by Lucy Hepburn
“No problem, son. The signing instructions are clearly indicated on each document, and obviously…you’ve done it once before.” Mark Anderssen sounded amused at his father’s ‘joke,’ but Will still wasn’t seeing the funny side. He continued, “You won’t need to see me at all. Unless you have any queries, and if so, just give me a call.”
“That’s great. Thank you so much.”
“Oh, and could you give your father a message from me?”
“Um…”
“Tell him Obama, yes; Carter, yes; even Clinton—but Reagan? Really!”
Mark Anderssen hung up, still chortling away.
“You know,” Nina remarked, “you’re pretty good at telling people what to do.”
“Hmm.” Will wasn’t really listening.
“It’s pretty obvious you never had a big sister bossing you around when you were growing up.”
Now Will was juggling two phones, texting instructions to the courier on one, and attempting to pinpoint accurate directions to the dry cleaner’s for Christy on the other. It took all of his concentration.
“Mind you, it sounds like that girl you were talking to wasn’t going to take any of your nonsense.” Nina shot him a mischievous look.
“Sorry? Just a moment, let me get this right…” He had finally gotten the iPhone to give up the correct map function and was programming in instructions. Honestly, why didn’t she just go along with his way of doing things? This stupid phone was slowing them all up!
“I’ve got a sister,” Nina chirped. “She’s single—”
“That’s great,” Will muttered while tapping away. Eventually he had it all worked out. There! Bingo! He hit ‘send’ and sat back with a huge sigh of relief. She couldn’t argue with that! He was no longer a techno-idiot. Score to Thompson!
“I was thinking about hooking you up with my little sister.”
“Sorry? Oh, please.” Will closed his eyes. He was thinking about Christy. Besides, he wasn’t remotely interested in being set up on a date. He glanced sideways at Nina. Sure, she was cute, but not remotely his type. He tried to picture what her sister might be like. An image swam into his head of an even wilder, hippier version of Nina—clingy, anxious to please, probably with huge, desperate eyes, living in an incense-filled tent with cats.
“We’re here.” Nina swerved onto the sidewalk and yanked at the handbrake.
“Where?” Will looked up. They appeared to be in a busy New Brunswick side street, parked outside a printer’s workshop.
“Oops, sorry, didn’t I say I had a couple of things to do on the way?”
Will remembered. “Oh, yes, so you did.”
“Anyway,” Nina smiled, “I’d like to show you something.”
Will looked at her suspiciously. “Something to do with Dad? Listen, Nina, it’s been a tough morning. Dad’s been a jackass, and I’m not in the mood for thinking about him again.”
Nina sighed. “You know, Will, you really shouldn’t be so hard on him.”
Will folded his arms defensively. “He started it.”
“He’s got a lot going on…things you don’t know about…”
“What sort of things?” He turned to stare at her as a thought came to him. “Is he sick?”
“No…nothing like that. But…I can’t say, Will. It’s not my place. Just…ease up on the guy, okay?”
“Whatever.” Will just wanted to get back to work.
“Come on,” Nina grinned. “I can’t wait to show you this.”
This girl was something else. He pitied the guy who ended up with her—or her sister, for that matter.
CHRISTY
12:30 p.m.
12:30 p.m. Drop Antonio off at suit fitting – Wrong Antonio!
Pick up Mrs. Dallaglio’s dry cleaning.
Find Mr. Simpson at Clint’s.
Drop Toni at modeling agency.
It wasn’t far from the subway station to the dry cleaner’s. Christy led Toni along the wide Manhattan sidewalk, Toni enjoying the magnificence of the towering skyscrapers all around and Christy focused on her ever-shifting schedule, not really taking much in at all.
After a while, she looked up at him and smiled at the obvious delight and wonder in his expression. “You know, Toni,” she mused, “some people find these big buildings oppressive, but I love them. I find them reassuring, like giant companions, somehow…oh, it’s hard to explain. I just love the city.” She looked up at him. “And you’re going to love living here, too.”
