by Lucy Hepburn
Christy tried not to let herself think about the fact that if Toni was still with her, they’d probably have managed the rug between them.
“Yes, please. I’ll have to come back later,” Christy sighed, realizing that there were unlikely to be sufficient hours in the day for her to accomplish everything on her list all by herself. The day was rapidly turning into a nightmare.
“We close at ten tonight,” Hugo reassured her. “And I’ll still be here,” he added, rolling his eyes wearily. “Service is our thing…apparently.”
Back on the street, Christy struck off purposefully for the Nifty Nailz salon, wishing she had wings, or rollerblades, to speed her on her way.
And then she stopped.
Mr. Simpson would probably be at Clint’s by now. What if she missed him? If only she had her phone, she could find the restaurant’s number, ring up, and find out whether he’d arrived or not. But she didn’t. And she really, really wanted that apartment.
Eventually she reached a decision. “I’m so sorry, Bouvier Lassie Stormcloud de Montford Kramer,” she said aloud, “but you’re going to have to stay put at the pet salon for a while. I’ll get you later.”
And so, spinning around and working against every instinct she possessed to put everyone else—including a Pomeranian dog—first, she struck off back down the sidewalk toward Clint’s.
1:15 p.m.
She could see immediately why Mr. Simpson enjoyed coming to this place. Clint’s was a restaurant with a cozy, friendly atmosphere, leather banquette seating, a long bar, and a huge blackboard menu promising mouthwatering fresh fish and seafood dishes. Carefully lit to allow maximum sunlight onto the lovingly polished wooden floorboards, it had a gentle, relaxing buzz. Even though she was still annoyed with Mr. Simpson for not waiting for her, as he had promised to do, she was enjoying imagining him here.
There were only a handful of diners, although most of the remaining empty tables had ‘reserved’ notices on them. Mr. Simpson definitely hadn’t arrived yet. Christy sighed with relief, and then, seeing nobody at the reception counter, walked over to the bar and hopped onto a high barstool.
“Be with you in a second, miss.” The barman, tall and lithe, dressed head to toe in black, gave her a friendly smile, though his body language was edgy. “Just fixing a crisis over here.” He was fumbling through the pages of a telephone directory, frantically seeking a number, and every few seconds he’d poke his head through a little serving hatch and exchange panicked words with kitchen staff.
“No problem,” Christy smiled back, realizing with a smile that she had been on the point of asking whether she could help him out at all.
The radio was playing softly in the background. Christy, recognizing the song as an old favorite of hers, craned her neck toward the speakers. In doing so, she caught the eye of the middle-aged man sitting further along the bar, who was doing the same thing. They acknowledged each other shyly.
“Oh, what’s this song again?” He was nursing a small glass of beer, a copy of the New York Times spread out on the bar in front of him. “My wife used to play it all the time.”
Instinctively, Christy raised an index finger and reached for her phone to retrieve the answer before realization came crashing down on her that it wasn’t there. Not again!
“I know it, too,” she replied, “but I can’t place it, and I haven’t got my iPhone to find out.”
“You could look up the lyrics?”
“Better than that, there’s a fabulous little application on it where you just hold up the phone to a song and it recognizes it for you. It’s unbelievable!”
“We should be able to do this,” he said, then mouthed the chorus. “It’s all too beautifu-u-ul, it’s all too beautifu-u-ul…”
“Nope, it’s just not happening,” Christy laughed, scrunching her eyes shut. “This will torture us for days!”
Still no sign of Mr. Simpson. It’s not as if she could stay there all afternoon; there was Bouvier, for one, and her other appointments, and Antonio—real Antonio, the one she hadn’t met yet—what about him?
With a sigh, she whipped out her borrowed phone and dialed. “Annie?”
“Hey, little sis. Isn’t it a gorgeous day?”
“I don’t know, I’ve been kind of busy.”
“Well, that sounds like a normal day for you.”
