‘Really?’
‘There’s no need to look so smug about it.’
‘I’m not. Honestly.’
‘I mean at least I date, right? Not like you.’
I let that one go. ‘Absolutely. So what about last night?’
He grabbed a length of raffia from behind the counter and wound it irritably around the gathered stems. ‘Hmm. Well, it wasn’t a total disaster, I guess. Sarah was perfectly nice and decent, attractive, good company, you know? But…’
‘But what?’
He tied off the bouquet, picked up a pair of scissors, moved to the bin on the other side of the counter and trimmed the stems with one cut. ‘I dunno, Rosie. I just didn’t feel it was worth pursuing. Crazy, huh?’
‘No—no, I don’t think it is.’
‘Well, I think it is. What’s wrong with me? I date all the time, a whole selection of perfectly acceptable women. But none of them, you know, fits.’
‘Fits what? Your ideal? Your lifestyle? Your apartment?’
‘Hilarious. You missed your calling when you chose to be a florist. There’s a stand-up mic somewhere with your name on it. No, I mean they don’t fit me.’
‘Ah, right. Well, I think you’ll find that’s the point of dating.’
‘Which of course you’d know so much about,’ Ed added, quick as a flash. I kicked myself for not seeing that one coming.
‘The difference is that I don’t feel I need another person to make me feel complete,’ I shot back.
‘Do you really believe that, Rosie?’ He threw the bouquet to me and I caught it as he passed and disappeared into the workroom, shaking his head. His last comment hung accusingly in the air above my head—a question I wasn’t willing to answer.
Not yet.
Celia met me on Wednesday night at Bistro Découverte at the edge of Riverside Park, not far from her apartment. It’s one of my favourite places. In the summer, it’s a great place to eat al fresco, your table lit by the rows of tiny white lights across the front deck and the sounds of Café de Paris music drifting lazily in the air. Celia and I come here often. It’s quieter than the other bistros in the area, and many tourists don’t even know it exists. The usual clientele consists of writers, artists and the occasional journalist or celebrity actor, and the hum of conversation is low, welcoming and homely. Tonight, however, the hint of autumn chill drove us indoors. As we began to eat our main course, sharp splats of rain peppered the window and the little lights outside were tossing about in the breeze.
Celia shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s nearing fall already,’ she moaned. ‘Where has summer gone? Before we know it, it’ll be Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Did I tell you I got a call from Jerry today?’
The question was so deftly inserted into her conversation that I almost missed it. ‘Jerry? He called you?’
Celia gave a fatalistic shrug and took a mouthful of winepoached salmon. ‘Eleven months he’s been gone and then today I get a call.’
Celia and Jerry have been partners for well over fourteen years and were, it seemed, blissfully unaffected by each other for all of that time. She went on her assignments, he went on his business trips. They spent three weeks together every summer at their beach house in Martha’s Vineyard, and New Year with his family in Wisconsin. They were a typical highachieving New York couple. Until eleven months ago. Jerry announced he was ‘off to find himself’, packed a suitcase and disappeared. His company didn’t know where he was. His friends didn’t know where he was. Even his mother didn’t know where he was: which was incredibly worrying, as Jerry’s mother is the domestic equivalent of the FBI. Her powers of investigation are unsurpassed and could prove invaluable to the State one day, should it ever need to know exactly, in minute detail, about an individual (eating habits, connections, rumours, bowel movements and so on). I’m convinced she has a vast, underground network of spies, who regularly feed back to her at apparently innocent locations. Come to think of it, she hosts an awful lot of dinner parties and is forever on the phone, so maybe ‘Yes, Rabbi, you’re invited to dinner Wednesday at eight’, actually means ‘Thank you, Agent 482, your information has been received and you will be rewarded well.’
It was unclear whether Jerry’s disappearance was a life-changing, traumatic experience for Celia or just an annoyance. She rarely even mentioned his name and I knew she had been on more than one date recently. Even now, as I faced her across the table, I couldn’t detect any kind of emotion in her measured expression. Except, perhaps, resignation.
‘So how did he seem? What did he say?’ I asked.
Celia shrugged again and looked over my shoulder. ‘That he’s sorry. That he’s in Palm Springs and the golf is good. That he wants me to forgive him.’
