Читать книгу Fairytale of New York - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 8

Mimi Sutton called the day after Celia’s event to invite me to meet her at her offices in SoHo the following day. I arrived a little early, design books in hand, and was shown by an assistant to a waiting area in the atrium of the ultra-modern building. In typical artsy minimalist style, the whole area was filled with clean lines with shiny metal and glass. Cobalt spotlights, discreetly hidden everywhere—behind frosted glass screens, in the middle of lush green foliage and inside tall steel and glass pillars—bathed the area in a soothing glow. This was a perfect complement to the white marble floor, which produced a rhythmic percussion as people crisscrossed its wide expanse.

I love arriving somewhere early to get a feel for the place. In this city you never know what to expect when you walk through the door of a building. You can experience classic styling, baroque opulence, bohemian chic or even puritan austerity as you move down a single street. It’s nothing short of inspirational. Maybe it’s my designer instinct, but I have days when everything inspires me. Even the scary kitsch stuff that most people with any remote sense of taste would be appalled at. I love trying to interpret the styles I see with my flowers—it’s a constant challenge I like to set myself to keep my designs fresh and different.

Mimi Sutton is a highly successful writer-turned—literary agent. She made her name writing blockbuster novels, most of which have, in turn, become blockbuster movies. She is constantly courted by Hollywood’s movers and shakers. The film rights for her most recent book had been sold three months before she began work on it, and a gaggle of screenwriters (if that is the correct collective term) had accompanied her for most of the writing period. When I asked Celia why on earth Mimi wanted to be an agent for other people when she had achieved so much success of her own, Celia smiled.

‘It’s all about power, Rosie. And power in Manhattan is something Mimi simply cannot do without.’

About fifteen minutes after I had arrived, the elevator doors opened to reveal a familiar face, though I couldn’t remember the name or the exact place I knew him from. Thankfully for me, the person fast approaching didn’t have the same problem.

‘Ms Duncan!’ he exclaimed loudly as he strode briskly across the atrium to where I was. Reaching me, he took my hand between both of his and gave a wide smile. ‘I guess you don’t remember me? Brent Jacobs—from the Authors’ Meet? Good to see you again. You here to see Mimi?’

‘Yes I am.’

He smiled. ‘Excellent. Hey, don’t forget you said you’d help me with flowers for my wife. Would the last Thursday of the month be convenient?’

I checked my diary. ‘Yes, no problem. About eleven?’

‘Wonderful. Good to see you, Rosie.’ He shook my hand quickly and strode away. I was about to sit down again when the assistant behind the pale green glass reception desk called to me. ‘Ms Sutton will see you now, Ms Duncan.’

I took the glass elevator up eleven floors to Mimi’s office. Another efficient, black Armani-suited assistant took me through two huge pale wood doors into a sumptuous office. Mimi sat at her desk at the far end, the dramatic backdrop of New York skyscrapers adding to her presence. She rose immediately and swept towards me.

‘Well?’ she questioned, waving a hand to indicate her surroundings. ‘What do you think?’

‘Very impressive,’ I affirmed. She led me to three enormous cream leather sofas situated round a frosted glass coffee table on the other side of her office. It was easy to be completely overawed by the sheer luxury of these surroundings, and I was grateful that Celia had phoned with a pep talk earlier that morning so that I was well prepared to meet this character who, I was reliably informed, ‘doesn’t do small’. And Celia, for once, wasn’t exaggerating.

‘Sit, sit!’ Mimi beckoned, draping herself magnificently over one sofa, three strings of pearls undulating around her throat as she spoke. ‘Now, let me see your designs.’ I offered my books, which she eagerly accepted. ‘I’m so glad we met, Rosie,’ she continued, without looking up as she flicked through the pages of photographs. ‘You know, you caused quite a stir at the Meet the other night.’

‘I did?’

‘Sure, honey. The conversation was all about you when you left us. Like, how come you’ve been right under our noses all this time and we’ve never seen you? These designs are good…You know, Philippe is so last year. I love what you’ve done here.’ She held up a page with big mounted displays that I did a few years back for an architects’ ball. ‘This is what I want for the Grand Winter Ball. It’s just before Christmas and we intend to make it the social event of the season. So the décor needs to be the best, naturally. I would need, maybe, thirty of these large displays, plus garlands to cover the grand staircase in the ballroom. Could Kowalski’s handle it?’

