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‘... that’s the easiest way to sew a button back on. Honestly, spend a fiver picking up a mini sewing kit or swipe one from your room the next time you’re staying in a hotel.’ I laugh at this. ‘And get wearing all those buttonless clothes you once loved but then threw to the back of your wardrobe. Until next time...’ I smile at the camera and then lean forward to turn it off.

I’m in a coffee shop and although it felt weird at first recording this, this is New York: I am not out of the ordinary filming myself and, besides, there are stranger things happening in here. That includes a date between a man dressed up as a clown and a woman wearing everyday clothes who looks bemused to be sat opposite him drinking her flat white. Good on her for sticking it out though; good on him for having the balls.

I asked my Twitter followers what sort of video content they wanted to see from me. As well as customising videos, which I’ve done before – taking tired old clothes and making them more now – quite a few people asked me to do some simple “how-to” videos, hence this video. I caught Piers about to throw a shirt out because the button had popped off, which was the inspiration behind this one.

The other day I shared my top tips about getting tomato stains out of white shirts, though it may have been Piers’ presence in the background – I filmed it in the apartment – that boosted my viewing numbers and good comments. (I had quite a few awful ones, too, which informed me that I’m hideous and should get off the internet. Why are they watching my videos then if they hate me that much?) Again, I used Piers’ shirt stained with tomato sauce from our meatball and spaghetti dinner. He’s proving to be quite useful for topic ideas.

I’m also documenting my daily outfit on my blog, though I’m certain my pictures are only doing so well because a lot of my audience are in the UK and I currently have the exotic backdrop of New York City. It feels a little like I’m showing off being here, though I suppose the same could apply if I was in London. I’ve had comments from people in Kirkcaldy, Ludlow and Ramsgate – New York seems much more exciting to me because it’s not my home turf. As for the shop and gallery, I’m speaking to Mum once I’ve wrapped this up.

I pack up my things, put my laptop and camera in my over-sized Louis Vuitton monogram tote, and I head out of the door. I call Mum as I set off down the street, briefly turning my face to enjoy the sunshine. I appreciate the warmth on my arms and legs after the chilliness of the coffee shop’s air con.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi Mum!’

‘Hello, dear. How are you?’

I flinch slightly, still not used to anyone but Felicity calling me dear. I swear that Mum has never called me that term of endearment before; since Felicity died, it feels like she’s calling me it all the time.

‘I’m good. Walking over to the hospital now to meet Piers and then we’re grabbing dinner, but I’ve got about ten minutes to chat. How are you? How’s Dad and Atlas?’

Mum’s voice turns stern. ‘I don’t like you walking around in New York whilst you’re talking on your phone, Arielle. You could quite easily get mugged if you’re not paying attention.’

That’s such a mum thing to say. ‘It’s fine, Mum,’ I dismiss. ‘Honestly, this is such a safe neighbourhood.’

My mum hasn’t been to New York in an age – things are a lot safer here than they once were with the city’s zero-tolerance policy, not to mention the impact 9/11 had on the city. I’ve never felt uneasy here, even if everyone moves at an alarming pace. Yes, even faster than in London, though the tourists amble along like they do back home.

She tuts, but she doesn’t pursue it. ‘Dad and Atlas are fine, and I had a call about your dress – the courier is coming on Saturday with it.’

‘Amazing!’

I’ve been back in New York for four days now and Piers and I are going to get down to wedding business next week. It’s hard to believe that it’s already been three weeks since he had his operation, a week since he was discharged from hospital, and we could be leaving New York in five weeks’ time. If we leave the wedding planning any longer we won’t be getting married here. A London registry office doesn’t hold the same glamour as getting married in New York, and I can’t picture myself in front of a black London cab in my wedding gown. A yellow New York taxi though? YES. New York has stolen my heart.

‘How about the shop and gallery? Any updates?’

‘Good and bad news on the shop front, I’m afraid. Bad news is they don’t think it will reopen this year–’

‘How much damage did the fire do?’ I interrupt.

It’s hard to imagine that the shop I visited in Camden Market not so long ago was so badly damaged that it’s going to take a year, if not longer, before they can get it back to a usable state. And, yes, I’m well aware that it’s more than my shop that they need to sort out – it was pretty much the entire market that went up in flames – but it’s not what I wanted to hear. Filming my videos and writing my blog posts has really buoyed me up to get cracking on the fashion front.

