Fairytale of New York

by Miranda Dickinson

  He grinned. ‘Trade you anyday.’ Reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket, he produced a small, exquisitely wrapped box and handed it to me. ‘Here. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, mate—thank you. It looks fabulous.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I didn’t wrap it. I just sweet-talked the lady in the shop and she did it for me,’ he admitted. ‘But hey, she did a great job.’

  I retrieved his present from underneath the tree and gave it to him. ‘Merry Christmas right back.’

  ‘Wow, Rosie, you didn’t have to…Who am I kidding? Of course you did. I am, after all, your bestest bud in the whole wide world, not to mention your über-talented co-designer. Listen, don’t open yours till tomorrow, OK? Kind of a tradition thing with us Steinmanns.’

  ‘All right. Well, the same goes for you, then. Wouldn’t want you breaking with tradition on my behalf.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled. Presents tomorrow and not before.’

  A question that had been buzzing around my mind all day chose the next moment to present itself again. ‘So, have you given your Specific Someone a gift this year?’

  Ed stared at me, suddenly a little unsure. ‘Yes,’ he answered finally, ‘yes I have.’

  I ignored the thud of disappointment in the pit of my stomach. ‘Ed, that’s wonderful! Well done. Does she know how you feel about her yet?’

  He laughed. ‘Nope. She has no idea.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should tell her.’

  He wasn’t convinced by this suggestion. ‘You think?’

  ‘Absolutely. Make it a New Year’s Resolution to let her know you like her. Or else how are you ever going to know if she feels the same?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m pretty sure she doesn’t. I think I would have gotten the vibe by now.’

  ‘Mate, some people are very good at hiding their hearts.’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’

  His question knocked me sideways a little. ‘Yes, I suppose. Oh, come on, you know me. I spent six and a half years of my life hiding the truth about what happened in Boston and it took the man who jilted me turning up unannounced to make me open up about it.’

  ‘So you reckon I have to be a low-life guy with no common sense and a fear of commitment who sneaks up on her in order to get the truth out?’

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant, you nut. But you can’t expect her to know you like her if you don’t tell her. You might be surprised at her response.’

  A wry smile made itself at home on Ed’s lips. ‘Maybe I’ll try that, boss.’ He checked his watch and stood up. ‘Now I have to go or else my family will be calling the hospitals to trace my surely broken little body. Come here.’ He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me tight against the spicy-scented warmth of his battered jacket. ‘Promise me you’ll always be you, Rosie Duncan. Don’t feel you have to hide from me again, ever.’ His breath was comfortingly warm as he kissed the crown of my head.

  ‘I won’t, I promise,’ I murmured into his jacket, allowing myself to revel in the feeling of security his arms around me provided, listening to the sound of his beating heart.

  Breaking the hug he looked at me for a moment, then turned to leave. ‘Merry Christmas, Rosie,’ he called over his shoulder as I watched him walk down the hall.

  During the holidays I make and receive a lot of phone calls: Mum, Gran, James, Celia (although I receive many, many times more calls back from her when her family are driving her to distraction, which is pretty much most of the Christmas break) and my friends from school, who I’m still in touch with. But the person I look forward to speaking to the most is Ben. Although we tend to email each other throughout the year, together with countless weekend phone calls, our indulgent hour-long Christmas Eve conversations are the ones I covet most. We normally spend the majority of the call talking about him: what’s happening in Boston, how Harvard is faring with the latest intake of students, what new weird and wonderful extreme sport he’s discovered and what relationships he’s had, is in, or is planning to enter. This year, however, I had a lot to tell him. Once he’d recovered from the shock revelation of David’s reappearance, his questions came thick and fast.

  ‘How many times have you seen him?’

  ‘Three times. The last time we went for coffee and it was good.’

  ‘Did he explain himself at all? Was he apologetic? Or the old, arrogant Lithgow we all know and hate?’

