Fairytale of New York

It’s only a short walk from my apartment to Celia’s but it’s an essential part of my Saturdays. My Saturdays are as close to sacred as they can be and I guard them jealously. Well, I do now. This was not always the case. When I first took the helm at Kowalski’s I felt I had to be there every single minute the shop was open. I developed a disaster-movie mentality to my business; as if the moment I wasn’t there things would start blowing up, or a meteor would burst through the atmosphere on a collision course with the shop, or aliens would invade—or all of the above—and I would return to find the place gutted with my staff staring blankly at me, asking, ‘Where were you when we needed you?’

After about a year I got so tired and so stressed out that all my creativity drained and we started to lose customers because my designs became lacklustre. It was then that Ed took me to one side and politely but firmly suggested that I needed time away from the business—for everyone’s sake.

‘You need some down time, girl,’ he told me, in no uncertain terms. ‘Marnie and I are more than capable of running the store without you for one whole day. You say you love this city so much? Well, give yourself the time to enjoy it. If you don’t, you’ll never survive here.’ As ever, he was right. So I set aside my Saturdays for seeing Celia and other friends, while Sundays were designated for reading, researching new styles and ideas and generally just spending time exploring my wonderful city, mostly under the wise (if slightly food-obsessed) guidance of Ed.

Talking of food, on my way to Celia’s I always make a oneblock detour south to visit M&H Bakers, my neighbourhood bakery, to pick up some warm pastries, bagels or muffins for our chats. I love the New York combination of good food and good conversation. I’m not sure why, but somehow it’s a whole lot easier to solve life’s problems when you’re in the middle of demolishing a warm bagel smothered in cream cheese with smoked salmon, or a slice of blueberry pie. Even Ed, who vociferously dislikes the Upper West Side, is impressed by this place.

Frank, the small round guy behind the bakery counter, shouted out as I walked in, ‘Good mornin’ to ya, Ms Duncan!’

‘Hi, Frank. How are you today?’

He waved his hand from side to side. ‘Oh, so-so. You know.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I replied with a nod. No matter how brightly the sun is shining, how many customers he has or generally how good his life is, Frank will always find something to despair over. In that sense, he is every inch a New Yorker. ‘So,’ I asked with a smile, ‘what’s the special today, then? Anything good?’

Frank placed a hand across his heart and feigned offence. ‘Do I have anything good? Do I have anything good? I am shocked you gotta ask me! OK, lady, how’s this…’ He reached behind him and lifted a basket onto the counter. ‘Check these babies out.’ I surveyed the basket full of large, golden brown bagels. The smell was amazing—like warm spiced apple pie.

‘Wow. Apple, sugar and cinnamon, right? I’ll take six, please.’

Frank let out a whoop and clapped his hands. ‘She got it!’ He spun round and called loudly into the back of the store. ‘Hey, Luigi, she got it right again!’

A short, incredibly hairy arm appeared round the door that led to the kitchen, and waved. A thick breathy Italian-American voice called back, ‘Dat’s great, Frankie!’

Frank turned back and filled a brown paper bag with bagels. ‘You’re too good, Rosie,’ he smiled, shaking his head. ‘Too good. But we’ll get you one day soon.’

In all the years I’ve come to this place, I’ve never actually seen Luigi. Well, only the incredibly hairy arm and the disembodied voice. Why is he always out back? What if they have to keep him there? What if the sight of all of him is simply too traumatic for the average bakery customer? I have this theory about Luigi. Picture the scene: a young couple in Italy go to see the priest in their small village, late at night. In the priest’s small, dimly lit kitchen they present their one and only child to him. Horror paints the priest’s face and he has to look away. Even in the meagre candlelight the child is hideous. The mother sobs and turns to her husband. In desperation, the father begs the priest: is there anything, anything, you can do for our son? His life will be miserable—people will judge him by his appearance, not what he can do…The old priest’s face is filled with compassion for the plight of this child. He thinks for a while. There is one thing, he replies. If we can teach him a trade—one that brings pleasure to others—he may have a chance of respect…The parents place their son in the care of the local monastery, and he learns to be a pastry chef…Many years later, after the young man finishes his apprenticeship, he emigrates to America to seek his fortune and finds work—here—at M&H Bakers, and the wise old priest’s plan appears to have been successful. But prejudice runs deep—even in the Land of the Free—and while his delectable creations bring undeniable pleasure to Upper West Side residents, his physical appearance leaves him condemned to always, always stay out back…

‘Your imagination is crazy,’ laughed Celia, emerging from the kitchen as I recounted my theory, ‘but your taste in pastries is impeccable!’

