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Nate’s visits were most definitely regular—increasingly so as autumn took Manhattan in its colourful hold. He began to visit my shop most weeks—usually on a Thursday afternoon when he could sneak out of his office—and our friendship seemed to grow with each new conversation. I couldn’t help it: I liked him, from the easy way he seemed to breeze through life, to his delight at meeting some of my customers, and the utter regard he had for my profession. He liked nothing better than watching me and my team at work, mug of Old F’s finest decaf in hand, and I found myself looking forward to his visits as the days and weeks passed. This was the start of what promised to be a beautiful friendship: the optimist and the (admittedly happy) pessimist, drinking coffee and surrounded by flowers on the corner of West 68th and Columbus.

Just after lunchtime one Thursday in the middle of October, the small silver bell above Kowalski’s front door heralded the unexpected arrival of Nate. After nearly two months of his visits, I was becoming more accustomed to his arrival, its effect on my pulse rate marginally less devastating than it had been in the beginning.

‘This is a surprise,’ I said, wrapping paper around an enormous bunch of assorted blooms and foliage for Mrs Katzinger, who arranges the flowers in the local Episcopalian church, two blocks south of Kowalski’s. ‘I thought the world of publishing waits for no one?’

‘It doesn’t,’ Nate grinned, his cocoa-brown eyes sparkling like a cheeky schoolboy’s, ‘that’s why you have to have escape routes planned. Today, just so you know, you are a retired history professor I’m trying to sign up. You have a fascinating manuscript on late eighteenth-century industrialists that I’d love to get my hands on.’

I ignored his double entendre and attempted to maintain my jovial air. This was not lost on Mrs Katzinger, however, who raised an eyebrow with the merest hint of sly humour.

‘Well, Mr High-Powered Publisher, I’ll do my best to decline your generous offer,’ I smiled back at him, our banter sending a shiver of joy right down my spine. ‘After all, a professor of my calibre can’t be bought, you know. But I’m glad you could pencil me into your schedule. Right, is that everything, Mrs Katzinger?’

‘I think so,’ she replied, her face reddening as a million and one things raced through her mind. Mrs Katzinger is one of those people who are always busy, always flustered and always on the way to several other places at the same time. Marnie reckons she probably even finds sleeping an exhausting pursuit. To that end, she is pure New York—something I wasn’t quite prepared for when I first arrived here. Whereas in England people are just busy, in New York they are manic. Even getting a take-away coffee is a time-consuming activity in their crazy day. Ed jokes that even the homeless guys in the church-run shelter near his apartment have packed-out schedules: he once helped out at the soup kitchen there (when he was trying to date a girl from the congregation) and he said everyone in the line was complaining about how much precious time they were wasting standing there.

Mrs Katzinger handed me her money, shaking her head. ‘Thank you for this, Rosie. You have no idea how busy I am, what with the church flowers and the coffee morning next Thursday. You would not believe how long it’s taking me to find a good deal on cupcakes.’

‘Have you tried M&H on 88th?’ I suggested.

Mrs Katzinger’s face lit up. ‘You know, I haven’t. That’s another stop on my journey then!’ She scooped the bundle of flowers into her matronly arms and bustled out of the door, the silver bell jangling a noisy farewell as she hurried away.

‘You are a fountain of knowledge,’ Nate observed. ‘Much more than your average florist, eh?’

‘Absolutely. It’s all part of the service Kowalski’s offers to the neighbourhood. Therapist, City guide, advisor, life coach—and sanctuary for escaped editors, of course,’ I grinned.

Nate’s eyes flashed. ‘And an irresistible one at that.’

Blushing, I decided an urgent change of subject was in order. ‘Coffee?’

‘Love one, thanks.’ His gaze remained disconcertingly fixed on me as I powered up Old F, who provided the necessary afternoon decaf after a little gentle coaxing. Then we sat down on the sofa.