I was expecting a large order from this larger-than-life lady, but this took me by surprise. It was huge. I did some mental calculations, and then nodded. ‘I’m sure we can. I’ll put together some initial sketches with my co-designer and get them back to you with an estimate for your approval, if that’s OK?’

Mimi snapped the book shut. ‘Fantastic, Rosie. I’ll have my planners call you and we’ll go from there.’ We stood up. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said, smiling broadly but escorting me swiftly to the door. ‘I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.’

Going down in the glass elevator, I let out a huge sigh as the enormity of the task ahead finally sunk in. I knew that, after the initial shock and protestations, Marnie and Ed would relish the opportunity to work on that scale. But quite how I was going to broach the subject with them, I had no idea.

I was lost in these thoughts as the elevator reached the ground floor and I stepped out. Straight into someone coming the other way. Losing my balance completely, I fell. My books flew out of my hands, opening mid-air before crashing to the ground, sending photographs and business cards sliding, skidding and scuttering across the atrium floor. I landed on the chic polished marble in a decidedly unchic position, surrounded by my belongings, which lay scattered in all directions.

You know how, when something embarrassing happens to you, it’s like someone hits the Pause button and the world seems to stop and stare? Well, this was one of those moments. All the frantically hurrying people found a good reason to postpone their journeys and a hundred spotlights homed in on me as their eyes surveyed my misfortune. Why had I chosen today to wear a shorter than usual skirt and no tights? Dazed from the ugly tumble, yet alert enough to realise I was in grave danger of revealing my choice of underwear to all assembled, I struggled to my knees in a vain attempt to rescue any remaining scraps of my dignity, scrabbling for my belongings as I did so. Stumbling eventually to my feet, I cursed my flushing cheeks and made a woeful attempt at a smile in the direction of the flash mob gathered around me. Only when I was fully upright did I realise that the someone I had collided with was still there. Laughing. Very loudly.

He stood, bent double, chest convulsing wildly, with one hand wiping tears from his eyes while the other reached out to help me. His laughter seemed to bounce off every hard surface, filling the space with great booming guffaws. I hugged my books to my chest, still aware of all the unwanted attention from the atrium’s beautiful people.

‘I’m…so…sorry,’ the man gasped. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, but…but that was just hilarious.’

‘Well, thank you.’ I could swear I heard a stifled Armaniclad giggle from the green glass reception desk. Great, said the little voice in my head, nice one, Duncan. The someone was still laughing. The beautiful people were still laughing. But I wasn’t. Realising my embarrassment, the someone regained his composure and straightened up. I was just about to give him a piece of my mind when our eyes met and, instantly, his expression changed from amusement to sincere shock as he recognised me—and I recognised him.

‘Rosie Duncan? Heck, I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?’ he stammered, his voice suddenly full of genuine concern that defused my anger.

‘I’m fine—um—Nathaniel?’

There was more than a hint of relief in his smile. ‘Yes. Uh, Nate. Call me Nate—please. Are you sure you’re OK?’ He bent down and quickly collected the remaining detritus of my fall, carefully handing them back to me. His warm hand rested on mine for a second. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine—really. Ego a bit dented, that’s all,’ I replied, smiling weakly.

‘Good—great…’ His voice trailed off and his brow furrowed as he struggled for something else to say. He ran a hand through his closely cropped chestnut-brown hair and then a warm, one-sided grin broke across his face. ‘Uh…well, it was good to—um—bump into you again!’

It was a bad joke, but I still found myself laughing. ‘Yeah—you too.’ We exchanged polite smiles and an uneasy pause. It was obvious this conversation was fast running out of road, so I said goodbye and walked away. I was nearly at the glass entrance doors when I heard Nate call after me.

‘Rosie! Where’s your store?’

‘At the corner of West 68th and Columbus,’ I called back. ‘Kowalski’s.’

Nate bent down to pick up something else from the floor and waved it in the air. ‘Hey, don’t worry, it’s OK—I’ve found your card!’