  ‘He was very apologetic. He explained what had happened and he kept saying sorry for it all. He was most unlike the old David: older, more thoughtful.’

  ‘Heck, Rosie, what did you say to him?’

  ‘I told him exactly how I felt. I didn’t let him off lightly.’

  ‘But you went for coffee with the man! What were you thinking?’

  ‘Ben, relax! It was unexpected but it turned out well. We were able to have a really frank conversation about everything and I think we laid a lot of ghosts to rest.’

  ‘You’re falling for him again, aren’t you?’

  I couldn’t believe he could even consider that as a possibility after all this time. ‘No! Absolutely not! If anything, it’s made me realise I don’t feel that way about him any more. Besides, I’m working on his wedding—I’d hardly be doing that if I still had feelings for him, would I?’

  ‘I suppose not. Oh, Rosie, be careful with that man. I know you’ve cleared the air between you and, believe me, nobody could be happier about that than me. But I don’t believe he’s all changed now. People just don’t.’

  ‘People make mistakes, Ben. I have to believe what he told me, otherwise how can I ever move on?’

  A long sigh travelled all the way to my ear from Boston. ‘I don’t want you to ever have to go through what I saw you go through again, OK?’

  ‘I know, mate. Thanks.’

  ‘So how’s Ed doing?’

  It seemed like an odd question. Ben had met Ed a couple of times when he’d visited New York and I was aware they had instantly found a lot in common, particularly baseball. ‘Erm, he’s fine.’

  ‘It’s just that in your last email you mentioned him a lot.’

  ‘Did I?’

  Ben’s laugh was warm. ‘Only about fifteen times. Something happen with you guys?’

  ‘No, of course not. Stop teasing me.’

  ‘I’m not. I am merely stating a fact: you talked about him a lot.’

  I shook my head, even though Ben couldn’t see it. ‘Well, I wasn’t aware of it. We’ve been working together a lot this month, so I guess that’s why.’

  ‘Whatever. Now, tell me more about this Nate bloke.’

  There wasn’t much to tell. Since the Grand Winter Ball, he’d more or less kept himself to himself—and, to be honest, that suited me fine. Later that evening, Mum called. She reeled off the usual details of what she was doing, who she’d seen, what her plans were over the Christmas break and so on—but there was something different about the tone of her voice that made me feel uneasy.

  When she’d finished speaking, I had to ask what was troubling her.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing, dear,’ she replied, completely unconvincingly.

  ‘Mum—come on. I know there’s something on your mind.’

  There was a pause. ‘I think James is in trouble.’

  My Christmas Eve cheer dissolved instantly. ‘Why? What’s he said?’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything, Rosie, it’s just that when I spoke to him this morning he was very…evasive.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I asked him what he was planning for Christmas and his answer was incredibly vague. You know your brother, darling, he’s usually in a hurry to tell me every detail of all the fabulous parties he’s been invited to and all the beautiful women he’s dating. But he wasn’t like that today. It was—and I know I’m going to sound completely paranoid when I say this—but it was almost like he was annoyed that I’d asked him about it. Then he made some preposterous excuse about having to dash off for a meeting—on Christmas
Eve, I ask you—and disappeared. Do you know anything? Did he say anything to you when he visited a while ago?’

  I decided not to mention the phone conversation I’d overheard, nor the scant details I had received from Celia. ‘No, he didn’t tell me anything. Look, I’m sure it’s fine, Mum. He’s probably just got himself into another mess with a girl and he doesn’t want to talk about it yet.’

  ‘I do hope you’re right, darling,’ Mum replied. ‘Promise me you’ll keep an eye on him? Washington is so very far away from Stone Langley and I feel awful that I can’t take care of my lovely boy.’

  I promised I would and said goodbye. Slumping back into my armchair, I rubbed my eyes. I didn’t want to deal with the questions dangling dangerously in my head. What with David’s re-emergence, the strange situation with Ed, and Christmas on the way, I felt neither prepared nor inclined to tackle any of it this year. All I wanted was a nice, quiet Christmas, enjoying it in my own way and resting before the bustle of the New Year began.