‘I was talking about the store being irresistible, by the way, not me,’ he said, and instantly I felt stupid for thinking he meant I was irresistible. As he spread his tailored jacket over the arm of the sofa and stretched out his long legs, I found myself admiring again his effortless style. Moss-green V-neck sweater and pristine white T-shirt underneath, smart yet casual nut-brown trousers and polished expensive brogues—Nate was every inch the man about town. ‘I love this place, Rosie. I feel like I can relax here, you know? Be “me”—whoever that is.’

‘Glad to be of service to you—well, my shop is, at least.’

Nate shook his head. ‘It isn’t just the store. It’s you. Let’s face it: Kowalski’s is you. But I’d like to hazard a guess that if I met you anywhere else, it would still feel like I didn’t have to pretend with you. My life—’ he broke off, as if unsure of how to phrase the sentence. ‘Uh…so much of what people see when they look at me is what other people have prescribed, you know?’

I didn’t. ‘Not really, sorry.’

‘At Gray & Connelle I’m the boy-wonder: the editor who signed three New York Times Bestsellers during his first month at the company and quickly rose to the top. To my parents I’m the blue-eyed boy—difficult, I know, as my irises don’t quite fit the bill—but I’m incapable of doing wrong, as far as they’re concerned. To Caitlin, I’m—well, I don’t exactly know what I am to her, apart from a constant source of disappointment and frustration, it would seem. And as for Mimi—it’s like she’s already storyboarded my existence for her reallife family blockbuster. The only person who accepts me for who I am—who asks nothing more of me other than that I just show up for coffee once in awhile—is you. Don’t give me that look, Rosie; I mean it. Ever since I started coming here, things have been falling into place, you know? I’ve had so much all my life; I’ve never wanted for anything. But it’s all been just—stuff. You see the real Nate, I think; perhaps more than any other living soul. And I want to discover who he is. I like the version of me that I see in your eyes. That’s why I had to see you today.’

I was flattered by what he said, but still I struggled with the picture Nate painted of me. I’m not wise: in many ways events of my life have attested to this fact. I guess I’m just interested in people, in their stories and personalities.

It never ceases to amaze me the number of stories I hear in my day-to-day dealings with the good people of my neighbourhood. There are at least a hundred different people I could tell you about who visit my shop, from occasional customers to people we see week in, week out. Some of them, like Mrs Katzinger and Mrs Schuster, were Kowalski’s customers long before I was here. Like Gloria O’Keefe, for instance, who told me her grandmother bought flowers from Kowalski’s right from when she was a little girl, and Mrs O’Keefe is now a grandmother herself, buying flowers for her own grand-daughter’s birthday. But there are also a lot of people who have appeared since I took over the business.

Take Billy Whitman, for example. He started coming to my shop at the end of last year. He is hopelessly in love with the girl whose desk is across the office floor from his. The highlight of his day is when she crosses the office to the water-cooler by his desk because she always smiles at him. That daily smile has become the reason he can’t wait to get to work in the morning and, even though this is the only contact he has with her each day, it is enough to have completely stolen his heart. Billy sends roses from Kowalski’s every first Monday of the month to the girl across the office—always red and always a dozen, with a card that says, ‘From your office admirer’. To date, he hasn’t yet had the courage to add his name to the card, even though Ed, Marnie and I have all urged him to do so. Consequently, Miss Emily Kelly thinks the roses are from one of the managers and is slowly dating her way through middle management in a bid to discover the sender of her monthly bouquet, while Billy contents himself with the daily smile and tries to muster the nerve to reveal his secret identity to her.

It’s stories like these that make my job so enjoyable: tiny snapshots of other people’s lives that catch my interest, like driving down a street at night and peeking into lit windows.

But not all the glimpses are good ones. For every hopeful, fascinating story, there are darker, sadder ones. Like the man who came into the store not so long ago. He caused such consternation that the mere mention of ‘BlackBerry Guy’—as he has become known—is enough to send Ed and Marnie into animated diatribes about how ungrateful some people are.

