Fairytale of New York

Marnie and I finished the final arrangements and stood back to view the wonderful spectacle that is a completed order. ‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘We’re done.’

Ed frowned. ‘Wait—we’ve got to have the Kowalski Ceremony before you can say that.’ He picked up an old, rusty pair of halfmoon spectacles from a shelf, placed them on the end of his nose and adopted a slow, gentle Polish accent. ‘So, I think maybe we are done now, everybody? Good! Let’s clear up and deliver!’

I smiled at him. Some days I miss Mr Kowalski so much my heart aches.

‘Can I go for my lunch break?’ asked Marnie, hopefully.

‘No problem,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘Take an hour, mate. You’ve worked so hard the last two days. Enjoy yourself.’

But before I’d finished speaking, Marnie had grabbed her bag and coat and was out of the door, shouting her thanks over her shoulder as she went.

Ed raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Now there’s another whirlwind in training,’ he said. ‘Must be the guy she met last week in drama class.’

I smiled as I began to collect the scrap foliage and raffia from the worktables. ‘Ah. Another chapter of Marnie’s life begins.’

‘Poor Marnie. Her love life reads like a plot of a daytime soap,’ Ed agreed, and began to carry completed arrangements to the cold store. ‘I was attempting to explain this to my mother the other day. Let me see if I remembered the highlights: there was the med student—he lasted four months, till he announced he wanted to become a gynaecologist…’

‘Always a passion-killer, that one.’

‘Then came the Italian stallion, who said he was on an exchange programme from romantic Sicily, when really he was from romantic Queens.’

‘Hmm, and he only told her that small detail of his life after she’d spent most of her money showing him the sights of New York for three weeks.’

‘And, of course, who could forget the guy she fell head over heels with, who turned out to be her long-lost half-brother?’

We both grimaced at that one. Ed shook his head and picked up the last two arrangements. ‘Now, you make the coffee and I’ll finish up here.’

My coffee machine is just about the best thing ever. It’s one work requirement that I’ve retained from my old days at the advertising agency—I need my coffee in order to be creative. Customers have told me that the comforting scent of coffee mingling with the flowers makes them feel at home when they enter the shop. It seems to encourage them to spend time making their decisions. Nowadays, it’s strictly decaf after 2 p.m.—not least because we all need our sleep at night, but also because Marnie under the influence of too much caffeine is downright scary, and I don’t want to frighten the customers away. My coffee machine doesn’t look or work like it used to, but its battered appearance and the strange noises it emits are all part of its endearing character. Marnie thinks it should be retired, but Ed agrees with me that it makes the best cup of coffee around, and that makes two votes to one. Motion carried. So Old Faithful (as he is affectionately known) remains an important member of my staff.

When the coffee was ready, after much huffing, puffing and weird clunking from Old F, Ed joined me behind the counter for lunch. Ed always eats the most enormous pastrami sandwiches at lunchtime. He buys them each morning from Schaeffer’s Deli, a few blocks down from his apartment in the East Village, on his way to work. I asked him once how he manages to eat so much without becoming the size of a small planet, and he informed me that he has an ‘excellent metabolism’. I reckon it’s more to do with the fact that he runs five miles every day, goes to the gym regularly and seems to spend most of his free time running after (or being chased by) the beautiful women of New York.

After several minutes of happy munching, Ed gave the meat monstrosity a time out and shot me one of his serious looks.

‘So what about your dating history, Rosie?’

Uh-oh. This was one road trip I knew all too well:

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING UNCOMFORTABLE

Population: Just Me

I tried a detour. ‘Not much to tell, really.’

Of course, this wasn’t likely to put him off. In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing I could have said: there is nothing Ed Steinmann likes more than a challenge. I might just as well have slapped him in the face with a gauntlet.

‘Oh, come on, Rosie, there must have been guys you left back in old Blighty?’

‘Umm…’

‘Buzzzz! Hesitation!’ Only Ed could turn an embarrassing conversation into a quiz show. ‘Travelled across the Pond leaving a string of broken hearts behind you, eh?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Something like that.’

‘And then there was…where was it you came here from? DC? Chicago?’

‘Boston.’

