Читать книгу Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle - Miranda Dickinson - Страница 15

I have always counted optimism as one of my best features. I think it’s always been a part of me; there isn’t a time I can recall ever really being without it. That doesn’t mean to say I don’t lose sight of it when things get tough. Believe me, it’s been challenged enough over the last few years—not least with the events directly preceding my arrival in New York. But despite everything, it remains, sometimes obscured by worry, sometimes shining brightly for all to see—a constant in an ever-changing world. Mum says she’s always relied on that quality in me. Come to think of it, James—for all his selfobsession—has often said it too. Being able to see a bright side has always proved to be my saving grace.

‘If you have hope, you are better than a millionaire,’ Mr Kowalski used to say, ‘because you can give it away every day and it will never run out. You, Rosie, have a large account of hope. So use it to give to the people you meet that have none.’

Mr K lived as he spoke. And, for a man who had endured terrible poverty, prejudice and hardship, this was no mean feat. He always said that God—‘my papa in heaven’—was the one who helped him. Mr K wasn’t religious like you’d expect a man of his generation to be. His faith was who he was. To coin a phrase, he walked the talk.

‘Rosie, Papa is the only friend who has never judged me, let me down or beaten me up. He loves me. End of story. It don’t matter what I do, what mistakes I make, he loves me whatever. That’s all the riches I need, ukochana, and they’re free every day.’

Somehow, I always felt life was calmer—brighter, even—when Mr K was around. Just before he left to return to Poland, he handed me a small, hand-painted glass plaque. It bore the words, ‘Nothing is Impossible with God’. Someone gave it to him when he was really young, he explained, and it helped him remember that he wasn’t alone.

‘Take it, Rosie,’ he’d said. ‘Let it remind you, too. Papa’s watching.’

Today, it hangs at the back of the counter in pride of place, and when I see it, I sense a little bit of the calm he brought returning.

It caught my eye again on Monday, as I was refilling metal buckets at the front of the shop with gorgeous lavender hydrangea and sweet-scented freesias. In sharp contrast to the previous Saturday, the shop was blissfully quiet, though it was still early—only 9 a.m. I smiled sadly as thoughts of Mr Kowalski came to mind. It’s always a bittersweet experience to remember him. I still can’t quite believe he isn’t here any more. I expect him to call any minute, or for his friendly old face to appear in the shop doorway. Somehow the world seems just emptier without him in it.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the silver limousine pull up outside. It was only when the front door opened so fast that the bell nearly came off its fixings that I noticed the tall, permatanned, Versace-clad man striding in. Behind him scurried two nervous-looking assistants, both impeccably dressed, both holding notebooks and both attentive to the man’s every move. He possessed an immense presence that seemed somehow to fill the entire store and command the undivided attention of everyone.

‘Rosie Duncan.’ It was meant as a question, but appeared more like a statement of disdain.

‘Mr Devereau. Welcome to my shop. How are you?’ I responded, my heart racing. I had put him out of my mind over the weekend and had almost forgotten the fact that Kowalski’s had apparently emptied his order book overnight.

‘Cut the sweet talk,’ Philippe snapped. ‘You know why I’m here.’

‘To admire our designs?’ suggested Ed, suddenly appearing from the workroom and standing protectively at my side.

Philippe glared at him. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr Steinmann. I want to know what the hell you…’ he frantically searched for the word, ‘…tiny, insignificant people think you are doing here.’

‘We’re selling flowers, Philippe. What are you doing here?’ I calmly replied. Far from diffusing the situation, this served only to inflame Philippe’s anger.

‘How dare you? How dare you presume to even pretend to know more than me? Because it is pretence, Ms Duncan, merely pretence. You cannot hope to aspire to even a fraction of my business expertise and artistry—’

Coolly, I cut across him. ‘But it would appear your customers don’t agree, Mr Devereau.’ Light the blue touchpaper. Stand well back…

Boom! Philippe went stratospheric like an expensive bleachblond rocket. ‘So it would appear. Now, I don’t know what you have said to entice them from my company—in the most underhanded and unprofessional way, I may add—but rest assured, Ms Duncan, they will be back. Soon. You are merely a passing phase, a fad. You can’t possibly fulfil my clients’ demands. I am the only one able to do that. I fulfil demands you can’t possibly imagine.’

