David clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent idea.’
‘I hope you don’t mean the early night?’
‘No, you crazy woman! I meant the hot chocolate. Or coffee, anyway. There’s a diner just around the corner from here. How about we grab a drink and maybe something to eat—seeing as both of us elected to leave before the banquet this evening?’
I paused for a moment—after all, this was the man whose betrayal I’d been running from for the past six-and-a-half years. But then it suddenly occurred to me: he was no longer a threat. My biggest fear had been seeing him again. Now I had done that and survived more or less unscathed by the experience. After all, I’d agreed to work on his wedding. There’s only so long you can maintain a position of being wronged: the best way I could show my strength in the situation now was to move on—and be seen to be moving on. I couldn’t do anything about the situation with Nate—that had been made clear to me this evening—and, while I was still on my guard with David, I found that I felt stronger than I had in a long, long time. It gave me an immense thrill to feel myself finally ready to move forward.
‘Sure,’ I smiled, taking him by surprise, ‘why not? Lead the way.’
Joe Junior’s Diner was the kind of Manhattan icon that you see whenever a film calls for a diner scene. A large chrome bar stretched the length of the room, with a whole assortment of New Yorkers sitting on tall stools huddled over hamburgers and enormous sandwiches, while other customers were seated on red leather bench seats. On every table were bowls of huge pickled gherkins, Heinz Tomato Ketchup bottles and stainlesssteel sugar pourers. Dean Martin crooned through the crackly speakers and everyone spoke much louder than they needed to, raucous laughter breaking through the general din of the restaurant, while several cross-room conversations batted back and forth over the customers’ heads.
At our table mid-way down the diner, David and I grasped hot coffee mugs and gazed out through misted windows at the black, asphalt-grey and neon cityscape beyond. David had ordered two large pieces of apple pie, which the waitress told us was ‘da specialty of da boss’, and as the scent of cinnamon, hot apple and warm pastry filled my nostrils, I discovered that I was actually hungry.
‘So, what was the real reason you were leaving?’ David asked, mid-mouthful. ‘It wasn’t on my account, I hope?’
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I replied, smiling to reassure him I wasn’t touting for a fight. ‘No, like I said, tough day. Ed and I were up at five this morning to pack the van.’
‘Ed? He’s your…?’
‘Co-designer.’
‘Oh.’
David’s eyes fell from mine and he stabbed at his apple pie self-consciously. ‘I just wondered…’
‘Ed’s my co-designer—and my best friend. I love him to bits and he looks out for me. It’s a good working relationship.’ When I put it that way, I couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that I hadn’t said enough; that, somehow, this succinct description didn’t do Ed justice. But it was all I could say: there were no words readily available to describe the rest.
‘I see. So,’ he raised his head again. ‘Is there—anyone?’
‘In my life? No. I’m quite happy as I am.’
‘I can see that.’ His eyes drifted to the window again and he was silent for a while.
Unsure what to do, I took another bite of apple pie and looked around the diner at the people crammed into every available space. Everyone was talking at once; whole conversations conducted simultaneously that, amazingly, everyone at the tables heard, digested and responded to. Ed often says the reason New York diners are like this is that nobody in the city has enough time to actually listen to a conversation because everyone is way too busy to do anything save draw breath—and even that has to have a schedule. Thinking of Ed caused me to catch my breath, which made David look back at me.
‘You OK?’
I pointed at my plate. ‘Hot pie,’ I lied, pretending to have burned my mouth.
David’s smile vanished as fast as it appeared. ‘Rosie, I have to know. Has there been anyone since…since I last saw you?’
His question hurt but I felt obliged to answer. ‘No,’ I replied, careful to keep my tone light and matter-of-fact. ‘But that was my decision.’
David blinked and shook his head. ‘Was it because of me—because of what I did?’
I looked down at my pie and didn’t answer.
It was enough of a reply for him. ‘I see.’
‘Did you order pastrami on rye?’ A middle-aged waitress wearing a uniform several sizes smaller than she needed appeared at our table, her singsong Bronx accent cutting into our conversation. ‘Or I have house cherry pie here?’
