Fairytale of New York

by Miranda Dickinson

  Then, just when I thought my life was complete, I found there was something missing. And one of my Important Life Decisions was put to the ultimate test. I fell in love.

  That one, singular happening in my life changed everything. It led me to leave England and a family and career I loved, to move to America and chase my dream.

  When my dream died, my other Important Life Decision was reversed and floristry became my saving grace. I rediscovered the joy of creating something with living things; twisting, moulding and combining scents and colours, forms and foliage into something new, something worthwhile. I found that catching the fleeting beauty of flowers seemed to awaken something hidden deep within me: a need to celebrate life—however brief—after my own life had been exposed to so much death. As I placed my creations in the hands of my customers, I found my work marking their lives too—celebrations, commemorations, condolences—and the thrill it gave me to be part of their stories far surpassed anything I’d felt during my previous job. Just like Mum had told me. And now I can’t imagine ever doing anything else.

  Celia arrived at noon on the day of her big event to inspect the progress of her order. I was proud to report that we were almost done—only two more arrangements to complete. She skipped around the workroom like a delirious three-year-old, squealing with delight at the ‘quaintness’ of the baskets, the ‘gorgeous English scent’ of the roses and the quality of craftsmanship ‘that Philippe himself could never equal’. After several minutes of gushing and promises of many future orders to come, she was gone again, racing off to her next interview.

  Ed wiped his brow and flopped down onto a chair.

  ‘Rosie, that woman is a human whirlwind. How on earth do you keep up with her?’

  I giggled. ‘Sometimes, I ask myself the same question. But her heart’s in the right place, you know.’

  ‘Sure, but where’s the rest of her?’

  Marnie and I finished the final arrangements and stood back to view the wonderful spectacle that is a completed order. ‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘We’re done.’

  Ed frowned. ‘Wait—we’ve got to have the Kowalski Ceremony before you can say that.’ He picked up an old, rusty pair of halfmoon spectacles from a shelf, placed them on the end of his nose and adopted a slow, gentle Polish accent. ‘So, I think maybe we are done now, everybody? Good! Let’s clear up and deliver!’

  I smiled at him. Some days I miss Mr Kowalski so much my heart aches.

  ‘Can I go for my lunch break?’ asked Marnie, hopefully.

  ‘No problem,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘Take an hour, mate. You’ve worked so hard the last two days. Enjoy yourself.’

  But before I’d finished speaking, Marnie had grabbed her bag and coat and was out of the door, shouting her thanks over her shoulder as she went.

  Ed raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Now there’s another whirlwind in training,’ he said. ‘Must be the guy she met last week in drama class.’

  I smiled as I began to collect the scrap foliage and raffia from the worktables. ‘Ah. Another chapter of Marnie’s life begins.’

  ‘Poor Marnie. Her love life reads like a plot of a daytime soap,’ Ed agreed, and began to carry completed arrangements to the cold store. ‘I was attempting to explain this to my mother the other day. Let me see if I remembered the highlights: there was the med student—he lasted four months, till he announced he wanted to become a gynaecologist…’

  ‘Always a passion-killer, that one.’

  ‘Then came the Italian stallion, who said he was on an exchange programme from romantic Sicily, when really he was from romantic Queens.’

  ‘Hmm, and he only told her that small detail of his life after she’d spent most of her money showing him the sights of New York for three weeks.’

  ‘And, of course, who could forget the guy she fell head over heels with, who turned out to be her long-lost half-brother?’

  We both grimaced at that one. Ed shook his head and picked up the last two arrangements. ‘Now, you make the coffee and I’ll finish up here.’