I gave a little bow. ‘Well, thank you.’

Celia sat down. ‘So tell me. What happened to you yesterday? You looked white as a ghost when I saw you.’

I winced as still-fresh images took centre stage in my mind. ‘Um, I had a bit of a difficult conversation.’

Celia frowned. ‘Oh?’

‘With Ed.’

‘Oh…why difficult?’

‘We had an argument about—’ I stopped and checked what I was saying. ‘You know, it was so petty I can’t even remember what it was about.’ I looked at Celia, hoping she wouldn’t press me. Luckily for me, she was far too concerned with details of what happened next. ‘Anyway, it got ugly, I apologised, we made up, and then…um…’

Celia leaned forward, coffee mug almost spilling with anticipation. ‘And then…?’

‘…Then I nearly ended up telling him everything. About why I came to America. About what happened.’

Celia gasped, her face a picture of surprise. ‘But you didn’t?’

I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t. What’s worse was it made me look like I don’t trust him enough.’

Celia let out a cry. ‘Oh, sweetheart, it doesn’t look that way at all.’

‘You don’t think?’

‘Not one bit. But I take it you’re not sure you made the right decision?’ She was right. I wasn’t. Celia reached across the table and clamped a hand over mine. ‘You are perfectly at liberty to tell anyone whatever you choose to—or not. Nobody has the right to demand that kind of information from you, honey, you understand?’

I nodded. ‘Ed said I’m scared to let people close. And he’s right, I am.’ I took a long sip of coffee and looked out to the street below. ‘I don’t know, maybe I should open up more. Maybe it’s time. There’s just this feeling I have that I’m not ready yet. But then, do you ever reach a point where you know you’re ready, or does it just happen?’

Celia straightened up and smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘From my experience, you’ll discover you’re ready when you’re in the middle of telling someone.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ I replied, taking another sip of coffee. ‘I’m just not sure if I missed my cue there, you know?’

‘Rosie, you’ll do this in your own time, believe me. I mean, look at when you told me: we’d barely known each other longer than a couple of weeks and out it came, right in the middle of my kitchen, when I was making chicken soup for Jerry.’

I had to smile. My impromptu revelation to Celia had surprised me even more than it had her. ‘How New York was I with that? It was almost worthy of its own series on HBO.’

Celia grinned. ‘As I recall, our outfits were nowhere near as fabulous enough for that!’

I cast my gaze around the rich creams and dark blues of Celia’s living room, noting the antique painting of a jar of lilies, which we often joke about, seeing as she cannot stand the real article. ‘The fact is, I think deep down I’m scared of becoming my past. I don’t want to become synonymous with what happened to me, you know? I’m scared of being given a label that people use instead of my name—like they do on those reality talk shows: “Monica, 34, Idaho, Desperate for a Baby…Jim, 27, Tennessee, Clinically Depressed…” I’m frightened of the inextricable link that would be made between my past and who I am now.’

Celia saw my struggle and smiled.

‘Rosie, you are a beautiful person all round. You have so many people who love you and accept you for who you are. What happened to you in Boston was not your fault, remember? You couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen and you were not responsible for the mess that drove you here. Look at you now: you have a successful business, you’re in a city you adore more than any sane individual should, and, most importantly, you are a good person. The people who matter won’t think any differently of you if you trust them with your secret.’

I smiled a little. ‘You think so?’

‘I know so. Hey, I’m the reporter here. So trust my journalistic instincts, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘And talking of journalism, I’m sure you’ll get a good piece in the Saturday edition. My editor thinks your story is going to be perfect.’

