Manolos in Manhattan (12 page)

“I’ll be right there,” she replied, and made her way quickly through the restaurant to find Jamie.

When she told him what was going on, he looked at her in surprise. “You have a daughter? I didn’t know. Didn’t even know you were married.”

“I don’t,” she said, “and I’m not. She’s my sister’s kid.”

“Oh.” He saw the anxiety in her face, and didn’t press her for details. “Go on then, go get her. We’ll manage. Poor kid. There’s nothing worse than throwing up in school, is there?”

But Catherine didn’t answer. She was already halfway out the door.

Chapter Nineteen

“Hi, Izzy,” Catherine said an hour later as she stood in the doorway of her guest bedroom, now the girl’s room. “I brought you soup and crackers. And ginger ale.”

Isabel, blonde hair falling in her eyes, rolled over and looked up listlessly from the pillows as her aunt entered her bedroom with a tray.

“Not hungry,” she mumbled.

“At least sit up and have a taste,” Catherine coaxed. “Soup is the best thing for your tummy right now. It’s been a while, so you should be able to keep it down.”

She set the tray aside and reached out to arrange the pillows so her niece could sit up in bed, then retrieved the tray and placed it on her lap.

Izzy sighed. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

She picked up her spoon and stared doubtfully at the brownish liquid in the bowl. “What kind of soup is this?”

“Miso. It’s one of my specialties.”

“What’s it made out of?”

Catherine cleared a space on the armchair by the bed – covered now with discarded clothes and a pile of schoolbooks – and perched on the edge of the cushion. “Miso’s a vegetarian soup made out of soybean paste. It has chicken stock in it – which isn’t strictly traditional, but I thought you’d prefer the taste to seaweed or kelp stock – and a few scallions. Try it,” she suggested. “It’s delicious.”

She put her spoon down. “No, thank you.”

“At least taste it.”

“It sounds...weird. Do you have any Campbell’s chicken noodle? Or chicken and stars?”

Catherine tamped down her irritation. “No, sorry, I don’t buy canned soup. I thought you’d like homemade instead.”

“I do,” Izzy said carefully. ‘But this soup is...weird. It looks funny. And it smells strange.”

“What about the crackers? They’re plain saltines.”

She shrugged. “I don’t like saltines. Do you have any Ritz?”

“No, I don’t have any Ritz.” Her words came out sharper than she intended. “Look,” she said, reining in her impatience, “let’s try another tack. What foods do you
like
?”

The girl thought for a moment. “I like ice cream. Do you have vanilla?” she asked hopefully.

Catherine sighed and stood. “No. I only have two flavors – coffee, or peach.”

Izzy wrinkled her nose. “No thanks.”

“I have an idea. Why don’t I run out to the grocery store,” Catherine suggested, one eye on her wristwatch, “and I’ll get you some chicken noodle soup and crackers, and a gallon of vanilla ice cream. Then I have to go back to work.”

“Oh. Okay. Who’ll stay here with me until you get back?”

Catherine looked at her blankly. “Stay with you?”

“You can’t just leave me here by myself.”

Of course she couldn’t.
Why am I so useless at this
? Catherine wondered.
I might be able to whip up a soufflé or gut and fillet a fish in four minutes flat, but I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing when it comes to Izzy
.

She just wasn’t cut out for this motherhood thing, not even temporarily. For the thousandth time, she felt a flare of anger at her sister for putting her in this spot, followed instantly by guilt – guilt for being angry at Leigh, who was battling ovarian cancer, for crying out loud; guilt for resenting the care and feeding of her nine-year-old niece; and guilt for failing the kid, who was as lost and unhappy as she was.

Isabel was the glue that held Leigh’s deteriorating marriage together for seven years...until things got so bad that not even Izzy’s existence could keep her father around. No, instead Jake took off for sunnier climes – California, to be exact.

He sent Leigh a few court-ordered support checks, a birthday and Christmas card for Izzy, then he disappeared – with no forwarding address, no goodbyes, no regrets.

Now her sister was seriously ill, and there was a very real possibility that Isabel would lose her mother, too.

And all I can do is stand here and feel sorry for myself
, Catherine reflected with disgust.

First things first, she decided. She needed someone to stay with Izzy while she went to the store, and then, back to work. But who? Leigh was out, obviously. Ditto Jake. She had no family of her own in New York, no friends, only a few polite exchanges with her neighbors in the hallway or on the lift.