I could feel the hot rush of embarrassment return. As the floor ignored my urgent telepathic request for it to open up and swallow me, I smiled, hastily turned and made a speedy exit.

‘How many?’

Arms folded, Ed and Marnie stood, like a matching pair of incredulous-looking bookends. This was not going well.

‘Just think of it this way, guys. You’re forever saying we don’t get enough exposure for Kowalski’s—well, this will get us noticed by really important people. Press people, publishers, celebrities. We can take on extra staff for this job. Corey Mitchell at the Molloy College in Bethpage has offered to lend us some of his floristry students any time we want. You guys can really go to town on the whole design process. Come on, I’m confident we can do this.’

Marnie took a deep breath and looked at Ed. They then had one of their weird unspoken conversations. They do this all the time. I hear no words, but somehow a decision is made. Eventually Ed nodded at Marnie then looked at me.

‘OK, OK, let’s do it.’

I whooped and clapped my hands. ‘Thank you so much. It’s going to be so exciting! Time for Kowalski’s to take over New York!’

Marnie and Ed shot me one of their ‘humour her, she’s insane’ glances and Marnie took her position behind the counter while Ed followed me into the workroom at the back of the shop.

One thing Ed loves to do is psychoanalyse people. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of psychiatrists and it’s an inescapable part of his genetic makeup. Ed’s father has never forgiven him for abandoning what has been the family profession for the past three generations. When Ed began his apprenticeship at Kowalski’s he had to regularly defend his decision—and, in turn, his sexuality—to his father, who considered men who worked with flowers to be gay by definition. Even when Ed moved from Kowalski’s to work at Charters, one of Manhattan’s most respected florists, Mr Steinmann refused to be impressed. I wonder sometimes if this is why Ed dates so much—still publicly asserting his heterosexuality to prove his father wrong.

He never told his father he was unhappy at Charters, even though most of his five years spent working there were impossibly miserable as, time and again, he was denied the opportunity to progress in the company. In fact, the only person he confided in was Mr Kowalski, who had remained a friend throughout, which was why Ed ended up accepting the position of my co-designer. Mr Kowalski not only offered the fatherly advice denied Ed by his own father, but was also instrumental in affirming Ed’s work and worth. Yet another reason why we all love and miss Mr K so much.

‘So,’ Ed said, resuming work on a hand-tied bouquet of roses, asters and Asiatic lilies, surrounded by deep green banana leaves, ‘Mimi Sutton—what kind of vibe did you get about her?’

‘Quite businesslike. Difficult to tell that much about her, really.’

‘Rosie, turn off the optimism gene for one second and tell me what you honestly thought. I won’t tell. Scout’s honour.’

I thought for a moment. ‘OK, the vibe was—strange.’ I confessed. ‘It feels like something’s missing there.’

Ed looked up from his hand-tying. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I dunno…I mean, she’s very polite, very friendly, but I can’t tell how genuine she is. It’s like all the fire and individuality that she must have had before she got successful has gone somehow. I’m not sure what’s left in their place.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ed, nodding. ‘Heart replaced by a dollar sign. Soul replaced by a resumé. She sold out.’

Ed is always able to condense an entire conversation into a three-line conclusion. I keep telling him he should be writing tag lines for Hollywood movies. He’d make a fortune.

‘Shame,’ he said, picking up a pale peach rose and spinning the stem between his fingers absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve always liked her books. Just goes to show that the person you think you know from their writing is only the person they want you to see. And what about the other guy—Brent, was it?’

I smiled immediately. ‘Yes, Brent Jacobs. He’s fab. I like him. You’d like him.’

‘Always a good sign. Why?’

‘Because he used to be a criminal psychologist.’

Ed laughed. ‘Uh-oh. Better not let us meet then. I may have been a case study in his former career. I’ve a checkered past, you know.’

‘Oh, I forgot. Ed Steinmann, criminal mastermind. Must be why you fit in so well here.’

‘Hmm, because I’m not the only one with an intriguing hidden history.’ The comment sliced through the humour like a knife through butter. ‘I’m still here if you want to talk, Rosie.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ Instantly I saw hurt narrow his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…I’m fine, Ed, really. But thanks for caring.’