Toni spread his arms out, as though to embrace his surroundings. “So good they named it twice!” he cried.
“Exactly.” Christy laughed. They turned the final corner onto the street where the dry cleaner’s was located.
Christy stopped, puzzled. “Wow,” she murmured, “must be a pretty upmarket cleaner’s to be on this street—it’s all banks and offices. Come on, Toni, let’s run.”
She tugged his arm and they ran, wriggling around the decidedly smart and businesslike pedestrians until they stopped, panting, outside number 467, the address Will had sent her.
Christy scratched her head.
“An…der…ssen and Har…vey?” Toni read aloud.
“Huh? This is a lawyers’ office!”
Her hands shook a little as she pulled out her notebook and quickly cross-checked the detail. “He’s sent me to the wrong place!” she wailed. “And now we’re running even later.”
Toni, hands on hips, looking around, was lost for words. He looked down at her and raised his palms skyward.
She rubbed her forehead and called out to the busy street. “It’s official! There is no man on earth I can trust.”
Chapter Eight
CHRISTY
12:35 p.m.
“Will? It’s Christy. You have got some explaining to do.” Christy was mad as hell.
“Christy…I knew it was you. When I heard your voice there, I had this fleeting panic that my homework was late.”
Christy ignored this attempt at a joke, though she did make sure her voice was less stern when she next spoke. She didn’t want to completely alienate him when she’d be needing his help today. Also, if she remembered correctly, he had a smile she’d quite like to see again.
“I was wondering…why am I standing outside the law offices of Anderssen and Harvey?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“Oh, shit.”
“Do they do dry cleaning as well?” Christy asked. “A diversification strategy to beat the credit crunch?”
“I am so sorry. I feel terrible.”
He really sounded like he did. She softened her voice a little more. “Then my work here is done.”
“I was supposed to send a courier around to Anderssen and Harvey to pick up some papers, not send you there.”
“Huh?” Christy was confused.
“On my phone—I was trying to instruct the courier on The Brick and locate your cleaner’s on that ridiculously complicated cell phone of yours. The addresses must have gotten mixed up—sheez, what a stupid thing to do!”
Christy sighed and shook her head. “Okay, I see how that must have happened. So somewhere in Manhattan, there is a confused courier standing at an oriental dry cleaner’s counter demanding some sort of affidavit, rather than Mrs. Dallaglio’s ballgown for this evening. Wonderful.”
“I’m a guy. Guess I don’t multitask the way women can.”
“Call that an excuse, Mr. Technophobe?”
“Will it do?”
“Guess it’ll have to.” Christy glanced at her phone—luckily even this model had a clock on it; she didn’t even have a watch these days. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’m so far behind schedule that there’s a good chance I’ll meet myself coming back yesterday.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Me neither.”
<
br /> “Hey…I don’t suppose you could run in and collect the paperwork for me?”
“What?”
“Look, I really am sorry, but it’d help me out of a situation. You’re there now…I’m going to see you later to hand back your phone anyway…”
“Oh! I suppose you are.” It only took Christy a moment to realize that this would help not only Will but also her—having his documents would be a kind of insurance policy; she’d definitely see him and probably get her phone back more quickly. “No problem. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
“Cute. Very cute. Tell reception you’ve come for Will Thompson’s documents. Please.”
“Okay. Bye, Will Thompson.”
Toni was looking at her with one eyebrow raised in amusement. She blushed. It was strange: she ought to be furious with Will, but he genuinely seemed horrified at his error—and it probably wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t work her phone.
It only took a second to collect the brown envelope. The task gave her a glow of satisfaction—but then helping out was hardwired into her psyche, and this was the first time she’d been able to do something for Will, rather than relying on him all the time.
“Come on,” she said to Toni, “one more errand. The cleaner’s is just around the block from your modeling agency. Your magical mystery tour is almost at an end!”