“Annie, listen, um, do you have any more details about Antonio’s delayed flight yet? I could check myself, on my phone, obviously, but, um, I just wanted to double check the flight number with you…” Somehow Christy still couldn’t bring herself to tell Annie she’d lost her phone. That would involve too many explanations—and giving far too much power away.
“Delayed?” her sister repeated. “Oh, sorry, did you think it was delayed? No, he caught a different flight.”
“Excuse me?” Christy’s eyes narrowed. “Different?”
“Oh, yes, silly Antonio missed the connection in London. His phone wasn’t charged, so he couldn’t call straight away.”
“Like sister, like future brother-in-law. Honestly!” Christy shot back before realizing how rude it sounded.
But Annie hadn’t noticed. “Anyhow, I got a message a couple of hours ago.”
“A couple of hours ago? Why didn’t you let me know?” Christy was fighting to stay calm. “It would have been slightly helpful. Is he at the airport now?”
“Now? Oh, no, not until six thirty—plenty of time. I was going to call you, truly, any moment.”
“Yeah, sure you were.” Christy bit her thumbnail crossly. Even by Annie’s standards, this was taking laid-back into a whole new dimension. “Look, Annie, make sure you don’t delete this phone number. It’s only temporary, but it’s all I’ve got today.”
Christy got the distinct impression that Annie wasn’t really listening because she cut in almost as soon as she’d finished speaking.
“Can you make it back out there by six thirty? You’ll have finished work by then?” Annie’s voice had taken on a familiar wheedling tone, which Christy recognized from way back in their childhood. “It’s such a great chance for you to get to know Antonio before tonight. You’ll love him.”
Christy sighed. She currently felt that she wouldn’t be finished with work until the other side of Doomsday. “Sure. I’ll take care of it.”
Her sister squealed with delight. “You rock! Gotta go—byeeee!”
“I always take care of it,” she whispered to nobody.
She wanted to lay her head on the bar countertop and not raise it again until the whole day, including Annie’s engagement party, was over. There was no sign of Mr. Simpson, and she was beginning to suspect that he may not, after all, be eating at Clint’s.
The bartender was on the phone. He seemed agitated. Christy found herself listening in.
“…that’s impossible…we’ll have to close! Look, try and think of something, we’re fully booked tonight…okay…sure…goodbye.”
He raked his hands through his hair and finally turned his attention to Christy. “I am so sorry for neglecting you. Drink?”
“It’s fine, really. May I have orange juice, please? I’m…um, waiting for someone.” She felt compelled to explain why she was sitting at the bar on her own. She hadn’t done it all that often, despite being single for two years.
She watched him get the orange juice; he was putting on a brave show of a man who had great pleasure in serving her. But his mind was elsewhere, she could tell. Two waitresses had appeared and were attending to the dining customers. One of them called over to him.
“Hey, Aaron, any luck with the delivery?”
He shook his head as he gave Christy her drink.
“Thank you,” Christy said. “You’re having a tough day, aren’t you?”
Then she felt her face color slightly—might he think she was hitting on him? She took a huge swig of orange juice. It was delicious. Freshly squeezed and ice-cold.
He
nodded. “Bit of a crisis with tonight’s service, I’m afraid, but hey, we’ll handle it. At least, I’ll handle it. It’s my job; I own this place. My name is Aaron.”
They shook hands. “Christy.”
“I get my fish delivered fresh every afternoon for evening service, but the truck driver’s not going to make it—says there’s a landslip south of Tarrytown on the I-95 or something, take him hours to get around. Apparently there’s a lot of flash flooding up there, and he doesn’t know when it’s going to be safe to even attempt the journey.”
“And that’s all you know?” Christy jolted to attention. “There must be more information than that. Want me to see if I can help out?”
Aaron gave her a kindly look. “I wouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble. But thank you. Enjoy your drink.”
But the moment his back was turned, Christy’s hands flew to her phone—and her excitement dissipated instantly as she remembered, yet again, that her iPhone wasn’t there.
She took a deep breath and called Will.
