Fairytale of New York

by Miranda Dickinson

  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…

  With this in mind, I decided that I would go to see Celia as planned, and politely but firmly refuse her offer. We were doing fine at Kowalski’s: the neighbourhood business was as good as ever and now, with Mimi Sutton’s commission for the Grand Winter Ball, things were looking decidedly healthy on the event front. The publicity we could gain from me being in the ‘West Siders’ column might only serve to swamp us with work we were unprepared for—and the last thing I wanted was to run before we could walk. Right now the balance between day-to-day sales and special events was just about right. I wasn’t about to sell out and ruin what, in my opinion, set Kowalski’s apart from other, larger florists in New York. Decision made, I went to bed content and fell asleep almost straight away.

  That night, my dreams were incredibly vivid. Images flashed through my mind at supersonic speed—Ed smiling, Mimi Sutton in her magnificent office, Brent’s wide grin, bumping into Nate Amie and Mum’s phone message about James. Then, suddenly, I could feel a man’s heartbeat, the warmth of his arms around me, his breath in my hair. It was wonderful. I felt…safe. I raised my head from his chest to look in his eyes…At first, I couldn’t make out his features. Then, I recognised him. The feeling of safety dissolved, replaced with a vice-grip of nausea. Suddenly, the scene changed. I was now standing in a garden, facing a group of familiar faces. They were smiling at me. I heard myself speak—voice full of emotion, fighting back tears: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…’

  I woke with a start. Shafts of moonlight pooled in through the bedroom window. Breathing hard, face wet with tears and perspiration, I sat bolt upright and looked around to regain my bearings. Reaching across to the bedside table, I snapped the light on. A warm golden glow bathed the features of my room—the antique whitewashed chair by my bed with its flea-market-find patchwork quilt throw, the painting of Bridgnorth that Mum had brought on her last visit, the dark wood chest of drawers Celia had donated when I first moved here—familiar décor soothing my burning eyes. I wiped my brow and forced myself to breathe deeply. Slowly, the hammering of my heart eased. But the nausea sat defiant in my stomach.

  ‘Get a grip, girl,’ I chastised myself. ‘It’s just a dream. It’s gone now—it isn’t real.’

  Well, it isn’t real now, said a voice inside my head. But it was once.

  Chapter Five

  ‘Rosie, no! You have to do this!’ Ed insisted, banging down his coffee mug on the counter to emphasise his point. ‘It’s the best potential publicity we’ve had in years. The entire readership of the New York Times—think how many potential customers we could reach.’

  My amazing, fail-safe plan for getting out of Celia’s ‘West Siders’ column was obviously going well…I thought I’d picked the perfect moment when Ed came into work early the following morning. Marnie wasn’t due in for another hour so I figured I could talk Ed round and avoid too many disagreements. Simple—or so, I thought. I’d made him a coffee as usual and then mentioned, so casually that the comment could have carried a Gap label, what I was planning to do. I was already reconciled to the fact that I’d probably face the standard Steinmann Rant but I was certain that even he, eventually, would have to agree with my point of view.

  He didn’t, of course. This wasn’t what I wanted. Not this morning, still unnerved by the dream from last night. I dropped my head behind the battle lines and dug in for a long fight. Taking a deep breath, I began my defence.

  ‘I just don’t see why anyone would want to read about me, Ed. About Kowalski’s—yes, fine—but not about me.’

  Ed’s expression changed from incomprehension to incredulous. ‘What?’ he said, looking at me like I’d just told him the Statue of Liberty had been painted pink. ‘How do you figure that, Rosie?’

  I struggled to find a reply. ‘I…I…just think there are other, more deserving people than me, that’s all…’

  Ed shook his head. ‘Exactly how more deserving? What are you afraid of?’

  I punched my hands onto my hips, my anger rising ‘Nothing. I just—’

  But I didn’t get the chance to finish. Ed had rearmed and was sounding dangerously like Mum. ‘Rosie, you’ve made this store a success. So much so that you’ve single-handedly scored our biggest commission to date with Mimi Sutton. And don’t give me that “we can’t cope with any more big orders” crap. We don’t stop being who we are just because our arrangements are a little bigger. I’ve already told you, Marnie and I are more than happy to branch out. I think maybe it’s time, don’t you? So I don’t know why on earth you think people wouldn’t be interested to read about you…’ His voice trailed off as understanding dawned across his features. His voice was low and conspiratorial when he spoke next. ‘Ah. Yeah, I see now. I get it.’

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘This isn’t about you being embarrassed. Or about Kowalski’s growing too big too soon. This is about you facing the danger of having to open up, for once. You’re scared,’ he taunted, jabbing his finger at me.