His expression instantly changed and his eyes twinkled.

‘Someday I’m going to write a book about you: Rosie Duncan—One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of the Modern Age. A surefire hit!’

People often tell me they sense about the team at Kowalski’s a closeness they don’t see in other shops. Sometimes customers ask if we’re related—and you should see the look of horror on Ed and Marnie’s faces—as we are every inch the typical family: fighting occasionally, bickering sometimes, but always there for each other. And we have Mr Kowalski in common.

One thing Mr K said again and again was that we were a family. ‘You are children to me. And like a good father, I worry for you. We are a family at Kowalski’s—it is the heart of everything we do.’

I’ve tried to keep the same feeling at Kowalski’s since it became my business. And, odd though it sounds, I sense him here still—five years after his death—that broad, crinkly smile lighting up his lovely old face as he watches the ‘Kowalski’s kids’ with pride.

‘What are you doing Thursday evening next?’ Marnie asked later that afternoon, poking her head round the workroom door. Ed and I looked up from the red, white and gold-themed table centrepieces we were working on for Mr and Mrs Hymark’s Ruby Wedding party. Mrs Hymark worked for Mr K as a Saturday girl in her teens and has trusted Kowalski’s with her floral orders for every occasion since—from her own wedding to the birth of her children and grandchildren, birthdays, anniversaries and funerals.

Ed, obviously unwilling to commit, deferred to me. ‘Uh, Rosie?’

‘Don’t look at me, Steinmann, I don’t manage your diary. I’m free, Marnie.’

‘Yeah, whatever. Although I was planning a quiet one…’

I smiled firmly. ‘Ed and I are both free, Marnie.’

Marnie gave a little whoop and clapped her hands. ‘Great!’

Ed groaned the groan of dread-filled experience. ‘What have we just agreed to?’

‘The opening night of my community theatre play, of course!’

A look of panic washed across his face. ‘Oh—wait—I just remembered, I have a…a…thing next Thursday.’

Marnie’s face instantly fell. ‘What thing? Oh, Ed, can you reschedule? It’s really important that you guys come. It’s the world premiere, you know.’

Ed opened his mouth to protest but I got there first. ‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Marnie.’

A week later, Ed and I stood in the small queue outside Hudson River Players’ tiny studio theatre. To call it a theatre was lavishing high praise indeed: in truth, it was an old dock warehouse that had been converted ten years ago into a theatre space for the local neighbourhood. Nevertheless, for all the effort and care the drama group’s members had gone to for the ‘world premiere’ of their new play, it might as well have been Radio City Music Hall or Madison Square Garden.

‘Welcome,’ boomed a stony-faced, wiry-framed man clad entirely in black, who was handing out programmes like they were death warrants.

‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Ed as we passed into the shadowy heart of the black-curtained warehouse space.

‘Would you stop complaining?’ I hissed under my breath as we found our seats—or rather, wooden bench.

‘So, remind me again why we’re willingly inflicting this torture on ourselves tonight?’ Ed remarked, looking round at the other, equally unenthusiastic members of the audience.

‘We’re here for Marnie,’ I replied, trying to look interested in the Xeroxed programme but seeing only spelling mistakes—such as ‘dirrectors’ and ‘tragik’. ‘We promised.’

‘But it’s community theatre,’ he protested. ‘It’s like death, only much, much slower! I mean, come on, Rosie—look around you: nobody wants to be here. This place is worse than Edgar Allen Poe on twenty-four-hour repeat. Oh, wait, no—I think I’ve just seen him leaving because it’s too depressing.’

‘Be quiet and enjoy the experience. It’s Marnie’s play. Part of Kowalski’s family, remember?’

Ed’s shoulders dropped in defeat. ‘Sure, I get it.’

The play, it has to be said, was everything bad you’ve ever heard about experimental theatre—and then some. When we’d asked Marnie what it was about, she had solemnly informed us that Armageddon: The Miniseries was an ‘existential politico-comedy with tragic overtones’—which did nothing to enlighten us or prepare us for the experience. All seven actors were dressed in black and appeared to be playing about thirty parts each. ‘We use the Brechtian device of gestus to completely remove the audience from any perceived reality of the play, choosing instead to represent rather than impersonate,’ intoned the programme notes. ‘We have also challenged the concept of a single director, opting for a group-conscious approach in its stead.’