She sucked in her cheeks and treated Toni to an exaggerated model pose. He looked at her suspiciously before wrinkling his nose and gently stroking her cheeks back into their normal position.
He smiled. “Like you just…”
“Stepped out of the salon? Yeah, yeah. Come on, you sweet-talker.”
The Uniq Modeling Agency—Toni’s destination—lay just two blocks away. As they walked, Christy couldn’t help feeling crestfallen at the prospect of bidding farewell to her new friend. Okay, so he only spoke in weird sentences and was far too beautiful for his own good, but he had a good heart.
Crossing the street, he caught her arm and pointed.
“Clint’s!” he said, triumphant. “I’m lovin’ it!”
Sure enough, Clint’s restaurant lay just past the intersection. Christy whooped and clapped her hands.
“Good spot, Toni!” She’d hardly have any distance to run back to try and ambush Mr. Simpson. At least that was one bit of good news. But she had to drop Toni off first.
Moments later, they arrived at the austere chrome and glass tower block that housed the Uniq Modeling Agency. Toni fished the scrap of paper out of his pocket, bit his lip, and looked down tenderly at Christy.
“Thank you,” he said simply before crushing her in an affectionate bear hug.
Impulsively Christy went into the building with him. She felt she needed to make sure he was okay, right to the last moment. Crossing the marble reception area, they were faced at the reception desk by a young woman of such skeletal fragility that Christy almost gasped in horror. She wore a tiny, purple sheath dress that showed off white limbs like matchsticks and translucent collarbones that protruded so far outward that they created deep black hollows above and below. She looked up at them, or rather she looked up at Toni, appraising him from head to toe with cold, bird-like eyes. Toni was clearly one of thousands to this woman, and if she was impressed by his looks, then she didn’t show it. Christy, however, may as well have been invisible. The woman’s penciled eyebrows shot upward.
“Yes?”
Toni beamed at her. “Toni Benetti!” he said, offering his hand.
The woman looked at it for a long while before brushing it with spindly fingertips. Christy had never seen such rudeness in her entire life.
“Uh-huh,” she drawled in a bored voice, opening the crocodile-skin diary, which was the only item on her desk, apart from a bottle of spring water.
It seemed like years passed. Christy decided that the girl must have landed the job because of her cheekbones—it couldn’t have been her people skills. Her heart went out to Toni. Honestly. America was a nice place. What sort of impression would this give him?
The receptionist seemed disappointed to find his name on her list. She looked like the sort of person who would derive her greatest moments of job satisfaction in telling people they weren’t what the Uniq Agency was looking for.
And she didn’t even make eye contact with him when she spoke. “Sit over there,” she barked, pointing to a stark leather sofa behind a glass coffee table. “The bookers are really busy today. Might be nothing we can do.”
“Will you at least tell them he’s here?” Christy couldn’t resist speaking up for Toni.
The girl looked at Christy as though her face was covered with boils. ”I know how to do my job,” she replied icily.
“Huh, that girl should use her charm school refund to buy a square meal and a book on being polite!” she hissed to Toni as they made their way over to the sofas.
He didn’t understand a word. Instead he hugged her again.
“Christy,” he said, tears in his eyes. “Christy, Christy. So good they named you twice! Thank you, Christy.”
Christy found herself torn. She wanted, no, she needed to flee and get on with her day, but still, she also desperately wanted to make sure Toni was going to be all right. He was such a good person. And that receptionist was so mean! Christy hesitated.
He read her mind. “Go, Christy, go! Brigitte Bardot apartment! Antonio Santori!” And then, piercing her heart with his finger, “Phone guy!”
She forced a smile. “Will you be okay? I’m worried about you.” She reached her hand up and stroked his cheek. He’d had a long flight and a weird day. There was a trace of stubble on his face, which suited him.
He looked around the unforgiving interior of the agency and shrugged. Christy thought that his eyes had become moist, and her heart twisted.