It had been raining solidly for a whole week and business had been sporadic, to say the least, with only the bravest of customers daring to brave the New York pelt. By Friday afternoon it was so quiet that I made the decision to close early and we were just starting to shut up shop when BlackBerry Guy came in. Dressed impeccably in a smartly cut dark suit and trench coat, he was engrossed in a call on said BlackBerry and didn’t even acknowledge Ed, who had walked across to greet him. It took Ed physically standing four inches from BlackBerry Guy’s face for him finally to register his existence.

The first thing that annoyed Ed was that BlackBerry Guy didn’t end the call. He merely mumbled, ‘Hold on, would ya? I just gotta sort something,’ into the device and put his hand over it. ‘Flowers, yeah?’

I could see Ed swallowing the comment he would have liked to have made before he politely asked, ‘Any particular type?’

BlackBerry Guy cast a cursory glance at the impressive selection of blooms in our galvanised buckets. ‘Whatever,’ he said with a disinterested swipe of his hand. ‘Just make them expensive, yeah? Money’s not an object here, OK?’ Before Ed could speak again, BlackBerry Guy had returned to his call. ‘Murray, you still there? Yeah, just getting a peace offering for Susie, making sure she doesn’t sue my ass for every nickel. What? Oh yeah, she found out about that bit of skirt I picked up in Philadelphia. Threatening to divorce me. Again. What? Damage limitation, yeah.’ His laugh was dirty and disgusting—and the second thing that annoyed Ed, who cleared his throat loudly and waved at BlackBerry Guy to wrench his attention from the blasted device. ‘Oh wait, the shop guy’s bugging me,’ he said to the caller, placing his hand over the receiver once more and glaring at Ed. ‘What?’

Ed smiled with gritted teeth. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to know what kind of arrangement you require and if you need it to take now or wish for us to deliver it?’

BlackBerry Guy let out an irritated sigh and resumed his call. ‘Yeah, Murray? I gotta go. Seems you gotta endure the third degree to get a damn bunch of flowers round here. Ha, I know! Later.’ He had ended the call and raised both hands. ‘Good for you?’

‘Much better, thanks,’ Ed replied, the sarcasm in his tone evident to everyone else except the man stood before him.

By the time BlackBerry Guy had finally left Kowalski’s—after having answered three further calls and sent numerous emails—everyone was wound up. For a man who had betrayed his wife, he’d showed little remorse—in fact, he’d only stopped joking about it when he saw the disgusted looks on our faces. He’d spent over a hundred dollars on an apology that was more about saving him from an expensive divorce than it was about saying sorry. It’s sad, but it’s life, and just another part of the rich mosaic of individual stories that make this city what it is.

‘Do you ever wonder if you could end up like BlackBerry Guy?’ Ed asked one Sunday morning, as we sat on burgundy-red cushions in the window seat of Caffe Marco on Lafayette Street in NoLita, eating bomboloni—tiny Italian breakfast doughnuts filled with chocolate, custard and jam (a particular favourite of Ed’s). We come here quite a lot on our weekend expeditions. Ed is fascinated by the décor in the café: it’s typically over the top, from the huge crystal chandeliers and ornately carved white-painted wooden chairs to the neat, regimented lines of pastries standing to attention in glass and steel display cabinets beneath the polished white marble service counter. The coffee’s pretty good too—rich and dark with the kind of kick that can wake up even reluctant-riser Ed on a Sunday morning.

‘I don’t think either of us could be so callous,’ I replied, taking a sip of smoky espresso and enjoying the instant buzz.

‘Nevertheless, I worry about it sometimes, you know? That I’ll one day get so wrapped up in my own life that I’ll stop thinking about other people. I guess it’s something you don’t notice about yourself until it’s too late.’

‘You want to watch that Caffe Marco espresso,’ I smiled. ‘It looks like it could be melting you, Mr Iceberg.’