‘Really?’

Celia nodded. ‘Absolutely. Josh Mercer’s not just a great reporter, you know, he also happens to be the finest photographer we’ve had in years too. Only the best for Kowalski’s! You’ll be in very safe hands with him. So stop worrying already.’

‘Thanks, Celia. Not just for that, for everything.’

She smiled with satisfaction. ‘You’re most certainly welcome. Oh…oh!’ she exclaimed, as her thoughts violently altered course. ‘I meant to tell you yesterday, but I guess I forgot. How could I forget? It’s so interesting.’ She waved her hands in the air, struggling to catch her breath in the sudden rush of excitement that now had her in its grip.

I giggled. ‘Celia, take a breath—calm down—what is it?’

She paused for dramatic effect, then gestured as though presenting a precious gift to me. ‘Nathaniel Amie,’ she announced triumphantly, her expression lit by fires of expectation.

My reaction failed to play its part. ‘The publisher guy? From the party?’ Celia was nodding impatiently. I pretended I was still in the dark. ‘What about him?’ I asked breezily, appearing unconcerned, but secretly enjoying this new game.

Close to spontaneous combustion now, Celia’s eyes were in danger of leaving their sockets. She let out an incredulous cry. ‘Oohh, Rosie Duncan, you are impossible! You might at least try to look interested.’

I could hold my serious face no longer. ‘Sorry, Celia. I am interested, honest.’

Celia pulled a good-natured grimace. ‘Well, act like it already.’

I clasped my hands together. ‘Please tell me about Nathaniel Amie, Celia, I beg you!’

She clapped her hands with delight. ‘OK, OK. How about this. When you left yesterday I had to go see him about my book—did I tell you I’m writing a book?’

‘Only a few thousand times.’

She didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Well, anyway I am. So, I had to go see him about publishing my work with Gray & Connelle. And he asked me—about you!’

‘Really?’ I said carefully, suddenly interested for real.

‘Mm-hm,’ she affirmed and then accused me with a wagging finger. ‘You didn’t tell me you saw him at Mimi’s place.’

‘I did—er—bump into him, yes.’ I smiled, hoping Celia didn’t know all the details.

She did. ‘He told me. He said he walked straight into you and sent you flying.’

‘Great,’ I groaned, slapping my hand over my eyes.

‘No, sweetie, he was concerned he’d hurt you. Really. He said you shot out of the building faster than Britney from rehab. He was worried he’d offended you.’

I groaned again. ‘I was so embarrassed, Celia. It was not the best way to make an impression.’

Celia tried unsuccessfully to stifle her amusement. ‘Well, you made an impression on Nate, apparently.’

Outside the sun broke free from the clouds that had been steadily building all morning, and bright rays flooded into the room.

‘I did? What did he say?’

‘He asked me about you. How old you are. Where in England you’re from. How long you’ve lived in New York. What brought you here in the first place.’ She saw my expression. ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him. I just said you were offered a job in Boston, Ben invited you to stay with him so you could take it up and then later you decided to switch career and move here. Acceptable?’

I couldn’t hide the relief in my voice. ‘Yes—most acceptable—thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. As I was saying, he wanted details. He said he might just have to come see you at the store. He has very expensive tastes when it comes to flowers. He orders a lot, you know…’

‘He does? You’re such a journalist, Celia.’ I moaned. ‘OK, OK, yes, I want to know why he orders so many flowers.’

‘Well, you know he’s been dating Mimi’s daughter Caitlin?’

Suddenly, the reference I remembered seeing in Mimi’s email made sense. So the Caitlin in question was Caitlin Sutton. No wonder Mimi wanted a wedding so badly.

‘No, I didn’t know. Is she nice?’

‘Hmm—nice is not the particular adjective I’d choose.’ Celia frowned, her eyes twinkling. ‘Try manipulative, self-centred or, in fact…’

‘…Just like her mother?’ I ventured.

‘Ha! You got it. But gorgeous, though.’

‘Ah. I see. The old adage: “You can forgive a woman anything so long as she looks great”?’

