R’n’B’s JOE STOP
It had amused Bea no end when she’d seen it, not least because Russ had kept the name a secret until he unveiled the sign. She loved him for many things, but his creativity remained what she most admired. Back at university, they had volunteered together for the drama society and ended up making props and decorating sets for the lavish productions laid on three times a year. As their ambition was always far grander than the available budget, their ingenuity at making plausible objects out of items they could beg or borrow for free had come to the fore. Many a time they had taken part in semi-illicit dumpster raids behind the university kitchens and offices to find discarded cardboard, plastic bottles and other rubbish to transform into expensive-looking props. Bea became chief finder, while Russ used his creative spark to see the potential in whatever his best friend could pilfer from the trash.
Thankfully, her days of jumping into skips and wheelie bins were long behind her, but Bea and Russ’ flair for creativity now characterised their business. The quotes and quips on the hand-drawn blackboard signs around the bookshop walls changed weekly, sometimes bestowing great wisdom from famous authors, other times denoting temporary special-interest areas in the store. The recent Zombie Corner, for example, had been a great success with the large contingent of students and artists in the area, although the sight of fifteen black-clad readers with zombie-style white contact lenses had given her nightmares for a week. Today, the former Undead reading zone had been replaced by the ‘Upper West Side Words’ corner, filled with books from the literary community of the area, championed so strongly by Celia.
‘Bea, honey, I’d like you to meet a very good friend of mine.’
Bea instantly recognised the smiling lady standing next to Celia and Stewart as one half of the happy couple from the engagement party. ‘Oh, hi.’ She thought for a moment, then added, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get to speak to you at your party, but congratulations on your engagement.’
Rosie Duncan smiled. ‘No problem. Thanks for coming.’
‘So – welcome to my bookstore.’
‘This is your place? It’s lovely.’
‘I own it with Russ.’ She scanned the crowd of guests and spotted him standing proudly behind the new coffee bar. ‘He’s serving coffee over there.’
Rosie nodded politely. ‘Books and coffee – great combination.’
‘As is flowers and coffee,’ Celia interrupted, giving Rosie an unnecessary push towards Bea in her excitement to contribute. ‘Rosie owns Kowalski’s florists’, in the Upper West Side. You remember that stunning floral display I had for my birthday? Rosie made that.’
Rosie waved away the compliment. ‘If it was up to Celia everybody in New York would be forced to buy their flowers at Kowalski’s. She’s very kind.’
‘I am,’ Celia grinned. ‘Now I have to circulate. So, talk, both of you.’ And with that she was gone, leaving a fragrant rush of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.
‘There goes the One Woman Whirlwind of the Upper West Side,’ Rosie chuckled. ‘But then, being Stewart’s sister, I bet you get to see that phenomenon all the time.’
A waiter stopped between them with a tray of mini Reuben sandwiches and Bea and Rosie both took one.
‘I do,’ Bea smiled. ‘She took some getting used to when I first met her.’
‘I’ve known her for years and I’m still getting used to it! So, whereabouts in England are you from?’
‘Northbridge, in Shropshire.’ It was nice to talk to a fellow English person after her many years in New York. ‘How about you?’
‘A little village called Stone Yardley, in the Black Country. Not sure if you’ve heard of it?’
Genuinely surprised, Bea nodded. ‘I have, as a matter of fact. My Grandma Dot has friends in the Stone Yardley WI. She’s a bit of a daredevil, despite being in her early nineties.’
Now it was Rosie’s turn to be taken aback. ‘They all are, aren’t they? My mum told me they went on a coasteering break in the south of France last month: a group of pensioners dressed in wetsuits jumping off cliffs into the sea – for fun! I laughed for a week when I heard that …’
Bea found herself liking Rosie intensely. At the engagement party she had been too caught up in her own self-consciousness to see what a confident, funny woman the florist was; now, as they chatted about their English roots, she was surprised to find how much they had in common. While she didn’t want to presume anything, Bea felt that Rosie could become a good friend. She’d had the same instinct when she first met Russ and Imelda. Grandma Dot called it ‘The Common Spark’.
‘People are like flint,’ she once told Bea, long before New York called her away from England, ‘and they walk around in life meeting other pieces of flint. Every now and again they find one they can create a spark with: the angles are just right and everything aligns. Then everything else is easy.’
Grandma Dot had a certain way with words that Bea hadn’t witnessed in anyone else, but each of her slightly left-field analogies contained wisdom beyond their strangeness. She missed her very much and often thought of her grandmother still working in the second-hand bookshop she owned in Ironbridge, just across the street from the actual iron bridge itself, the iconic symbol of the Industrial Revolution. Despite being in her nineties and employing both a shop manager and staff, Bea’s grandmother refused to take it easy at home, preferring to oversee the day-to-day running of the bookshop. Dot had problems with her hip and, consequently, couldn’t travel as easily as Bea’s other English family members. Because of this Bea felt the distance between them more acutely than she did with her parents.