  Christmas morning was bright and sparkly, a sharp frost the night before giving the snow outside a coating of glitter in the pale December sunlight. I woke early—even though I was spending the day alone, I wanted to enjoy every last minute of it—and pulled on my super-thick white towelling robe, which is several sizes too big for me so it’s excessively snuggly. Padding through to the living room in my slippers, I switched on the tree lights and paused to admire the sight and scent of my tree. Then I grabbed the pile of unopened Christmas cards from the mantelpiece and shuffled through to the kitchen to coax Hissy into something resembling activity. Coffee mug in hand, I picked a couple of mince pies from the pile on the cooling rack and made my way back to the living-room table.

  Remembering Ed’s gift from last night, I retrieved it from under my tree and sat down to carefully unwrap it. Inside was a small, square, red velvet box that creaked as I opened it. Lying on a padded bed of black velvet was an antique brooch in the shape of a rose—rose quartz and emerald-green paste stones forming its petals, stem and leaves. I suddenly remembered that, on one of our trips to Greenwich Village a few months back, we had visited a tiny antiquities store and Ed had taken great pleasure in mocking me about the reaction I’d had to so many sparkly jewellery pieces in one place.

  ‘You’re such a girl,’ he’d grinned.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ I had smiled back. ‘I love this stuff. My gran always says that they don’t make jewellery like they used to and I agree with her. Costume jewellery like this, it’s—well, it’s magical. You can pretend to be a princess when you’re wearing one of these.’

  Looking at the brooch I now held in my hands, I felt the same childlike thrill shimmering through me as I had in that store. This was by far the most unusual present Ed had ever given me and the surprise of it, coupled with the depth of feeling bestowed by his choice, moved me to tears. Wiping my eyes and laughing at my utter girliness, I picked up the stack of Christmas cards.

  I was halfway through opening them when I heard a knock at my front door. Opening the door, I was surprised to see no one standing there. Reasoning it must be someone’s kids in the building playing Christmas pranks, I was about to close the door when I noticed a small brown woven basket with the most amazing arrangement of winter white and Christmas red roses, complemented by dark green palm leaves curled and pinned to make a bouquet effect. Bending down to pick it up, I saw a card nestling amid the blooms. Opening the envelope, I walked back into my apartment as I read the typed note:

  May your days be merry and bright,

  For you deserve the happiest of all Christmases.

  xx

  I heard the door at the entrance to my apartment block slam and hurried to the window, just in time to see a yellow cab pulling slowly away along the snow-edged street. Turning the card over I saw a company name from Lower Manhattan—Turner’s—one I wasn’t familiar with. Sitting back at my table, I placed the basket in front of me and turned it slowly, inspecting every inch of its composition. The style wasn’t one I could identify, either. Mum often says that each florist signs their work—not physically like an artist would, but in the composition and arrangement of the flowers. Working in New York during the past six years, I have come to recognise most of the major florists’ styles. But this particular arrangement threw me completely. Mentally I compiled a list of possible senders. I discounted James (too thoughtful a gesture to come from him), Celia (she wouldn’t send something anonymously as she prefers to bask in the glory of her generosity), David (not something he’d do, and he didn’t know my address anyway), Marnie (she’d be more likely to send me a magazine subscription or kooky handmade jewellery than flowers) and Ed (as he’d never send flowers he hadn’t designed himself). The only remaining possibility was Nate; yet I couldn’t understand why he would choose Christmas Day to send me flowers when the most contact we’d had since Mimi’s event were three text messages. Unless he was trying to say sorry, perhaps? Or maybe attempting to let me know that his loved-up performance at the Grand Winter Ball was just that—an elaborate pantomime for the crowds?