Oh, I can, I thought. I’ve heard the rumours. But I didn’t say it. Philippe’s anger was far too entertaining right now.

‘My emporium is a palace compared to this…this hovel,’ he spat. ‘Talent-starved traditionalists like yourselves can only dream of owning a business like mine!’

I had dared to venture into the sacred halls of Devereau Design just once: what I saw made me glad to own a shop like Kowalski’s. Far from being a welcoming sanctuary of form, colour and scent, Philippe’s store was little more than a show-room: no flowers were available for passing trade and a large security man on the door was seemingly employed with the solitary task of dissuading any would-be browsers from setting foot over its hallowed threshold. Walls, ceilings, display surrounds and even the doors were uniform white; the counter, with its black granite top, resembled a hotel reception desk more than a service area; flowers were regimented into stiff, contrived displays—unearthly lit in identical white display boxes by tiny green, blue and magenta spotlights, frozen and unnatural like chilling exhibits in some kind of futuristic freak show. A few staff members paraded around in harshly tailored black suits, wearing matching disinterested expressions, each sporting communication headsets and carrying black clipboards. It was as if the flowers in the stark white boxes were prisoners on display. Worse still, the whole space was devoid of scent—it was like walking into Starbucks without smelling coffee. Completely wrong. It makes me shudder even thinking about it now—the lack of life in the place was almost sinister and completely alien to what a florist store should be like.

‘I sincerely hope that Kowalski’s never looks like your emporium,’ I returned. ‘We believe in allowing the flowers to be themselves—something you and your team will never understand.’

‘Kowalski’s is nothing, and your questionable talent for floral art is so limited that I fear your business will shortly collapse. In fact, I intend to see that it does.’

‘Threaten her again and I’ll personally throw you out,’ Ed growled, stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.

‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not stolen your customers. They were recommended to try Kowalski’s by another of your clients—Mimi Sutton. I believe you know her? If they have chosen to leave you, it is entirely their choice and nothing to do with me. You do not have the monopoly on floristry in this city, Mr Devereau, and neither do I.’

‘That may be true, Ms Duncan, however I will not tolerate Kowalski’s pathetic attempts at stealing my considerable share. I pity you, not only for your over-inflated idea of your worth in this city, but also for your abominable designs. I intend to drive your business into the dust…’

Ed leapt forward and flung the door wide open. ‘OK, buddy, you’ve said enough. Out!’

‘But I…’

I moved to Ed’s side. ‘We’d like you to leave. Immediately, please.’

Philippe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His sapphire eyes flashed, his face flushed bright red and he let out an exasperated cry. Spinning round, he strode magnificently out, the two assistants scurrying in his wake. The door slammed and the shop was quiet. Ed and I exchanged glances.

‘Not a happy bunny,’ I grimaced.

‘Hmm,’ agreed Ed, thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid Kowalski’s has just made a very dangerous enemy.’

‘Good morning!’ Marnie arrived, stopping abruptly in the doorway when she saw our worried expressions. ‘What? What happened?’

‘Philippe Devereau just called by to wish us well,’ Ed smiled nonchalantly.

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Philippe? He’s so gorgeous. What did he want?’

Ed picked up a pile of order forms and moved towards the workroom. ‘Oh, you know, he was in the neighbourhood so he thought he’d say hi.’ He turned back at the door and gave a wide-eyed grin. ‘Oh, yeah, and he mentioned he was gonna drive Kowalski’s into the ground as soon as possible.’ He disappeared into the back room.

Marnie’s smile fell and she rushed over to hug me, her blue curls bouncing as she did so. ‘Oh, Rosie, that’s awful,’ she wailed. ‘What are we going to do?’

I didn’t know. But this was not, I resolved, the time for doom and gloom.

‘We’re perfectly OK,’ I said, hoping my voice matched my optimistic statement. ‘We’ll be fine. What does Philippe have to offer that we don’t?’

Marnie looked despondent. ‘He’s been Floral Artiste of the Year for the past ten years. His business is worth multimillions. He scouts the world for the best designers and gets them. Ooh, and he has the biggest range of tropicals and exotics to order—’

I interrupted her. Philippe was looking too invincible. ‘Yes, I know, OK, but he doesn’t spend time with his customers. Or provide free delivery. Or…’ I was struggling already, ‘…or…’

‘Offer them coffee?’ Marnie suggested, a little less hopefully than she’d intended.