‘You know, it’s been so lovely to talk to you,’ Rosie said, mirroring Bea’s thoughts. ‘And not just because we’re both Brits. If you ever fancy popping to Kowalski’s for a coffee and chinwag, you’d be very welcome. We have great coffee.’
Meeting Rosie and hearing her talk so animatedly about her business, Bea was keen to see the famous florist shop. ‘I’d love that.’
Rosie grinned. ‘Fantastic! Here’s my card – just give me a call when you want to visit.’
The sound of a glass clinking in the middle of the store drew Bea’s attention to Russ, who was standing on a chair.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Hudson River Books I would like to welcome you to this special event. Tonight we honour one of New York’s finest: a writer whose view of the city has entertained and informed us for many years. We celebrate the launch of her very first collection of columns, a book that already has “bestseller” written all over it. And, by the way she’s glaring at me, I can tell I’ve said enough …’
Laughter bounced around the guests and Russ beamed, the performer in him lapping it up.
‘So, I give you … Ms Celia Reighton!’
Warm applause filled the bookstore and Russ stepped aside to let Celia take the floor. She refused his offer of the chair to stand on and instead raised her glass.
‘I think I’m tall enough without that, thank you. Friends, it means the world that you’re here tonight. This book has been a long time coming – or a myth in the making, if you listen to my editor …’ A short, wiry-looking woman nearby laughed in agreement. ‘But miracles do happen, as Elspeth discovered when I finally delivered my manuscript.’
‘It was worth waiting for,’ Elspeth replied, eliciting a benevolent smile from Celia.
‘See? That’s why we make a crack publishing team! I have many, many people to thank for the contents of this book – most of whom will never know what they inspired or recognise themselves from my descriptions – but that’s what makes New York its fabulous, cantankerous self. In particular I want to recognise the great input I’ve received from the unique wit of our city’s cab drivers.’
Celia’s guests laughed again, knowing only too well the caustic observations of yellow cab drivers she frequently referred to in her column.
‘Most of all, I have you all to thank. My closest and dearest friends are in this room: both
those I’ve known forever and those I’ve just met. I appreciate your support and I hope you will all think of this poor, starving writer and part with your greenbacks to make sure I can feed Stewart for the next few months …’
Celia’s signing table became the focus of the guests for the next hour, keeping Russ and Bea busy with replenishing boxes of her new book, My NY, as they rapidly emptied.
‘This is going to blow our monthly sales record,’ Russ beamed at Bea as she passed him another box of books. ‘I’m glad we ordered so many!’
Bea had to agree, amused by the way Russ had conveniently forgotten his heated argument earlier with her about the number of books she was ordering in. It didn’t matter now: this evening was a resounding success, proving to all present that Hudson River Books could hold its own with important literary events. That in turn could open up all kinds of possibilities. And Bea was determined to take advantage of every one …
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Bea arrived back at her apartment, exhausted but very happy. The evening had been a resounding success, sealed with Celia’s delightedly tipsy approval and an end-of-night hug from Russ, signalling that all was well between them again. As they cleared the party debris long after the last guest had left, Russ had put down the rubbish bag he was carrying and approached her.
‘Hey, I was a jerk earlier. Forgive me?’
‘There’s nothing to forgive. We were both stressed – it’s what we do.’
Russ gave a wry smile. ‘It is. But I was still a jerk. And you were right: about the number of books, about what I was wearing, all of it.’ He held out his arms. ‘Hug it out?’
Bea grinned at the memory as she changed out of her evening dress and kicked off her high heels to sink her feet into the welcome comfort of her slippers. Russ might be the worst person to try to win an argument with, but he would always eventually admit if he was wrong. That was part of what made them such a good team: they were as evenly matched in disputes as they were in collaboration. Most people didn’t understand this: Imelda was convinced one day they would find a subject on which neither was willing to back down and that would be the end of their friendship. Even Otis – firm friends with Russ for nearly ten years – had been flummoxed by their relationship.
‘How can you fight like that and not hate each other?’ he would ask Bea whenever she arrived at his apartment glowering after the latest run-in with her best friend.
Bea had tried to explain many times that she and Russ would always veer from felicity to irritation and back, but Otis couldn’t see what she could in their unorthodox friendship. The point was, Russ had been her closest ally through the highs and lows of the last fifteen years of her life; and that counted for a great deal.