And she couldn’t just hand Izzy off to anyone.

If only there was someone she knew, someone she
trusted
.

Catherine thought of Jamie. Of course he wouldn’t be able to stay after she got back from the store, he had to be at the restaurant, too; but he might know of someone who
could
stay?

“
Me
?” Holly exclaimed as she held her mobile phone out and stared at it, dumbstruck. She put it back against her ear. “You want me to do
what
?”

“Babysit Catherine’s niece this afternoon,” Jamie said with a trace of impatience, “and perhaps for a day or two, until she finds someone permanent.”

“Who’s with her now?”

“I am.” Jamie sounded less than thrilled. “Catherine had to go to the grocery store – Izzy’s sick – and asked if I’d stay with her until she returns. Obviously I have to get back to work soon. I’ve got a restaurant to launch tomorrow.”

“I’m at work, Jamie. And I don’t know anything about minding a little girl.”

“You were a kid once,” he reminded her irritably. “Play dolls. Read a story. Watch TV. Do whatever it is that little girls do.”

“What’s she doing right now?”

“Right now? She’s sleeping on the sofa. I told you, she’s sick. She threw up in school today.”

“Oh, great,” Holly groused. “So I’m leaving work –
if
Coco lets me go – to mind a kid who’s sick, and possibly contagious?”

“She’s not contagious. She ate something at lunch that didn’t agree with her. Come on, Hols,” he coaxed, “all you have to do is sit on the sofa and watch TV while she sleeps. Catherine’s got no one else to turn to.”

“Where’s Izzy’s mum?”

Jamie sighed. “She’s in hospital. Ovarian cancer.” He lowered his voice. “She’s not expected to last through the summer. And Izzy’s dad did a runner a couple of years ago.”

“God, that’s rough,” Holly said, and meant it. “Poor kid.” She chewed her lower lip. “Oh, all right. I’ll do it...for you, and for Izzy. What’s the address again?”

He told her.

“Right, let me just tell Dad and Coco, and I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Who are you?” Izzy asked warily from the sofa, pulling her earbuds out as Jamie let Holly into the apartment a short time later.

“This is my girlfriend, Holly,” Jamie told her as he sat next to her, “and she’s come to look after you until your auntie gets home.”

“I don’t need looking after. And where’re you going?” she asked him, sitting up in alarm. “You can’t leave! You’re supposed to stay until Aunt Catherine gets back.”

“I can’t. I have to get back to work, and so does she. Holly will stay and hang out with you until the restaurant closes and your auntie comes back.”

Holly dropped her handbag on a chair. “Right,” she said, “we’ll have lots of fun, won’t we, Izzy?”

The expression on the girl’s face made it plain that she found that prospect highly unlikely.

“What’re you listening to?” Holly asked as she took Jamie’s place on the sofa.

Izzy shrugged. “Music.”

“What kind? Pop? Jazz? Classical?”

She made a face. “Classical? No. The Clash. Metallica. Joan Jett.”

“Oh, the
good
stuff,” Holly approved. “Do you like Debbie Harry?”

“Duh, of course. She’s Mom’s favorite, too.”

Just then, the click of the lock and the clunk of the deadbolt signaled that Catherine had returned.

“I’m back,” she called out as she dropped her keys on a table and came into the living room. “Sorry it took so long.”

“Here, let me,” Jamie said, and moved to take a couple of the grocery bags from her.

“Thanks. There was only one cashier and the line was a mile long—” she broke off when she saw Holly. “Oh... Hi, Holly.”

“Hello. Jamie told me you needed a babysitter.”

“I don’t need a
baby
sitter,” Izzy said. “I’m almost ten.”

“Sorry, poor choice of words,” Holly said, and grinned. “I’m here to hang out for a while. If it’s okay with your mum, that is.” She looked questioningly at Catherine. Strangely enough, she wanted to stay. She liked Izzy.

Besides, anything was better than sitting in the hotel room alone after work, waiting for Jamie to come home.

And, she realized, it would be a perfect opportunity to take a look at those letters she’d found in the attic.

“I’d be eternally grateful,” Catherine admitted. She gave Holly a tentative but heartfelt smile. “Thanks. You’ve saved my life.”

Chapter Twenty

“What’ve you got for me today, Chaz?” Rhys asked the next morning as he strode past his assistant’s desk, briefcase in hand, and into his office.