A player ran onstage carrying a pig’s head in one hand and what appeared to be two pounds of tripe in the other.

‘This is the play that they make you watch when you’re eternally damned,’ whispered Ed, ‘over and over and over…Ow! That was my ankle!’

‘Shhhhh, Marnie’s coming on.’

Marnie walked slowly to the centre of the stage with an expression like stone and a red ribbon tied around her left wrist. ‘Enough!’ she shouted, hands aloft like a Druid priest. ‘Time is not what we think it is!’ I could see her counting to three slowly and then she exited as solemnly as she had entered.

‘Two lines? I just sat through three hours of the worst play in the known universe for two lines?’ Ed moaned as we sat in the all-night diner across the street afterwards.

‘I know, but Marnie was so thrilled we came. And look, I bought you your favourite chocolate cheesecake to say thank you,’ I replied, pointing at the slab of dessert in front of him so big he could barely see over the top of it.

Ed’s blue stare zoomed in on me. ‘Don’t think the “family” excuse is going to work on me every time, Duncan. Tonight I felt generous, that’s all.’

I smiled. ‘Fine. You just keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better.’

Ed muttered something obscene into his cheesecake.

There’s always a lot of banter when Ed and I are together, mainly because we have so much in common. We share similar tastes in movies and music; we both consider huge steaming hot dogs and ice-cold papaya shake from Gray’s Papaya on West 72nd Street the finest guilty pleasure on a Sunday afternoon; and we both enjoy psycho-analysing everyone we meet in a manner that would impress even the cast of Dawson’s Creek. Most of all, we share a passion for New York: Ed because he’s lived here all his life and me because, well, I fell in love with the city the moment I got off the train at Grand Central Station and walked into the frenetic bustle of the world-famous concourse with its stunning star-strewn ceiling. Before I came here I didn’t really believe people who said New York felt like a place where dreams are made, yet that is completely what I felt on that first day; like anything was possible in this city—even the most implausible hope or wildest aspiration.

It was Ed who encouraged me to explore New York and Ed who volunteered to escort me on my journey of discovery. So, most Sundays for the past five years or thereabouts, Ed and I have met on the subway and headed off to a new destination: strolling down Bleecker Street with its boho-chic boutiques; browsing superheroes old and new at Forbidden Planet, the comic shop on Broadway; watching the sun set across the city from the observation deck of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings (‘You have to see both views to understand the race to be the tallest,’ Ed says); eating oysters in the vaulted brick bar nestled deep beneath Grand Central; sneaking into private Gramercy Park once after being slipped a coveted key by an old school friend of Ed’s who works at the Gramercy Hotel (seriously, the people Ed knows in this city you wouldn’t believe); and hour upon hour of long, laughter-filled conversations in various coffee houses, diners and restaurants across Manhattan. It’s true what they say about this city: it’s a million different experiences in one place. Even now, six years since I arrived, I don’t think I’ve even scratched the surface of the delights New York has to offer.

The day after Marnie’s play was an unusually quiet one for Kowalski’s. Usually we don’t stop on a Friday from the minute we lift the shutters to the moment we turn the Open sign to Closed. We took the opportunity to do some long-overdue housekeeping around the store—the kind of jobs you always intend to get round to doing yet invariably end up putting off. We gave the light wood floor a good clean, dusted the shelves behind the counter, restocked the flower buckets and tidied up the workroom. Even Mr K’s old half-moon spectacles received a much-needed polish and sat resplendent on the shelf afterwards, sparkling almost as much as Mr K’s eyes used to.

By three o’clock it was obvious that the good people of the Upper West Side didn’t want flowers today, so I was about to suggest we close up early when Ed asked, ‘Are you guys OK to finish up here without me? I mean, it’s quiet and I’d like to leave early tonight.’

I smiled. ‘It’s probably worth closing now anyway. I think we’ve all worked hard enough today.’