I snapped my fingers. ‘Or offer them coffee. Exactly! But we do. We have,’ I continued, walking over to my beloved coffee machine and patting its cracked lid, ‘the ultimate advantage right here.’

‘Old F?’ asked Marnie, still unconvinced. ‘Old Faithful is our secret weapon?’

‘Absolutely. Philippe Devereau may be able to head-hunt the world’s finest for his business, but he’ll never be able to make a decent cup of coffee for his clients, will he?’

Ed appeared in the workroom doorway. ‘Maybe we should give Old F a raise,’ he suggested, ‘or promote him to CEO.’

I smiled confidently. ‘So, if we all stay positive and make sure Philippe doesn’t try to head-hunt our coffee machine, Kowalski’s will survive this!’

Ed and Marnie made a brave attempt at a helpful cheer, but their expressions spoke otherwise.

After the excitement of Monday, Tuesday arrived with little fanfare—so much so that I almost didn’t remember Celia had arranged my dreaded New York Times interview for later that day. In fact, when the young, ginger-haired reporter entered my shop, I initially mistook him for a student seeking parttime work. It was only when he produced his card that I saw who he was.

‘Josh Mercer, New York Times? Celia arranged an interview today?’

‘Yes, of course, I-I’m sorry,’ I stammered, extending my hand for him to shake. ‘I’m Rosie Duncan and this is my co-designer, Ed Steinmann.’

Ed and Josh shook hands. ‘You guys grab the sofa and I’ll make some coffee,’ Ed offered, much to Josh’s delight. It turned out that he’d spent the morning interviewing warring parties involved in a dispute over a controversial neighbourhood regeneration project in the East Village.

‘So, great news story but not so great if you’re expecting a decent cup of coffee,’ he explained, flopping down on the old leather sofa and rummaging through his canvas satchel for his notebook. ‘Disgruntled people aren’t predisposed to good hospitality, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, you won’t find disgruntled locals here,’ I joked as Ed arrived with two mugs of coffee. ‘Just friends, flowers and a great cup of medium roast.’

‘I love the vibe in your store,’ Josh smiled, sipping his coffee and looking around as if he was mentally photographing every angle, feature and detail. ‘I mean, Kowalski’s is so different from the other Upper West Side florists—like Devereau Design. This isn’t a boutique—it’s…more personal, I guess. How do you keep it that way?’

‘We have a long tradition of serving the neighbourhood,’ I replied—and right on cue the silver bell over the door tinkled cheerily as a lady in her eighties entered, laden with shopping bags. Ed rushed over to her, gathering the bags from her as she feigned protest.

‘I’m fine, Edward. Quit fussing so!’

‘Now, Mrs Schuster, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t assist you?’ Ed smiled, offering his arm, which she accepted, her hand the colour of rose-tinted tissue paper daintily placed on his sleeve as he escorted her to a small white wicker chair by the counter.

‘You’re just like my late husband, God rest his soul,’ she smiled. ‘Upright and uptight—that was Henry. And I’ve told you before, young man, you must call me Delores.’

Josh was watching Delores Schuster with intense interest, his ballpoint pen hovering thoughtfully over his notepad as his reporter’s eyes drank in every detail.

‘She’s a regular?’

‘Oh yes. Mrs Schuster’s been coming to Kowalski’s since her family got their apartment on West 71st Street, over forty years ago. She was one of Mr Kowalski’s first customers and she’s been coming here ever since.’

‘Do you find it difficult to balance the day-to-day side of the business with the growing number of large-scale commissions you’re now taking on?’

It was a good question, but one I hadn’t really considered before. We don’t have to make a special effort to keep both the day-to-day and the event stuff running. It is just what we do—and something I love my business for. Yes, sometimes we are so busy I can’t even tell you what day of the week it is and, equally, in our quieter times, there are sometimes days on end where you can count the customers venturing into the shop on the fingers of one hand. But that’s the nature of the business: you can only work with what you have available at the time. The unpredictability would scare many, but I enjoy it.

‘Despite my shop now increasingly catering for larger events, we’ve never lost the neighbourhood business—and that’s what I love,’ I explained. ‘One minute you’re sitting with a prospective bride discussing thousand-dollar arrangements; the next you’re chatting with someone like Betty Myers, who’s been a Kowalski’s customer for over twenty years, and is a former waitress in Buck’s diner just round the block from my house, designing a $25 gift basket for her niece. It’s all part of the mix.’

