Fairytale of New York (17 page)

Celia’s mouth was so wide open that it could have swallowed a Greyhound Bus. ‘I can’t believe you told him all that, Rosie!’

‘I just trust him, Celia. That conversation’s unusual, though. Most of the time we talk about anything and everything. The topic is immaterial, really. It’s the company that’s important.’

She smiled. ‘So—you like him?’

A tiny shiver of delight wriggled free and began to dance inside me. ‘Yes. I like him a lot.’

Surprisingly, Celia didn’t comment before launching into another topic. ‘Talking of people you like—how’s Ed?’

Hmm. Difficult one. Ed was fine, really, just his usual self. Still out with a different lady each week, still effortlessly charming and dishevelled in equal measures. But behind it all, I had a small yet annoying inkling that he was hiding something. Which, admittedly, was not unusual for the ‘Iceberg Known as Ed Steinmann’. But it was enough for it to solicit my attention. Since his disastrous date with The Beautiful Face of Jean St Pierre, Ed’s date-life had returned to some kind of
casual normality, the details of which he generously shared with Marnie and me, driving us to near distraction—so much so that Marnie said she was tempted to catch the flu again just for the respite.

‘I swear, Rosie, I’m going to commit murder if I hear any more of his date stories,’ she’d grimaced last week as we were loading the van with flowers for a demonstration at a trade fair.

‘I know, mate,’ I had sympathised, patting her shoulder. ‘Maybe I should have a word with him about it.’

‘A word about what?’ Ed said, appearing at the back door. Marnie gave me a quick smile and retreated back inside.

‘Look, mate, it’s great that you’re dating and it’s lovely to hear about all these beautiful women you are seeing, but I think you need to go easy on the details when we’re at work, OK?’

Ed’s smile faded slightly. ‘Oh? How come?’

‘Because it’s all you ever talk about at the moment. At least before it was dating and baseball, or dating and movies. Now it’s just date, date, date, all the time. To be honest, it’s getting boring.’

Ed shook his head and took a step away. ‘Well, say what you think, Rosie. I happen to be
happy,
that’s all. Are you telling me you guys don’t want me to be happy now?’

I sighed and looked at the ground. ‘That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. Carry on having fun and date anyone you like; just don’t feel you have to tell us about it all the time, OK?’

Ed shrugged and stared at me. ‘Fine with me. Personally, I think you’re jealous.’

‘What?’

‘But that’s cool, really. You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Come on, Rosie, admit it: this isn’t about me talking too much. The real reason you object is that every time I go out with another date it reinforces the fact that you don’t have one. Like I said, you’re jealous.’

Annoyed, I slammed the back doors of the van and turned to face him. ‘I am not. And neither is Marnie, OK? She’s just a little—how can I put this?—
sensitive
at the moment. She’s fallen for someone in her theatre group and he doesn’t seem to be interested. She’s taken it quite hard, I think.’

Ed’s expression mellowed a little. ‘Man, I had no idea. Sorry.’

‘It’s fine. We just need to be a little careful around her right now, you know? Give her a little space.’

‘Think she’d be interested in hearing how the World Series went?’ he ventured.

I patted his shoulder as I walked back inside the shop. ‘It’s worth a try, mate.’

So, like I say, Ed had been more or less his usual self. But a part of me still sensed a discrepancy in the happiness he boasted of so vociferously and so often.

‘I think you’re being a little over-protective of him, Rosie,’ Celia remarked. ‘Ed is a big boy now. I’m sure he can handle this just fine by himself.’

‘Which translates as, “butt out, Rosie”, I suppose?’

Celia threw her arms around me and attempted to remove all air from my lungs in one enthusiastic embrace. ‘Darling, you worry too much. Now, about the Thanksgiving guest list…’

‘OK…but can we watch the parade on TV while we discuss it?’

Celia shook her head in pity.
‘Sure,
sweetie. Would you like some warm milk and cookies while you watch?’

I smiled sheepishly. ‘No thanks, Mummy. I’m fine with my bagel.’

Celia groaned as she reached for the TV remote.

Some people say it’s cruel to tell kids that Santa Claus is real. And I can kind of see their point. I mean, if you grow up with parents who assure you they’ll always tell you the truth and then you find out they’ve told you a lie, what does it do to your faith in them? I found out about Santa Claus—or Father Christmas, as he was always referred to in my home—when I was four years old, but it never shattered my faith in my parents’ credibility. Plenty of other things did later on—well, about Dad, anyway. But Father Christmas remained a magical, hopeful story that this particular child always believed in.
Always.
I’m still convinced I can hear sleigh bells on Christmas Eve and, though he doesn’t visit me anymore, I remain suspicious that all those grown-ups might have got it wrong after all—and, actually, he
is
real.