“I am okay,” he reassured her.
“Listen,” Christy suddenly delved into her bag. “You take this, okay?” She handed over her business card. “You call me, you got that? If ever you need anything, you just call me! Or Facebook, you understand Facebook?”
He looked at her blankly.
“It’s social networking…oh, never mind. Just make sure you call me, Toni, okay?” She took the card back from him, held it up, and tapped the phone number.
He nodded, his face full of emotion, took the card back, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you.”
It was too much. She had to go. “You take care, right?”
Spun back out on the street, she fought back tears. It felt like leaving a little brother to face a classroom full of bullies. Perhaps she should go back in there and stick with him until a nice person took charge of him.
Hmm. Maybe Will was right about her schoolteacher schtick. She’d need to work on hardening up her heart.
CHRISTY
1:00 p.m.
12:30 p.m. Collect Mrs. Dallaglio’s dry cleaning – 30 minutes late.
1:00 p.m. Find Mr. Simpson at Clint’s.
1:00 p.m. Pick up Bouvier from nail salon – running late.
2:00 p.m. Pick up Mrs. Ledger’s Mercedes-Benz.
The dry cleaner’s looked puzzling from the outside. Christy had expected Chinese characters above the door, a big yellow sign, bustling Chinese ladies behind steamed-up windows. Instead there was a fabulous limed-oak countertop draped in heavy silk swags with a huge glass bowl, crammed with white lilies, on top. Autographed photos of happy, gorgeously-dressed celebrities festooned the walls.
She double checked the address. No, it was definitely the right place—no thanks to Will.
Beauchamp-Windsor Executive Duchy Cleaning.
Huh?
She walked in, wondering what else was going to flummox her today.
“Ah, good day. Thank you for choosing Beauchamp-Windsor Executive Duchy Cleaning this morning. My name is Hugo. Pray do tell me what it is that
we can accomplish on your behalf today?”
“Accomplish on my behalf?” Christy repeated incredulously. She hadn’t meant to be rude, but the guy in the pink shirt and chinos definitely needed a lesson or two in believable customer service. And time was against her. “Surely ‘do’ would do in this case?”
Hugo’s small grey eyes flickered for an instant, and then he stuck out his bottom lip and exhaled upward, sending his floppy fringe of streaked blond hair shooting up in the air.
“Just toeing the company line,” he hissed, flicking an anxious look over his shoulder, then leaning forward conspiratorially. “Apparently you need an edge in dry cleaning.”
“Who knew?” Christy chuckled with him, then quickly explained that she’d come for Mrs. Dallaglio’s clothes. As he bustled off through a heavy purple brocade curtain in search of them, Christy checked her watch. It was now after one o’clock. She was meant to be at the Nifty Naylz salon, six blocks away, at one—well, she’d blown that one.
“Sheez, is there a body in here?” Hugo was dragging Mrs. Dallaglio’s dry cleaning through from the back, letting one end trail along the ground.
“Here you go,” he panted. “Hope you’ve got a truck outside for this baby.”
Christy’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not…clothes,” she stammered. “There has to be some mistake…”
Hugo checked his book. “Nope, no ma’am, Mrs. Delilah Dallaglio, one oriental rug. Cleaned to perfection in the loving care of Beauchamp etcetera etcetera etcetera!” He beamed at her. “Mrs. Dallaglio holds an account with us, so there will be nothing to pay today.”
“No!” Christy slapped her forehead as realization dawned. That broken-up phone call from Mrs. Dallaglio on the train when she’d said ‘oriental’—she’d thought she meant oriental dry cleaner’s. But of course, it was an oriental rug.
“Hugo, I’ve been an idiot,” Christy confessed. “I thought I was just picking up a dress or something, and I’ve come on foot.”
Hugo let the rug, which fortunately was covered with cellophane, drop to the ground. “Oh. That’s, like, a total bummer, honey,” he said tenderly. “Want me to put it aside for ya?”