‘Ah, Boston. So—any broken hearts there?’

‘I—no, OK? Can we change the subject, please?’

Ed held up his half-eaten sandwich in surrender. ‘Hey, I’m just making conversation. You’ve been here, what, six years and we’ve never seen you dating.’

I let out a long sigh. ‘I don’t have time to date.’

Ed took another bite and munched thoughtfully. ‘That’s because you spend half your life chasing the whims of that mad journalist friend of yours.’

‘Ed, that’s unfair. Celia’s a good friend.’

‘So how come she’s never set you up on a date then?’

‘Ed!’

‘I’m just making an observation. I mean, there must be countless eligible hacks at the Times.’

I folded my arms in a vain attempt to feel less vulnerable. ‘Since when was my love life such an area of fascination for you?’

‘It’s not just me, it’s Marnie too. Actually, mainly Marnie, to be honest. She worries about you.’

Knowing that my staff were discussing my personal life was more than a little disconcerting. It wasn’t that I minded them caring for me—that’s something that I’d always found about my team and it was great to know we all looked out for one another. It was more that I didn’t want to discuss my love life with anyone, especially not my past in London or Boston. Believe me, I had my reasons.

‘Well, she shouldn’t worry. I’m fine. Besides, between the two of you I think we have the eligible contingent of Manhattan pretty much covered, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Good point. So, ask me about my love life then, seeing as you don’t have time for one.’ Ed has this amazing capacity for making you smile when you really should be hitting him hard. It is completely disarming but devastatingly effective.

‘Fine. Who’s the lucky lady tonight, pray tell?’

Ed looked like the cat that got the cream, sapphire blue eyes twinkling. ‘Lawyer.’

‘Oh, nice.’

‘Yep, she is.’

‘Name?’

‘Mona. I think she’s Italian.’

‘Let me guess: second name Lisa, can’t really tell what she’s thinking, bit of an oil painting?’

Ed was unmoved by my humour. ‘Maybe you should call 911, Rosie. My sides are in the process of splitting. No, she’s representing my cousin Klaus.’

‘What’s he up for?’

Ed rested his sandwich on the counter and wiped his hands with a paper napkin. ‘How come you instantly assume my family are all crooks?’

I looked sheepish. ‘Sorry.’ It was nice to be in control of the conversation at last.

‘Hmm. Well, don’t do it again, Duncan. No, he’s being sued by a former patient who claims Klaus hypnotised him during one session, causing him to make a series of disastrous business decisions, which led to the collapse of his company.’

‘Is your cousin a hypnotherapist?’

‘No—that’s the crazy thing. He’s a psychiatrist. All my family are psychiatrists, for pity’s sake, apart from me.’

‘Is this client likely to win?’

‘No way. The guy’s clearly a nut, but hey, this is New York: sneeze in the wrong place and someone’s going to sue your ass from here to eternity. Mona reckons the judge will take one look at him and throw the case out. But, while we’re waiting for that to happen, I owe it to my cousin to ensure that his lovely lawyer is as fully briefed as possible.’

‘Knowing you, it’s probably more a lack of briefs you’re interested in?’

‘Hey, so she just couldn’t resist me. What can I tell ya?’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ I laughed, taking our mugs to Old F for a refill.

‘See, Rosie? Look at all the fun you’re missing out on.’

‘Lawyers aren’t my type and I don’t know any psychiatrists.’

‘Then try a policeman, or a photographer—or a taxi driver, even. Heck, anyone would be worth a shot, if only to get you “out there” again! How about we get Marnie to recommend one of her exes?’

Bringing the filled mugs back, I gave one to Ed and sat down. ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much. Somehow I don’t think any of them will be my type. Now drop it and eat that cow in bread you’ve got there.’

‘Don’t try diversionary tactics. You know they won’t work on me. Just be prepared for us to keep bugging you about it, OK?’

I ignored a sinking feeling and attempted a breezy smile. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Ed agreed, resuming his one-man onslaught on the mountain of meat.

