made the mistake of laughing. As if seeking revenge, the dog bounded over to where she was standing and knocked into the table. The force sent one of the elaborate glass vases into a spin, and then it tipped off the table and smashed onto the marble flooring. The dog dropped the stick, as if to say ‘Wasn’t me’, and legged it over to the door to greet the man currently swooping into the house.
The sound of smashing glass alerted the man to Evie’s presence. He looked her up and down, and then at the mess on the floor. What was she supposed to do, blame the dog? Somehow she didn’t think that would go down very well with the master of the house.
Thankfully, Mrs Bitar appeared. ‘Look at this mess! Umal, take the kids upstairs. Those bloody dogs!’ She sounded more English than Indian.
Evie breathed a sigh of relief. Client relations were still intact … just. Even if Mr Bitar did ignore her as he carried both kids upstairs.
Mrs Bitar returned with a dustpan and brush. ‘If I didn’t love my husband so much, those dogs would be locked in the garage.’ She knelt down. ‘Do you have a husband, Evie?’
Evie kept her tone neutral. ‘Er, no, I don’t.’
‘Men can be such trouble.’ She waved the brush about. ‘More so than the children.’
Evie laughed. ‘I’m happy to concentrate on running my business for now.’
‘A wise decision.’ She scooped shards of glass into a wastepaper basket. ‘How long have you owned the flower shop?’
Evie returned to arranging the flowers. ‘Oh, I’m not the owner, not yet. I hope to be one day. The present owner lives in the States. If she stays permanently, she’s promised me first refusal on the business.’
‘That is exciting news.’
‘I just hope I can convince the bank to loan me the money.’ Evie picked up a lump of missed glass and added it to the bin.
‘But the business is a success, yes? You come recommended from many people I know.’
It was a relief to know word of mouth was good. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bitar – er, I mean, Farah. That’s very kind of you. But I’m a start-up and I don’t have much equity. The business is doing well, really well, but the overheads are high, so it’s taking me time to save up a decent deposit.’
Mrs Bitar smiled. ‘I will talk to my husband. Umal is head of loans at Harrods Bank. I will tell him you are a good investment.’
Evie wasn’t so sure he’d agree with his wife. His first impression had been of her surrounded by shattered glass and staring accusingly at his dog. Still, it was a great contact to have. ‘I’d really appreciate that.’
Mrs Bitar studied the arrangements. ‘You are very talented. Look at these flowers, so beautifully displayed.’
Evie felt chuffed. ‘Thank you.’
Mrs Bitar seemed struck by an idea. ‘You should enter a competition. This would be a good idea, yes? Have you considered this?’
Evie carried the vase of freesias over to the mantelpiece. ‘I’ve not done anything since college. I’m too busy trying to build up my clientele – I don’t have much free time.’
Mrs Bitar shook her head. ‘But you should make time. Think of the prestige. My niece in India won a product design competition. She was offered a much better job with a big architect firm in New Delhi. It was a good career move.’
Evie was touched. ‘I’ll think about it.’ She would too. Not because she necessarily thought it was a great idea, but if it meant securing the Bitars’ custom and persuading Mr Bitar to consider a loan, then it might be worth the effort. However much of a long shot it might be.
‘I am sure you would win first prize.’ Mrs Bitar admired the vase of lilies. ‘Your parents would be proud, yes?’
Evie considered this. Would they be proud? She hoped so. They were just so preoccupied with their new families that they no longer knew what Evie desired or strived for. They lived their lives, she lived hers. That was how it was. Sad really.
Maybe if she’d been closer to her family, like the Bitars, then perhaps they could’ve helped her deal with the Kyle situation. As it was, she’d never told them about it, not in any great detail. She certainly couldn’t imagine Mr Bitar tolerating any man who made his child unhappy, that was for certain. He’d set the dogs on them.
And then a thought struck. Perhaps she should get a dog? Not a vicious thing like the Bitars’ brutes, but something more … sociable. It might help boost her self-worth having a doting pet. A companion to curl up on the sofa with in the evenings. Plus, it’d give her some protection when she went out running.
What an inspired idea.
She was going to get herself a dog.
These were the kind of Saturdays Patricia enjoyed. An early game of tennis, lunch with girlfriends, followed by a spot of shopping before coming home and relaxing with a glass of wine. David was rarely home at the weekends any more, which suited her. She’d stopped asking where he went a long time ago, figuring his answers weren’t truthful anyway, so what was the point in torturing herself.
As she lay on the sofa, enjoying her second glass of wine, she spotted a line of cobwebs running across the ceiling. Knowing the sight of them would annoy David, she got up and fetched the handheld hoover.
Turning up the volume on the stereo, she climbed onto the leather sofa and stretched up so she could reach the wooden beams.
Maybe she should care more about the state of her marriage. But life without David around was much easier than life with him, so she ignored the elephant in the room and dusted around it.
If she removed David from the equation, her life was good. She enjoyed her ‘lady of leisure’ status, spending precious mummy time with her beautiful daughter, and found entertainment in the form of friends and home furnishings. Their house, The Pines, was all her dreams come true. Five double bedrooms, a swimming pool, two acres of garden and a kitchen that Gordon Ramsay would be envious of. The house was large enough that even if her husband was home she could engineer it so their paths didn’t cross for several hours.
It wasn’t an ideal situation, and she was aware that she suffered from a hefty dose of denial, but what were her choices? Leaving David would only cause Amy distress and reduce her own standard of living, which she’d worked flaming hard to achieve. She’d put up with his philandering ways for over twenty years. She was owed this luxury, she’d earned it.
As she sang along to Aretha Franklin’s ‘I’m Every Woman’ she knew her reasoning for staying in the marriage was flawed. Her submissive attitude towards David’s womanising would hardly endear her to the feminists of this world. Well, tough. She was no Germaine Greer. She had ‘made her bed’, as her mother used to say, and there was no one to blame but herself.
The
