Fairytale of New York (4 page)

Anya guessed my reaction and explained, ‘Nathaniel is the one who decides whether or not our precious works reach print. Thankfully for all of us, he has taken big risks to make sure we’re published.’

‘And we love him dearly,’ Jane added, her cheeks reddening as Nate winked playfully and brought an arm round her for a quick squeeze.

‘I love you all too,’ he replied, then shook a finger at Jane. ‘But you still have to make those changes we discussed today before I’ll let it through.’

‘See what I mean?’ Mimi confided. ‘Absolute nightmare.’

‘I see you’ve met my
wonderful
friend,’ sang Celia, breezing in. ‘Mimi, you simply
must
let her create the floral decor for your upcoming Winter Ball. She is a
genius
!’

I winced as I caught Nate’s amused expression. ‘Genius?’ he mouthed, his dark chocolate eyes twinkling with fun. I tried to smile and looked at my empty glass to avoid his stare.

‘Well,
sure
…’ Mimi said as she consulted her pocketbook and produced a business card. ‘Any recommendation from Celia Reighton is well worth following up. Give me a call next week, Rosie, and we’ll discuss.’

‘Thank you.’ I replied, taking her card. Celia was beaming so brightly she could have lit up Times Square all by herself.

‘Do you have a store?’ asked Brent, taking a small black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and brandishing a pencil. ‘It’s my wife’s birthday at the end of the month and I’d love something special for her.’

‘No problem,’ I replied, handing him a business card, pleased with these new opportunities. ‘I’m on the corner of West 68th and Columbus. The store’s called Kowalski’s. Come in and we’ll design something original for you.’

‘…And you’re guaranteed something special. Rosie’s designs are to
die
for,’ Celia emphasised with a manic grin and a flamboyant gesture reminiscent of one of those over-zealous salesmen on cheap TV commercials. ‘Now I won’t allow you to hog my florist a moment longer. I’m whisking her away!’ And, grabbing my hand, she was good to her word.

As we left the group and they returned to their conversation, I was aware that Nate Amie didn’t move to join them. Celia was already introducing me to someone else, but I could see Nate looking at me across the room. He raised his glass to me and smiled, then turned back to his friends.

Much later, when the food had been enjoyed, the speeches made and the conversations done, Celia was still beaming.

‘An incredibly successful evening all round, I think,’ she proclaimed.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, taking the last arrangement from the table and handing it to her. ‘To the hostess for her latest overwhelming triumph.’

Celia clamped an impassioned hand over her heart. ‘A Kowalski’s creation, for me? I’m so honoured!’

I smiled and shook my head. ‘My strange old American friend.’

‘Hey—less of the old. Though I’m beginning to feel it.’ She pulled a face and rubbed her neck. ‘I’m thinking my entertaining days are numbered.’

‘You? Give up your famous parties? Never!’ I retorted, pleased to see her face brighten in reply. ‘It was another amazing gathering of people. Once again you’ve orchestrated orders for my business and allowed me to meet some fascinating individuals. As I said, a triumph!’

We finished clearing up, packed my van and then I drove Celia back uptown to her apartment. Though it was late, the lights along Broadway burned brightly as ever as we made our way slowly up through Manhattan to Columbus Circle and on into the Upper West Side.

There is something uniquely magical about driving through New York late at night. It’s almost as if you should hold your breath in reverence as you pass through the neighbourhoods, each with its own trademark architecture and atmosphere. Allnight diners are packed with customers hunched over their never-ending coffees, whilst brightly lit store windows reveal their treasures even when their doors are locked. The ubiquitous yellow taxis are everywhere, winding in and out of the traffic as if travelling on air. Sometimes it can feel as if the whole city has been put into slow-motion mode; its perennial activity transformed into a deftly choreographed ballet—a symphony of movement, sound, light and scent. No matter how many times I drive through the City That Never Sleeps, I never cease to be amazed by its majestic beauty and proud self-assuredness. Just like the people who walk its streets, work in its resplendent buildings and call it home, New York
knows
that it is special and unashamedly declares it to the world.

We arrived on West 91st Street and parked by the steps to Celia’s apartment block. As she was about to leave, she turned back. ‘Thank you, Rosie. Thank you for putting up with my panics. Thank you for always being there for me. I don’t say it often enough, but you are a true friend. See you Saturday?’