Marnie looked at me and shrugged. ‘That is so typical. I was hoping you might need me to stay later tonight. My crazy land-lord’s fixing my shower and I really don’t want to be there while he’s working.’

‘Ah, still trying to match-make you and his son, huh?’ Ed grinned.

Marnie pulled a face. ‘Is he ever.’ She hunched her shoulders and adopted a gruff, Italian-American accent. ‘“You such a nice lady, Ms Andersson, you could do a lot worse than my Vinnie, you know. He’s gonna inherit the building when I retire. He got prospects—a lady like you needs a guy with prospects…” Yeah, and a lady like me also needs cleanliness—and fresh breath. All Vinnie has to offer me is too much butt-crack over his jeans and halitosis like you wouldn’t believe.’

Ed and I giggled—not least because of the hilarious sight of Marnie, colourfully attired as always, stomping around like Don Corleone in pigtails.

‘Hey, I have an idea,’ I said, giving her a wink. ‘Seeing as our esteemed colleague is deserting us, how about you and I head over to SoHo for something to eat?’

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, Rosie, that would be amazing! I could show you that store I was telling you about—the vintage one?’

After a day at Kowalski’s the thought of a spot of retail therapy followed by a great meal was more than a little tempting. ‘You’re on.’

Ed shook his head. ‘What is it about the word “shopping” that makes women go nuts?’

‘It’s a girl thing, Steinmann. You’re not invited,’ Marnie grinned.

‘So, how come you’re skiving off early?’ I asked him.

Ed lifted his chin and attempted to look aloof, the success of this severely compromised by the mischief dancing in his blue eyes. ‘Can’t tell you. It’s a boy thing, Duncan.’

‘So what’s her name?’

Sly humour began to pull up one corner of his mouth. ‘Carly, if you must know.’

‘Hang on, isn’t this the same Carly you saw last Saturday night?’

Ed looked decidedly sheepish. ‘It might be.’

Marnie’s eyes widened. ‘Wait—you saw Carly on Wednesday as well, didn’t you?’

A scarlet blush slowly creeping up Ed’s neck was giving the game away. ‘It’s…possible…’

I whistled. ‘Three dates with the same girl?’

Ed rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. ‘Four, actually.’

Marnie let out a squeak and flung her arms around Ed’s waist. ‘It’s serious! Oh, Eddie, I’m so pleased for you!’

Ed wrestled himself free of her limpet-like embrace. ‘It is not serious. She happens to have tickets to a show tonight that I quite like the idea of seeing.’

‘Is he talking about the show or Carly?’ I smirked at Marnie.

‘You like her…’ Marnie said, singsong style, poking a finger in his ribs.

‘Stop it.’

‘Four dates with the same girl? That’s practically an engagement,’ I laughed. ‘Should we buy our hats now? I can recommend a great florist for the ceremony.’

Ed let out a groan and grabbed his jacket from behind the workroom door. ‘Whatever. You two have a great time tonight doing your girl stuff, OK?’

He left, shaking his head, as Marnie began singing a gutsy rendition of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’.

It was only when Marnie and I were browsing Victoria’s Vintage in SoHo later that afternoon, that I realised how much I needed a ‘girly’ evening. Work had been pretty intense at Kowalski’s lately, with an unexpected rush of small orders that all seemed to be needed on the same days and I had become so wrapped up in the sheer volume of day-to-day stuff at the store that I had neglected my own free time.

‘Isn’t this fun?’ Marnie said, appearing from behind a crowded clothes-rail with a vivid sixties tie-dyed T-shirt.

‘It’s bright,’ I smiled.

‘I don’t mean this,’ Marnie frowned, waving the garment dismissively, ‘although it is rather fabulous. I mean us hanging out.’

‘Yes, it’s great. Just what I needed. So are you buying that?’

Marnie checked the price tag and her face fell. ‘I would be if I didn’t have to pay my rent this month,’ she replied, hanging the T-shirt back on the rail and stroking it wistfully. ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’

I nodded. ‘There’s a Biba blouse I liked over there I think I’m going to buy. I’ll meet you outside, OK?’