I watched him for a while. Ed is one of those people you instantly like. I love his quick wit and cheekiness, despite being on the receiving end of it more often than I’d like. Ed can deliver a one-liner faster than a speeding bullet and that always makes me smile. Maybe it’s this mischievous quality in him that the good ladies of Manhattan find so irresistible. I have to admit, when Steinmann puts his mind to something, it’s difficult to say no to him. Mind you, if I believe Ed and Marnie’s theory about me, I seem to have this problem with everybody on account of my Malaise Anglais, so perhaps that doesn’t count. Even when he’s tired or hungover, the charm is never far away; in fact, it is often particularly endearing when he’s looking more dishevelled than usual.

Ed’s style is what he calls ‘relaxed’, but what my mum would term ‘scruffy’. His dark brown hair never really looks tamed no matter what he does with it, but this suits his style down to the ground. He does make an effort occasionally and never looks unprofessionally untidy, but most of the time he has the kind of appearance that makes guys want to hang out with him and women want to take care of him. Today he was wearing a slightly crumpled charcoal shirt over a white T-shirt with faded black jeans. When I asked him why he’d chosen this sombre colour scheme, he remarked that he thought it would be good for counteracting the Marnie Effect, a phenomenon unique to Kowalski’s: my young assistant looks as if she has been bombarded by a spectrum of colours—from her hair (this week, vivid orange), to her clashing T-shirt, skirt, tights and bright yellow Doc Marten boots. As for me, I like to think I’m a foil to both of them. I like to look smart for work, although comfort is a major consideration. One thing Marnie and I have in common is our love of vintage clothes—and in New York we’re blessed with countless boutiques selling retro clothing and one-off pieces. Living in New York I’ve noticed my style has become more relaxed—much like I have.

Since the day I first met Ed, we’ve been really close. And even though to the casual observer it can appear that we mock each other constantly, I do actually care what he thinks of me. While events in my life have made me much more wary of letting people close, having Ed and Marnie there to worry about me is strangely comforting. We’re an odd concoction of personalities, backgrounds and dress styles, but it seems to work. Welcome to Kowalski’s—where the staff are as varied as the flowers!

At four thirty, I packed Celia’s arrangements into the delivery van and headed off to Café Bijou. Marnie and Ed had agreed to man the store for the rest of the day so that I could go, after it became clear that Celia was fast losing the plot. Her anxiety attacks had begun at two o’clock with a frantic phone call, and I found myself promising faithfully that I’d meet her at the venue at five fifteen. Marnie and Ed’s expressions said it all and, once I got into my van, I noticed Ed had drawn up a doctor’s prescription and stapled it to the order sheet.

PRESCRIPTION FOR MS ROSIE DUNCAN FOR THE TREATMENT

OF CONFIRMED CONDITION MALAISE ANGLAIS. THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE TO BE ADMINISTERED LIBERALLY AND ORALLY BY THE PATIENT, WHENEVER NECESSARY: ‘NO, I COULDN’T POSSIBLY. SORRY.’

When I arrived at the restaurant, Celia was already there, clipboard in hand, nervous energy in full flow. I immediately felt sorry for the poor maître d’, who was in danger of being totally overwhelmed by her tirade of questions. When he saw me, his face brightened and he rushed over, leaving a frustrated Celia standing mid-sentence, fuming gently.

‘Oh, Madame, permit me to ‘elp you wiz zese flowers. I will take zem to ze room pour vous,’ he gushed.

‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.’

I approached Celia as he fled.

‘That man is so exasperating!’ she exclaimed, tossing her clipboard onto the polished bar. ‘I have so much to organise and it’s five twenty already. Does Claude have any idea of just how much is left to do?’

I smiled and gave her a hug. ‘Now sit down, Celia. Take a deep breath. Count to two thousand…’

Celia looked up at me like a chastened child. ‘You sound like my mother,’ she said miserably.

‘Things are going to be just great,’ I reassured her, sounding quite a lot like mine. ‘You have plenty of time. Take a moment to come and see the arrangements. The roses smell beautiful and we’ve added some lavender to calm any nerves that might be fraying.’

Celia’s furrowed brow smoothed out as she followed me into the main restaurant area, where Claude was taking his frustration out on one of his staff.