  My coffee machine is just about the best thing ever. It’s one work requirement that I’ve retained from my old days at the advertising agency—I need my coffee in order to be creative. Customers have told me that the comforting scent of coffee mingling with the flowers makes them feel at home when they enter the shop. It seems to encourage them to spend time making their decisions. Nowadays, it’s strictly decaf after 2 p.m.—not least because we all need our sleep at night, but also because Marnie under the influence of too much caffeine is downright scary, and I don’t want to frighten the customers away. My coffee machine doesn’t look or work like it used to, but its battered appearance and the strange noises it emits are all part of its endearing character. Marnie thinks it should be retired, but Ed agrees with me that it makes the best cup of coffee around, and that makes two votes to one. Motion carried. So Old Faithful (as he is affectionately known) remains an important member of my staff.

  When the coffee was ready, after much huffing, puffing and weird clunking from Old F, Ed joined me behind the counter for lunch. Ed always eats the most enormous pastrami sandwiches at lunchtime. He buys them each morning from Schaeffer’s Deli, a few blocks down from his apartment in the East Village, on his way to work. I asked him once how he manages to eat so much without becoming the size of a small planet, and he informed me that he has an ‘excellent metabolism’. I reckon it’s more to do with the fact that he runs five miles every day, goes to the gym regularly and seems to spend most of his free time running after (or being chased by) the beautiful women of New York.

  After several minutes of happy munching, Ed gave the meat monstrosity a time out and shot me one of his serious looks.

  ‘So what about your dating history, Rosie?’

  Uh-oh. This was one road trip I knew all too well:

  YOU ARE NOW ENTERING UNCOMFORTABLE

  Population: Just Me

  I tried a detour. ‘Not much to tell, really.’

  Of course, this wasn’t likely to put him off. In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing I could have said: there is nothing Ed Steinmann likes more than a challenge. I might just as well have slapped him in the face with a gauntlet.

  ‘Oh, come on, Rosie, there must have been guys you left back in old Blighty?’

  ‘Umm…’

  ‘Buzzzz! Hesitation!’ Only Ed could turn an embarrassing conversation into a quiz show. ‘Travelled across the Pond leaving a string of broken hearts behind you, eh?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And then there was…where was it you came here from? DC? Chicago?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘Ah, Boston. So—any broken hearts there?’

  ‘I—no, OK? Can we change the subject, please?’

  Ed held up his half-eaten sandwich in surrender. ‘Hey, I’m just making conversation. You’ve been here, what, six years and we’ve never seen you dating.’

  I let out a long sigh. ‘I don’t have time to date.’

  Ed took another bite and munched thoughtfully. ‘That’s because you spend half your life chasing the whims of that mad journalist friend of yours.’

  ‘Ed, that’s unfair. Celia’s a good friend.’

  ‘So how come she’s never set you up on a date then?’

  ‘Ed!’

  ‘I’m just making an observation. I mean, there must be countless eligible hacks at the Times.’

  I folded my arms in a vain attempt to feel less vulnerable. ‘Since when was my love life such an area of fascination for you?’

  ‘It’s not just me, it’s Marnie too. Actually, mainly Marnie, to be honest. She worries about you.’

  Knowing that my staff were discussing my personal life was more than a little disconcerting. It wasn’t that I minded them caring for me—that’s something that I’d always found about my team and it was great to know we all looked out for one another. It was more that I didn’t want to discuss my love life with anyone,
especially not my past in London or Boston. Believe me, I had my reasons.

  ‘Well, she shouldn’t worry. I’m fine. Besides, between the two of you I think we have the eligible contingent of Manhattan pretty much covered, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Good point. So, ask me about my love life then, seeing as you don’t have time for one.’ Ed has this amazing capacity for making you smile when you really should be hitting him hard. It is completely disarming but devastatingly effective.

  ‘Fine. Who’s the lucky lady tonight, pray tell?’

  Ed looked like the cat that got the cream, sapphire blue eyes twinkling. ‘Lawyer.’

  ‘Oh, nice.’

  ‘Yep, she is.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Mona. I think she’s Italian.’

  ‘Let me guess: second name Lisa, can’t really tell what she’s thinking, bit of an oil painting?’