‘Unlike places like Devereau Design,’ Josh repeated, raising a telling eyebrow.

I couldn’t resist a smile. Philippe is the kind of florist that my mother despises. ‘All fuss and bluster,’ she’d proclaim with trademark disdain. ‘Nonsense and showmanship are no substitutes for real talent. Swanning about in their designer suits and stapling banana leaves together like it’s the height of skill—charging a King’s ransom for greenery, I ask you! Any idiot can do that!’

‘Devereau Design caters for a very different market from Kowalski’s,’ I smiled, deciding to be diplomatic. ‘Their customers expect something a little—’

‘Who is this young man?’ Delores suddenly appeared beside me, making Josh jump.

‘This is Josh Mercer, from the New York Times. Josh, let me introduce you to Mrs Delores Schuster, one of Kowalski’s most distinguished customers.’

Josh shot to his feet, respectfully offering his hand to Delores. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs—’

‘Call me Delores, please,’ she answered, her cheeks flushing slightly. ‘You’re here to interview Rosie?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘Oh well, in that case,’ Delores began, bustling in between us and lowering herself shakily onto the sofa, gripping our arms for support as she did so, ‘let me tell you all about Kowalski’s and why it’s the greatest florist’s in the whole of New York.’

For the next thirty-five minutes, Delores regaled Josh with long, rambling accounts of her many visits to the store, each one accompanied by generous helpings of Schuster family trivia along the way.

‘…So then there was the time my late husband, Henry—may God rest his soul—forgot his aunt Bertha’s Golden Wedding Anniversary. Well, you would not believe the commotion in the family. I tell you, it was like the day they elected Nixon and my grandmother swore she wouldn’t leave the house again while he was in the White House. Aunt Bertha was the kind of woman you don’t forget, take my word for it, young man—she had a holler that would scare a werewolf—and she comes storming into our apartment, face all red like a tomato, and skirts flapping like laundry in a tornado, and she yells, “Fifty years of marriage to the same dumb putz and all I wanted to make my sorry life happy was for my one and only nephew to remember!” But my Henry was fast at thinking, if nothing else. He took her hand and he walked her all the way to Kowalski’s—three whole blocks he walked her—and he walked straight up to Mr Kowalski and he said, “Franz, would you please tell my beloved aunt Bertha about the surprise arrangement we’re planning for her Golden Wedding Anniversary, which she thinks I forgot?” And—would you believe it—Mr Kowalski stands there, bold as buttons, and calmly describes the most beautiful basket of flowers you ever heard of. Well, Aunt Bertha was not a woman to be lost for words—I mean, even when her husband, Charlie, proposed to her he had to endure a ten-minute lecture on her expectations of marriage, you know—but two minutes of listening to Mr Kowalski and she was a changed woman. And then—to finish it all—Mr Kowalski explains that the reason for the unfortunate delay is that the flower warehouse was all out of pink lilac, which he knew was her favourite flower—which it was—but there’s no way he could’ve known that because, right up until my Henry marched in there, he hadn’t even known Aunt Bertha existed at all! So that’s why we come to Kowalski’s—even though Mr Kowalski is long gone, probably laughing about the whole Aunt Bertha scenario with my Henry right now. Young Rosie here is a woman after his heart; he taught her well, you know. Have you got all that down in your book now, Joshua?’

Josh nodded dumbly, his eyes glazing over.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t pose for a photograph,’ Delores said, nodding at the camera in Josh’s lap. ‘I’m not one for publicity, you see. Well, I can’t stay here chatting all day. I got things to do, people to see. Edward! Help me up, please!’

Ed stifled his mirth as he assisted Delores back to the counter.

‘Like I said, Kowalski’s is first and foremost a neighbourhood florist,’ I smiled, shaking my head at Josh’s amused expression.

He checked his list of questions. ‘So, how did an English rose like yourself come to be blooming in New York?’

Somehow, I knew this phrase would end up in the article—being friends with Celia has prepared me well for the ways of journalists.

‘I moved here from Boston just over six years ago, worked for a while with Mr Kowalski and then took over the business when he retired,’ I replied, hoping that this would be enough information. Of course, it wasn’t.

‘And were you a florist in Boston?’