He followed Rhys in and handed over a sheaf of phone messages and placed his coffee – an Americano with an extra shot – on the desk.

“Well,” he began, “your meeting with Marketing’s been moved to ten o’clock, and Alastair wants you to call him. Says it’s urgent.”

He sat down and riffled through his messages. “With Alastair, it’s always urgent. Right, what else?”

“You have a meeting this afternoon with Christa to discuss her appearance at the store’s launch.”

“Damn, I’d forgotten.” He jotted down a note. “Thanks. That’s right, we’re debuting her new perfume at the cosmetics counter. I want you in the meeting, Chaz. Christa’s appearance should really draw in the crowds.”

He nodded. “She’s very popular.”

“Yes. Natalie’s got a couple of tickets and backstage passes to go see her concert at Madison Square Garden.”

“Ooh, lucky you! Tickets are sold out.”

Rhys shrugged. “It’s not really my thing, but I promised Nat I’d go.” She’d got the tickets and backstage passes from her ex-boyfriend, Dominic Heath, the rock star...

...as well as an arrogant, all-round twit, Rhys reflected with a scowl. He was
not
a fan of either Dominic or his music.

The rocker had dumped Natalie publicly in front of a roomful of guests a couple of years before, at a Holland Park party held at Alastair’s home. Although Dominic’s loss became his own gain, Rhys had not forgotten the rock singer’s ill-treatment of Natalie.

And he never would.

“What else do we have on today?” he asked.

Chaz placed a flat delivery envelope marked “Priority” on the corner of Rhys’s desk. “This just came. And these need your signature.” He put a manila folder atop the delivery. “Buzz me when they’re ready and I’ll come and get them.”

“Good, thanks. Oh, and Chaz?”

He paused, a hopeful expression on his face. “Yes? Do you want me to take a look at one of the ad campaigns? Draft a scathing letter to Con Edison for switching the electricity on a day late and nearly ruining the pre-launch? Interview Christa?”

“No. Just ensure that the conference room is stocked with sodas and snacks for my meeting with Christa.”

Chaz swallowed his disappointment and nodded. “Of course. I’ll get on it right away.”

As Chaz left and returned to his desk, Rhys’s phone rang. “Joan? I got your message. We’re proceeding with plans for a store-issued bank card, so set up a conference call with Alastair and Sir Richard late this afternoon. I want you and the finance team to conference in, please.”

“Of course, Mr Gordon. Oh, and by the way – I believe congratulations are in order.”

“The office grapevine wastes no time, does it?” He leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Thanks, Joan. Natalie’s on a mission this morning to find a decorator to do up the nursery.”

“We’re throwing her the biggest baby shower Manhattan’s ever seen before the two of you return to London. But don’t tell her,” she added. “It’s a surprise.”

“Thanks for the warning. I can’t think of anything I’d like less than a hen party for a baby, to be honest. But Natalie will love it.”

Surprises, Rhys reflected as he rang off, were always in plentiful supply whenever Natalie was involved. He was just gathering his notes for the meeting with the PR team when his phone rang once again.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and stabbed at the intercom button. “Yes, Chaz, what is it?”

“I have Alastair James on the line, Mr Gordon. He says it’s urgent.”

Rhys sighed. “Very well, put him through.”

There was a click and Alastair spoke, his voice as clear as if he were in the next room, and not in London. “Good afternoon, Rhys. Or should I say, good morning.”

“Hello, Alastair.” Rhys still couldn’t quite manage to call him “Dad”. He’d grown up without a father in his life, only an abusive stepfather who’d beaten his mum and regularly bullied him and his adopted brother, Jamie.

When he’d learned last year that Alastair James was his father, it had come as something of a shock. He still hadn’t quite come to grips with it. But Alastair was a good man. Perhaps, in time, the two of them would find their footing...

“How are things going over there?” Rhys asked now.

“The usual chaos,” Alastair replied. “Sales figures are strong, and trending steadily upwards.”

“Glad to hear it. Chaz said you wanted to speak with me. What’s up? I have a meeting in a few minutes.”

“This won’t take long.” He paused. “I came across a piece of...disturbing news, yesterday. I thought you should know.”

“Know what?” Rhys asked, reining in his impatience. “What is it, Alastair?”

“I spoke with Alexa Clarkson this morning. It seems…” He hesitated. “It seems that her ex-husband Ian’s been released from Broadmoor.”