I smiled. ‘Sure. Good night, Celia.’

‘Good night. I’ll call you!’

As I began the drive back home, I couldn’t help but smile. It had been a surprisingly good evening all round.

Mimi Sutton called the day after Celia’s event to invite me to meet her at her offices in SoHo the following day. I arrived a little early, design books in hand, and was shown by an assistant to a waiting area in the atrium of the ultra-modern building. In typical artsy minimalist style, the whole area was filled with clean lines with shiny metal and glass. Cobalt spotlights, discreetly hidden everywhere—behind frosted glass screens, in the middle of lush green foliage and inside tall steel and glass pillars—bathed the area in a soothing glow. This was a perfect complement to the white marble floor, which produced a rhythmic percussion as people crisscrossed its wide expanse.

I love arriving somewhere early to get a feel for the place. In this city you never know what to expect when you walk through the door of a building. You can experience classic styling, baroque opulence, bohemian chic or even puritan austerity as you move down a single street. It’s nothing short of inspirational. Maybe it’s my designer instinct, but I have days when everything inspires me. Even the scary kitsch stuff that most people with any remote sense of taste would be appalled at. I love trying to interpret the styles I see with my
flowers—it’s a constant challenge I like to set myself to keep my designs fresh and different.

Mimi Sutton is a highly successful writer-turned—literary agent. She made her name writing blockbuster novels, most of which have, in turn, become blockbuster movies. She is constantly courted by Hollywood’s movers and shakers. The film rights for her most recent book had been sold three months before she began work on it, and a gaggle of screenwriters (if that is the correct collective term) had accompanied her for most of the writing period. When I asked Celia why on earth Mimi wanted to be an agent for other people when she had achieved so much success of her own, Celia smiled.

‘It’s all about power, Rosie. And power in Manhattan is something Mimi simply cannot do without.’

About fifteen minutes after I had arrived, the elevator doors opened to reveal a familiar face, though I couldn’t remember the name or the exact place I knew him from. Thankfully for me, the person fast approaching didn’t have the same problem.

‘Ms Duncan!’ he exclaimed loudly as he strode briskly across the atrium to where I was. Reaching me, he took my hand between both of his and gave a wide smile. ‘I guess you don’t remember me? Brent Jacobs—from the Authors’ Meet? Good to see you again. You here to see Mimi?’

‘Yes I am.’

He smiled. ‘Excellent. Hey, don’t forget you said you’d help me with flowers for my wife. Would the last Thursday of the month be convenient?’

I checked my diary. ‘Yes, no problem. About eleven?’

‘Wonderful. Good to see you, Rosie.’ He shook my hand quickly and strode away. I was about to sit down again when the assistant behind the pale green glass reception desk called to me. ‘Ms Sutton will see you now, Ms Duncan.’

I took the glass elevator up eleven floors to Mimi’s office. Another efficient, black Armani-suited assistant took me through two huge pale wood doors into a sumptuous office. Mimi sat at her desk at the far end, the dramatic backdrop of New York skyscrapers adding to her presence. She rose immediately and swept towards me.

‘Well?’ she questioned, waving a hand to indicate her surroundings. ‘What do you think?’

‘Very impressive,’ I affirmed. She led me to three enormous cream leather sofas situated round a frosted glass coffee table on the other side of her office. It was easy to be completely overawed by the sheer luxury of these surroundings, and I was grateful that Celia had phoned with a pep talk earlier that morning so that I was well prepared to meet this character who, I was reliably informed, ‘doesn’t do small’. And Celia, for once, wasn’t exaggerating.

‘Sit, sit!’ Mimi beckoned, draping herself magnificently over one sofa, three strings of pearls undulating around her throat as she spoke. ‘Now, let me see your designs.’ I offered my books, which she eagerly accepted. ‘I’m
so
glad we met, Rosie,’ she continued, without looking up as she flicked through the pages of photographs. ‘You know, you caused quite a stir at the Meet the other night.’

‘I did?’