‘No.’

‘Oh? What was your previous profession?’

My heart began to thud as my defences prickled. ‘I was creative director for a small advertising firm.’

‘Which one?’

‘It doesn’t exist any more.’

I could tell Josh could sense my discomfort. He looked up from his pad. ‘All the same, it would be good to have some background…’

‘My mother is a florist, so I learned the trade from watching her and helping out in her shop when I was young. Then after university I chose to enter advertising and—wound up here, eventually.’

‘Forgive me, but I’m curious: why leave your country behind to come to the States?’

‘Well, look around you: New York is fabulous. What girl wouldn’t want to live here? The shops, the restaurants…’ I answered breezily, trying without success to deflect his train of thought.

‘I see. But England—it’s so…so…infinitely more interesting than here, don’t you think?’

‘Well, I—’

‘I mean, all that history and literature and amazing countryside; to be able to walk daily in the steps of Shakespeare, Byron and Keats; to visit the great places of learning like Oxford and Cambridge; to revel in the generations of royalty and stand in the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution—surely there was enough to keep you there?’

Josh’s monologue on the greatness of my home country took me aback and I—like Aunt Bertha, many years before—found myself lost for words.

A crimson flush spread over his pale cheeks and he ran a hand self-consciously through his mop of copper-coloured curls. ‘Wow. I am so sorry, Ms Duncan. I kinda got carried away there. I adore your country, as you may have gathered.’

Relieved that the interview had strayed from my past, I smiled. ‘Not a problem. Yes, I love all of that about England. Although Stone Langley—the small town where I grew up—is nothing like the regal England you’d expect. But New York stole my heart and this is where I want to be, more than anything.’

After the interview was concluded and Josh had taken all the photographs that he needed, I saw him to the door.

Ed, now a gentleman-at-ease following the departure of Delores Schuster, watched me with intensity. ‘Good interview?’

‘I think it went OK.’

‘Like I said it would.’

‘Yes, like you said it would, O Wise and Noble One.’ I gave a small bow.

‘Good,’ Ed replied with a self-satisfied air. ‘So how come he grilled you about ending up here then? Checking you had your Green Card?’

‘He seems to be a bit of a serious Anglophile. Couldn’t understand why I wanted to live here.’

‘Hmm—rainy middle England, where the beer is warm and the summers are wet, versus glorious New York with Mrs Delores Schuster and her not-so-potted family histories? Tough call,’ he grinned. ‘Go figure.’

A few hours later, as Marnie and I were replacing the large displays in the window, the workroom door swung open and Ed entered, battered brown leather jacket slung over one arm.

‘So long, sad single people,’ he breezed over his shoulder as he strode through the store.

Marnie and I exchanged glances.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Marnie.

‘I have a date. A hot one.’

‘But it’s a Tuesday night. Who goes out for a date on a Tuesday night?’

‘I do,’ Ed replied, supremely pleased with himself. ‘I admit, a Tuesday date is a first for me in quite some time, but—to quote the lovely young thing in whose delicious company I will be spending this unusual night—“I just can’t wait till Friday.” So who am I to keep the lady waiting, eh?’

I winked at Marnie. ‘She’s due in court on Friday for a heinous crime.’

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Or her parole officer visits on a Friday.’

‘Or maybe she’s fleeing the country on Friday after a bank heist she’s doing on the Thursday…’

‘…Which she’s planning on Wednesday…’

‘…So it has to be Tuesday night!’

Ed stared at the pair of us, shaking his head slowly. ‘Well, thank you for your support, ladies.’

‘Aw, Ed, ignore us and just go and have a lovely time.’

‘Thanks, Rosie.’

‘…with the crazy jailbird master criminal!’ Marnie squeaked, sending us both into hysterical giggles once again.

Ed groaned and opened the door. ‘Fine. Laugh all you want, but I will be loved up and happy tonight,’ he turned in the doorway to deliver his parting shot, ‘unlike you guys.’

Ouch.

I had to laugh. Ed claimed not to be seeking relationships, preferring the delights of general non-commitment dating instead.

‘I’m young, I’m in no rush to meet The One—whatever that means—or settle down, or have kids. I just like to date. So sue me.’