‘But he’s not coming home?’ I asked, trying to judge her countenance, which flickered slightly.
She nodded.
‘Oh, Celia…’
She held up a hand and looked me square in the eyes. ‘It’s fine, Rosie. Honestly, I’m fine. He can go—no, he’s welcome to go. I’m amazed we lasted as long as we did. We never married—what can I say? Such is life. There isn’t anyone else, though. And I don’t think I’d care if there was. Besides,’ she added, her wry smile making a welcome comeback, ‘I hear toy boys are all the rage for women over forty now. So maybe I’ll get me one of those. Maybe I’ll give Nate Amie a call…’ her eyes twinkled naughtily, ‘…unless you have any objections, that is?’
It was obvious that the Jerry topic was now closed, so I played along, glaring at her. ‘I don’t object at all. But Caitlin Sutton might have something to say about it.’
‘Aha!’ Celia’s face was a picture of triumph. I had obviously fallen for her bait. ‘Not if what I heard today is anything like the truth.’
I leaned forward, curious to hear more. ‘So, tell me, then. What did you hear?’
Celia looked shocked. ‘Rosie Duncan, I do believe you are enquiring about a man!’
I protested. ‘Only out of sheer curiosity and the need for a bit of juicy gossip.’
‘Like I believe that…Well, I was talking to Brent Jacobs this morning, and he told me—ooh, and make sure you don’t forget he’s—’
‘Coming to my shop tomorrow morning, yes, I know. What about Nate?’
‘Patience, Rosie! I’m coming to that,’ Celia stated, delighting in my suspense. ‘He told me he was at a theatre premiere at the Lincoln Center yesterday and he saw Mimi, Nate and Caitlin. Right in the middle of the performance, Caitlin stormed out. And Nate didn’t follow her. Then Mimi received a call at the after-show party and had a blazing row with Nate, in front of everyone. He called his driver and left, and Mimi was heard to say that he had not heard the last from her on the subject. She was in such a foul mood that she totally ruined the party and most people left as soon as she did.’
I was still interested. ‘And…?’
Celia sat back. ‘That was it.’
Disappointment is always a difficult thing to hide. ‘Oh…What was Brent’s take on things?’
Celia took a sip of Pinot Gris. ‘He was as much in the dark as everyone else. But his theory is that Caitlin and Mimi have been pressing for marriage and Nate won’t play ball.’
‘So, does this mean he won’t be ordering those large and frequent bouquets from me, after all, then?’ I moaned with a smile.
‘Well, Brent reckons he’ll—’ she was interrupted by the waiter, who informed her she had a phone call. ‘Excuse me one second, Rosie. I’ll be right back.’
I refilled my glass and sat back in my chair to look out at the driving rain and wildly swinging fairy lights. Why I found this information interesting, I couldn’t exactly pinpoint. After all, I didn’t really know Nate Amie. Only that he had a laugh that could fill an atrium and knew nothing about lavender. Yet somehow I found myself intrigued that his name had cropped up in conversation so often this past week.
Celia returned about five minutes later, shaking her head. ‘Can you believe t
hat?’ she asked. ‘I leave them alone for five minutes and all hell breaks out.’ She saw my mystified face and took a breath. ‘Sorry, honey. I’ve got my sister’s twins over for a few days. Didn’t I tell you? Well, I have. They’re on vacation from Washington State and wanted to see New York. It appears they decided to throw a party while I was out and have played music so loud that my good neighbours called 911. I need to go sort it out. I’m sorry, sweetie. Call you tomorrow?’ She grabbed her bag, kissed me and hurried away to her engagement with New York’s finest.
The waiter approached. ‘Will madam be ordering dessert?’ he asked.
‘No, no, thank you. I’ll settle up, if I may.’
‘Sure. No problem.’ He disappeared again. I finished my wine and took a last look out at the windswept Hudson. For the briefest of seconds, my mind flashed up an image of a lopsided grin and a soft, low voice. Surprised, I checked myself and rose to leave.
As I stepped outside into the icy rain, I wrapped my coat tightly round my body and began the short walk home. The wind whipped at my hair and New York seemed to be asking me the same questions that already filled my mind, despite my desire to avoid the subject.