  Ed was unmoved by my humour. ‘Maybe you should call 911, Rosie. My sides are in the process of splitting. No, she’s representing my cousin Klaus.’

  ‘What’s he up for?’

  Ed rested his sandwich on the counter and wiped his hands with a paper napkin. ‘How come you instantly assume my family are all crooks?’

  I looked sheepish. ‘Sorry.’ It was nice to be in control of the conversation at last.

  ‘Hmm. Well, don’t do it again, Duncan. No, he’s being sued by a former patient who claims Klaus hypnotised him during one session, causing him to make a series of disastrous business decisions, which led to the collapse of his company.’

  ‘Is your cousin a hypnotherapist?’

  ‘No—that’s the crazy thing. He’s a psychiatrist. All my family are psychiatrists, for pity’s sake, apart from me.’

  ‘Is this client likely to win?’

  ‘No way. The guy’s clearly a nut, but hey, this is New York: sneeze in the wrong place and someone’s going to sue your ass from here to eternity. Mona reckons the judge will take one look at him and throw the case out. But, while we’re waiting for that to happen, I owe it to my cousin to ensure that his lovely lawyer is as fully briefed as possible.’

  ‘Knowing you, it’s probably more a lack of briefs you’re interested in?’

  ‘Hey, so she just couldn’t resist me. What can I tell ya?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ I laughed, taking our mugs to Old F for a refill.

  ‘See, Rosie? Look at all the fun you’re missing out on.’

  ‘Lawyers aren’t my type and I don’t know any psychiatrists.’

  ‘Then try a policeman, or a photographer—or a taxi driver, even. Heck, anyone would be worth a shot, if only to get you “out there” again! How about we get Marnie to recommend one of her exes?’

  Bringing the filled mugs back, I gave one to Ed and sat down. ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much. Somehow I don’t think any of them will be my type. Now drop it and eat that cow in bread you’ve got there.’

  ‘Don’t try diversionary tactics. You know they won’t work on me. Just be prepared for us to keep bugging you about it, OK?’

  I ignored a sinking feeling and attempted a breezy smile. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Ed agreed, resuming his one-man onslaught on the mountain of meat.

  I watched him for a while. Ed is one of those people you instantly like. I love his quick wit and cheekiness, despite being on the receiving end of it more often than I’d like. Ed can deliver a one-liner faster than a speeding bullet and that always makes me smile. Maybe it’s this mischievous quality in him that the good ladies of Manhattan find so irresistible. I have to admit, when Steinmann puts his mind to something, it’s difficult to say no to him. Mind you, if I believe Ed and Marnie’s theory about me, I seem to have this problem with everybody on account of my Malaise Anglais, so perhaps that doesn’t count. Even when he’s tired or hungover, the charm is never far away; in fact, it is often particularly endearing when he’s looking more dishevelled than usual.

  Ed’s style is what he calls ‘relaxed’, but what my mum would term ‘scruffy’. His dark brown hair never really looks tamed no matter what he does with it, but this suits his style down to the ground. He does make an effort occasionally and never looks unprofessionally untidy, but most of the time he has the kind of appearance that makes guys want to hang out with him and women want to take care of him. Today he was wearing a slightly crumpled charcoal shirt over a white T-shirt with faded black jeans. When I asked him why he’d chosen this sombre colour scheme, he remarked that he thought it would be good for counteracting the Marnie Effect, a phenomenon unique to Kowalski’s: my young assistant looks as if she has been bombarded by a spectrum of colours—from her hair (this week, vivid orange), to her clashing T-shirt, skirt, tights and bright yellow Doc Marten boots. As for me, I like to think I’m a foil to both of them. I like to look smart for work, although comfort is a major consideration. One thing Marnie and I have in common is our love of vintage clothes—and in New York we’re blessed with countless boutiques selling retro clothing and one-off pieces. Living in New York I’ve noticed my style has become more relaxed—much like I have.