‘Wouldya look at da state of da napkins, Joey?’ he shouted, his French accent sounding decidedly more like the Godfather now. I suppressed a giggle as he spun round and quickly rediscovered his Gallic roots. ‘Ah, Madame Reighton, I trust za room is satisfactory pour vous?’

Celia took a deep breath. ‘C’est trés bon, Claude, merci.’

Claude smiled briefly and hurried off into the kitchen. I squeezed Celia’s arm. ‘Well done.’ For the first time since I’d arrived I witnessed the slightest glimpse of a smile appearing on her flushed face.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rosie!’

Café Bijou was very new indeed—you could still smell faint traces of fresh paint in the entrance lobby. But it was comfortable and welcoming, approached from the sidewalk via some impressive stone steps that rose elegantly from the tree-lined street. The interior was warm and understated, decked out in dark wood tables and chairs with aubergine velvet seats, subdued lighting, and walls painted in shades of brown, caramel and cream. Each table was covered in crisp white linen, and polished oak floorboards creaked satisfyingly beneath my feet. Though I say it myself, the floral arrangements worked incredibly well in this setting—cream and palest pink rosebuds, offset by dark green foliage and small bunches of dried lavender, packed tightly into dark wicker baskets and finished with generous amounts of pale yellow-gold raffia, which trailed out onto the tablecloths.

When all the tables were finished and place cards had been distributed, Celia stood back to view the scene. She let out a sigh. ‘You were right, Rosie,’ she said, flinging a relieved arm round my shoulders. ‘Everything is just fine.’

Now I know that, to many people, Celia appears completely impossible. She even tested my mum’s famously steady countenance when they first met. But I’ve known her long enough to realise that beneath the crazy exterior beats a heart of pure gold. Celia is very New York—she isn’t happy unless there’s some aspect of the world she’s putting to rights. The rents are astronomical, restaurant and hotel prices are ridiculous and have you seen the state of the parks these days? Not to mention the fact that New York simply has not been the same since Giuliani finished as mayor (even though she moaned constantly about him while he was in office…). Her column is much loved by New Yorkers for its wry perspective on city life. She writes like they talk—a mixture of intellect, snobbery and good, old-fashioned complaint, seasoned with inimitable humour and completed with sly observation. It’s largely due to Celia that I have grown to understand and love the idiosyncrasies of this city, its unique take on life.

Let me tell you how we met: Celia befriended me at a party I went to, not long after I decided to move from Boston to New York. She was in town visiting her recently relocated mother, and a mutual friend suggested she come along to the event as a celebrity guest. Most of the guests at the party were Harvard graduates who met up once a year for an informal reunion. My friend Ben was one of these illustrious alumni. I met him at university and shared a house with him and five others in the not-so-posh bit of York. After graduation he decided to complete a Master’s degree at Harvard and subsequently stayed in Boston to work. I lodged with him there for nearly six months until I left for New York. He introduced me to Celia and we liked each other straight away. She invited me to stay with her and her partner Jerry until I found an apartment of my own.

It’s always easier to go to a new city when you know someone, and Celia proved to be a good person to know. She found my apartment for me and, after she’d learned I knew about floristry, persuaded me to meet her life-long family friend, Mr Kowalski. He was looking for someone to take on his business when he retired and Celia was certain I was the right person to do it.

I remember the very first time I walked into the shop—it felt like I was coming home. The little bell on the door that tinkled when we came in was identical to the one at Mum’s shop. The flowers in neat little galvanised steel buckets were arranged in a rainbow of colours—great swathes of reds, yellows, blues and purples from left to right. And there was that unmistakable smell, which you can’t really describe but recognise whenever you walk into a florist’s shop.

Mr Kowalski told me to call him Franz, but somehow ‘Mr Kowalski’ seemed more appropriate for a man of his great experience and wisdom. He had, like me, grown up around flowers—his family had lived and worked in New York’s Flower District from the time his parents arrived from Poland in the early 1920s. Although born in New York—the youngest child of six—he retained a strong Polish accent. He taught me so much when I worked with him during the year before he retired. Celia was overjoyed that she had been right in her judgement, and made sure all her friends came to our shop for their flowers.

Celia may give the impression of being completely selfabsorbed, but deep down I know she worries about how people see her. It’s this secret, slightly self-conscious person hidden so well inside the brash, confident exterior that I love and respect so much.