When I arrived at Celia’s for her Thanksgiving dinner later that evening, the party was already in full swing. Nate wasn’t there—much to Celia’s utter disappointment—but I wasn’t surprised. With Mimi and Caitlin running his life the chances of him making a decision for himself seemed decidedly slim at the best of times, so the thought of his missing Thanksgiving was preposterous in the extreme.

‘Rosie!’ Celia exclaimed, arriving from the kitchen with a large basket of bread rolls, which prompted the guests to join in a bizarre game of serving dish rearrangement on the table—like one of those tile games you got in your Christmas stocking when you were little where you have to move the pieces round until it makes a picture. ‘Thank
heaven
you’re
here—I am at my
wits’
end. Half of my order didn’t arrive, can you
believe
it? I have had the supplier on the phone
six
times this afternoon about it.’

I stared at her. ‘This is only
half
of what you ordered?’

She nodded and punched her hands onto her hips like Doris Day in
Calamity Jane.
‘Do you think it’s enough, sweetie? I’m so worried.’

‘Celia, this is enough to cater for a small nation,’ I laughed. ‘It all looks wonderful. Here, I brought you these,’ I handed her a hand-tied posy of red and white roses with tiny blue ornamental thistles in a stars-and-stripes gift-bag, ‘although I have no idea where on earth you’ll put them.’

After enthusing about the flowers, Celia disappeared in a blur of green silk, apron flapping as she left. I turned to meet the other guests. There were several I didn’t know—who turned out to be fellow writers from her West Village Writers’ Circle—together with a few familiar faces from the
New York Times.
Josh Mercer, the young reporter who had interviewed me, was there too. He asked me how Mrs Schuster was getting on, which was sweet, then introduced me to one of his colleagues in Features, Stewart Mitchell. He was tall and strikingly handsome, with a soft Southern lilt to his voice. Originally from Iowa, he had moved to New York after gaining his Journalism degree from Harvard. It was difficult to determine exactly how old he was—tiny silver flecks in his black hair suggested he was in his thirties but his olive skin bore few signs of age. He had a shy smile and stunning green-blue eyes that seemed to be illuminated from within and his easy manner and razorsharp wit made me like him immediately.

I ended up being seated opposite Stewart and next to Josh as we all made a brave attempt to demolish the enormous feast Celia had set before us, and the conversation flowed freely for
the next few hours. This is something I love about parties at Celia’s: she makes everyone feel at home. The conversation is never forced and you never feel like you have to make an effort to enjoy yourself. She has a complete gift for assembling the most interesting people, which means you end up chatting to hitherto complete strangers like you’ve known them for years.

One thing I noticed as the evening progressed was the way Stewart’s attention kept moving to Celia. At first, I dismissed it as shyness, assuming that he was simply seeking out familiar faces in a room full of people he didn’t know very well. But as time went on, I was aware of it more and more. After about the eighth course—at least, I
think
it was the eighth—when Celia started clearing away some of the many plates to make room for yet more food, Stewart and I both volunteered to help at the same time: laughing, we agreed to share the tableclearing responsibilities. I followed him into the kitchen with an armful of crockery.

‘Great party,’ Stewart said, carefully placing a stack of plates in the sink.

‘Yes, it is,’ I replied, ‘but then Celia’s parties always are.’

‘No doubting that—here, let me help you with those.’ He took the crockery from me, the shy grin flashing as he did so.

‘Thank you.’ I turned to leave.

‘Actually, I was wondering if you could help me with something,’ Stewart said suddenly, making me jump and turn back. He was looking at me like a nervous puppy, a slight blush creeping across his cheekbones.

‘Erm—yes, of course.’

He leaned against the work surface, gripping its edge with his hands. ‘You’ve known Celia a while, right?’

‘Yes—just over six years.’

‘And you’re close to her?’

‘She’s my best friend,’ I smiled. ‘Why?’

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked to the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Uh—I was just wondering what the deal is with her and Jerry.’

I wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. After all, Stewart had only been working at the paper a matter of months and I didn’t know how much of Celia’s private life she wanted to be common knowledge. ‘Stewart, I don’t know if I should—’

‘It’s OK,’ he said quickly, standing up straight. ‘She told me he wasn’t around any more. I just wondered if she was—uh—you know,
dating
right now?’

It was impossible to hide my surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Really
really,’ he nodded, the blush intensifying. ‘Hey, I know there’s, like,
fifteen
years between us, and I know she is probably fending guys off from every direction. I also know she’s so way out of my league it’s crazy to even contemplate the possibility of…of
us
…But I can’t help it, Rosie. I can’t get her out of my head. She
astounds
me—I mean, completely, on every level—and I can’t stop thinking about her.’