The interruption provided a moment for me to gather my thoughts and I took a slow sip of coffee as David confirmed that neither was our order.
‘OK, my mistake. You people have enough coffee?’
David looked at me and I held my hand up to refuse.
‘OK,’ the waitress replied, chewing gum and blessing us with the briefest flash of her nicotine-stained teeth. ‘That’s fine. En-joy.’
David leaned forward confidentially. ‘I should have lied. That cherry pie looked amazing.’
‘You always did have a sweet tooth.’ It had escaped my lips before I realised it. I looked away again.
‘Still have, I’m afraid.’
I smiled despite the stab of pain inside. ‘You’ll have to watch that if you want to fit into your tuxedo.’
‘I will.’ His hand reached uncertainly across the table and touched the back of mine with the lightest contact.
‘I’m so sorry, Rosie. You deserved much more than I gave you.’
Feeling braver, I looked straight into his eyes. ‘Yes, I did.’
He smiled. ‘Well, at least we agree on something.’
‘Finally, a breakthrough!’ We laughed and a small shard of mortar dislodged itself from the invisible wall between us.
‘Listen, are you still sure about Kowalski’s handling my—the wedding?’
‘We’re fine about it. My team are more than ready for the challenge, as I think we proved with the Ball tonight.’
‘I meant you, Rosie.’
Slowly, I withdrew my hand from underneath his fingers and cupped it around my coffee mug. ‘Yes, I’m fine. How are all the other preparations going?’
He gave me a rueful smile. ‘It’s like a military operation, what with my mother and Rachel’s mother—’ He broke off, concerned that he’d entered dangerous territory once more.
I decided to put his mind at ease, finding a vestige of comfort in the sense of progress it gave me. ‘So—tell me about Rachel.’
David blew out a whistle and rubbed his chin, betraying his nerves as he did so. ‘Rachel? Well, she’s—are you sure you want to hear about her?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.’
He stared at me for a moment, confusion passing across his eyes. ‘OK. Well, she’s a History professor at Yale—the youngest in her department—and I met her when my company was asked to develop a promotional campaign to attract new students. I hadn’t worked with educators before, so Rachel was brought on board as a consultant. We just kinda hit it off, I guess, and then things progressed from there. We’ve been together a little over eighteen months and it’s—it’s good.’
I smiled, picturing Rachel as a compliant, studious professor who no doubt followed David’s every whim without the least whiff of resistance. No wonder things were good for him. ‘It sounds like you’ve found something worth keeping, then.’
‘Yes. Yes, it feels that way, at least. I don’t know—I’m older, wiser, I guess. The whole “settling down” thing doesn’t scare me like it used to…Sorry.’
‘No—no, it’s fine.’ I stopped for a moment, unsure whether to continue.
‘You’re going to ask me if that’s what it was with us, aren’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I suppose I’ve always wondered what the reason was.
’
David sighed and reached across the table to gently take my hand again. ‘I was an idiot, Rosie. I freaked and didn’t have the guts to tell you. I’d gotten so carried away with the whole romance of the thing: the overblown proposal, the wedding plans, everything. The idea of it was so beguiling, so beautiful, that I just ran with it. Then the day before our wedding, when I could see it all finally happening for real, I was terrified. I couldn’t deal with the reality of for ever. That’s not to say I didn’t love you; I did, in my own way. But looking back I think I was more in love with the idea of marriage than I was with the actual deal. Even if I’d gone through with it, I don’t think I’d have stayed long—and that’s no indictment on you, Rosie, believe me, that’s just where I was. I felt like I was at the helm of a runaway railroad car, powerless to stop it. My only option was—to jump.’
I stared back at the man who had—as he put it—jumped out of my life, six and a half years ago, and now it made sense. Maybe I should have looked closer at the one-man-express train moving our wedding plans forward with such momentum. Maybe then I would have seen the fear in his eyes as I did now. ‘You should have told me, David. We could have worked it out or—or at least prevented that débâcle on the wedding day.’
