Fairytale of New York

A player ran onstage carrying a pig’s head in one hand and what appeared to be two pounds of tripe in the other.

‘This is the play that they make you watch when you’re eternally damned,’ whispered Ed, ‘over and over and over…Ow! That was my ankle!’

‘Shhhhh, Marnie’s coming on.’

Marnie walked slowly to the centre of the stage with an expression like stone and a red ribbon tied around her left wrist. ‘Enough!’ she shouted, hands aloft like a Druid priest. ‘Time is not what we think it is!’ I could see her counting to three slowly and then she exited as solemnly as she had entered.

‘Two lines? I just sat through three hours of the worst play in the known universe for two lines?’ Ed moaned as we sat in the all-night diner across the street afterwards.

‘I know, but Marnie was so thrilled we came. And look, I bought you your favourite chocolate cheesecake to say thank you,’ I replied, pointing at the slab of dessert in front of him so big he could barely see over the top of it.

Ed’s blue stare zoomed in on me. ‘Don’t think the “family” excuse is going to work on me every time, Duncan. Tonight I felt generous, that’s all.’

I smiled. ‘Fine. You just keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better.’

Ed muttered something obscene into his cheesecake.

There’s always a lot of banter when Ed and I are together, mainly because we have so much in common. We share similar tastes in movies and music; we both consider huge steaming hot dogs and ice-cold papaya shake from Gray’s Papaya on West 72nd Street the finest guilty pleasure on a Sunday afternoon; and we both enjoy psycho-analysing everyone we meet in a manner that would impress even the cast of Dawson’s Creek. Most of all, we share a passion for New York: Ed because he’s lived here all his life and me because, well, I fell in love with the city the moment I got off the train at Grand Central Station and walked into the frenetic bustle of the world-famous concourse with its stunning star-strewn ceiling. Before I came here I didn’t really believe people who said New York felt like a place where dreams are made, yet that is completely what I felt on that first day; like anything was possible in this city—even the most implausible hope or wildest aspiration.

It was Ed who encouraged me to explore New York and Ed who volunteered to escort me on my journey of discovery. So, most Sundays for the past five years or thereabouts, Ed and I have met on the subway and headed off to a new destination: strolling down Bleecker Street with its boho-chic boutiques; browsing superheroes old and new at Forbidden Planet, the comic shop on Broadway; watching the sun set across the city from the observation deck of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings (‘You have to see both views to understand the race to be the tallest,’ Ed says); eating oysters in the vaulted brick bar nestled deep beneath Grand Central; sneaking into private Gramercy Park once after being slipped a coveted key by an old school friend of Ed’s who works at the Gramercy Hotel (seriously, the people Ed knows in this city you wouldn’t believe); and hour upon hour of long, laughter-filled conversations in various coffee houses, diners and restaurants across Manhattan. It’s true what they say about this city: it’s a million different experiences in one place. Even now, six years since I arrived, I don’t think I’ve even scratched the surface of the delights New York has to offer.

The day after Marnie’s play was an unusually quiet one for Kowalski’s. Usually we don’t stop on a Friday from the minute we lift the shutters to the moment we turn the Open sign to Closed. We took the opportunity to do some long-overdue housekeeping around the store—the kind of jobs you always intend to get round to doing yet invariably end up putting off. We gave the light wood floor a good clean, dusted the shelves behind the counter, restocked the flower buckets and tidied up the workroom. Even Mr K’s old half-moon spectacles received a much-needed polish and sat resplendent on the shelf afterwards, sparkling almost as much as Mr K’s eyes used to.

By three o’clock it was obvious that the good people of the Upper West Side didn’t want flowers today, so I was about to suggest we close up early when Ed asked, ‘Are you guys OK to finish up here without me? I mean, it’s quiet and I’d like to leave early tonight.’

I smiled. ‘It’s probably worth closing now anyway. I think we’ve all worked hard enough today.’

Marnie looked at me and shrugged. ‘That is so typical. I was hoping you might need me to stay later tonight. My crazy land-lord’s fixing my shower and I really don’t want to be there while he’s working.’

‘Ah, still trying to match-make you and his son, huh?’ Ed grinned.