Meeting people was something Ed was incredibly adept at. His cousin’s lawyer a few weeks back was nothing compared to some of his dates. It was almost as if everywhere he went he would fall across eligible women: ‘I was out last week and I stopped for a paper and right next to the newsstand was this woman…I swear, I was just walking down Amsterdam Avenue when this beautiful girl stops me and asks me for a date…I took my dry-cleaning to Mrs Ling’s and got chatting to this babe…’ I never met any of the ladies in question (or should that be ‘questionable ladies’?), but that was probably because most of Ed’s dates lasted only a few weeks, so far too short a time to introduce them to the Kowalski’s family.

Next morning, the Ed who walked into the store was very different from the Ed who had walked out of it the night before.

‘So, how did the date with Tuesday girl go?’ I asked eventually, after Ed’s uncommon, unshaven and decidedly dishevelled silence had reigned supreme for nearly half an hour.

Ed stripped the leaves from a long-stemmed red rose in one swift motion, adding it to the bouquet forming in his left hand. ‘Fine.’

‘Right…’

I surveyed him carefully as he moved along the flower buckets, choosing, sizing and stripping leaves off the selected blooms as he went. Turning the untied bunch in his hand to check the arrangement, he then dropped his head and slunk back to the counter. ‘Oh, who am I kidding? It was a disaster.’

‘Really?’

‘There’s no need to look so smug about it.’

‘I’m not. Honestly.’

‘I mean at least I date, right? Not like you.’

I let that one go. ‘Absolutely. So what about last night?’

He grabbed a length of raffia from behind the counter and wound it irritably around the gathered stems. ‘Hmm. Well, it wasn’t a total disaster, I guess. Sarah was perfectly nice and decent, attractive, good company, you know? But…’

‘But what?’

He tied off the bouquet, picked up a pair of scissors, moved to the bin on the other side of the counter and trimmed the stems with one cut. ‘I dunno, Rosie. I just didn’t feel it was worth pursuing. Crazy, huh?’

‘No—no, I don’t think it is.’

‘Well, I think it is. What’s wrong with me? I date all the time, a whole selection of perfectly acceptable women. But none of them, you know, fits.’

‘Fits what? Your ideal? Your lifestyle? Your apartment?’

‘Hilarious. You missed your calling when you chose to be a florist. There’s a stand-up mic somewhere with your name on it. No, I mean they don’t fit me.’

‘Ah, right. Well, I think you’ll find that’s the point of dating.’

‘Which of course you’d know so much about,’ Ed added, quick as a flash. I kicked myself for not seeing that one coming.

‘The difference is that I don’t feel I need another person to make me feel complete,’ I shot back.

‘Do you really believe that, Rosie?’ He threw the bouquet to me and I caught it as he passed and disappeared into the workroom, shaking his head. His last comment hung accusingly in the air above my head—a question I wasn’t willing to answer.

Not yet.

Celia met me on Wednesday night at Bistro Découverte at the edge of Riverside Park, not far from her apartment. It’s one of my favourite places. In the summer, it’s a great place to eat al fresco, your table lit by the rows of tiny white lights across the front deck and the sounds of Café de Paris music drifting lazily in the air. Celia and I come here often. It’s quieter than the other bistros in the area, and many tourists don’t even know it exists. The usual clientele consists of writers, artists and the occasional journalist or celebrity actor, and the hum of conversation is low, welcoming and homely. Tonight, however, the hint of autumn chill drove us indoors. As we began to eat our main course, sharp splats of rain peppered the window and the little lights outside were tossing about in the breeze.

Celia shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s nearing fall already,’ she moaned. ‘Where has summer gone? Before we know it, it’ll be Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Did I tell you I got a call from Jerry today?’

The question was so deftly inserted into her conversation that I almost missed it. ‘Jerry? He called you?’

Celia gave a fatalistic shrug and took a mouthful of winepoached salmon. ‘Eleven months he’s been gone and then today I get a call.’

