Second Hearts (The Wishes Series) (5 page)

“No, no problem. Some things just don’t work out, that’s all.”

“Ah, but Miss Charli.” He flicked his wide lapels with his fingertips. “You’re in New York. Anything is possible.”

For some reason I laughed. I couldn’t help it. And then I cried again, a loud embarrassing sob. I’d remembered Adam once telling me the same thing as he waltzed me around the boatshed. “We can do anything, Charlotte,” he’d told me.

Poor Marvin looked stricken, like he wanted to comfort me but had no idea how.

I sucked in a long breath, trying to compose myself. “I love your city, Marv. I’m just not sure it’s going to work out for me. I’m pretty sure it’s time for me to go home.”

He put his gloved hand to his heart, nodded his head and stepped aside to usher me through the door.

If there was a level of emotion below the pit of despair, I was there.

I sat on the floor in the kitchen, tearing sheets of paper towel off the roll to stem my endless flow of tears. My whole body ached, but my thoughts were surprisingly clear. I’d decided to leave New York, relieved by the knowledge that the process would be simple. All I had to do was book my ticket. I hadn’t even made it as far as unpacking my suitcase properly. The trickiest decision I had to make was where to go.

I cast my mind back to the three options Alex had given me before I left home: revisit a safe place I’d been, find my way to Adam or go home to him. None of the places I’d visited could be considered remotely safe without Mitchell by my side. And finding my way to Adam hadn’t worked out too well. That left option three, and the idea wasn’t as awful as I expected it to be. I was tired, lonely and a little bit fragile. It seemed like the perfect time to go home to my father.

An hour passed before I felt calm enough to call him with the news. Talking to Alex required preparation. Any hint of sadness or uneasiness resulted in a volley of questions that I usually had no answer for, followed by threats of jumping on a plane to come and get me.

Today I was given a reprieve. Gabrielle answered.

“Charli.” She punched out my name as if she’d been hanging by the phone, waiting for my call.

I tried to hold it together but failed dismally, blubbering to her as if my world was ending. And at that point, I was pretty sure it was. “I saw him,” I snivelled.

She sighed. “Oh, dear. Tell me what happened.”

I explained the whole sorry saga in six messy sentences.

There was a time when Gabrielle could have forewarned me that Adam had met someone else. They used to be extremely close; but Gabi and Adam no longer spoke at all. Years of exchanging long handwritten letters had ended. I’d never asked why, fearing it had something to do with me. Adam deserved a clean break. If cutting Gabrielle off was part of that break, then so be it.

“I want to come home,” I whimpered pathetically.

She groaned. “Why would you want to do that?”

“It’s my home, Gabrielle.” I snapped at her, totally distraught.

Going home would definitely cramp her style. Maybe that’s why she offered up her swank New York apartment.

“Charli, if things had worked out with Adam, would you even be considering coming home right now?” But it hadn’t worked out. Not one thing had worked out the way I’d planned and hoped it would. “Your adventure had nothing to do with Adam,” she continued. “You wanted to see the world. Open your eyes and look around. You’ve arrived.”

“I can’t stay.” My protest came out sounding like a growl. “I don’t know anyone, I don’t know my way around and I’m running out of money.”

“And what does any of that have to do with Adam? Do you like New York?”

I had to concede that my predicament did have nothing to do with Adam. He had no idea I was even in his city. I’d stood twenty metres away from him and he still didn’t know.

“I do like it here.”

“
Très bien
,” she soothed. “Calm yourself and look at the bigger picture.” She spoke in her best French teacher voice. I hadn’t missed it one bit. “You’re living in a gorgeous part of the city, in a perfectly secure building. Do you like the apartment?”

What wasn’t to like? It was a palace. I’d spent a year hopping from one hovel to another. I would’ve considered any abode with running water and a roof that didn’t leak palatial.

“It’s great. The apartment’s not the problem.”

“Look, give New York a chance. Go and get a job. Get out and meet people. You won’t regret it.”

Coming from anyone else it would have been difficult to believe, but Gabrielle was speaking from experience. She’d landed in New York at the same age as me, managed to make a go of it and stayed for four years. But there were differences. She had family here, a zillion dollars at her disposal and a green card allowing her to work legally. I had none of these things.

“Charli, if you come back here, you’re going to want to leave again in a few months. Leaving the second time is going to be much harder than it was the first time.”

I knew she was right but refused to tell her so. “I’ll give it a week and see what happens.”

“Good girl.” I could tell by her tone of voice that she was smiling. I wondered if she could tell that I was mocking her by pulling a face. “Is Alex there?”

“No, he’s still at the café.” It didn’t matter where in the world I was; I was always oblivious to the time difference. “I’ll get him to call you when he gets in.”

“No, leave it a few days,” I said. “I want to have better news to tell him.”

“You’ll be fine, Charli. I have every faith in you.”

4. Elvis

Finding a job was paramount. If I could secure a job, there was a fair chance I’d find a brand new life along the way. Chic restaurants and cafés were in abundance near my apartment so I decided to try my luck, approaching most of them in search of work.

I got knocked back every single time.

Perhaps I was approaching this job thing the wrong way. Everyone I’d spoken to that morning had been on the receiving end of my best sell ever. When asked about my qualifications, I pumped my experience up to stellar levels. According to my fake mental résumé, I’d worked everywhere from Michelin star restaurants to high-end boutiques – no mean feat considering I’d spent the past year in African countries. The closest I’d come to a high-end boutique was the market stall in Kaimte that sold bogus Prada handbags.

