Fairytale of New York

Chapter Three

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.’

His expression instantly changed and his eyes twinkled.

‘Someday I’m going to write a book about you: Rosie Duncan—One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of the Modern Age. A surefire hit!’

People often tell me they sense about the team at Kowalski’s a closeness they don’t see in other shops. Sometimes customers ask if we’re related—and you should see the look of horror on Ed and Marnie’s faces—as we are every inch the typical family: fighting occasionally, bickering sometimes, but always there for each other. And we have Mr Kowalski in common.

One thing Mr K said again and again was that we were a family. ‘You are children to me. And like a good father, I worry for you. We are a family at Kowalski’s—it is the heart of everything we do.’

I’ve tried to keep the same feeling at Kowalski’s since it became my business. And, odd though it sounds, I sense him here still—five years after his death—that broad, crinkly smile lighting up his lovely old face as he watches the ‘Kowalski’s kids’ with pride.

‘What are you doing Thursday evening next?’ Marnie asked later that afternoon, poking her head round the workroom door. Ed and I looked up from the red, white and gold-themed table centrepieces we were working on for Mr and Mrs Hymark’s Ruby Wedding party. Mrs Hymark worked for Mr K as a Saturday girl in her teens and has trusted Kowalski’s with her floral orders for every occasion since—from her own wedding to the birth of her children and grandchildren, birthdays, anniversaries and funerals.

Ed, obviously unwilling to commit, deferred to me. ‘Uh, Rosie?’

‘Don’t look at me, Steinmann, I don’t manage your diary. I’m free, Marnie.’

‘Yeah, whatever. Although I was planning a quiet one…’

I smiled firmly. ‘Ed and I are both free, Marnie.’

Marnie gave a little whoop and clapped her hands. ‘Great!’

Ed groaned the groan of dread-filled experience. ‘What have we just agreed to?’

‘The opening night of my community theatre play, of course!’

A look of panic washed across his face. ‘Oh—wait—I just remembered, I have a…a…thing next Thursday.’

Marnie’s face instantly fell. ‘What thing? Oh, Ed, can you reschedule? It’s really important that you guys come. It’s the world premiere, you know.’

Ed opened his mouth to protest but I got there first. ‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Marnie.’

A week later, Ed and I stood in the small queue outside Hudson River Players’ tiny studio theatre. To call it a theatre was lavishing high praise indeed: in truth, it was an old dock warehouse that had been converted ten years ago into a theatre space for the local neighbourhood. Nevertheless, for all the effort and care the drama group’s members had gone to for the ‘world premiere’ of their new play, it might as well have been Radio City Music Hall or Madison Square Garden.

‘Welcome,’ boomed a stony-faced, wiry-framed man clad entirely in black, who was handing out programmes like they were death warrants.

‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Ed as we passed into the shadowy heart of the black-curtained warehouse space.

‘Would you stop complaining?’ I hissed under my breath as we found our seats—or rather, wooden bench.

‘So, remind me again why we’re willingly inflicting this torture on ourselves tonight?’ Ed remarked, looking round at the other, equally unenthusiastic members of the audience.

‘We’re here for Marnie,’ I replied, trying to look interested in the Xeroxed programme but seeing only spelling mistakes—such as ‘dirrectors’ and ‘tragik’. ‘We promised.’

‘But it’s community theatre,’ he protested. ‘It’s like death, only much, much slower! I mean, come on, Rosie—look around you: nobody wants to be here. This place is worse than Edgar Allen Poe on twenty-four-hour repeat. Oh, wait, no—I think I’ve just seen him leaving because it’s too depressing.’

‘Be quiet and enjoy the experience. It’s Marnie’s play. Part of Kowalski’s family, remember?’

Ed’s shoulders dropped in defeat. ‘Sure, I get it.’

The play, it has to be said, was everything bad you’ve ever heard about experimental theatre—and then some. When we’d asked Marnie what it was about, she had solemnly informed us that Armageddon: The Miniseries was an ‘existential politico-comedy with tragic overtones’—which did nothing to enlighten us or prepare us for the experience. All seven actors were dressed in black and appeared to be playing about thirty parts each. ‘We use the Brechtian device of gestus to completely remove the audience from any perceived reality of the play, choosing instead to represent rather than impersonate,’ intoned the programme notes. ‘We have also challenged the concept of a single director, opting for a group-conscious approach in its stead.’