Celia and Jerry have been partners for well over fourteen years and were, it seemed, blissfully unaffected by each other for all of that time. She went on her assignments, he went on his business trips. They spent three weeks together every summer at their beach house in Martha’s Vineyard, and New Year with his family in Wisconsin. They were a typical highachieving New York couple. Until eleven months ago. Jerry announced he was ‘off to find himself’, packed a suitcase and disappeared. His company didn’t know where he was. His friends didn’t know where he was. Even his mother didn’t know where he was: which was incredibly worrying, as Jerry’s mother is the domestic equivalent of the FBI. Her powers of investigation are unsurpassed and could prove invaluable to the State one day, should it ever need to know exactly, in minute detail, about an individual (eating habits, connections, rumours, bowel movements and so on). I’m convinced she has a vast, underground network of spies, who regularly feed back to her at apparently innocent locations. Come to think of it, she hosts an awful lot of dinner parties and is forever on the phone, so maybe ‘Yes, Rabbi, you’re invited to dinner Wednesday at eight’, actually means ‘Thank you, Agent 482, your information has been received and you will be rewarded well.’

It was unclear whether Jerry’s disappearance was a life-changing, traumatic experience for Celia or just an annoyance. She rarely even mentioned his name and I knew she had been on more than one date recently. Even now, as I faced her across the table, I couldn’t detect any kind of emotion in her measured expression. Except, perhaps, resignation.

‘So how did he seem? What did he say?’ I asked.

Celia shrugged again and looked over my shoulder. ‘That he’s sorry. That he’s in Palm Springs and the golf is good. That he wants me to forgive him.’

‘But he’s not coming home?’ I asked, trying to judge her countenance, which flickered slightly.

She nodded.

‘Oh, Celia…’

She held up a hand and looked me square in the eyes. ‘It’s fine, Rosie. Honestly, I’m fine. He can go—no, he’s welcome to go. I’m amazed we lasted as long as we did. We never married—what can I say? Such is life. There isn’t anyone else, though. And I don’t think I’d care if there was. Besides,’ she added, her wry smile making a welcome comeback, ‘I hear toy boys are all the rage for women over forty now. So maybe I’ll get me one of those. Maybe I’ll give Nate Amie a call…’ her eyes twinkled naughtily, ‘…unless you have any objections, that is?’

It was obvious that the Jerry topic was now closed, so I played along, glaring at her. ‘I don’t object at all. But Caitlin Sutton might have something to say about it.’

‘Aha!’ Celia’s face was a picture of triumph. I had obviously fallen for her bait. ‘Not if what I heard today is anything like the truth.’

I leaned forward, curious to hear more. ‘So, tell me, then. What did you hear?’

Celia looked shocked. ‘Rosie Duncan, I do believe you are enquiring about a man!’

I protested. ‘Only out of sheer curiosity and the need for a bit of juicy gossip.’

‘Like I believe that…Well, I was talking to Brent Jacobs this morning, and he told me—ooh, and make sure you don’t forget he’s—’

‘Coming to my shop tomorrow morning, yes, I know. What about Nate?’

‘Patience, Rosie! I’m coming to that,’ Celia stated, delighting in my suspense. ‘He told me he was at a theatre premiere at the Lincoln Center yesterday and he saw Mimi, Nate and Caitlin. Right in the middle of the performance, Caitlin stormed out. And Nate didn’t follow her. Then Mimi received a call at the after-show party and had a blazing row with Nate, in front of everyone. He called his driver and left, and Mimi was heard to say that he had not heard the last from her on the subject. She was in such a foul mood that she totally ruined the party and most people left as soon as she did.’

I was still interested. ‘And…?’

Celia sat back. ‘That was it.’

Disappointment is always a difficult thing to hide. ‘Oh…What was Brent’s take on things?’

Celia took a sip of Pinot Gris. ‘He was as much in the dark as everyone else. But his theory is that Caitlin and Mimi have been pressing for marriage and Nate won’t play ball.’

‘So, does this mean he won’t be ordering those large and frequent bouquets from me, after all, then?’ I moaned with a smile.

‘Well, Brent reckons he’ll—’ she was interrupted by the waiter, who informed her she had a phone call. ‘Excuse me one second, Rosie. I’ll be right back.’

I refilled my glass and sat back in my chair to look out at the driving rain and wildly swinging fairy lights. Why I found this information interesting, I couldn’t exactly pinpoint. After all, I didn’t really know Nate Amie. Only that he had a laugh that could fill an atrium and knew nothing about lavender. Yet somehow I found myself intrigued that his name had cropped up in conversation so often this past week.