‘Sure, honey. The conversation was all about you when you left us. Like, how come you’ve been right under our noses all this time and we’ve never seen you? These designs are
good
…You know, Philippe is
so
last year. I
love
what you’ve done here.’ She held up a page with big mounted displays that I did a few years back for an architects’ ball. ‘This is what I want for the Grand Winter Ball. It’s just before Christmas and we intend to make it
the
social event of the season. So the décor needs
to be the best, naturally. I would need, maybe, thirty of these large displays, plus garlands to cover the grand staircase in the ballroom. Could Kowalski’s handle it?’

I was expecting a large order from this larger-than-life lady, but this took me by surprise. It was huge. I did some mental calculations, and then nodded. ‘I’m sure we can. I’ll put together some initial sketches with my co-designer and get them back to you with an estimate for your approval, if that’s OK?’

Mimi snapped the book shut. ‘Fantastic, Rosie. I’ll have my planners call you and we’ll go from there.’ We stood up. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said, smiling broadly but escorting me swiftly to the door. ‘I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.’

Going down in the glass elevator, I let out a huge sigh as the enormity of the task ahead finally sunk in. I knew that, after the initial shock and protestations, Marnie and Ed would relish the opportunity to work on that scale. But quite how I was going to broach the subject with them, I had no idea.

I was lost in these thoughts as the elevator reached the ground floor and I stepped out. Straight into someone coming the other way. Losing my balance completely, I fell. My books flew out of my hands, opening mid-air before crashing to the ground, sending photographs and business cards sliding, skidding and scuttering across the atrium floor. I landed on the chic polished marble in a decidedly unchic position, surrounded by my belongings, which lay scattered in all directions.

You know how, when something embarrassing happens to you, it’s like someone hits the Pause button and the world seems to stop and stare? Well, this was one of those moments. All the frantically hurrying people found a good reason to postpone their journeys and a hundred spotlights homed in on me as their eyes surveyed my misfortune.
Why had I chosen
today to wear a shorter than usual skirt and no tights?
Dazed from the ugly tumble, yet alert enough to realise I was in grave danger of revealing my choice of underwear to all assembled, I struggled to my knees in a vain attempt to rescue any remaining scraps of my dignity, scrabbling for my belongings as I did so. Stumbling eventually to my feet, I cursed my flushing cheeks and made a woeful attempt at a smile in the direction of the flash mob gathered around me. Only when I was fully upright did I realise that the someone I had collided with was still there. Laughing.
Very
loudly.

He stood, bent double, chest convulsing wildly, with one hand wiping tears from his eyes while the other reached out to help me. His laughter seemed to bounce off every hard surface, filling the space with great booming guffaws. I hugged my books to my chest, still aware of all the unwanted attention from the atrium’s beautiful people.

‘I’m…so…sorry,’ the man gasped. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, but…but that was
just hilarious.
’

‘Well, thank you.’ I could swear I heard a stifled Armaniclad giggle from the green glass reception desk.
Great,
said the little voice in my head,
nice one, Duncan.
The someone was still laughing. The beautiful people were still laughing. But I
wasn’t.
Realising my embarrassment, the someone regained his composure and straightened up. I was just about to give him a piece of my mind when our eyes met and, instantly, his expression changed from amusement to sincere shock as he recognised me—and I recognised him.

‘Rosie Duncan? Heck, I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?’ he stammered, his voice suddenly full of genuine concern that defused my anger.

‘I’m fine—um—Nathaniel?’

There was more than a hint of relief in his smile. ‘Yes.
Uh, Nate. Call me Nate—please. Are you sure you’re OK?’ He bent down and quickly collected the remaining detritus of my fall, carefully handing them back to me. His warm hand rested on mine for a second. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine—really. Ego a bit dented, that’s all,’ I replied, smiling weakly.

‘Good—great…’ His voice trailed off and his brow furrowed as he struggled for something else to say. He ran a hand through his closely cropped chestnut-brown hair and then a warm, one-sided grin broke across his face. ‘Uh…well, it was good to—um—
bump into
you again!’

It was a bad joke, but I still found myself laughing. ‘Yeah—you too.’ We exchanged polite smiles and an uneasy pause. It was obvious this conversation was fast running out of road, so I said goodbye and walked away. I was nearly at the glass entrance doors when I heard Nate call after me.

‘Rosie! Where’s your store?’

‘At the corner of West 68th and Columbus,’ I called back. ‘Kowalski’s.’

Nate bent down to pick up something else from the floor and waved it in the air. ‘Hey, don’t worry, it’s OK—I’ve found your card!’