‘Mock all you want, Rosie, but any one of our customers could be us one day. What was it Mr K used to say? “Everyone’s story is one step away from yours.”’ He shuddered. ‘Remind me never to buy a BlackBerry, OK?’

‘I really don’t think the device determined the man there, Ed.’

‘I know, but when you see everyone else’s lives, the comparison with your own is inevitable, don’t you think?’ He popped another doughnut into his mouth and I could almost see his brain whirring as he munched away. ‘I mean, look at Billy Whitman: I bet he never thought that one day he would fall so hopelessly in love with somebody that he’d end up spending hundreds of dollars because he didn’t have the nerve to tell her his feelings.’

There are many things I’m not certain of in my life, but I can honestly say that Billy Whitman’s situation was one I was pretty convinced wasn’t likely to happen to me. ‘Billy will tell Emily how he feels one day,’ I said with conviction. ‘These things just take time. And no, I don’t worry that will happen to me.’

A strange look passed across the ice-blue Steinmann stare. ‘Still, it’s a scary thought, huh?’

A pretty young waitress appeared by our table, instantly summoning Ed’s attention.

‘Hi, I’m Lydia,’ she smiled.

‘Hi Lydia.’ Ed’s cheeky expression made me groan and avert my gaze.

She blushed and shifted position self-consciously. ‘Can I get you guys anything else?’

‘Rosie? More coffee?’

I politely declined, not that he was listening.

Lydia turned to Ed. ‘And for you, sir?’

‘Well, I’m fine for coffee, but I wouldn’t say no to your number.’

Watching Ed the Serial Dater at work is truly a sight to behold. Lydia didn’t stand a chance against the Steinmann charm. I’ve seen it so many times and yet it never fails to fascinate me. He can make any woman feel like she’s the only other person in the room, just with his attentive smile.

‘Well, when you ask so nicely…’ Lydia scribbled her number on a napkin and handed it to him. Ed, his eyes never leaving hers, accepted it and placed it with great care into his shirt pocket.

‘Call me anytime after seven,’ she beamed.

‘I’ll do that,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’

He watched her skip away and looked back at me. ‘What?’

I laughed. ‘You are impossible, Ed! I can’t take you anywhere.’

He took a triumphant sip of coffee. ‘I’m just in the game, Rosie, that’s all.’

‘Who do we have here?’ a familiar voice interrupted. My heart sank and I looked up to see Philippe Devereau standing by our table, expensively attired arms folded angrily and perma-tan flushed. ‘The talentless Rosie Duncan and her scruffy guard dog, I presume?’

My hard stare at Ed prevented him from saying something he might come to regret.

‘Philippe, what a pleasure. Day off, is it?’

Philippe snorted. ‘Some of us in this business are able to function outside of our stores, Ms Duncan. Unlike lesser concerns such as Kowalski’s.’

I raised my coffee cup. ‘Proud to be a neighbourhood florist, Philippe. May it ever be thus.’

He slammed a fist down on our table, making the white crockery, silver coffee pot and cutlery jump. People around us had stopped eating and were staring over at the orange-hued, black-suited angry man by our table.

‘Give it up, Ms Duncan! Know your market: the unremarkable masses who think Asiatic lilies are exotic. Leave my customers alone.’

I stared straight at him, keeping my voice low and cool. ‘On the contrary, Mr Devereau, my customers are remarkable and understand far more about flowers than you ever will. They appreciate natural beauty—something I think you lost sight of years ago.’ The nervous-looking assistant who had just scampered to Philippe’s side gasped. But I wasn’t finished. ‘And as for your customers, as I said before, I have no intention of pursuing them. But they seem intent on pursuing me. Now, if you don’t mind, this happens to be my day off and I’d like to finish my breakfast in peace.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ Philippe snarled. ‘To think that I, Manhattan’s premier floral artiste, should have to endure such treatment from a two-bit florist with ideas above her place! Who the hell do you think you are?’