“I’m so sorry to bother you…” she began.
“Hey, it’s diary girl. You phoning to disagree with something else?” Will’s voice was light and happy. If Christy didn’t know better, she’d have sworn he was pleased to hear from her.
“No.”
“Gotcha! You just have.”
“Okay, okay,” she giggled despite herself. “Listen, Will, I’m trying to help out a friend. Well, not a friend, but a nice guy. Anyway, could you please download some details on my phone for me?”
“Sure, so long as it’s simple. I haven’t gained my master’s in iPhone programming yet, unlike some.”
“Well, I won’t hold it against you if you could just access the traffic and travel application for Tarrytown in Westchester County? I need to find out when a landslip’s going to be cleared from the I-95, so that a restaurant manager can get his fish delivered.”
“Well, that is possibly the weirdest sentence I have heard all day.”
“I know! But could you please do it quickly? The trucker says there’s no way his truck’s going to get through, and I need to see if there’s an alternative route so that Clint’s won’t have to close tonight.”
She held her breath and listened. It didn’t sound as though Will was tapping anything into her phone.
Eventually he spoke. “Far be it from me to get in the way of a woman making arrangements, but don’t you think you’re overcomplicating things here?”
“No,” Christy shot back. “I’m just helping someone out.”
“Correct me if I’ve got this wrong—Lord knows it’s likely—but surely if the trucker says he can’t get through, then the trucker can’t get through? Nobody argues about routes with New York truckers—well, until now, that is.”
“But—” Christy stopped talking abruptly. “My phone’s good at this sort of thing.”
“Better than the trucker?” Will teased. “The guy in the cab with the GPS and the thousands of hours of driving experience?”
“He might be a very young, foreign trucker in his first week on the job…” Christy was defeated, and she knew it. But she wasn’t going to let Will know that if she could avoid it. “Okay, I understand. You’re bluffing because you can’t open my traffic and travel functions. That’s fine. Perhaps there’s another way…oh! Yes! Duncan!”
It hit her like a thunderbolt. Of course there was another way!
“My name’s Will. I’m the phone guy.”
“No,” Christy laughed. “Sorry, I know you’re Will, but you’re right; of course there’s another way! Could you—please—do one more thing for me?”
“I can actually drive a truck, yes,” Will said. “Got free lessons when I was twenty-one, working during my university vacation at a canning factory. Peaches. Not fish. I knew you were going to ask.”
“Amazing,” Christy deadpanned, stifling a giggle. “Now, please, could you go into my address application and give me the phone number for someone named Duncan?”
Christy had never deleted Duncan’s number from her contacts list, even after their split. He still lived in her hometown, and they had more or less parted as friends, so she’d never seen the need.
A possible solution had been staring her in the face all along. Duncan and his restaurant business—he specialized in fresh, local fish, didn’t he? She hadn’t been able to bring herself to go and see for herself; it would be too embarrassing. But he’d won awards, and lots of people had told her what a success he was making of the venture. He almost sounded like a completely different person from the guy she’d dated.
She copied the number down that Will dictated. “Thanks, Will. Bye.”
“No problem, Christy, and if—”
Christy felt a little bad hanging up on him in mid-sentence, but she’d make up for it later. It’s not like she wouldn’t be speaking to him again.
She held her breath as Duncan’s cell phone rang out.
“Duncan?” she said as he answered. “It’s Christy.”
A few seconds elapsed before he spoke. “Hey, how are you doing? I was just thinking about you.”
“Of course you were,” Christy forced a little laugh to hide her awkwardness. “Listen, Duncan, may I ask you something?”
Another pause. Then, “Er…okay…shoot.”
“Have you had your fish delivery today?”
“Excuse me? I have to say, given the circumstances, that’s not quite what I was expecting.”
Christy realized that he could have been expecting all sorts of questions from her, but fish was possibly last on his list. “Listen, I’m really sorry, but there’s no time to give you all the details. I was just wondering if you might have any extra fish supplies in today?”