  ‘I am not scared—’

  ‘Yes, Rosie, you are. You’ve read this kind of interview before: name, age and favourite colour isn’t enough for journalists these days. Maybe they’ll be content to cover the basics about you. But then again, maybe they won’t. And tha
t’s what scares you the most.’

  ‘Ed, I can’t believe you’re making such an issue out of this—’

  ‘And I can’t believe you think I’d fall for your “I’m too humble to court fame” line. I know you too well, Rosie.’

  ‘Well, obviously you don’t know me as well as you think. Because if you did you’d understand why I don’t want to do the interview.’

  Ed’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed as he squared up to me. ‘OK, so tell me why.’

  Halfway between tears and righteous indignation, I struggled to reply. I hate it when Ed and I fight. He always knows how to get right under my skin and it’s so annoying that he’s better at the whole shebang than I am.

  ‘I…I don’t know. I just don’t want to do it. So stop bugging me and leave it now, OK?’ I looked away.

  Ed threw his hands up. ‘Ha! Exactly what I thought! You have no good reason. Except maybe one.’

  ‘Would you just leave it? And since when does my supposed reluctance to share every single detail of my life with everyone have anything to do with you?’

  ‘Because it stops you doing so much.’

  ‘Like what? Like spending my entire life on a never-ending rollercoaster of one-off dates? A million identical conversations, the only difference being the new face on the other side of the table? Oh, yeah, I’m really missing out on that one.’

  Ed let out a groan of frustration. ‘What I choose to do on my own dates is up to me, don’t you think?’

  ‘Absolutely. I just feel sorry for the girls who date you, that’s all.’

  ‘Well at least I have a ready supply of willing volunteers to be let down by me,’ he returned, looking hot under the collar. ‘I don’t hear any of them complaining.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you never stick around long enough to find out the truth. You’re a tart, Ed Steinmann. A singledate, commitment-phobic tart!’

  ‘Well, at least I’m not hiding away pretending I’m happy,’ he shot back. ‘At least I have a life outside this store. And sure, it may not be the kind of life you’d choose, Miss Highly Principled Florist, but I get by.’

  I snorted and looked away. ‘Whatever.’

  Ed shook his head. ‘I don’t get you, Rosie. I’m sorry, I just don’t. You obviously have stuff you don’t want to share with other people—I mean, heck, who doesn’t have things hidden in their past they’d rather keep concealed? But you don’t even open up to your closest friends. Marnie and I still don’t know why you came to New York. It’s like there’s a whole side of you we know nothing about.’

  ‘You don’t need to know,’ I replied, pushing the rising fear away at the mention of the subject. ‘I am not my past. I don’t look back. So just accept me for who I am or don’t bother at all.’

  Ed crossed his arms. ‘Do the interview, Rosie.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to.’

  Ed’s stare narrowed. ‘Fine. You don’t want to tell the story? Maybe I’ll just do it for you, right now.’ He strode over to the door and flung it open. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Manhattan, may I present, for your consideration, the great Rosie Duncan, who thrives on each and every challenge her business throws at her, but is so damn scared of sharing her heart with anyone…’

  ‘You idiot!’ I grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut. Wounded, but certainly not down yet, I found a renewed impetus to fight and promptly returned fire. ‘You’re unbelievable, Ed! And this diagnosis of my life from the great Ed Steinmann, amateur psychiatrist, who feels licensed to comment on everyone else’s life but never shares his own! The man who must be so damn perfect because he’s apparently the only person in the whole world with no cares at all?’

  My last comment hung in the air like gun smoke. We stopped firing and stared at each other, our breathing quick and short, our minds whirring. But remorse was beginning to kick in.

  Ed looked away and took a long, deep breath. ‘You have no idea what my cares are, Rosie.’ Gone was the anger, replaced instead with a steady, measured defiance.

  ‘And you don’t know mine,’ I returned. My voice sounded weak and shaky.

  Tears stung my eyes. We were like two gunslingers one minute after high noon, waiting for someone to realise we’d been mortally wounded. For a moment, I was determined not to give in. Until Ed spoke.

  ‘Well. Thank you for your honesty. At last I know where I stand.’ Real fear hit me as his words sunk in. Someone had to back down. I took a step towards him, scanning his expression in the hope I might catch a flicker of redemption there.

  ‘Ed, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just…I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry…Can we be friends…please?’