‘Wow…’

‘Yeah, I know. Crazy but true.’

‘Have you told her how you feel?’

A look of pure fear washed across his face. ‘No! I just can’t find the words, you know? I’m scared she’ll take one look at me and laugh. I mean, come on—someone as beautiful and assured as her choosing a rookie like me?’

‘But you want her to know?’

‘Of course I do.’

This was such a surprise, yet I sensed that this might just be good for Celia. While she’d said no more about Jerry since our conversation at Bistro Découvertè at the end of summer, I knew she was lonely and something like this would give her
a boost, if nothing else. So I decided to trust Stewart. ‘Celia isn’t dating anyone that I know of, but Jerry’s definitely not coming back.’

‘Do you think I have a chance?’

I grinned at him. ‘Well, you won’t find out unless you try.’

‘But what can I do? I mean, I wanted to send flowers but I remember her saying she was very choosy about them. That was why I wanted to talk to you. You’re her friend
and
her florist, right?’

‘Guilty on both counts.’

‘I thought about sending her flowers that reminded me of her. I was thinking those pink and white lilies…’

‘Stargazers? Oh, no, whatever you do, don’t send Celia lilies! She can’t stand the smell.’

‘What, then?’

‘She adores orchids of any colour, but I happen to know that white ones are her absolute favourite.’

His face lit up. ‘Could you send her a bouquet of them for me? I mean anonymously, of course?’

I nodded, thrilled at the surprise that lay in store for Celia. ‘Absolutely.’

Once November begins, Kowalski’s orders take on a decidedly festive theme and the workload increases. Especially so this year. Months in the planning already, the time was fast approaching for Mimi Sutton’s annual charity Grand Winter Ball. A big title for an even bigger event. While still more than a touch dubious about being a Mimi Sutton Recommendation, I was pleased that we had been given such a prestigious platform.

It had been a busy day at the store and the time Ed and I had earmarked for designing Mimi’s order didn’t materialise. But the work needed to be done so we could order the flowers and draft in extra staff in time. So I suggested having dinner at mine so we could design in more convivial surroundings. Ed agreed.

In all the time we’ve worked together, I think Ed’s been to my place maybe twice. He’s often quipped that I’m hiding a secret there and that must be why he’s rarely invited. Of course, this isn’t true. It’s just that, with Ed and me on opposite sides of Manhattan, when we meet up outside of work it’s normally somewhere in the middle. Plus, Ed has a near pathological dislike of the Upper West Side, which he claims is the preserve of superficial shopaholics with more money than sense. But I don’t see it that way at all.
It’s a friendly, intelligent neighbourhood filled with fascinating people and places as varied as anywhere else in New York.

As I opened my front door and turned on the lights, Ed laughed. ‘So, you finally decided to admit me to your Holy of Holies…Do I need to remove my shoes in reverence?’

He soon made himself at home and as I dished out the Chinese food we’d picked up he took out his sketchpad and consulted his notes. ‘I went to view the venue yesterday and I think we’ve got a lot of scope for big displays. There’s an excellent staircase leading from the lobby up to the ballroom—I see fir and bay garlands working well there.’

I sat beside him and looked at his sketches. ‘Mmm, yes. Great. I was envisaging a three-colour scheme—green, white, and red for accents. We can use white gardenias and lilies along with roses for displays and table pieces. I want to avoid poinsettias, though. Way too clichéd.’

‘That’s fine,’ Ed said between mouthfuls. ‘They are
so
done already. Let’s look for unusual reds then—maybe utilise red foliage, too?’

‘Great.’

‘I want to do some structural stuff around the pillars in the entrance lobby, too. Something bold, showy even. We need to create a sense of awe
before
people see the staircase,’ Ed said, showing me the sketches he’d made.

‘See, this is why I love working with you—your designs are awesome.’

‘Though I say it myself, they are.’

There was a silence as we ate. Ed looked round my apartment. ‘I like the style in here,’ he remarked. ‘Very homely.’

‘Well, that would be because it’s my home. And I love it.’

‘Well, I love it too,’ Ed replied. He put his plate on the coffee
table and sank back into the sofa. He let out a sigh and turned the full force of the blue stare on me.

‘Rosie, I owe you an apology.’

‘You do?’

He nodded. ‘Uh-huh. I’ve not been myself the past month. I’ve been frustrated with my life and I’ve taken it out on you. On more than one occasion. Which is unforgivable.’

‘Absolutely,’ I smiled. ‘Except that I forgive you.’

A broad beam spread across Ed’s face and his hand grasped mine. ‘I’d be lost without you. But you still deserve an explanation.’