Marnie pulled a face. ‘Is he ever.’ She hunched her shoulders and adopted a gruff, Italian-American accent. ‘“You such a nice lady, Ms Andersson, you could do a lot worse than my Vinnie, you know. He’s gonna inherit the building when I retire. He got prospects—a lady like you needs a guy with prospects…” Yeah, and a lady like me also needs cleanliness—and fresh breath. All Vinnie has to offer me is too much butt-crack over his jeans and halitosis like you wouldn’t believe.’

Ed and I giggled—not least because of the hilarious sight of Marnie, colourfully attired as always, stomping around like Don Corleone in pigtails.

‘Hey, I have an idea,’ I said, giving her a wink. ‘Seeing as our esteemed colleague is deserting us, how about you and I head over to SoHo for something to eat?’

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, Rosie, that would be amazing! I could show you that store I was telling you about—the vintage one?’

After a day at Kowalski’s the thought of a spot of retail therapy followed by a great meal was more than a little tempting. ‘You’re on.’

Ed shook his head. ‘What is it about the word “shopping” that makes women go nuts?’

‘It’s a girl thing, Steinmann. You’re not invited,’ Marnie grinned.

‘So, how come you’re skiving off early?’ I asked him.

Ed lifted his chin and attempted to look aloof, the success of this severely compromised by the mischief dancing in his blue eyes. ‘Can’t tell you. It’s a boy thing, Duncan.’

‘So what’s her name?’

Sly humour began to pull up one corner of his mouth. ‘Carly, if you must know.’

‘Hang on, isn’t this the same Carly you saw last Saturday night?’

Ed looked decidedly sheepish. ‘It might be.’

Marnie’s eyes widened. ‘Wait—you saw Carly on Wednesday as well, didn’t you?’

A scarlet blush slowly creeping up Ed’s neck was giving the game away. ‘It’s…possible…’

I whistled. ‘Three dates with the same girl?’

Ed rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. ‘Four, actually.’

Marnie let out a squeak and flung her arms around Ed’s waist. ‘It’s serious! Oh, Eddie, I’m so pleased for you!’

Ed wrestled himself free of her limpet-like embrace. ‘It is not serious. She happens to have tickets to a show tonight that I quite like the idea of seeing.’

‘Is he talking about the show or Carly?’ I smirked at Marnie.

‘You like her…’ Marnie said, singsong style, poking a finger in his ribs.

‘Stop it.’

‘Four dates with the same girl? That’s practically an engagement,’ I laughed. ‘Should we buy our hats now? I can recommend a great florist for the ceremony.’

Ed let out a groan and grabbed his jacket from behind the workroom door. ‘Whatever. You two have a great time tonight doing your girl stuff, OK?’

He left, shaking his head, as Marnie began singing a gutsy rendition of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’.

It was only when Marnie and I were browsing Victoria’s Vintage in SoHo later that afternoon, that I realised how much I needed a ‘girly’ evening. Work had been pretty intense at Kowalski’s lately, with an unexpected rush of small orders that all seemed to be needed on the same days and I had become so wrapped up in the sheer volume of day-to-day stuff at the store that I had neglected my own free time.

‘Isn’t this fun?’ Marnie said, appearing from behind a crowded clothes-rail with a vivid sixties tie-dyed T-shirt.

‘It’s bright,’ I smiled.

‘I don’t mean this,’ Marnie frowned, waving the garment dismissively, ‘although it is rather fabulous. I mean us hanging out.’

‘Yes, it’s great. Just what I needed. So are you buying that?’

Marnie checked the price tag and her face fell. ‘I would be if I didn’t have to pay my rent this month,’ she replied, hanging the T-shirt back on the rail and stroking it wistfully. ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’

I nodded. ‘There’s a Biba blouse I liked over there I think I’m going to buy. I’ll meet you outside, OK?’

Five minutes later we had crossed the street to Ellen’s, a small cosy restaurant much beloved by the local art fraternity. More a laid-back, all-hours coffee shop than a highclass eaterie, Ellen’s was a lazy hum of activity; its expansive, well-worn couches littered with chatting, colourfully-attired customers making the interior look as if a shabby rainbow had exploded and strewn its fragments haphazardly across the room. It was no wonder this was one of Marnie’s favourite haunts—there weren’t many places in New York where she could ‘blend in’, but Ellen’s was a notable exception. Surreal and abstract paintings on huge canvases adorned the bare brick walls and a jazz trio nodded sleepily in one corner. We found a table with mismatched dark wood chairs by the window and sat down.