If I could just find an employer needing the services of a slightly scattered would-be photographer with a degree in fairyology and a penchant for magic moments, I’d be a shoo-in. So far, that particular employer had eluded me and the minute I walked into Nellie’s Restaurant, I knew I wasn’t going to find him there either.

The restaurant was bigger than most, boasting a split-level dining area and a mezzanine level above to cater for large functions. It was busy. Hectic to the point of bedlam. Servers rushed around carrying huge plates of food and a long line of people stood waiting to be seated.

A very frazzled woman flicked through the reservations book, making promises I was fairly sure she couldn’t keep. “We should have a table for you in another ten minutes, sir,” she told the man who was first in line.

“We’ll wait,” he replied gruffly.

The food must have been really good. Either that or I’d stumbled into another Manhattan restaurant where you qualified as awesome just because you were seen there. Seizing the first opportunity I had, I excused myself and pushed my way to the head of the line. The frazzled girl behind the podium frowned at me.

I frowned back.

“You’re going to be waiting at least an hour,” she warned, furiously thumbing through pages again.

“No, no. I’m here about the job.”

“What job?”

“Err, the waitressing job,” I lied.

“Is Paolo expecting you?”

I quickly glanced at my watch. “Yes, ten minutes ago.”

She smirked, and I sensed she knew something I didn’t. “Be my guest,” she said, pointing toward the door to the kitchen.

I was still trying to psyche myself into entering the kitchen when the door violently swung open. I stepped aside quickly, making way for a waiter precariously balancing three plates of food in his arms. I jumped into the kitchen before the door swung shut – straight in to the sights of the restaurateur from hell, Paolo.

“You!” He pointed straight at me.

“Me?” I asked in a tiny voice, turning my head to see if anyone was standing behind me.

“What do you want?”

For such a short man, Paolo was terrifying. He wasn’t much taller than me. If it had come to blows between us, I was fairly certain I could take him – unless he sat on me. He was as wide as he was tall.

I was about to answer when his attention switched to a girl who’d just leaned across him to pick up a plate of food.

“Gretchen!” he yelled, making the girl jump. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“This is the order for table six,” she uttered, recoiling as if he’d just slapped her.

“Not unless there’s a rabbit seated at table six. Do you see any meat on that plate?”

I studied the plate as closely as Gretchen did, hoping to see a fillet mignon hiding under the mass of salad, just to prove him wrong.

“Get out of my sight,” he hissed, waving his arms like he was shooing a fly. Gretchen sprang to life. She reached behind her back, whipped off her little apron and threw it at him.

“You can stick your job, Paolo! I’ve put up with this for months. I don’t need your stupid job.”

She’d made it almost to the door by the time her angry rant was over. Paolo liked to get the last word in. “Gretchen,” he snarled.

I expected to hear him tell her she’d never work in this town again. New York seemed like the perfect place to hear someone scream those words.

“I want your name badge.”

The look she gave him while she unpinned it from her blouse was blistering. He held out his hand and she slapped the badge in his open palm.

Quickly glancing around the kitchen, I noticed that not one person had paused to watch the fireworks. Perhaps it was an everyday occurrence they were all used to. Did I really want to work in a place like this? Of course I did. I was desperate.

“What do you want?” he asked, turning back to me. It was as if the last minute had happened only in my head. He didn’t miss a beat.

“I wanted to talk to you about a job.”

“There are no vacancies. We’re not hiring.”

“Yes, you are,” I insisted, following him as he walked through the kitchen to a small adjoining office. Paolo sat at the desk. I went no further than the doorway.

“You’re pushy. I like that.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“You’re also annoying. I don’t like that.”

“Please, Paolo. I really need this job,” I begged. “I’ll work just for tips.”

Paolo leaned back in his chair, so far that I thought it might tip backwards, and wondered if I’d laugh if it did.

“There is no job.”

“I want Gretchen’s job,” I replied, thinking on my feet. “In case you misunderstood her intentions, she just quit.”

He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk. “Do you think you’re going to enjoy working for me?”

I shook my head. “No. I think I’m going to absolutely hate it.”

He laughed, a light chuckle at first before throwing his head back in a roar of guffaws straight out of a horror movie. “Fine,” he said finally composing himself enough to speak. “You start tomorrow. You’ve got the breakfast shift.”

I grinned. “Thank you. My name is Charli, by the way.”

“Not anymore, it’s not.”

“Excuse me?” As much as I hated my name, I wasn’t planning on changing it any time soon.

Paolo pulled open a drawer, took out a container filled to the brim with name badges and thumped it on the desk, dropping Gretchen’s badge into the mix. No wonder the kitchen staff hadn’t reacted to her meltdown. They’d seen it many times before. My mouth fell open as I watched him rifling through the pile.

“You’re now known as Priscilla,” he announced, sliding the badge toward me. “I want to see how you work out before I spend two dollars on a new name badge.”

I stepped forward and picked it up, studying it closely for bloodstains or other signs of trauma. “Priscilla? Really?”

“It’s Priscilla or Walter.” He waved the Walter badge at me. “You don’t look much like a Walter. Take it or leave it, kid.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Don’t be late,” he warned, shooing me out the door.

I didn’t care that he was a monster. He’d given me a job. There was a skip in my step as I walked back to my apartment. I was hopeful that Paolo was the gateway to my new brilliant life.

***

Working for Paolo was every bit as horrendous as I expected it to be. It was as if his sole purpose in life was to make his staff miserable. But his constant criticism, screaming and shouting bounced right off me. I just didn’t care. Slowly but surely, a whole new world was opening up to me and I was running with it.