Christmas At The Cupcake Cafe (25 page)

‘Wow,’ she said. For a moment she forgot everything that was going on, just how impressed she was with the fact that she was actually here. In New York!

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go shop! We can have Darny at Barneys! There’s a shop called Barneys, you know, very famous.’

Darny didn’t respond.

‘Look,’ said Issy, putting up her hand to hail a taxi. It really was impossible to be outside for more than a couple of minutes. ‘I’m sorry, OK. I really didn’t mean what I said. I was … I was frustrated about something else and I took it out on you.’

Darny shrugged his
shoulders. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. But obviously it did.

Barneys turned out to be horrifically expensive, so they left after Issy had swooned a little over the staggeringly beautiful clothes draped on the mannequins, and marvelled at the young, beautiful American women who were storming through and picking things up right, left and centre, commenting on them all the while. She spied a Gap across the road and they hurried across. Everything was much cheaper there, and she bought Darny a few things she thought he needed (most notably new underpants) that neither Austin nor Darny ever seemed to notice. Then she thought about it again and bought Austin a whole bunch of new underpants too. Couldn’t hurt. And some shirts and a couple of jumpers. She liked buying for him. She couldn’t ever have bought clothes for her last boyfriend, Graeme; he was very anal and particular. Austin probably wouldn’t even notice, or care, but it made her feel like she was looking after him, and at the moment she didn’t feel that she was looking after anyone particularly well – and worse, no one, from her customers to her boyfriend to his brother, felt particularly like they wanted looking after either.

She sighed, especially when she came across a beautiful, soft checked lumberjack shirt. It was lined inside, which would have made it comfortable and warm for her grandfather, who had, in his last days, always been cold but found hard fabrics scratchy and uncomfortable against his skin. She held it briefly in her hands, wishing she could buy it for him. But she couldn’t.

Laden with bags,
they jumped into another cab – Issy knew she should probably take the subway, but was terrified of getting lost or hopelessly confused. Anyway, she told herself, she hadn’t had a holiday in over a year, she worked too hard ever to spend any money and the rest of the trip was free. She deserved a bit of time off and could afford to spend a little.

The Empire State Building didn’t look like anything from the street; just another office block, except for the beautiful art nouveau signage outside. Issy hadn’t considered that it was actually a working office block. Of course it was; what did she think, that it would just be empty, like the Eiffel Tower? She bought their tickets with excitement, glancing at the enormous, beautifully dressed Christmas trees in the lobby that seemed to stretch several storeys high, whilst Darny maintained his petulant silence. Issy tried to pretend he wasn’t there. In the crush of the first lift, she watched the beautiful golden arrows on the floor indicator climb upwards and smiled to herself, feeling she was channelling Meg Ryan. But it wasn’t the same, every time she caught Darny’s tight-looking little face in the mirror.

Up on level 100, the cold and the wind and the sun were absolutely bracing. All Issy’s jet lag and fuzziness was instantly blown away as she stepped out on to the smaller-than-she’d-expected platform. The jostling lift-load of tourists spread to all four sides of the building to gaze out over the far horizons: huge ships from China and the Middle East docking down in the Lower East Side; helicopters taking off south from Broad Street and circling round the island like giant wasps; Central Park, so ridiculously straight-edged and tidily cut, totally unlike the more organic outdoor spaces of London she was used to – then no other green at all anywhere, just building after building, their jagged tops and mirrored glass walls making them look like an infinite reflection of a child’s Lego set. The sun glinted off the river and the island – a shape as recognisable to Issy as London; possibly even more so than her home city of Manchester, she realised, with a lurch of shame. Her breath was visible in front of her face and she instinctively took out her camera, before realising that the vista laid out before her was probably better bought on a postcard rather than taken through netting.

‘On top of
the world,’ she called out to Darny, who was huddling in a corner against the cold, looking anything but. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Shall we go up and look at the mast? Do you know, it was built to tether Zeppelins to? Can you imagine what it was like, bringing one of those down? Only it was too windy, so they had to stop.’

Darny grunted again.

‘Darny,’ said Issy timidly. ‘I know you’re cross with me. But don’t let it spoil your trip, OK. Or mine. I promise I won’t think you’re not cross with me if you have a tiny bit of a good time.’

Again, no reaction,
and Issy bit her lip in frustration.

‘Well, never mind about that,’ she said, taking one last look around, lingering longest on the side with the little arrow that said it was 3,460 miles to London. ‘Come on. It’s time for lunch. There’s someone we have to meet.’