‘A lot,’ Mum states plainly. ‘The good news is that you can get out of the lease and get the money refunded, if you want, but you’ll need to supply documentation to prove Felicity’s assets now belong to you. Oh, and you should get that business account set up with Etta,’ she adds as an after-thought.

Easier said than done when there’s an ocean separating the two of us.

‘Cool, I’ll have to run all of this by Etta but I think we should bail on the lease and look for new premises when I’m back, though Etta won’t care either way. Have you spoken to her since the other day?’

I know that Mum had to contact her as the gallery manager refused to talk to her without Etta’s permission – never mind that Mum had
my
permission and I own the same amount of gallery as Etta owns.

‘Briefly, and I’ve also seen snippets about her in the newspaper,’ Mum says carefully.

‘I must have missed those. What’s she up to now?’ I ask cattily, then I feel bad remembering what Matt asked of me – to be patient with her but, most of all, be kind.

I know first-hand from Tabitha’s experiences how much the newspapers can lie and twist the truth. I should give Etta the same benefit of the doubt, but the sporadic messages I’ve had from her have been rude and unhelpful.

‘She–’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I interrupt. ‘I’m sure it’s mostly exaggerated or made up to get her in the papers. She’s doing promo for the new single, right?’

That’s her excuse every time I’ve had to chase her down about something.

‘It was about her brother.’

‘Matt?’ I wonder if he’s been hooking up with Z-list female celebrities on nights out with Etta.

‘No, her step-brother. He’s a criminal, you know. Very dangerous. Her step-dad sold his story to the papers, did one of those exclusives, though the story is
everywhere
.’

I take this with a pinch of salt. Mum’s definition of a dangerous criminal and an actual dangerous criminal is very different. He probably stole some chewing gum from a newsagent when he was a teenager.

‘He robbed your gallery and also attacked Etta. That’s why she has all those tattoos up her arms, to cover up the scars.’

Or maybe not.

‘Jeesh,’ I whistle.

I understand now what Matt was getting at when he told me she’d been through a lot, and I’m suddenly very thankful that my family is, mostly, quite normal – other than when my parents went through their Frank and Alice phase. I’m grateful that they no longer see those two. Just the thought of that disgusting conversation I overheard about rimming makes me feel nauseous.  

‘The poor dear.’

There’s that dear again. I catch myself in the reflection of the shop windows I’m passing and can almost see Felicity standing next to me, nodding at me as if to say: didn’t she tell me that Etta had it bad? Don’t I understand now why Felicity took her in like she did?

I shake my head to wipe that image and am met with the sight of a bald-headed and beefy man sat in the window of Starbucks sipping his Frappuccino and hopefully staring back at me. I move on swiftly down the street, though now I feel nauseous from the smell of coffee wafting out of the door because of how it mixes with the stench of eau de New York garbage. I’m convinced I picked up a bug on the plane. The last thing I need is to pass something on to Piers that will weaken his already fragile immune system – I’d better stock up on some medicine.

I want to ask more about Etta, but I can see the hospital building ahead so I only have a few more minutes to chat.

‘That’s dreadful,’ I mutter sympathetically, making a mental note to Google Etta later on. ‘So, the gallery?’

‘Blythe is happy to continue running the gallery, as she has done for the past ten years. She’s pointed
that
out to me more than once. I don’t think you need to worry too much about it, but she said that she would like to meet you as soon as you’re back.’

That’s a relief. At least one of our businesses is running smoothly.

‘Thanks Mum. I need to go as I’m at the hospital, but I love you. Thanks for all your help.’

‘I love you, too.’

‘Send my love to Dad and Atlas. Speak soon.’

I hang up when she says goodbye and walk into the very familiar hospital – our second home in New York, right now – and spot Piers waiting for me in the foyer.

‘Hi Pony,’ I chirp. ‘Good session?’

‘A fantastic one! Brett is really happy with my progress.’

I grin back at him. ‘That’s brilliant news.’

He grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘I’ll be back at work before I know it. Come on, let’s go and get Mexican. I’m starving.’