‘I love it here,’ said Marnie as we perused the hand-drawn menu. ‘My art class used to come here all the time last semester.’

‘I like it,’ I smiled. ‘I wonder how Ed’s getting on.’

Marnie surveyed me quizzically. ‘Now why in the world would you say that?’

Something about her expression unnerved me a little. ‘No reason. I was just wondering, that’s all.’

Marnie leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if the other customers may suddenly take an unwelcome interest in her next comment. ‘Do you like him, Rosie?’

‘Of course I like him, mate. He’s one of my best friends.’

Marnie gave my hand a playful tap. ‘I don’t mean it like that. You know what I mean.’

‘Don’t be silly. I was just wondering how he was going to cope with so many dates with the same woman. You have to admit, it would be a first for him.’

Marnie nodded. ‘That guy has almost more dates than me. I don’t know where he meets them all.’

‘Wherever he goes, apparently. He even got a date when he called an emergency plumber last year.’

‘He dated the plumber?’

‘No, the plumber’s sister, who was along for the ride.’

‘I don’t know why he spends so long chasing women he’s no intention of settling down with,’ Marnie said, turning the menu card over.

‘He likes the chase, I think.’

‘Hmm. I reckon you and he should get together.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Seriously, Rosie, I mean it! Think about it: you spend loads of time together already, you like the same places in New York, you’re both crazy about old movies and eating out—’

‘Stop right there, please. You’re scaring me.’

‘Oh, come on, you mean to tell me that you don’t find Ed in the least bit attractive?’

‘Well, I…’

‘Exactly! He’s gorgeous, Rosie! That guy could charm pollen from a bee. I tell you, if I wasn’t his friend and he didn’t bug the hell out of me like some annoying older brother, I would—’

‘Marnie!’

‘OK, right, so when he comes into the store the morning after a rough night, and he’s all ruffled and unshaven, you haven’t once considered…?’

Just as this conversation was veering wildly towards the point of no return, a waiter appeared by our table to spare my blushes.

‘Hi, ladies, welcome to Ellen’s. Our special tonight is Pancetta Mac Cheese and…wow—uh—hi, Marnie.’

Marnie looked slightly flushed but pleased. ‘Hey, Todd.’

Todd’s eyes appeared transfixed by the vision in orange and purple sitting before him. ‘It’s really good to see you.’

‘You too. Oh, this is my boss, Rosie.’

Todd wrenched his gaze away from Marnie long enough to shake my hand. ‘The florist, right? Hey.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I replied, noting the chemistry between them.

‘So—we’ll have the specials, please, if that’s OK with you, Rosie?’

I nodded. ‘I’ll go with your recommendation.’

‘Great,’ Todd replied, scribbling the order on his pad. Tearing off a strip, he placed it carefully in front of Marnie. ‘Call me,’ he smiled shyly before disappearing into the dimly lit depths of the restaurant.

‘Well, he was nice,’ I said, full of curiosity.

Marnie shrugged and played with a napkin. ‘He’s OK, I guess. We dated a little last year.’

‘Looks like he’s keen to see you again,’ I smiled, indicating the strip of paper laid lovingly on the table. ‘He’s a nice-looking guy too.’

‘Too restrained for me,’ Marnie replied coolly. I couldn’t help but think this probably could apply to most of Manhattan’s single male population when compared to Marnie’s vivid personality and appearance. She beamed cheekily. ‘Not as fine as Ed though, hey?’

Although I would never dream of admitting it to Marnie, I had to privately concede that Ed did have an alarming skill for looking great when most men would just have looked rough. Of course, I could understand how he managed to find so many women eager to go out with him; it was that legendary Steinmann twinkle that rescued him from so many otherwise tricky situations with devastating effect. Even when we have had the biggest rows at Kowalski’s, I’ve never managed to stay angry at him for long. Which is frustrating in the extreme, but then, that’s Ed: like that brown leather jacket of his—a little beaten up by life but so warm and engaging that you forgive the lack of polish immediately. I suppose all those women found themselves torn between admiring the Steinmann twinkle and wanting to take care of him. Unfortunately for them, Ed’s idea of a perfect woman seemed to be, ‘spend time with me when it’s fun and then don’t bother calling’. Not that he was ever cruel: from the little he told us of his dates it appeared that most of the ladies shared his ethos.

