Fairytale of New York

by Miranda Dickinson

  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.

  It caught my eye again on Monday, as I was refilling metal buckets at the front of the shop with gorgeous lavender hydrangea and sweet-scented freesias. In sharp contrast to the previous Saturday, the shop was blissfully quiet, though it was still early—only 9 a.m. I smiled sadly as thoughts of Mr Kowalski came to mind. It’s always a bittersweet experience to remember him. I still can’t quite believe he isn’t here any more. I expect him to call any minute, or for his friendly old face to appear in the shop doorway. Somehow the world seems just emptier without him in it.

  Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the silver limousine pull up outside. It was only when the front door opened so fast that the bell nearly came off its fixings that I noticed the tall, permatanned, Versace-clad man striding in. Behind him scurried two nervous-looking assistants, both impeccably dressed, both holding notebooks and both attentive to the man’s every move. He possessed an immense presence that seemed somehow to fill the entire store and command the undivided attention of everyone.

  ‘Rosie Duncan.’ It was meant as a question, but appeared more like a statement of disdain.

  ‘Mr Devereau. Welcome to my shop. How are you?’ I responded, my heart racing. I had put him out of my mind over the weekend and had almost forgotten the fact that Kowalski’s had apparently emptied his order book overnight.

  ‘Cut the sweet talk,’ Philippe snapped. ‘You know why I’m here.’

  ‘To admire our designs?’ suggested Ed, suddenly appearing from the workroom and standing protectively at my side.

  Philippe glared at him. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr Steinmann. I want to know what the hell you…’ he frantically searched for the word, ‘…tiny, insignificant people think you are doing here.’

  ‘We’re selling flowers, Philippe. What are you doing here?’ I calmly replied. Far from diffusing the situation, this served only to inflame Philippe’s anger.

  ‘How dare you? How dare you presume to even pretend to know more than me? Because it is pretence, Ms Duncan, merely pretence. You cannot hope to aspire to even a fraction of my business expertise and artistry—’

  Coolly, I cut across him. ‘But it would appear your customers don’t agree, Mr Devereau.’ Light the blue touchpaper. Stand well back…

  Boom! Philippe went stratospheric like an expensive bleachblond rocket. ‘So it would appear. Now, I don’t know what you have said to entice them from my company—in the most underhanded and unprofessional way, I may add—but rest assured, Ms Duncan, they will be back. Soon. You are merely a passing phase, a fad. You can’t possibly fulfil my clients’ demands. I am the only one able to do that. I fulfil demands you can’t possibly imagine.’

  Oh, I can, I thought. I’ve heard the rumours. But I didn’t say it. Philippe’s anger was far too entertaining right now.

  ‘My emporium is a palace compared to this…this hovel,’ he spat. ‘Talent-starved traditionalists like yourselves can only dream of owning a business like mine!’

  I had dared to venture into the sacred halls of Devereau Design just once: what I saw made me glad to own a shop like Kowalski’s. Far from being a welcoming sanctuary of form, colour and scent, Philippe’s store was little more than a show-room: no flowers were avail
able for passing trade and a large security man on the door was seemingly employed with the solitary task of dissuading any would-be browsers from setting foot over its hallowed threshold. Walls, ceilings, display surrounds and even the doors were uniform white; the counter, with its black granite top, resembled a hotel reception desk more than a service area; flowers were regimented into stiff, contrived displays—unearthly lit in identical white display boxes by tiny green, blue and magenta spotlights, frozen and unnatural like chilling exhibits in some kind of futuristic freak show. A few staff members paraded around in harshly tailored black suits, wearing matching disinterested expressions, each sporting communication headsets and carrying black clipboards. It was as if the flowers in the stark white boxes were prisoners on display. Worse still, the whole space was devoid of scent—it was like walking into Starbucks without smelling coffee. Completely wrong. It makes me shudder even thinking about it now—the lack of life in the place was almost sinister and completely alien to what a florist store should be like.

  ‘I sincerely hope that Kowalski’s never looks like your emporium,’ I returned. ‘We believe in allowing the flowers to be themselves—something you and your team will never understand.’

  ‘Kowalski’s is nothing, and your questionable talent for floral art is so limited that I fear your business will shortly collapse. In fact, I intend to see that it does.’

  ‘Threaten her again and I’ll personally throw you out,’ Ed growled, stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.

  ‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not stolen your customers. They were recommended to try Kowalski’s by another of your clients—Mimi Sutton. I believe you know her? If they have chosen to leave you, it is entirely their choice and nothing to do with me. You do not have the monopoly on floristry in this city, Mr Devereau, and neither do I.’

  ‘That may be true, Ms Duncan, however I will not tolerate Kowalski’s pathetic attempts at stealing my considerable share. I pity you, not only for your over-inflated idea of your worth in this city, but also for your abominable designs. I intend to drive your business into the dust…’