nodding to the letter on the counter, and Bo quickly shoved it into her pocket, before nodding to the bouquet in Ida’s arms.
“No, what’sthat?”
Ida shrugged. “An order for a customer. I know you’re on your break, but I wanted your opinion before I wrap it up.”
Bo made a face. “Lilies? With lavender freesias? Who died?”
Ida grimaced. “Actually, they’re for a sixteenth birthday.”
There was a moment of silence, before Ida tossed the bouquet onto the counter, throwing up her arms.
“All right, miss it’s-hard-to-hate-you-when-you’re-so-good-at-this, what do you suggest then?”
Bo shrugged. “This is your shop. You really want my opinion?”
“I was about to give a sixteen-year-old girl death flowers,” Ida deadpanned. “So, yes, I want your opinion.”
“Sweet sixteen means new beginnings. Wrap up some pink peonies with white Scottish heather and a handful of pink roses.”
Ida sighed. “Either I’m getting too old for this, or you’re just naturally brilliant. Are you still sure you don’t want to work here full time?”
Bo hesitated. She loved working inIda’s Blooms, with the smell of cut stems and wet flowers fragrant in the air. She loved the simple satisfaction of making something beautiful with her hands. She was an actress though, or at least, she was meant to be one. Not that she was any good at it. In fact, all she had for her efforts so far was a large collection of rejection emails and a somewhat bruised self-confidence. The audition process left her hollowed out, but all the same, she didn’t quite have the bravery to give it up — or more pertinently, to tell her mother that she wanted to.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Bo said, more than a little regretfully. “Want me to make that bouquet up for you though?”
Ida gave Bo a long look, before she nodded slowly. “If you could. When your break finishes though. There’s no rush.”
“No problem. Let me just send a quick message to Wills,” Bo replied, picking up her phone. She looked at the letter again, chewing on her lip, as she began to thumb out a message.
BO: Hey, I need to talk. Want to come over tonight?
* * *