Halfway through our Pancetta Mac Cheese, I couldn’t wait any longer to hand Marnie the turquoise Victoria’s Vintage bag I’d been masquerading as my mythical Biba blouse. Flinging aside the vivid magenta tissue paper, Marnie let out a squeak that momentarily made the whole clientele of Ellen’s stop and look at us.

‘It’s the one I was looking at! Oh, Rosie, you shouldn’t have!’

I smiled. ‘You deserve it.’

What many people who see Marnie today don’t realise about her is that her confidence was hard-won. A painfully shy child, her formative years were spent hiding from the other kids in her New Jersey neighbourhood who had noticed early on that both she and her family were different. They taunted her for the colourful handmade clothes her artist mother lovingly dressed her in; for her smiling, bearded art teacher father, whose style remained firmly locked in the sixties; and for the orange VW camper van parked outside their home, standing out like an alien spacecraft amid the sea of sedans that lined the street. While her parents always encouraged her to assert her individuality, it took an incident at Marnie’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ school prom to change how she viewed herself.

Without a date for the night, she had joined the ranks of the singletons sitting around the periphery of the dancefloor, watching and waiting for someone to notice them. To the surprise of everyone, one of the most popular guys in her year left his date to walk over to ‘no date land’ and ask Marnie if she wanted to dance. Struggling to combat her embarrassment, Marnie shyly accepted and walked with him to the centre of the floor, all eyes following her. As she was about to take his hand, however, a cruel smile broke across her partner’s face as he flipped her skirt over her head and yelled, ‘Freak on the dancefloor!’ to the utter delight of those watching.

It was then that Marnie experienced what she describes as ‘my epiphany’. In the centre of the hall, battling the urge to run away, all the years of pent-up frustration and hurt finally found a vent and, like a multicoloured volcano, Marnie erupted. Popular Guy didn’t stand a chance as Marnie’s left fist slammed into his jaw, laying him out cold in the middle of the high school gym, encircled by sparkles from the revolving mirrorball overhead.

‘I’d rather be different than a jerk like you!’ she yelled, as the ‘no date land’ inhabitants broke into spontaneous applause. The event brought about a deep change in Marnie—not least for the rest of that evening, where boys who had never acknowledged her existence before suddenly stood in line to dance with her. From that moment to this, Marnie’s love life has always been well populated, if limited in terms of success. Nevertheless, the confident, kooky young woman who bounces into Kowalski’s every morning is a breath of fresh air and I wouldn’t be without her for the world.

If Marnie and I had entertained any ideas that Ed might finally have found a longer-term prospect in Carly, we were to be quickly proved wrong. By Monday, he had already agreed to see three other ladies and Carly’s name was never mentioned again. When Marnie pressed him for more information a week later, all she got in return was a disinterested shrug and a mumbled excuse about them ‘wanting different things’—which, translated, meant she was probably keener than he. In an odd way, knowing that the Great Steinmann Dating Express was still on its non-committed tracks was strangely comforting. It confirmed that Kowalski’s was still the same: Ed was still dating, Marnie was as colourful as ever, Celia continued to fly in and out and the shop was as much as a neighbourhood hub as it had always been. It felt safe—and nobody knows the value of that feeling like I do.

Little did I know then that seemingly innocuous events just around the corner were going to change everything.

Chapter Four

There is nothing quite like returning home after a long day. Don’t get me wrong: I love my shop. But I get a kick from turning the key in the lock to reveal the welcoming sight of my apartment. It has this unique smell—wood polish, old coffee and lavender. It signifies just one thing to me: I’m home.

The first thing I do is crank Old F’s sister, Hissy (after the noise it makes and the fits it occasionally throws in the process) into action. Slightly younger than my workmate, but equally as unprepossessing, my home coffee maker gurgles happily into life and infuses the whole place with its fragrance. Then, mug in hand, I check my answer machine.

This particular late summer’s day there were three—the first two were from Mum, reminding me about my brother’s birthday and informing me that James would be in the States on business next week. It’s possible to have a conversation with Mum’s answer machine messages because she leaves gaps where you would normally say ‘Mmm’, ‘I see’, or, ‘Oh dear’ in a phone call.

‘It would be lovely if James could visit you, but he says he’ll be tied up in Washington the whole time…’

‘That’s a shame…’

‘It’s a shame, I know.’

‘Hmm…’

‘I’d like to say he’ll call you, but you know what he’s like, dear.’