Celia’s eyes lit up. ‘Definitely…’ She stopped and changed her mind. ‘Well, no, actually. I guess Nate just figures it makes good sense to be with her. She’s rich, she’s influential and, well, it undeniably adds to his profile to have her on his arm at parties.’

That was odd. From the little I knew of him, Nate didn’t seem to be the type of guy who looked for ‘trophy’ girlfriends.

‘How come she wasn’t at the Authors’ Meet, then?’

Celia grimaced. ‘She hates books. And writers. Especially writers. She’s a businesswoman—things have to be cut and dried, black and white. Artistic people confuse her. She thinks creativity is something people with no intelligence resort to in order to find work.’

‘Bet she loves you, then.’

‘About as much as my mother loves waiting. And I guess you can imagine what she’d make of you. But she has one weakness—flowers. Lots of them. Nate orders her several bouquets a week…’

‘Oh, well, that’s sort of romantic.’

‘…At her specific request,’ Celia finished. ‘But she only has them in her office. She likes her colleagues on Wall Street to think she is adored. People who visit her home always comment on the flowers in every room, yet I have it on good authority that the house staff are instructed to remove them as soon as visitors leave. Now, I don’t know if this is true, but I heard she gave Nate a list of bouquets she expected to receive on Valentines Day—the bill ran to over $2,000! She even specified the exact words to be written on each accompanying card.’

‘Right…’ I said, amused. ‘Romance and spontaneity not her strong points, then?’

Celia rose and collected our mugs to take to the kitchen for refilling. ‘It’s more like a necessary evil for her.’

‘And for him?’ The question was meant to be inside my head, but instead it inexplicably found a handy escape route out through my mouth. There was a pause. I could hear birdsong outside and coffee being poured in the kitchen. And I swear I could hear Celia smiling.

She returned and sat down. She handed my mug back, wincing slightly as the heat from its contents scorched her fingers. ‘Now why would you want to know that, Rosie?’ she asked slyly.

I blew on my coffee to avoid eye contact. ‘No reason, no reason at all.’

When I got back to my apartment later that afternoon, there was a message from Ed. ‘Rosie, if you get this before 5 p.m, call me at Kowalski’s. Things are happening, girl. Big things.’

I didn’t wait to call back. Instead I caught a cab and got there as fast as I could.

Marnie met me at the door, her beaming smile almost as bright as her yellow braids. ‘Rosie, it’s so exciting!’ she chirped, grabbing my hand. ‘Come and see!’

She pulled me over to the counter and showed me a pile of order forms, each completed in her swirly handwriting. Ed looked up and was about to approach us when the phone rang. He held up a hand and grabbed the receiver. ‘Yep, this is Rosie Duncan’s store,’ he said down the phone, grinning at me and giving a thumbs up. ‘How can I help?’

‘It’s been like this all day,’ Marnie explained excitedly. ‘It’s crazy! We got in and all was quiet, then at nine o’clock everything went nuts. People calling and coming in—all asking after you. We even had Martha Stewart’s PA call earlier! They all want to order. We’ve filled the order book almost right up till Christmas and we’ve got three weddings booked for June next year.’

Ed finished the call and came over, brandishing another order form with delight. ‘Jon O’Donner,’ he proclaimed. ‘Only the CEO of the biggest acquisitions company in New York. We got the order for his daughter’s wedding next fall. It’s worth serious money, Rosie.’

While I have to say I was excited, I was also a little anxious, knowing most of the new clients were probably Philippe’s excustomers.

‘Mimi Sutton’s recommended us to her entire circle,’ I explained. ‘They’re leaving Philippe in droves because they’re scared of offending her.’

Ed’s smile disappeared as he saw the concern in my eyes. ‘Ah. Not good, then. Still,’ his smile returned, refuelled by hope, ‘we have always been more than a match for him artistically. Kowalski’s is due some recognition, don’t you think?’