It was an unusual relief to click the key into the front door of my block and jog the three flights up to my apartment. Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against the frame, breathing in the familiar scent and willing my heart to slow down. I was removing my coat when the intercom beeped. I jumped.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, sis. Aren’t you going to let your big bruv in?’ chirped a familiar voice.
‘James!’ I squealed. ‘Come on up!’
I pressed the door release button and within a minute my brother walked in. It’s funny that I’m always shocked at how tall he is whenever I see him. He looked tired, but thrilled that he had surprised me by arriving with no warning. He dropped his heavy leather bag on the floor, scooped me up and spun me round.
‘Rosie! It’s so great to see you,’ he yelled. ‘Are you surprised?’
‘Too right I’m surprised!’ He plonked me down and I hugged him again. ‘I can’t believe you’re here! Mum said you’d be too busy to visit.’
James grinned, nut-brown eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘I swore Mum to secrecy. I wanted to surprise you. Can I stay?’
‘Sure, no problem. I’ll have to make up the couch for you. Is that OK?’
‘Perfect,’ James said, dropping into the nearest chair. ‘I’m so tired I’ll sleep anywhere. I’m not proud, y’know.’
‘Good job my couch is an incredibly comfy sofa bed, then,’ I replied, going into the kitchen to put the kettle on. ‘Tea?’
‘How about Yorkshire Tea?’ James asked, appearing by my side and brandishing a box. ‘I’ve got you some Marmite too. And Dairy Milk.’
I let out another squeal. I don’t miss many things from home, but these gifts are like the Holy Grail for me. ‘Thank you so much!’ I yelped, ripping open the tea box and dropping two bags into the pot. I poured the boiling water and savoured the long-missed aroma as the tea began to infuse. ‘Heaven,’ I breathed.
‘How long are you staying?’ I asked, once the tea was made and we had sunk down into the sofa with our mugs of steaming nectar.
James looked offended. ‘You want me to leave already?’ he laughed. ‘I’m kidding, Rosie. I can only stay till Saturday morning, I’m afraid. Then I need to be back at the DC office for four days, before I fly home again. Look, are you sure it’s OK to stay with you? I could book into the Four Seasons, if not.’
‘Why on earth would you want to stay at one of the best New York hotels when you can rough it here with me?’ I asked.
James smiled. ‘I’d much rather be with my darling little sis than in a swanky place like that. You provide decent breakfasts. And your prices are unbeatable.’
‘Undoubtedly,’ I laughed. ‘Now, can I interest you in room service, sir?’
A quizzical expression spread across his face. ‘What’s on the menu?’
‘Well, we have a rather special tub of cookie-dough ice cream—it’s a house speciality. Might I interest sir in a small helping?’
‘Absolutely. But make it a large one, please, I’m starving!’ James cried, clutching his stomach in mock agony. As I struggled to release myself from the sumptuous embrace of my sofa, my brother grabbed my hand and genuine affection filled his eyes. ‘It’s so good to be here, Rosie. Thank you.’
As a younger sister I have learned to be wary when my brother is being sentimental. These fleeting glimpses of affection usually occur when James is in trouble and needs me to bail him out. Later, once he was settled on my couch and I was in bed, I found myself wondering if this was to be another of those occasions. Quickly, my optimism gene sprang into action and I decided that this might actually be a time when my gut reaction was wrong. Self-centred though he may be, surely even James was capable of conveying real, heartfelt emotion sometimes.
Wasn’t he?
Chapter Eight
‘What are you doing this evening?’ James asked, next morning, as we sat eating breakfast.
I thought for a moment. ‘Nothing. Why?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’d just like to do something nice for my darling little sister, that’s all.’
He’s in trouble, I told you, said a little voice in my brain.
I ignored it and smiled at him. ‘What sort of nice, exactly?’
James winked. ‘Rosie, you’re always so suspicious. Just make sure you’ve got something posh to wear, OK, because I’ve got reservations at somewhere rather special tonight. And I’m paying.’
I frowned. ‘If you’ve already made reservations, why did you bother asking me if I was free tonight?’