‘Yes, so wrapped up in his own universe that no one else matters…’

‘He’s so wrapped up in his work commitments that he never has time to do the things he wants. Anyhow, darling, I must go…’

‘I expect this call’s expensive…’

‘It’s so expensive to call you at this time of night.’

I smiled. ‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’

‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’ The message ended. I shook my head and smiled before taking a long sip of coffee. For the tiniest second, I wished myself home with Mum in England again.

The last message was from Celia. There are normally several messages from Celia, their length, volume and coherence depending on how near a total breakdown she is at the time.

‘Rosie, it’s me. It’s six forty-five. Where are you? Call me the second you get this.’

‘OK, OK, wait one second while I get changed,’ I muttered, walking into my bedroom.

True to form, Celia wasn’t listening. No sooner had I kicked off my shoes, the phone rang.

‘All right, fine, seeing as you insist, I’ll talk to you first then,’ I sighed.

‘Rosie—thank goodness, honey. I was thinking something awful must have happened to you.’

I smiled despite myself. ‘I caught a bus to the deli and then walked home. It’s actually light this time of day in August, you know. What could possibly have happened to me?’

‘Anything, Rosie! My colleague has been working on a piece about how many single young women meet supposedly wonderful young men in bars after work, only to have their apartments ransacked once they’ve slept with them…’

‘Celia, listen to yourself! I’m fine. I haven’t slept with any supposedly wonderful young men today and everything in my apartment is just as I left it this morning.’

‘Well, I only worry because I care about you,’ Celia said, with more than a hint of offence in her tone.

‘I know—and I really appreciate it. Now, what can I do for you?’

‘I need you to come by the office tomorrow, if you can.’

‘Why?’ I asked carefully, picturing Ed and Marnie’s stern faces.

‘I want to feature you in our “West Siders” column. So many guests who met you at the Authors’ Meet have been asking about you.’

I frowned. This was the second time I’d heard that today and it seemed weird. All I’d done was have one conversation about lavender and take part in a lot of polite smalltalk. ‘Mimi Sutton said the same thing when I rang her today, Celia. Just who has been asking about me?’

‘Everyone, sweetie! Angelika, Henrik, Jane, Brent—in fact I spoke with Brent this evening and he said he’d seen you briefly at Mimi’s office. He’s very taken with you, y’know. He said you’re like an English Sandra Bullock.’

‘I look nothing like Sandra Bullock,’ I commented.

‘Oh, you do, Rosie! Everyone says it! Mimi said it at the party and I’ve heard that Ed from your store say it too.’

‘Ed said it?’ I repeated, making a mental note to challenge him on that tomorrow. ‘Well, I have dark hair and dark eyes, but there the similarity ends,’ I replied, ‘I mean, if Sandra Bullock put on a stone then maybe we’d be more alike.’

Celia was obviously getting tired of this subject. ‘Well, whatever, Rosie, you’re officially a hit! Just like I said you would be. Look, my editor asked me today to find interesting, upcoming West Side individuals for the new column and I thought what a great opportunity it would be to get the word out on you! Come by at one tomorrow and we’ll discuss it all. Love you, must go.’

And with that, she was gone and blessed peace was restored.

Slowly, I put the receiver down and reached for my diary, as my mind clicked into hyperdrive. Why had there been so much interest in me from the party? I couldn’t understand it. The question remained at the forefront of my mind as I grilled chicken and made a large salad. As I ate my evening meal, my eye kept returning to the open diary page for tomorrow. While I found myself quite excited at the prospect, an undeniable underlying note of caution sounded too.

Publicity can, I have discovered, work one of two ways. Either it can be incredibly successful, or it can backfire on you Big Time. Like the time my mum paid to place an advert in the local paper, informing readers that, ‘Eadern Blooms are taking 50% off prices for the first week of May’, yet somewhere between Mum faxing the details and the newspaper being printed, Eadern Blooms had become ‘Eadern Bloomers’ and for a week she was inundated with irate OAPs demanding cutprice underwear. Or, like the time my brother, James, was in the paper for one of his early business ventures. He was pictured with a girlfriend, who, the interview stated, had been going steady with him for three years and was looking forward to becoming Mrs James Duncan in the not-too-distant future. Problem was, four girls who he was also seeing at the time read that article too. They turned up at our house en masse and all hell broke loose. Still, James had always said he wanted to travel in an ambulance with its siren blaring and lights flashing…