He strolls off before I can comment, but I know two things: Piers will not be going back to work unless he’s good and ready, and the thought of Mexican food is making me feel queasy, or maybe that’s me feeling sick from my walk.

‘Can we stop off at the pharmacy first?’ I call to Piers as I hurry to catch him up. I hate being sick, especially when I’m not at home, so I hope this bug hurries up and disappears out of my system.

‘Open your eyes.’

I open my eyes, then immediately scrunch them up again because of the late May sunshine. It’s that wonderful time of year in New York when spring turns into summer. I reach into my handbag to pull out my sunglasses but Piers stops me.

‘I want to see your reaction,’ he explains.

‘OK, we’re standing outside Central Park,’ I remark. Sure, we’ve been to Central Park before, and I do enjoy mooching around it on occasion, but
this is Central Park
. Why are we here?

‘Exactly!’

I’m a little lost and not sure how I should be reacting. This is the first time we’ve properly left the apartment together in the past two weeks, apart from our evening strolls around Gramercy Park, trips to local restaurants for dinner and visits back to the hospital for Piers’ check-ups and physio sessions. Now we are venturing further afield, Piers has decided to bring me to
Central Park
. I’m so confused.

‘I thought you were taking me to a potential wedding venue,’ I say.

He spreads his arms out.

‘Here?’ I’m incredulous. ‘Is that even possible?’

By which I mean,
are you out of your mind
? There are so many beautiful venues in New York, yet he wants us to get married in a
park
? This is
not
the usual sort of suggestion from Piers Bramley.

‘Just look,’ Piers says, so I do.

We’re standing where Central Park West meets West 59th Street, at the park entrance with the Maine Monument. Gilded bronze figures sit on top of a limestone pylon and a fountain jets out greenish water at its base. Turning around I can see the very tall Christopher Columbus marble statue at the top of a granite column. Whilst it still overlooks the mad traffic of Manhattan, it’s a little different from what I remember – there are now fountains encircling Chris which weren’t here a few years ago.

The twin Time Warner Center skyscrapers gleam and reflect the clouds drifting over Central Park, though the black-glassed Trump International Hotel and Tower is actually closer.

‘The Time Warner Center?’ I ask hopefully. ‘There’s the Mandarin Oriental there – are you thinking of a hotel wedding?’

A hotel wedding could work, and it would give us quite the view over the park. It’s different from our castle wedding at Tharnham Hall, but this is a completely different wedding. We’re only inviting our nearest and dearest, so we’re probably going to have less than twenty-five guests – of which only fifteen or so will actually make it over to New York, I bet. Our guest list for Tharnham stood at over three hundred guests, though a lot of them were clients or colleagues of Piers – most of whom I’d never even met.

Piers shakes his head and chuckles. ‘You’re not seeing it, are you?’

‘Seeing what?’

He grabs my hands and starts to walk us into the park.

‘The buildings are back that way,’ I protest.

As we walk past the people who are taking in the shade at the back of the Maine Monument, we are immediately accosted by the rickshaw drivers who call out for our business. I adopt the usual Londoner reaction and feign deafness and blindness, but Piers leads me across to them.

‘Piers!’ I hiss.

‘Trust me,’ he says. He gets out his wallet and gives one of the drivers some dollar bills.

‘How long will that get us?’

The man counts the money. ‘Forty-five minutes,’ he says in his broad Bronx accent.

Piers peels back some more notes. ‘Let’s make it ninety.’

‘You’re the boss, man! Where to?’

Piers whispers something to the driver.

We get in the rickshaw, but not before I object. Piers has always hated this sort of thing. Whenever we’ve come out of the theatre in London and been harassed by the rickshaw drivers, he’s never had a kind word to say about them.

‘Exercise is one thing, Arielle, but a two-hour walk around the park would probably kill me,’ Piers explains with an easy grin. ‘I am still recovering, remember.’

I refrain from pointing out that his recovery hasn’t stopped him from doing work, which he shouldn’t be doing, even if he is working from the apartment and not going into the office. Still, he has a point. Slightly.

The driver sets off, ringing his bell impatiently at the tourists who are wandering slowly along the path. He takes a left and we’re heading up a side path that runs parallel to the main road that cuts through the park. All around me are yellow taxi cabs and joggers. It’s hardly inspiring, until...