I could feel the hot rush of embarrassment return. As the floor ignored my urgent telepathic request for it to open up and swallow me, I smiled, hastily turned and made a speedy exit.

‘How
many?’

Arms folded, Ed and Marnie stood, like a matching pair of incredulous-looking bookends. This was not going well.

‘Just think of it this way, guys. You’re forever saying we don’t get enough exposure for Kowalski’s—well, this will get us
noticed by
really
important people. Press people, publishers, celebrities. We can take on extra staff for this job. Corey Mitchell at the Molloy College in Bethpage has offered to lend us some of his floristry students any time we want. You guys can really go to town on the whole design process. Come on, I’m confident we can do this.’

Marnie took a deep breath and looked at Ed. They then had one of their weird unspoken conversations. They do this all the time. I hear no words, but somehow a decision is made. Eventually Ed nodded at Marnie then looked at me.

‘OK, OK, let’s do it.’

I whooped and clapped my hands. ‘Thank you so much. It’s going to be so exciting! Time for Kowalski’s to take over New York!’

Marnie and Ed shot me one of their ‘humour her, she’s insane’ glances and Marnie took her position behind the counter while Ed followed me into the workroom at the back of the shop.

One thing Ed loves to do is psychoanalyse people. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of psychiatrists and it’s an inescapable part of his genetic makeup. Ed’s father has never forgiven him for abandoning what has been the family profession for the past three generations. When Ed began his apprenticeship at Kowalski’s he had to regularly defend his decision—and, in turn, his sexuality—to his father, who considered men who worked with flowers to be gay by definition. Even when Ed moved from Kowalski’s to work at Charters, one of Manhattan’s most respected florists, Mr Steinmann refused to be impressed. I wonder sometimes if this is why Ed dates so much—still publicly asserting his heterosexuality to prove his father wrong.

He never told his father he was unhappy at Charters, even
though most of his five years spent working there were impossibly miserable as, time and again, he was denied the opportunity to progress in the company. In fact, the only person he confided in was Mr Kowalski, who had remained a friend throughout, which was why Ed ended up accepting the position of my co-designer. Mr Kowalski not only offered the fatherly advice denied Ed by his own father, but was also instrumental in affirming Ed’s work and worth. Yet another reason why we all love and miss Mr K so much.

‘So,’ Ed said, resuming work on a hand-tied bouquet of roses, asters and Asiatic lilies, surrounded by deep green banana leaves, ‘Mimi Sutton—what kind of vibe did you get about her?’

‘Quite businesslike. Difficult to tell that much about her, really.’

‘Rosie, turn off the optimism gene for one second and tell me what you
honestly
thought. I won’t tell. Scout’s honour.’

I thought for a moment. ‘OK, the vibe was—
strange.
’ I confessed. ‘It feels like something’s missing there.’

Ed looked up from his hand-tying. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I dunno…I mean, she’s very polite, very friendly, but I can’t tell how genuine she is. It’s like all the fire and individuality that she must have had before she got successful has gone somehow. I’m not sure what’s left in their place.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ed, nodding. ‘Heart replaced by a dollar sign. Soul replaced by a resumé. She sold out.’

Ed is always able to condense an entire conversation into a three-line conclusion. I keep telling him he should be writing tag lines for Hollywood movies. He’d make a fortune.

‘Shame,’ he said, picking up a pale peach rose and spinning the stem between his fingers absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve always liked her books. Just goes to show that the person you think you
know from their writing is only the person they
want
you to see. And what about the other guy—Brent, was it?’

I smiled immediately. ‘Yes, Brent Jacobs. He’s fab. I like him. You’d like him.’

‘Always a good sign. Why?’

‘Because he used to be a criminal psychologist.’

Ed laughed. ‘Uh-oh. Better not let us meet then. I may have been a case study in his former career. I’ve a checkered past, you know.’

‘Oh, I forgot. Ed Steinmann, criminal mastermind. Must be why you fit in so well here.’

‘Hmm, because I’m not the only one with an intriguing hidden history.’ The comment sliced through the humour like a knife through butter. ‘I’m still here if you want to talk, Rosie.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ Instantly I saw hurt narrow his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…I’m fine, Ed, really. But thanks for caring.’