  Thinking about everything was too much, especially on Christmas Day. So I pushed the quandary away, switched on my TV, found a channel showing White Christmas and snuggled down for a wonderfully quiet day.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  No matter what situation I find myself in, I always expect the start of a New Year to be positive. Somehow, with the old year packed away and a fresh one laid out before you like clean linen, it’s possible to believe that anything could happen during the next twelve months.

  I have kept a diary ever since I was a little girl. My diaries help me to make sense of life. They demonstrate my ability to cope with problems and remind me of my dreams and aspirations. And they make me laugh when I read them with ageeducated eyes, years from when the first tear-stained words were scribbled on the pages. As a personal ritual, every New Year’s Day I always revisit the January 1st entry in the preceding year’s diary, partly to remind myself where I’ve come from but also to see which of my hopes for that year actually came to fruition. It never ceases to amaze me how much I’ve achieved, or how many of my dreams remain unfulfilled. Some would argue that I never learn; I would say I never stop believing the best is yet to come.

  After all the unexpected events of the past couple of months, this ritual now took on a greater significance than before for me. But I wasn’t prepared for the difference between last year’s page and my latest New Year’s entry. Gone was the timid optimist, hopeful for the future yet too hurt by the past to really grasp the year ahead; in her place was someone I barely recognised: confident, happy to discuss her feelings, looking at the year ahead as one big possibility. Even though I knew that finally facing David had laid ghosts to rest for me, I was still shocked by the change I saw in my own expansive handwriting. A deepening closeness with Ed, my conflicted feelings for Nate and my reaction to meeting David again were all documented—where previously I would have shied away even from committing my feelings to these private pages.

  Buoyed by this, I embarked on January’s tasks with a sense of renewed purpose and vigour. Our order book was the healthiest it had been for several years, with three large weddings between January and David’s nuptials in March—and now that the prospect of the Lithgow ceremony no longer filled me with such dread, the future looked promising.

  I mentioned to Ed and Marnie about my mysterious Christmas Day delivery, but both of them claimed to know nothing about it. Celia was over the moon that such a delicious conundrum should happen to me—and instantly assumed that Nate was the secret sender. I still wasn’t sure: as the weeks passed and January neared its end, I received nothing but polite text messages—so the idea of him sending the flowers as a covert message seemed ludicrous. Eventually, I gave up, as other more pressing things vied for my attention. Kowalski’s remained as busy as it had been before Christmas—something neither I nor my staff had witnessed before. With increased sales, we were able
to take on two of the grads permanently, the extra pairs of hands invaluable as the wedding orders were completed.

  Ed said no more about his Specific Somebody, but he was different somehow—more reserved, more contemplative than usual. The Steinmann Wit still remained gloriously present, so I reasoned that he was working things out and would seek my advice when he needed it. Despite my genuine pleasure for him, a part of me felt slightly removed from him all of a sudden, as if he were imperceptibly moving away from me, like a fractured ice sheet in spring. With the David situation put to rest in my mind, I began to notice an unfamiliar pull in my heart—a need to consider the future and where it might take me. In my braver moments, I even found myself contemplating the possibility of loving someone again—although this was quickly shelved the moment my insecurities kicked in. Watching Ed pursuing—albeit at a snail’s pace—the woman he longed for, caused an oddly heady mix of sadness and hope to wash over my soul. Maybe, if the great Iceberg himself could let someone in, there was hope for me yet.

  On the last day of January, news about my brother broke.

  It began with a series of phone calls to Kowalski’s from journalists, demanding to speak to me (Ed fended off every attempt), followed by several hacks coming into my shop on the pretence of placing orders, trying to score an exclusive interview. I hid in the workroom, being brought cups of Old F’s finest decaf whilst Ed, Marnie and Jack insisted I wasn’t in. Not even able to go home—as I was reliably informed by a neighbour that the press had set up camp outside my apartment building—Celia arranged for a car to pick me up at the rear of the shop and bring me to her office. By the time I arrived, CNN and ABC had both picked up on the story, with the BBC not far behind them.