  I could see the tension gripping his broad shoulders as they rose and fell quickly with his breath. Head lowered, staring at the floor, his mussed-up dark hair was almost obscuring the blue eyes that had burned into mine moments before. I waited for his response, fearful of what it might be. It seemed an eternity before he slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. He studied me like he couldn’t believe I could hurt him so much. My pulse quickened, scared I could have blown our friendship for the sake of a few cheap shots. The store was silent except for the slow, rhythmic tick of the clock behind the counter. The world outside seemed to be holding its breath. Watching. Waiting.

  Finally, Ed sighed and came close. His hug was warm and forgiving, the scent of his woody cologne mingling with the fresh cotton of his shirt, soft against my cheek. Relief washed over me as I held him tight. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie…’ he breathed, stroking my head. ‘I didn’t mean it either. It’s OK, it’s OK now…’

  Then my tears came, gently at first but rapidly increasing in intensity, until soon I was sobbing hard against Ed’s shoulder. For a long time the only sounds were my tears and the insistent beat of his heart. Then he spoke in a soft whisper right by my ear.

  ‘It’s time you started to live a little, OK? That’s all I’m saying. You have people who care about you and this amazing city to play in. You can trust us with anything, you know?’

  Slowly, my tears began to ebb. I pulled my head up and we locked gazes.

  ‘You just have to trust me on this, Ed. I know you care about me and I know I can tell you anything. It’s just that the reason I came to New York is something I’m still trying to work out. I can’t tell you about it yet. But I promise you, as soon as I’m ready, you’ll be the first to know. Is that OK?’

  Ed shook his head, the faintest glimmer of a smile appearing. ‘You are very lucky to have me as a friend. I’ll hold you to that promise, you know, Duncan.’

  I smiled back, relieved to be moving away from the subject I dreaded more than anything. ‘Absolutely.’

  Nobody ever tells you when you’re little how hard life can be when you grow up. They don’t explain that friendships stop being simple, choices stop being easy and the joys of childhood stop altogether. They just ask you what you want to be when you’re older. Whatever the minefield of life could hold in store for you, it seems the answer to this single question is all you need to be armed with. Which is all very well if you happen to have picked something sensible for your future career—like being a doctor or a brain surgeon—but not if, like me, you say you’d like to be Tinkerbell. They smile and pat you on the head…but you guess from this reaction that they will be relating your career aspiration at their grown-ups’ dinner parties for years to come. And the world of the Grown-Up becomes an irresistibly romantic utopia: one that you would do anything to visit. Well, almost anything.

  Now that I have reached that illustrious pinnacle, I often find myself wanting so badly to be five years old again. Choices were simpler (orange or blackcurrant squash?) and I knew what I wanted (always blackcurrant). I remember thinking that being a lollipop lady like Mrs Pearson, our next-door neighbour, was really cool (if you couldn’t achieve your fairy ambitions, that is). In fact, I spent a whole summer when I was five making my brother pretend to be a car so I
could step out in front of him with my homemade paper-plate-and-stick lollipop. When you’re a kid, your whole ethos about what makes a good friend can be turned upside down by the offer of a Fruit Salad chew from a 10p mix. Friendships were simple—I’ll be your friend if today you’re not speaking to her, but not if you’re her friend tomorrow. Come to think of it, though, that’s not altogether unlike the way some so-called grown-ups behave right now. Maybe there are a lot of people who are really just big kids in suits. Especially in a city like New York.

  As I was soon to discover.

  At twelve thirty I left the shop and hailed a yellow taxicab to travel to the offices of the New York Times. My morning had been incredibly hard. Coming so close to revealing my past to Ed had unnerved me, but sitting in the back of the cab now, I couldn’t shake the niggling doubt that I might not get another chance. I shifted my position, still feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘You OK, lady?’ asked the smiling oriental taxi driver, looking at me in his rear-view mirror. I managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’

  This is not always a wise question to ask in New York. You are usually treated to a delightful combination of complaints and strongly worded opinions about anything and everything from the price of rents and the state of the US domestic situation to the possible parentage of the driver in front. Usually, I don’t ask. But my mind was attempting to process too many thoughts and needed distracting for a while.

  Thankfully today, Ken, my friendly driver, only wanted to talk about his new baby girl. He reached behind the sunshield, pulled out a photo and passed it over his shoulder to me. A smiley lady was pictured holding a tiny, equally smiley baby.

  ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

  Ken smiled. ‘Sunshine. Sunshine Wang. We call her Sunny for short. She’ll be five weeks tomorrow. My wife is so proud. She always wanted to be a mother. You know she left a good job on Wall Street to look after Sunny? I’m working double shifts so she can be a stay-home mom.’