Five minutes later we had crossed the street to Ellen’s, a small cosy restaurant much beloved by the local art fraternity. More a laid-back, all-hours coffee shop than a highclass eaterie, Ellen’s was a lazy hum of activity; its expansive, well-worn couches littered with chatting, colourfully-attired customers making the interior look as if a shabby rainbow had exploded and strewn its fragments haphazardly across the room. It was no wonder this was one of Marnie’s favourite haunts—there weren’t many places in New York where she could ‘blend in’, but Ellen’s was a notable exception. Surreal and abstract paintings on huge canvases adorned the bare brick walls and a jazz trio nodded sleepily in one corner. We found a table with mismatched dark wood chairs by the window and sat down.

‘I love it here,’ said Marnie as we perused the hand-drawn menu. ‘My art class used to come here all the time last semester.’

‘I like it,’ I smiled. ‘I wonder how Ed’s getting on.’

Marnie surveyed me quizzically. ‘Now why in the world would you say that?’

Something about her expression unnerved me a little. ‘No reason. I was just wondering, that’s all.’

Marnie leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if the other customers may suddenly take an unwelcome interest in her next comment. ‘Do you like him, Rosie?’

‘Of course I like him, mate. He’s one of my best friends.’

Marnie gave my hand a playful tap. ‘I don’t mean it like that. You know what I mean.’

‘Don’t be silly. I was just wondering how he was going to cope with so many dates with the same woman. You have to admit, it would be a first for him.’

Marnie nodded. ‘That guy has almost more dates than me. I don’t know where he meets them all.’

‘Wherever he goes, apparently. He even got a date when he called an emergency plumber last year.’

‘He dated the plumber?’

‘No, the plumber’s sister, who was along for the ride.’

‘I don’t know why he spends so long chasing women he’s no intention of settling down with,’ Marnie said, turning the menu card over.

‘He likes the chase, I think.’

‘Hmm. I reckon you and he should get together.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Seriously, Rosie, I mean it! Think about it: you spend loads of time together already, you like the same places in New York, you’re both crazy about old movies and eating out—’

‘Stop right there, please. You’re scaring me.’

‘Oh, come on, you mean to tell me that you don’t find Ed in the least bit attractive?’

‘Well, I…’

‘Exactly! He’s gorgeous, Rosie! That guy could charm pollen from a bee. I tell you, if I wasn’t his friend and he didn’t bug the hell out of me like some annoying older brother, I would—’

‘Marnie!’

‘OK, right, so when he comes into the store the morning after a rough night, and he’s all ruffled and unshaven, you haven’t once considered…?’

Just as this conversation was veering wildly towards the point of no return, a waiter appeared by our table to spare my blushes.

‘Hi, ladies, welcome to Ellen’s. Our special tonight is Pancetta Mac Cheese and…wow—uh—hi, Marnie.’

Marnie looked slightly flushed but pleased. ‘Hey, Todd.’

Todd’s eyes appeared transfixed by the vision in orange and purple sitting before him. ‘It’s really good to see you.’

‘You too. Oh, this is my boss, Rosie.’

Todd wrenched his gaze away from Marnie long enough to shake my hand. ‘The florist, right? Hey.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I replied, noting the chemistry between them.

‘So—we’ll have the specials, please, if that’s OK with you, Rosie?’

I nodded. ‘I’ll go with your recommendation.’

‘Great,’ Todd replied, scribbling the order on his pad. Tearing off a strip, he placed it carefully in front of Marnie. ‘Call me,’ he smiled shyly before disappearing into the dimly lit depths of the restaurant.

‘Well, he was nice,’ I said, full of curiosity.

Marnie shrugged and played with a napkin. ‘He’s OK, I guess. We dated a little last year.’

‘Looks like he’s keen to see you again,’ I smiled, indicating the strip of paper laid lovingly on the table. ‘He’s a nice-looking guy too.’

‘Too restrained for me,’ Marnie replied coolly. I couldn’t help but think this probably could apply to most of Manhattan’s single male population when compared to Marnie’s vivid personality and appearance. She beamed cheekily. ‘Not as fine as Ed though, hey?’