Celia returned about five minutes later, shaking her head. ‘Can you believe that?’ she asked. ‘I leave them alone for five minutes and all hell breaks out.’ She saw my mystified face and took a breath. ‘Sorry, honey. I’ve got my sister’s twins over for a few days. Didn’t I tell you? Well, I have. They’re on vacation from Washington State and wanted to see New York. It appears they decided to throw a party while I was out and have played music so loud that my good neighbours called 911. I need to go sort it out. I’m sorry, sweetie. Call you tomorrow?’ She grabbed her bag, kissed me and hurried away to her engagement with New York’s finest.

The waiter approached. ‘Will madam be ordering dessert?’ he asked.

‘No, no, thank you. I’ll settle up, if I may.’

‘Sure. No problem.’ He disappeared again. I finished my wine and took a last look out at the windswept Hudson. For the briefest of seconds, my mind flashed up an image of a lopsided grin and a soft, low voice. Surprised, I checked myself and rose to leave.

As I stepped outside into the icy rain, I wrapped my coat tightly round my body and began the short walk home. The wind whipped at my hair and New York seemed to be asking me the same questions that already filled my mind, despite my desire to avoid the subject.

It was an unusual relief to click the key into the front door of my block and jog the three flights up to my apartment. Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against the frame, breathing in the familiar scent and willing my heart to slow down. I was removing my coat when the intercom beeped. I jumped.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, sis. Aren’t you going to let your big bruv in?’ chirped a familiar voice.

‘James!’ I squealed. ‘Come on up!’

I pressed the door release button and within a minute my brother walked in. It’s funny that I’m always shocked at how tall he is whenever I see him. He looked tired, but thrilled that he had surprised me by arriving with no warning. He dropped his heavy leather bag on the floor, scooped me up and spun me round.

‘Rosie! It’s so great to see you,’ he yelled. ‘Are you surprised?’

‘Too right I’m surprised!’ He plonked me down and I hugged him again. ‘I can’t believe you’re here! Mum said you’d be too busy to visit.’

James grinned, nut-brown eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘I swore Mum to secrecy. I wanted to surprise you. Can I stay?’

‘Sure, no problem. I’ll have to make up the couch for you. Is that OK?’

‘Perfect,’ James said, dropping into the nearest chair. ‘I’m so tired I’ll sleep anywhere. I’m not proud, y’know.’

‘Good job my couch is an incredibly comfy sofa bed, then,’ I replied, going into the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘Tea?’

‘How about Yorkshire Tea?’ James asked, appearing by my side and brandishing a box. ‘I’ve got you some Marmite too. And Dairy Milk.’

I let out another squeal. I don’t miss many things from home, but these gifts are like the Holy Grail for me. ‘Thank you so much!’ I yelped, ripping open the tea box and dropping two bags into the pot. I poured the boiling water and savoured the long-missed aroma as the tea began to infuse. ‘Heaven,’ I breathed.

‘How long are you staying?’ I asked, once the tea was made and we had sunk down into the sofa with our mugs of steaming nectar.

James looked offended. ‘You want me to leave already?’ he laughed. ‘I’m kidding, Rosie. I can only stay till Saturday morning, I’m afraid. Then I need to be back at the DC office for four days, before I fly home again. Look, are you sure it’s OK to stay with you? I could book into the Four Seasons, if not.’

‘Why on earth would you want to stay at one of the best New York hotels when you can rough it here with me?’ I asked.

James smiled. ‘I’d much rather be with my darling little sis than in a swanky place like that. You provide decent breakfasts. And your prices are unbeatable.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ I laughed. ‘Now, can I interest you in room service, sir?’

A quizzical expression spread across his face. ‘What’s on the menu?’

‘Well, we have a rather special tub of cookie-dough ice cream—it’s a house speciality. Might I interest sir in a small helping?’

‘Absolutely. But make it a large one, please, I’m starving!’ James cried, clutching his stomach in mock agony. As I struggled to release myself from the sumptuous embrace of my sofa, my brother grabbed my hand and genuine affection filled his eyes. ‘It’s so good to be here, Rosie. Thank you.’

As a younger sister I have learned to be wary when my brother is being sentimental. These fleeting glimpses of affection usually occur when James is in trouble and needs me to bail him out. Later, once he was settled on my couch and I was in bed, I found myself wondering if this was to be another of those occasions. Quickly, my optimism gene sprang into action and I decided that this might actually be a time when my gut reaction was wrong. Self-centred though he may be, surely even James was capable of conveying real, heartfelt emotion sometimes.

Wasn’t he?