Page 27

“Look at you,” she says. “West End wanker now.”

I give her a sideways look. “You live in the city centre. Your flat cost plenty.”

“Aye, but that’s different. Naebody’s ever accused the city centre of being classy.” She waves a hand at the window, at a man going by with a yoga mat under his arm and a woman walking a cockapoo with a tartan bandana round its neck. “This is a whole other thing. Sandstone fantasy land. Farmers’ markets. Folk called Rupert.”

“I’ve yet to meet anyone called Rupert.”

“You will. And when you do, he’ll ask you where you ‘summer’.”

Shaking my head, I turn onto Rowanbank Street. The space closest to the flat is free—no sign of the flower shop’s van. Even so, for a second, I consider driving on and parking further down the street. Then I catch myself. No, I told her straight—if the space is free, I’m taking it. I’m not parking fifty metres away to keep somebody happy who’s decided I’m a thug. Public street. Closest space. End of.

I reverse in and kill the engine.

Briony’s Blooms is shutting up for the day. The A-board’s already in, and a lassie is lifting the last of the display buckets in off the street. It’s not Briony. As I get out of the car with the six-pack, she sets the bucket she’s carrying down, folds her arms, and looks at me like a sheriff in a western.

“Ryan Sloan, I presume.”

Dark hair, pink at the ends. A ring through one nostril. And tiny—just over five foot, and that’s with her standing in platform boots with soles like breeze blocks. Between her and Briony, I’m starting to wonder if there’s a height limit for working in that shop. Maybe tall folk cast too much shade.

“This should be good,” Niamh says, climbing out of the car.

“Aye, I’m Ryan,” I say. “And you are?”

The lassie’s chin comes up. “Emmy. I work for Briony, and I’ve got something to say to you.”

“No really a good time.”

Her eyes drop to the six-pack I’m carrying, then come back up, one brow raised. “Yeah, you look run off your feet.”

Niamh makes a small noise that she turns into a cough.

“Briony came into the shop close to tears earlier,” Emmy says, “so you can give me a minute.”

Close to tears? I know I gave her a hard time, but I didn’t realise I’d upset her that much.

“She made a perfectly reasonable request,” Emmy continues. “Maybe you didn’t agree about the parking space. Fine. But you could’ve said that without being cruel. Instead you called her entitled. You don’t know the first thing about her.”

“I know enough.”

“No, you don’t. You know she’s got nice manners and owns a florist’s in the West End. Apparently that was enough for you to decide she’s some spoiled wee princess who got handed a pretty shop to play with.”

She steps closer. I’m twice her size and fight for a living, yet she’s the one squaring up to me.

“Briony works six days a week. Twelve-hour days, half the time. She’s through that door before the street is awake. Do you know what she’s doing right now? Taking leftover stock to a care home because she’d rather give the flowers away than throw them in the bin.”

I’ve heard enough. I make to go inside.

“I’m not finished,” Emmy says. “Did she tell you what having your skip and chute outside her shop for weeks did to her takings?”

That stops me. “Naw.”

“They’re down. Turns out it’s not brilliant for business. Funny that, eh?”

Niamh’s not smiling anymore. Neither am I.

“Briony’s not great at confrontation, but that doesn’t make her weak,” Emmy says. “It means when she finally does stand up for herself, maybe don’t be a dick about it.”

I exhale through my nose. “You done?”