I had to agree. Of course it was OK. It was an open market, after all. Philippe Devereau had no more right to all of it than we did. And Kowalski’s could handle the new business, no problem. We’d need to take on extra staff, but that would be fine. We might need another delivery van. But that would be OK, too. I smiled at Marnie and Ed and allowed myself to feel the tiniest shiver of excitement. ‘I think we’ve finally arrived in New York!’ I replied, as Ed let out a whoop and we grabbed each other in a big group hug.

I decided to stay at the store, breaking my sacred Saturday vow. There was no way I could leave all this excitement. I took over the phone duty and watched in amazement as order after order came in. Now, I’ve always known Kowalski’s had the potential to do well—I’ve always been the one telling everyone else that when things have been decidedly to the contrary—but this level of sudden success took even me by surprise. Putting aside my concerns about Philippe, I resolved simply to enjoy the moment, aware that it couldn’t last at this pace indefinitely.

Just before we were due to close for the night, Ed caught my hand and led me into the workroom at the back of the store. He shut the door and turned to face me.

‘Rosie. About yesterday…’

I took a step back. ‘Ed, I…’

I was stopped in my tracks as Ed’s fingers gently touched my lips.

‘That row shouldn’t have happened yesterday. I guess we both said things we didn’t mean, right? For my part, I’m sorry.’ He registered the relief in me. His eyes softened. ‘I just thought you might be worrying.’

I smiled back. ‘Thanks, Ed. I’m sorry too.’

‘Then it never happened, huh?’

‘What never happened?’

For a moment, we faced each other with mirrored grins. Then he clapped his hands, making me jump.

‘Now, what is the owner of the most happening floristry business in this town doing indulging in idle chat? We have work to do!’ He laughed, flung open the door and marched off onto the shop floor.

Watching him leave, I leaned against the tall worktable and revelled in the peace returning to my mind. It was good to welcome back a certain sense of normality, even in the light of today’s extraordinary trading. I felt exhausted from the marathon of emotions I had been running. Now finally, it seemed, I was nearing the home straight. Allowing myself the tiniest ounce of smug satisfaction, I walked slowly through the flower stands to rejoin my assistants. Hope filled every part of me, opening dusty dark windows to let the sunlight inside. For the first time in a long time, it felt like I was turning a corner in my history. My life, like my shop, was blooming again. Things were going to be wonderful from now on.

I was wrong, of course.

Chapter Seven

I have always counted optimism as one of my best features. I think it’s always been a part of me; there isn’t a time I can recall ever really being without it. That doesn’t mean to say I don’t lose sight of it when things get tough. Believe me, it’s been challenged enough over the last few years—not least with the events directly preceding my arrival in New York. But despite everything, it remains, sometimes obscured by worry, sometimes shining brightly for all to see—a constant in an ever-changing world. Mum says she’s always relied on that quality in me. Come to think of it, James—for all his selfobsession—has often said it too. Being able to see a bright side has always proved to be my saving grace.

‘If you have hope, you are better than a millionaire,’ Mr Kowalski used to say, ‘because you can give it away every day and it will never run out. You, Rosie, have a large account of hope. So use it to give to the people you meet that have none.’

Mr K lived as he spoke. And, for a man who had endured terrible poverty, prejudice and hardship, this was no mean feat. He always said that God—‘my papa in heaven’—was the one who helped him. Mr K wasn’t religious like you’d expect a man of his generation to be. His faith was who he was. To coin a phrase, he walked the talk.

‘Rosie, Papa is the only friend who has never judged me, let me down or beaten me up. He loves me. End of story. It don’t matter what I do, what mistakes I make, he loves me whatever. That’s all the riches I need, ukochana, and they’re free every day.’

Somehow, I always felt life was calmer—brighter, even—when Mr K was around. Just before he left to return to Poland, he handed me a small, hand-painted glass plaque. It bore the words, ‘Nothing is Impossible with God’. Someone gave it to him when he was really young, he explained, and it helped him remember that he wasn’t alone.

‘Take it, Rosie,’ he’d said. ‘Let it remind you, too. Papa’s watching.’

Today, it hangs at the back of the counter in pride of place, and when I see it, I sense a little bit of the calm he brought returning.

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