I frowned. ‘I thought you just explained. You’ve not been yourself…’

‘It’s more than that. I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.’

‘I know. Karin, Ellen, Mai, Susie, Elisabeth…did I forget anyone?’ I laughed.

He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Didn’t realise you were keeping count.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You remember their names better than I do.’ Shaking his head, he let out a long, heavy sigh. ‘It isn’t working anymore, Rosie.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘The dating thing. At least, not the same as it did before. I don’t know if it’s a certain age I’ve gotten to or something else. I’ve always been more than content with dating and having fun. I never thought I needed anything more than that. But lately, I’ve found myself wanting to belong to somebody. Is that weird?’

I smiled but a bittersweet chill reverberated within me. ‘No, mate. That’s just human nature. I guess the real time to worry is when you stop wanting to belong to just any somebody and start wanting to belong to a Specific Somebody.’

‘Ah, yeah. Sure. That’s the time to leave town all right.
Bad
sign.’ He looked away and embarked on what appeared to be an in-depth inspection of the top of his knees. ‘I don’t know, Rosie. Do you feel like that, ever?’

‘No,’ came my abrupt reply, surprising even me. ‘Never.’ It was a lie: I needed to change the subject; I was feeling cornered again. But the game was up when he lifted his eyes again and I saw his expression. He knew me too well. I relented. ‘Sometimes, then, yes. OK, Dr Steinmann, you have an admission. But tell anyone and you die, understand?’

Ed’s smile had relief written all over it.

Marnie giggled as she held out the phone to me. ‘It’s your
regular
admirer, Rosie!’

I glared at her and took the receiver. ‘Hello?’

‘Rosie! I got you a gig!’ Nate’s voice was all warmth and humour.

‘Nate, I don’t know if you realised this yet, but I’m not a musician. I’m a
florist
.’

‘Ha, ha. English sarcasm is so quaint. Now listen up, I got you the commission for a big wedding—and I mean humongous…lavish…
huge
…’

My heart sank. ‘So you’re finally going through with it?’

Nate’s laugh was so loud that both Marnie and Ed looked up from the other side of the shop and exchanged glances.

‘What are you, nuts? It’s not
my wedding,
you crazy woman. I’ve only promised to propose to Caitlin “sometime soon”, remember? By my reckoning, that means I’m good for at least two more years. The wedding in question is for my friend. He saw that piece about you in the
Times
and, when he found out I knew you, I said I’d arrange a meeting. So can you come to my office tomorrow, about eleven?’

‘I…um…don’t know what to say, Nate.’

‘Just say yes, woman! The wedding’s spring next year…it’s gonna be great, Rosie! I’ll call him and confirm we’re good to meet, shall I? Say yes.’

‘Yes. But—’

‘Awesome! See ya tomorrow. You won’t regret this.’

I put the receiver down and jumped as Marnie and Ed appeared next to me like two wide-eyed bushbabies.

‘Well?’ demanded Ed.

The conversation had totally thrown me.

‘I—um—Nate said he…There’s going to be a wedding.’

Marnie squealed with delight. ‘He
proposed
!’

Ed frowned and elbowed her. ‘Marnie.’ His blue gaze sharpened. ‘He didn’t, did he?’

I pulled myself together. ‘No…He’s got a friend who wants us to do his wedding. It’s going to be big, apparently. So I’ve got to meet him at Nate’s office tomorrow morning.’

Marnie’s widening eyes threatened total face domination. ‘A big society wedding? With movie stars?’

I laughed. ‘I doubt it. But it’s going to be a grand affair by the sound of it.’

‘Ryan Reynolds might be there, though…I mean, it’s possible, right?’

Ed shook his head. ‘Poor, deluded child. Yeah, sure, it’s possible, baby. Maybe he’ll bring Keanu and Brad and Joaquin with him too.’

‘Ooh,
Keanu
…’ Marnie breathed, undeterred, as she skipped joyfully into her fantasy world. Ed and I retreated to the workroom to discuss reality, neither of us having the heart to bring her back to earth.

Sometimes, it’s easier to dream than be awake.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Once again I found myself in a dream with the face-changing embracer. Then I was running…running scared from an unseen adversary, skidding round dark corners, diving into side streets…all the time deafened by the insistent pace of a heavy beat…When I violently woke in the cold, dark silence of my room, I realised the beat was my own heart. I rose and paced round my apartment, switching on every light and looking in every corner, till my pulse rate eased and the fear subsided. I opened a window, closed my eyes and let the constant hum of the city soothe my soul for a long time. Then, taking a deep breath, I closed the window and extinguished the trail of lights on my weary return to bed.