‘My father said you were amazing,’ he ventured, letting go of my hand. ‘He said you were so strong and fearless. Dealing with all the fallout of my mistake, handling all the mess—he said you put me to shame.’
‘Your father took my job and paid me off,’ I replied, staring straight into his eyes. I may have been finally ready to understand David, but it would take a long time to forget his father’s actions. ‘I never heard anything from your family ever again. It was like they were punishing me in your place.’
‘I know, I know and, believe me, I have discussed this at length with my father. He reacted badly; he saw his family compromised by one of its own and panicked. He knows he was wrong. In fact, it was he who pointed out the article in the New York Times about your store. That’s how I knew you were here. Can you ever forgive me, Rosie?’
I let out a sigh and smiled at him ‘You know, I think I already have.’
Chapter Twenty-One
With the excitement of the Grand Winter Ball over, I was finally free to plan and prepare for my own Christmas. I have to say that, despite being relatively organised in everything else, when it comes to Christmas shopping, I actually like being disorganised. Running Kowalski’s demands a lot of my time, especially during the approach to the festive season, so it makes sense for me to do my Christmas shopping nearer the big day. And somehow leaving the gift-hunting until just before Christmas makes the whole thing more magical, if a little hectic. Consequently, I can nearly always be found dashing around shops on the morning of Christmas Eve, snapping up last-minute bargains for my friends and family. Sometimes it means that people receive quite random gifts for Christmas, but most of the time it means I have to think that little bit harder about what to buy and end up finding something really unusual.
This year was no exception. I spent the morning rushing round the small shops, boutiques and specialist book stores on the Upper West Side, selecting gifts, cards and brightly patterned wrapping paper, then visited Zabar’s for a few treats and essentials, before hauling my heavy bags thankfully into a waiting cab for the short journey to my apartment. While my aged coffee machine grumbled into life, I cleared the table, grabbed my scissors and sticky tape and started to wrap my purchases. I love this part of Christmas preparations: the ‘production line’ process of selecting gifts, wrapping them and writing tags, where you begin with countless bulging bags and end up with a pile of gorgeously inviting presents. This year, I’d made gift tags from glossy green holly leaves, writing the recipients’ names on each one with a gold pen and attaching them with brown parcel string. After an hour of frenzied cutting, wrapping and sticking, I sat back to admire my handiwork.
I had a quick lunch of tomato soup and rosemary focaccia, then I carefully repacked my bags with the heap of presents, headed downstairs and hailed a cab.
‘Present round, is it, lady?’ asked the tanned Italian-American cab driver, smiling a grin that the Cheshire Cat himself would be envious of.
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied. ‘And I can pay you for a whole afternoon, if that’s OK?’
‘Is it OK? Is it OK? Sure it’s OK, lady. You’re my Christmas come early—my wife will be thrilled. She’s had her eye on a hat in Bloomingdale’s for a month and she’s been like, “Tony, you get me that hat for Christmas or I’m leaving you for your cousin Marco.” But she won’t leave me, I know. Marco is an idiot and I cook a better lasagne than she’ll find this side of Napoli. Plus, my aunt Maria looks like a moose. My wife don’t want that moose for a mother-in-law, trust me. There’s no contest. So where we headed first, huh?’
It seemed that my penchant for finding and giving lastminute presents had rubbed off on my friends this year: Celia was out visiting family, so I left her gift with her next-door neighbour, Mrs Andrews, who promised to deliver it the moment Celia arrived home; Marnie and her sister were braving the crowds at Macy’s, so I posted her present through her letterbox, thanking my lucky stars that I’d bought her something small and unbreakable; and when I called Ed he said he had some errands to run but suggested he come round later to collect his gift. My other presents distributed, Tony drove me back to my apartment.
‘Happy Christmas,’ I said, handing over the fare, plus a generous tip. ‘I hope your wife likes her hat.’
‘She’d better,’ Tony grinned, ‘or else I’m leaving her for her cousin Margarita. Happy Holidays, lady!’