James surrendered. ‘Curses, rumbled again…OK, OK, I checked your diary while you were making the tea last night and I called the restaurant when you went to get the ice cream.’
‘OK.’ The explanation would suffice. For now.
ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? demanded my conscience, stamping its foot. He is in big, big trouble and you’re going to get involved in it. Again. You don’t need this! I let out a breath and mentally pushed the voice into a corner.
‘Is everything OK?’ asked James, seeing my expression.
I smiled. ‘Everything’s fine.’
Marnie was waiting for me as I arrived to open up the shop. She sat slumped against the windowledge looking like she’d lost a million dollars and found a nickel. Even considering her rollercoaster of a love life, it was extremely unusual to see her like this.
‘Hi, Marnie. How are you?’
She stood up as the shutter lifted and we walked inside. ‘I’m good.’
‘You’re obviously not,’ I said, switching on the lights and taking off my coat. Marnie followed me into the workroom and hung her coat up next to mine. ‘Want to talk about it?’
Her eyes blinked quickly as tears welled up. ‘Please. But I don’t know if you can help.’
I smiled. ‘Let me try. How about you sit down and I’ll fire up Old F? And,’ I added, reaching into my bag and producing a warm M&H Bakers bag, ‘I took the liberty of getting some of Luigi’s double choc-chip cookies this morning, so you can help me with their disposal.’
Marnie’s eyes lit up and she threw her arms round me. ‘Thanks, Rosie. You’re a good friend.’
Once Old F had noisily produced a jug of rich, smoky coffee, I joined Marnie on the well-worn brown leather sofa by the window. This is another long-serving fixture at Kowalski’s and, I now realised as I sat down, yet another secret weapon in our struggle against Philippe. When customers are deliberating designs it is so much more civilised to seat them in a comfy corner, surround them with flowers and let them enjoy the fruits of Old F’s hard labour. Ed and I rescued the sofa from a closing-down coffee house not long after I took over from Mr K, and I still have fond memories of Ed risking life and limb to stop the traffic on West 68th Street as I tried to push it across the road. Marnie certainly s
eemed to be responding to its comfort as I sat down next to her.
‘OK, Rosie. Here’s the deal,’ she began, nibbling a cookie. ‘I’ve met this guy at my community theatre. His name is Mack, he’s from Brooklyn but now he lives in East Village and he’s twenty-two years older than me. He lectures English at Columbus University and he’s one of the Hudson River Players’ directors. He’s so amazing, Rosie. You know, it’s like everything he says is worthy of recognition? I’m totally in awe of him.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ I asked.
Marnie sighed and looked into her coffee. ‘He doesn’t even notice me. I overheard him saying to one of the others that he’s just come out of a long, lonely marriage and he’s got his eye on someone in the class. I kinda hoped it would be me, you know?’
‘How do you know it isn’t?’ I asked.
‘That’s just it. I don’t know,’ Marnie wailed. ‘I haven’t slept for a whole week. I can’t get him out of my mind. How do I approach him? What do I say?’
‘I’m not sure you’re asking the right person,’ I smiled. ‘After all, I’m not the world’s greatest authority on relationships…’ I looked at Marnie. She wore a smile, but it was weak and transparent. It was time for a different tack. ‘Um, OK…Why don’t you invite him out for a drink after class? Say you’d like to get to know him a little better. Or…tell him about your work here and invite him over to see your latest project? Just try to be his friend for a while and see what happens.’
Marnie looked up at me. ‘But what if he’s repulsed by the sight of me?’
I patted her hand. ‘Not possible, mate. You’re gorgeous. Concentrate on becoming his friend. Look at it this way: if he likes you, you’ll have opened the door for something to begin; if he doesn’t, well, then you’ll have gained a friend you already respect. You win either way. OK?’
‘OK,’ Marnie said, still uncertain but brightening slowly. She hugged me again. ‘Thanks, Rosie, I’ll try.’
The bell on the front door chimed as Ed arrived. ‘Ugh!’ he exclaimed, covering his eyes with his copy of the New York Observer. ‘Female bonding alert! Get me out of here…I need air…’ The paper was whipped away, revealing an eager smile. ‘No, wait—tell me all the juicy details.’
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