Although I would never dream of admitting it to Marnie, I had to privately concede that Ed did have an alarming skill for looking great when most men would just have looked rough. Of course, I could understand how he managed to find so many women eager to go out with him; it was that legendary Steinmann twinkle that rescued him from so many otherwise tricky situations with devastating effect. Even when we have had the biggest rows at Kowalski’s, I’ve never managed to stay angry at him for long. Which is frustrating in the extreme, but then, that’s Ed: like that brown leather jacket of his—a little beaten up by life but so warm and engaging that you forgive the lack of polish immediately. I suppose all those women found themselves torn between admiring the Steinmann twinkle and wanting to take care of him. Unfortunately for them, Ed’s idea of a perfect woman seemed to be, ‘spend time with me when it’s fun and then don’t bother calling’. Not that he was ever cruel: from the little he told us of his dates it appeared that most of the ladies shared his ethos.

Halfway through our Pancetta Mac Cheese, I couldn’t wait any longer to hand Marnie the turquoise Victoria’s Vintage bag I’d been masquerading as my mythical Biba blouse. Flinging aside the vivid magenta tissue paper, Marnie let out a squeak that momentarily made the whole clientele of Ellen’s stop and look at us.

‘It’s the one I was looking at! Oh, Rosie, you shouldn’t have!’

I smiled. ‘You deserve it.’

What many people who see Marnie today don’t realise about her is that her confidence was hard-won. A painfully shy child, her formative years were spent hiding from the other kids in her New Jersey neighbourhood who had noticed early on that both she and her family were different. They taunted her for the colourful handmade clothes her artist mother lovingly dressed her in; for her smiling, bearded art teacher father, whose style remained firmly locked in the sixties; and for the orange VW camper van parked outside their home, standing out like an alien spacecraft amid the sea of sedans that lined the street. While her parents always encouraged her to assert her individuality, it took an incident at Marnie’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ school prom to change how she viewed herself.

Without a date for the night, she had joined the ranks of the singletons sitting around the periphery of the dancefloor, watching and waiting for someone to notice them. To the surprise of everyone, one of the most popular guys in her year left his date to walk over to ‘no date land’ and ask Marnie if she wanted to dance. Struggling to combat her embarrassment, Marnie shyly accepted and walked with him to the centre of the floor, all eyes following her. As she was about to take his hand, however, a cruel smile broke across her partner’s face as he flipped her skirt over her head and yelled, ‘Freak on the dancefloor!’ to the utter delight of those watching.

It was then that Marnie experienced what she describes as ‘my epiphany’. In the centre of the hall, battling the urge to run away, all the years of pent-up frustration and hurt finally found a vent and, like a multicoloured volcano, Marnie erupted. Popular Guy didn’t stand a chance as Marnie’s left fist slammed into his jaw, laying him out cold in the middle of the high school gym, encircled by sparkles from the revolving mirrorball overhead.

‘I’d rather be different than a jerk like you!’ she yelled, as the ‘no date land’ inhabitants broke into spontaneous applause. The event brought about a deep change in Marnie—not least for the rest of that evening, where boys who had never acknowledged her existence before suddenly stood in line to dance with her. From that moment to this, Marnie’s love life has always been well populated, if limited in terms of success. Nevertheless, the confident, kooky young woman who bounces into Kowalski’s every morning is a breath of fresh air and I wouldn’t be without her for the world.

If Marnie and I had entertained any ideas that Ed might finally have found a longer-term prospect in Carly, we were to be quickly proved wrong. By Monday, he had already agreed to see three other ladies and Carly’s name was never mentioned again. When Marnie pressed him for more information a week later, all she got in return was a disinterested shrug and a mumbled excuse about them ‘wanting different things’—which, translated, meant she was probably keener than he. In an odd way, knowing that the Great Steinmann Dating Express was still on its non-committed tracks was strangely comforting. It confirmed that Kowalski’s was still the same: Ed was still dating, Marnie was as colourful as ever, Celia continued to fly in and out and the shop was as much as a neighbourhood hub as it had always been. It felt safe—and nobody knows the value of that feeling like I do.

Little did I know then that seemingly innocuous events just around the corner were going to change everything.