I have to admit that I probably love Christmas Eve even more than Christmas Day. It’s been this way since I was a child. Perhaps it’s the remnants of stardust from my Father Christmas-filled childhood dreams, or maybe it’s because Christmas Day always seems to be somewhat of an anti-climax when it actually arrives. Whatever the reason, the night before Christmas always offers a sense of wonder: a heady mixture of expectation, memories and truly indulgent warm fuzzy feelings.
I always boil a ham joint studded with cloves and cooked with bayleaves, which I then stuff inside the turkey on Christmas morning. It’s something I first did when I lived in London—a friend gave me the recipe—and its mouth-watering aroma adds to the Christmassy feel of my home. Mince pies and cookies are a Christmas Eve tradition for me as well: I love the floury, spicy endeavour of creating little pies and biscuits, the smell of their baking and the joy of seeing stacks of the finished product on cooling racks and plates.
Once the ham was on the hob and the pies and cookies cooling in the kitchen, I wandered back into my living room and admired the decorations. James used to call me a ‘tinsel-holic’ when we were younger, saying I was the only person he knew who could use enough tinsel to service an entire house for just one room. I’d toned down my festive adornments since then, opting for a mixture of classic floral garlands and poinsettias with unabashed kitsch baubles and twinkling lights. My favourite Christmas CD, purchased from a pound shop in England years ago, was playing away merrily—Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra crooning seductively through a selection of seasonal tunes. With the scents of cooking ham, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg and coffee combining with the sounds of classic crooners and the sight of my magnificent tree, the overall effect was wonderfully evocative and homely.
About eight o’clock, a knock summoned me to my front door—and there was Ed, trademark leather jacket pulled up around his cold rosy face and thick woollen scarf tied round his neck. His jeans were tucked into walking socks and his boots bore the merest hint of snow on their soles.
‘Come in, come in,’ I said, ushering him into the warmth of my apartment.
‘Wow,’ he breathed, ‘you really do the whole Christmas thing, huh?’
‘I do,’ I smiled happily. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘No, I can’t stay long, sorry,’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders apologetically. �
�I have the dubious honour of attending a Steinmann family Christmas gathering, so I’m headed there when I leave here.’
‘Sounds like fun,’ I smirked, walking into the kitchen to check on the ham.
Ed followed me into the living room, pausing to look at the tree by the window. ‘Oh, sure, three whole days of celebration with a family of psychiatrists. The after-dinner conversation is so analytical it’s like sitting in a perpetual rerun of Ally McBeal. So, I thought, who better to offer me the last bit of sanity I’m likely to witness this side of New Year than Rosie Duncan, New York’s finest florist?’
I joined him in the living room, handing him a hot mince pie from the stack in my kitchen. ‘How kind. Here, wrap your chops round this.’
‘You have such a delicate turn of phrase,’ Ed grinned, popping the whole pie into his mouth in one go, then puffing and blowing as the heat of the filling hit his tongue. ‘Mmwonderful,’ he mumbled, brushing crumbs from his lips. ‘These are good, Rosie. Wow. You are the epitome of the Christmas spirit, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed. Welcome to Rosie Duncan’s Tinseltown,’ I grinned, sitting on the arm of my sofa as Ed sunk into the armchair opposite. ‘It’s great to see you, anyhow.’
‘Well, you know, I had to come see what the famous tree looked like once you’d wreaked your artistic talents on it. After all, I’m partly the reason it’s here in the first place.’
‘Yes, you are,’ I grinned. ‘I hope you feel suitably proud?’
Ed placed a hand on his heart and faked an emotional response. ‘It’s—it’s—more magical than I could’ve ever dreamed,’ he gushed, a thoroughly wicked glint in his eyes. ‘So what about your family then? Do you miss them?’
I nodded. ‘A little. Mum will be visiting family—my cousin still lives nearby, so they tend to do Christmas Dinner together. Gran, who’s just turned ninety-three, will be celebrating with the other residents of her sheltered housing place up in Newcastle, probably consuming far too much sherry for her own good. And as for my brother, as far as I know he’s spending the holidays in Washington this year. To be honest, I actually like having a quiet Christmas by myself in my little apartment.’
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