Issy followed the instructions she’d received in the email. Heartily frozen from exposure to the elements a hundred floors above ground, they were both relieved to escape back into the warmth of the building, then into a yellow cab. Issy was beginning to get the hang of cabs; Austin had explained that you didn’t hail them and wait for them to come to you. You grabbed one and just opened the door and jumped in, otherwise someone else would take it. At first this had seemed rude and ill-mannered, till the first three times someone had managed to get there ahead of them and stolen their cab, which was of course even more ill-mannered, so now Issy was hopping in and out of them like a native, Darny at her heels.

They passed through
the happy chaos of Times Square, full of pink-cheeked tourists looking around to see what all the fuss was. A Santa was ringing a bell at every cross-walk. People were buying tickets to Christmas shows and staring at the fabulously lit-up buildings, with their holidays wishes from Coca-Cola and Panasonic. Everything was a riot of lights and trees and every street corner had carollers or bell-ringers or men selling knock-off handbags which Issy looked at slightly regretfully before coming to her senses and moving on. She couldn’t imagine the look on Caroline’s face if she turned up with a fake Kate Spade, not to mention her horror of getting caught at customs.

The place they’d been instructed to show up at – early, it had been insisted – was a large corner block with old-fashioned fifties-style lettering advertising a soda fountain. It was called the Verity Deli, and its walls were lined with pictures of its illustrious clientele – Woody Allen was there, as was Liza Minnelli; Steven Spielberg and Sylvester Stallone. There was already a small queue forming. An elderly waitress with dyed orange hair and an alarming bosom crammed into a green uniform took them straight away to a much patched and darned banquette. Issy asked for a cup of tea and let Darny, eyeing her closely, order a root beer float, even though neither of them had the faintest idea what it might be. When it arrived, it turned out to be a gigantic confection of ice cream and fizzy flavoured lemonade, in a glass the size of Darny’s head. He glanced at her again, but she didn’t comment and he plunged in without checking twice.

They were waiting a
long time. The waitress returned repeatedly – the menu was absolutely gigantic, with all manner of things to order: roast beef side; knishes; pastrami on rye and lots of other things that made no sense at all to Issy, who was already slightly shocked at the state of the banquettes and the slovenliness of the waitress. She wouldn’t want to run her fingers across the top of the pictures.

After twenty minutes, as Issy fiddled with her phone and wished she’d brought a book, and Darny ate his way stoically through the root beer float until he looked like he was turning green, the door slammed open dramatically, bringing in with it a noisy gust of wind. A tall, imperious woman dressed in old-fashioned, very plain hand-made clothes and a large and rather elaborate hat swept in.

‘Isabel!’ she declaimed loudly, in an American accent.

‘Mum,’ said Issy.

Darny looked up for the first time that day.

Marian swanned across to their table. The elderly waitress was over in the blink of an eye, but Marian waved her away.

‘Beverly!’ she
cried. ‘Not until I’ve said hello to my precious daughter, whom I haven’t seen in an age. Look at her, isn’t she lovely?’

Marian wobbled Issy’s cheeks up and down. Issy tried not to mind and hugged her mother back.

‘And who’s this? Have you had a child and not told me?’

‘No,’ said Issy and Darny simultaneously.

Marian sat down and waved away the laminated menu. ‘We’ll have pastrami on rye three times, no pickles. And three root beer floats.’

‘No thank you,’ said Darny, looking slightly queasy.

‘Two root beer floats. You have to try these,’ said Marian.

‘OK,’ said Issy.

Their drinks appeared in record time, while Marian was still looking her up and down.

‘I haven’t seen you since …’

‘Gramps’ funeral,’ said Issy. She’d put a notice in the
Manchester Evening News
, and had been stunned by the response. Over two hundred people who had remembered her grandfather – worked with him or eaten his wares over the years – had contacted her, and his funeral was full to the rafters. It had been rather daunting. Her mother had wafted around gathering compliments and looking artistic and brave whilst Issy had attempted to cater for an endless parade of well-wishers and mourners, many of whom were kind enough to say that she had inherited his talent.

There had been so many
stories. Credit given when the man of the house was out of work; an apprentice taken on out of prison; a thief rapped sharply on the knuckles and sent off with a stiff lecture, never to offend again. There were stories of wedding cakes; christening cakes; warm doughnuts for cold hands off to school; growing up with the scent of fresh bread always in the nostrils. He had touched a lot of lives, and people wanted her to know that, and she was grateful to hear it.