Ed jumped to his feet before I could stop him. ‘Who is she? I’ll tell you who she is, you phony jerk. She is the kind of innovative, passionate designer that this City needs. Rosie understands form and beauty in a way you never will. We both do. Mark my words, Mr Devereau, our designs are going to set this whole damn place on fire and leave you wondering what the hell happened. Now why don’t you just shimmy your little orange ass back to that flower freak show you call an emporium and leave us the hell alone?’ He calmly resumed his seat. ‘Amazing the losers they let in here on a Sunday, huh?’

I smiled at Ed, genuinely touched by his chivalrous defence of me. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

Philippe and his minion made a noisy exit from the café.

Flowers are very subjective—not everyone likes the same. I dread to think what Philippe’s idea of a perfect bloom is. Celia can’t stand the scent of stargazer lilies, for example. In fact, she is famously picky when it comes to flowers: hyacinths, jasmine and viburnum all elicit her most violent disapproval. That’s why what I do as a florist is more like analysis than simply pure aesthetics. Flowers, as Mr K used to tell us, are like people: each one of us has our own special blend of characteristics just as flowers have different colours, shapes, scents and so on.

Celia once asked me what flowers everyone at Kowalski’s would be. I didn’t even have to think about it. Ed, for example, would be something like an ornamental thistle or a protea—strikingly attractive yet complex and guarded beneath. Marnie is absolutely a gerbera girl—bright, kooky and original. Mr K was always like a chrysanthemum, rotund, solid and jolly, multilayered yet somehow completely familiar and approachable. Celia is an easy one: she’d be a gladioli—bold and showy, an acquired taste for some yet irresistible for others. And as for me…well, I suppose my name gives it away: I’m a rose through and through—full of life on the outside, yet incredibly well defended underneath the colour. Those thorns are there for a reason; they have become necessary to help me face the future.

If I was to add Nate to the list, I guess he would be a daisy: laid-back and happy, unashamedly displaying his colours to the world regardless of what they think, but—like the thick foliage beneath the bloom—concealing a more complex character behind the impressive display.

For now, I was content to enjoy the friendly colours on Nate’s surface, but I was already aware that his hidden complexities would become more apparent. The more time I spent with him, the more I was aware of a whole other story going on underneath it all. Whether he would admit to that remained to be seen.

Celia, as ever, remained intensely interested in my and Nate’s burgeoning friendship, keen to analyse each new development. Most of her incessant interrogations took place over food, either at her apartment or at one of the many restaurants and cafés she frequents across the city.

‘Don’t you just adore brunch?’ Celia grinned, buttering a slice of toasted brioche one Saturday morning. ‘Whoever thought of this splendid tradition should be cannonised immediately.’

‘Maybe there’s a statue of them somewhere,’ I smiled. ‘Or a pancake named in their honour.’

‘Well, there should be,’ Celia nodded, brushing crumbs off the blue checkered tablecloth. ‘I might just write about that next week.’

Brunch is an institution in New York, especially at the weekends and particularly in my neighbourhood. Celia introduced me to its delights shortly after I arrived in the city—and you would be amazed at the number of venues catering for ‘brunchers’ here. Today we were enjoying eggs, pancakes, brioche and crispy bacon with never-ending cups of strong, chocolate coffee at Annie’s, a small yet perfectly formed eatery three blocks east of Celia’s apartment. It resides in the basement of an old brownstone building and legend has it that the premises were formerly an illegal drinking den that enjoyed considerable success—and notoriety—during Prohibition in the 1920s. Annie’s had been one of Jerry’s favourite haunts and he spent many happy weekends courting Celia there. While she never admits it, Celia maintains a few things in her life that she and Jerry used to do together. I think it’s comforting for her, in an odd way. She still has his Mets baseball on her desk in her apartment, for example, and still buys smoked salmon from Schumann’s deli—even though she constantly complains about the prices and is forever asserting her intention to shop elsewhere.

At best, Annie’s can hold about twenty diners at a time: today the place was packed and a relaxed queue was forming on the steep steps leading up to sidewalk level above.