“Why on earth were you wondering that?”
“Well, it’s a long story, but would you be able to get someone to do an emergency delivery?”
“What, to your mom?”
“No.” Why would her mom want a fish delivery? “To Manhattan—I’m in a fish restaurant that’s been let down by its supplier.”
There was another long pause. “Well, I’ve got kind of a busy weekend, but for that very reason, I do happen to have plenty of stock. I’m listening.”
Christy beckoned Aaron over. “Here, I’ll pass you over to Aaron, the owner.”
She brought Aaron up to speed, in whispers, then handed him the phone so that the two men could make the necessary arrangements. Aaron seemed immensely relieved, giving Christy a thumbs-up as he read out his order and directions to Duncan.
“You’re quite the fixer, aren’t you?” smiled the middle-aged man with the New York Times.
Christy rolled her eyes. “It’s an addiction,” she admitted, “or some kind of illness, anyhow.”
“Nah. World needs people like you.”
“Oh…thank you.” Embarrassed, and as an excuse to break away from his adulation, she scanned the restaurant once more and sighed. Mr. Simpson was not there. The whole detour to Clint’s had been a waste of time.
Aaron finished speaking to Duncan and handed the phone back to Christy, thanking her with a nod before dancing off to tell his kitchen staff that the evening had been salvaged.
“Thank you, Duncan, I owe you,” she said down the phone to her ex.
“No, you don’t, Christy. It’s a nice little order; we should do well out of it.”
“Great.” Christy felt a surge of relief. Everyone was happy, for once.
“So, what kind of day are you having?”
“Oh, rushing around, you know, the usual.” The New York Times man was making to get up and leave. “Oh, Duncan, you’ll know—what’s the song with the chorus ‘It’s all too beautifu-u-ul, it’s all too beautifu-u-ul…’”
“Christy Davies, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Itchycoo Park? Come on—we danced to that one at prom.”
“Of course!” She called over to the man, who was lea
ving. “Excuse me?”
He spun around. “Yes?”
“Itchycoo Park.”
He pointed at her. “The Small Faces! Genius!” Then he called over to Aaron, who had returned from the kitchen. “Hey, Aaron, put the lady’s drink on my tab, please.”
He was gone before Christy could refuse his kind offer. She turned her attention back to Duncan. “Thanks, Duncan, it was bugging me. I haven’t got my usual phone, or I’d have looked it up.”
“Come on!” Duncan sounded mock-outraged. “I can’t believe you needed your phone to recall that.”
And she did feel a little ashamed. “You’re right, that is a bit unforgiveable. Sometimes I think my brain’s been removed and installed as an application.”
“You said it,” he replied, his voice low.
The realization was making her uncomfortable. “Anyway, I’d better get going. Got a lot of things to do.”
“And I guess I’ve got a new order to make up,” Duncan said softly. “Be seeing you, Christy.”
Aaron came around to the customers’ side of the bar to shake Christy’s hand. “Your friend sounds like a good guy,” he beamed.
“He runs an excellent business,” she replied, knowing that she wasn’t exactly speaking from firsthand experience, but nonetheless, she’d heard enough glowing reports to have confidence in her answer.
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Oh…you don’t…” she shook her head, but then a thought popped into her mind. “Well, there is one thing, actually…”
“Name it.”
“I wonder, does Mr. Simpson normally have lunch here? I was kind of hoping to catch him.”
“Dan Simpson?”
“Yes.”
“Normally…” Aaron strode over to the reception counter. “Let me see…ah! Yes!”
“He’s coming?” Christy’s heart leapt.
“He is.” Aaron affirmed.
Christy’s heart leapt.
“At six thirty this evening.”
Christy’s heart crashed down. “Six thirty?” Now she could feel the blood draining from her face. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “Completely. He changed his schedule and called to specify an early supper, and Dan’s never late. And because of you, we’ll actually be open to serve him. He’s one of my favorite customers. Will we see you then?”