  Since the day I first met Ed, we’ve been really close. And even though to the casual observer it can appear that we mock each other constantly, I do actually care what he thinks of me. While events in my life have made me much more wary of letting people close, having Ed and Marnie there to worry about me is strangely comforting. We’re an odd concoction of personalities, backgrounds and dress styles, but it seems to work. Welcome to Kowalski’s—where the staff are as varied as the flowers!

  At four thirty, I packed Celia’s arrangements into the delivery van and headed off to Café Bijou. Marnie and Ed had agreed to man the store for the rest of the day so that I could go, after it became clear that Celia was fast losing the plot. Her anxiety attacks had begun at two o’clock with a frantic phone call, and I found myself promising faithfully that I’d meet her at the venue at five fifteen. Marnie and Ed’s expressions said it all and, once I got into my van, I noticed Ed had drawn up a doctor’s prescription and stapled it to the order sheet.

  PRESCRIPTION FOR MS ROSIE DUNCAN FOR THE TREATMENT

  OF CONFIRMED CONDITION MALAISE ANGLAIS.

  THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE TO BE ADMINISTERED LIBERALLY

  AND ORALLY BY THE PATIENT, WHENEVER NECESSARY:

  ‘NO, I COULDN’T POSSIBLY. SORRY.’

  When I arrived at the restaurant, Celia was already there, clipboard in hand, nervous energy in full flow. I immediately felt sorry for the poor maître d’, who was in danger of being totally overwhelmed by her tirade of questions. When he saw me, his face brightened and he rushed over, leaving a frustrated Celia standing mid-sentence, fuming gently.

  ‘Oh, Madame, permit me to ‘elp you wiz zese flowers. I will take zem to ze room pour vous,’ he gushed.

  ‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.’

  I approached Celia as he fled.

  ‘That man is so exasperating!’ she exclaimed, tossing her clipboard onto the polished bar. ‘I have so much to organise and it’s five twenty already. Does Claude have any idea of just how much is left to do?’

  I smiled and gave her a hug. ‘Now sit down, Celia. Take a deep breath. Count to two thousand…’

  Celia looked up at me like a chastened child. ‘You sound like my mother,’ she said miserably.

  ‘Things are going to be just great,’ I reassured her, sounding quite a lot like mine. ‘You have plenty of time. Take a moment to come and see the arrangements. The roses smell beautiful and we’ve added some lavender to calm any nerves that might be fraying.’

  Celia’s furrowed brow smoothed out as she followed me into the main restaurant area, where Claude was taking his frustration out on one of his staff.

  ‘Wouldya look at da state of da napkins, Joey?’ he shouted, his French accent sounding decidedly more like the Godfather now. I suppressed a giggle as he spun round and quickly rediscovered his Gallic roots. ‘Ah, Madame Rei
ghton, I trust za room is satisfactory pour vous?’

  Celia took a deep breath. ‘C’est trés bon, Claude, merci.’

  Claude smiled briefly and hurried off into the kitchen. I squeezed Celia’s arm. ‘Well done.’ For the first time since I’d arrived I witnessed the slightest glimpse of a smile appearing on her flushed face.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rosie!’

  Café Bijou was very new indeed—you could still smell faint traces of fresh paint in the entrance lobby. But it was comfortable and welcoming, approached from the sidewalk via some impressive stone steps that rose elegantly from the tree-lined street. The interior was warm and understated, decked out in dark wood tables and chairs with aubergine velvet seats, subdued lighting, and walls painted in shades of brown, caramel and cream. Each table was covered in crisp white linen, and polished oak floorboards creaked satisfyingly beneath my feet. Though I say it myself, the floral arrangements worked incredibly well in this setting—cream and palest pink rosebuds, offset by dark green foliage and small bunches of dried lavender, packed tightly into dark wicker baskets and finished with generous amounts of pale yellow-gold raffia, which trailed out onto the tablecloths.