‘I think we got here at the right time,’ I said. ‘They’re queuing already and it’s only ten thirty.’

‘My mother always says it’s important to head for the restaurant with the queue,’ Celia smiled. ‘She doesn’t trust places that people aren’t flocking to. But then, she hates waiting. I’ve lost count of the number of times we pass restaurant after restaurant with empty tables just so she can wait in line somewhere else—and then have to endure her constant complaining about how long she’s having to wait. It’s a no-win situation. But, that’s my mother. Never happier than when she isn’t happy.’

‘But you still love her, eh?’

Celia smoothed out the red checked napkin on her lap. ‘Of course I do. It’s just not always as simple as I’d like it to be. See, you have to understand that we’ve never had an easy relationship. Not like I see you have with your mother. Mom always wants better for me, you know: better career, better wealth, better relationships—which is good for me, don’t get me wrong; but the end result is that she’s never satisfied with who I am or where I’m at. I always get the feeling she’s disappointed in me somehow. So,’ she brightened and I sensed the subject was being hastily discarded in favour of another, ‘how’s life for you? I heard you and Nate went to the Noguchi Museum on Long Island last week?’

‘Yes, we did. We had a great time—the art is so amazing.’

‘That’s different for you guys, isn’t it? Meeting outside of your store?’

I smiled. ‘Nate said he wanted to see if our conversations would work outdoors. As it turned out, we proved his theory.’

‘So, did he say any more about the Caitlin situation outdoors?’

It was a good question, yet here’s the odd thing about last Saturday: we talked for four hours solidly and yet even now I couldn’t actually tell you what we discussed. I hadn’t been to Long Island before and Nate knows one of the curators of the museum, so he suggested we visit. The Noguchi is awesome—especially given the approach we made to it walking over the Roosevelt Bridge which, Nate reliably informed me, was the way the great master sculptor walked to work every morning. It was impossible not to be stirred by Isamu Noguchi’s stunningly simple sculptures in marble, alabaster, terracotta, slate and glass, amongst other mediums—and I noticed that everyone walking round seemed to be feeling it too, as a sense of reverent calm pervaded each room we entered.

The only snippet of our conversation I remember clearly is when we were strolling round the Noguchi’s tranquil sculpture garden, bathed in warm autumnal sunlight. Nate suddenly went quiet.

‘This place is wonderful,’ I ventured, trying to make conversation.

Nate paused to look at a stone sculpture with water cascading over its surface, his face reflected and distorted by the undulating flow. ‘It’s peaceful,’ he said, his voice sounding far away. ‘You can get rid of all the stuff in your head here, you know?’

‘Stuff like what?’

He sighed and I sensed the weight of his concerns bearing down on his broad shoulders. ‘Just stuff. I dunno, Rosie—sometimes I wish life could be as simple as this garden. No clutter, everything in its place, just peaceful and ordered.’

‘Sounds lovely. But it would drive you mad.’

He turned to look at me. ‘Why?’

I patted his arm. ‘Because you’re a native New Yorker: you thrive on chaos and unpredictability. If everything was simple and organised in your life you’d be craving excitement in no time.’

Nate’s trademark grin made a welcome reappearance. ‘You know me so well.’

‘So what did he say then? Did he mention Mimi or Caitlin? Or anybody?’ Celia was staring at me like an impatient child waiting to meet Santa.

‘No, that was it, and then he changed the subject,’ I said, pushing my fork into the poached egg on my plate and watching the rich yellow yolk dribble over my pancakes. ‘But I got the impression that things are more or less carved in stone for the two of them. I mean, he protests a lot, but at the end of the day he’s still with her.’

A couple seated at the table beside us began to giggle and held hands across the blue plaid tablecloth. Celia and I watched them for a while.

‘Do you ever get the feeling that everyone’s moving on except you?’ I asked, accidentally out loud.

Celia let out a long sigh. ‘All the time, Rosie. All the time.’