It has been said that a true friend is one who is willing to share the pains and joys of your life in equal measure: well, I can honestly say that Celia has always looked out for me, always championed my cause. She has cried with me when things have gone wrong—she is one of the few people who knows all the details of why I came to the States—and she has been an amazing source of strength to me at my lowest ebbs. She has celebrated with me when good things have happened too, like the time Kowalski’s won a top industry award the first year I was in charge. And when Celia puts her mind to celebrate, she does it with every last drop of her energy.

Celia’s events are the Golden Fleece in the Upper West Side. She is one of the few people in the country who can gather a stellar group of America’s finest in one room at less than a year’s notice. Her knack for creating interesting groups of guests is unsurpassed. And she always invites me. Which is the best bit, really. And while I suspect her main motive for including me in the guest list is to introduce me to eligible men, I love her for it. It is always a pleasure to meet the fascinating, creative people at Celia’s parties and I have made many firm friends that way in the past.

Celia’s guests began arriving just after eight, and within an hour Café Bijou was filled with the happy hum of conversation. Many of the writers present had not seen one another for some time, kept busy by national tours for their latest works or the ever-fruitful lecturing circuit. Small groups of friends gathered, excitedly inspecting the gift bags that Celia had given to each guest—neat little linen carriers filled with selections of the latest books from the authors present. As I navigated the room, checking my creations as I went, drifts of conversation washed over me.

‘…It seems to me that Bernann’s critique of Gershwin’s contribution to the American musical identity simply focuses on one solitary point…’ ‘…And you should have seen the hotels my agent found for me in Quebec…’ ‘…But I cannot abide the style of modern English favoured by Ivy League departments right now…’ ‘…Call me Neanderthal if you wish, but I have yet to find a credible philosopher to match the ancient greats in twenty-first-century America. I know, I know, I’m hard to please…’

One conversation caught my attention particularly. A group of three women and two men were standing by one of the tables, inspecting the basket arrangement closely.

‘No, I think you’ll find it is French Lavender,’ said one woman, positioning her reading glasses on the end of her nose and peering at the flowers.

‘Well, what’s the difference between French and English?’ asked the younger of the two men.

‘Easy, I know that one,’ said the other, with a wide, happy grin. The group looked at him, expectantly, waiting for the answer. ‘One comes from France and the other comes from England!’ This was received with good-natured groans and the investigation resumed.

‘If I may join the debate,’ I ventured, entering their conversation, ‘the difference can be seen in the flower heads. French lavender has a much bigger head, with two or three large petals, while English lavender has a smaller head with tight, compact flowers. The lavender in question is English lavender and we import it especially from a farm on the Isle of Wight.’

The group appeared pleased and the lady with the reading glasses extended her hand.

‘Thank you for your knowledgeable contribution. I’m Mimi Sutton.’

I returned her warm handshake. ‘Rosie Duncan. I’m Celia’s friend and also her florist.’

This information was met with murmurs of approval and congratulations from the others in the group, whom Mimi proceeded to introduce to me. Anya Marsalis, a tall, angular woman with striking black hair and huge green eyes was first. She was new to the literary circuit, having recently retired as an international model and published her first book—a travelogue of her time in Milan, Paris and Rome. Next was Brent Jacobs, the man with the wide grin, who had worked for twenty years as a criminal psychologist and now wrote very successful thrillers. His stomach was almost as broad as his smile and his thinning grey-blond hair curled up around his ears. The third woman, diminutive in both stature and personality, was Jane Masterson-Philips, a fortysomething history specialist whose biographies on great Americans had won her much critical acclaim. Her whole appearance seemed to be pulled back and neatly pinned in place, just like her tight chignon.

The final member of the group caught my attention the most. He was younger than the rest—my guess was about thirty-two or so—with a laid-back casual air and clothes to match. I was instantly reminded of a phrase Mum often uses to describe my brother, James—‘he’s always so comfortable in his own skin’. Aware I was staring, I checked myself and looked at Mimi. But before she could introduce him, he stepped forward. He effortlessly swung one hand out of his trouser pocket to meet mine in a single movement.