‘Ooh, was this where Sebastian died in
Cruel Intentions
?’ I ask. I
love
that film.

Piers just grins at me and takes my hand. We’re passing baseball diamonds now, though it’s not long before we are approaching Tavern on the Green – a New York institution where we’ve eaten on a few occasions.

‘Wedding dinner venue?’ I ask hopefully. I could quite easily cope with that if we can book out the entire restaurant, but at this short notice I doubt our chances.

Piers zips his lips and the driver shoots past. OK, I have no idea where we are going, except further into Central Park.

Seeing my face Piers leans in and murmurs to me: ‘Can’t you just enjoy the ride, Pony? Trust me, OK?’

I nod and lean into him as he puts his arm around me. He’s right. There could be worse ways to spend my day – being cycled around in the sunshine with the man I love is no hardship.

A few minutes later we’re getting out of the rickshaw and Piers is asking the driver to wait. Ha, we’ll see about that! We’ve arrived at the lake and there are people out in boats making the most of the warm but not savagely hot day. It looks like fun splashing on the water, but with my lack of upper body strength and Piers’ recovering body, I don’t think we’ll be joining them.

‘Do you recognise this area?’

‘I do,’ I say, squinting across the lake and past the trees where a very familiar two-towered building looms over the park. The terracotta towers are topped with two copper lanterns, and I must have seen this building a thousand times in movies and TV shows.

‘That’s the Dakota, right? Where John Lennon was shot?’

‘San Remo, actually. The Dakota is the smaller one, two doors down, the one with the gable roof. But, yes, the Dakota is where Lennon was shot,’ he adds.

Piers sees my puzzled look.

‘The triangular bits of the roof,’ he explains. ‘It’s called a gable roof.’

I really need to start learning more about architecture, especially since we’re planning on moving in the not-so-distant future. I might not have known the name, but I am a big fan of that Swiss chateau roof.

‘Anyway, we’re not here for the view. We’re here for this.’

We’ve walked away from the lake and have somehow ended up in a secluded bit of the park, though I can still see one or two boats out on the water.

‘Wagner Cove,’ Piers states. ‘What do you think?’

I take a look at the small wooden gazebo in front of us, which stands in a pretty spot by the water, but why are we here?

‘For what?’ I ask carefully.

‘A wedding. People get married here.’

I look around again. I can see that actually.

It’s a peaceful spot although with the green of the trees and the green lake water it’s a little, well, too
green
for me. There’s none of the cherry blossom we saw on our rickshaw ride over here, but I bet when autumn comes and the leaves are golden and red it will be a lot more striking. It’s almost a shame that we’ll be back in London then.

I wrinkle my nose.

‘That’s OK. I have other bits of the park to show you.’

‘You seriously want to do this?’ I ask as we walk back to where the rickshaw driver is, hopefully, still waiting for us. ‘You want us to get married in Central Park?’

Piers stops and pulls me to one side as a wedding party approaches us. The groom looks so happy, laughing and joking with his friends as they make their way past us – a photographer snaps away.

‘I want that,’ he says, nodding at the groom. ‘I want to marry you, and I don’t want a fuss. I want to get married somewhere low-key with you walking towards me looking beautiful, as you always do, where we agree to spend the rest of our lives together. It doesn’t matter about getting married in a thirty-thousand-pound venue because it looks the part or wasting money filling rooms with flowers that will only get thrown out at the end of the day – what matters is me and you, Arielle. The promise that we make to one another.’

Piers clears his throat.

‘Look, it feels more meaningful here than it would in the ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria, or on the roof of the St. Regis, but if that’s what you have your heart set on, then of course we will do that. You know I’d do anything for you.’

I shake my head and reach for Piers’ face. He was so animated, so alive, during his speech. I know this is where he wants us to get married, and all I want is for Piers to be happy – happy and healthy.

He’s right. We don’t need a fancy ballroom packed with hundreds of people. All we need is the two of us, somewhere simple, somewhere nice.

‘Central Park it is.’ I lean up and kiss him. ‘Just nowhere that’s as green as back there, OK?’

He laughs. ‘It was a little green, wasn’t it?’ he admits as we walk back over to the rickshaw. Thankfully our driver is still waiting for us. ‘That’s OK though. I think you’ll love the next spot.’