Still buzzing with adrenaline from Celia’s book launch, Bea settled down in front of late night television with a snack and a huge mug of hot chocolate. She picked up her laptop from the coffee table and absent-mindedly flicked through her unopened emails. Nestled between offers from clothing companies and notifications of the latest book reviews from national newspapers was a message that made her heart flip.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Every little thing
Hello darling Bea,
Of course I heard about your awful ordeal (your mum filled me in) and I had to check how my favourite granddaughter is doing.
First of all, let me say that I am disappointed beyond words in that young man. I hope you have sent him running with a flea in his ear. You deserve more, sweetheart, but then I think you’ve probably come to that conclusion already. We are, after all, cut from the same cloth, you and I.
So, how is life in that big city? I know it’s where your heart belongs but I must confess that at times like this it feels far too far away for comfort. I remember our many talks about matters of the heart in my bookshop during your teenage years and I wish it could be as simple now for me to be of help to you. Back then, we would hide in the old leather armchairs I inherited from Great-Gramps and raid my secret sweetie tin, which went a long way to solving whatever dilemma we were discussing, as I recall. How I wish we could do that now!
Your mother has promised to help me put that Skype thing on my computer when she and your father get back from their holiday adventure, so at least I will be able to see you. Whoever thought we would be able to talk through computer screens to one another! I’ll feel like I am in Star Trek, I’m sure of it.
For now, tell me your news. How are you feeling? What are your thoughts about Otis and your future? Send me a message as soon as you can, if for no other reason than to appease your fretting grandmother.
Fondest love, my darling,
Grandma Dot xx
Bea was struck with a deep longing to see Grandma Dot again. It had been far too long since they had both been on the same side of the world and she missed her grandmother’s unconventional take on life. Most of her school days had been characterised by the conversations they had shared in Great-Gramps’ armchairs, munching Love Hearts and Refresher Bars in secret. Her mum would have been shocked to see how much sugar her mother and daughter consumed during Bea’s visits to the Severnside Book Emporium.
The truth was, right now Bea needed Grandma Dot’s wisdom. With Celia’s book launch done – and her main distraction removed – Bea’s thoughts returned to the conversation she’d had at Rosie’s engagement party. Imelda’s insistence that Bea should have procured the barman’s number hadn’t helped to remove the memory of Jake and the pact they’d made; neither had the growing realisation that very few people understood her reasons for staying single from now on. During the short amount of time she had talked with Jake, she had enjoyed the experience of being understood.
It shouldn’t have mattered – it was a small thing after all – but Bea wondered if she had maybe missed an opportunity. That was enough to create an itch in her brain and she knew if she didn’t do something about it soon, it could become far bigger than it should be.
There was only one thing for it …
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Every little thing
Hi Grandma Dot,
It was so lovely to hear from you! How are you? Any news on the dreaded hip operation? I hope they get it sorted for you soon.
I’m fine, honestly. The family meal was the last in a very long line of straws for Otis and me. And, actually, I feel better knowing that a line has finally been drawn underneath that season of my life. It’s freed me to focus on the bookshop and on the areas of my life that I know I can make a success. I’m very content and the rest of my life is going well.
Except for just one thing. And this is where I need your advice because it’s just possible that you are the only person who will understand it.
Recently, I met somebody. I think he had the potential to be a good friend. We talked about loving New York and how embarrassing it was to be the only two single people at an engagement party (yes, that’s another one for the Life Experiences file!). I liked his sense of humour and he seemed to be amused by mine, too. I can’t remember when I last felt so understood by someone. And yet, I actually know nothing about him, other than he is going through a divorce and despairs of relationships as much as I do. It’s silly, but I wish I knew more.
The problem is, I didn’t ask if he would like to talk again some time. He didn’t ask me, either, so quite why I feel it’s a missed opportunity confuses me. It could just be part of the fallout from the end of my relationship with Otis, of course. But I feel like I need to make friends with people who know me right now, not who I was with Otis. What do you think? Have I completely lost the plot? I would love to know what you think. I promise I will have copious amounts of sweets handy when I read your reply, so it will almost be as good as our chats in Great-Gramps’ armchairs …
Miss you lots,
; Bea xxx
She pressed send and leaned back against the sofa cushions.
How do I get myself in these situations?
The question bounced hollowly around her head and didn’t find an answer. Tired and frustrated with herself, Bea put her laptop back on the coffee table, knocking off something which fluttered to the floor. She bent down to pick it up, reading the inscription on the elegant business card:
ROSIE DUNCAN – Proprietor
Kowalski’s Florist
~ Where beautiful things happen ~
Corner of West 68th & Columbus, Upper West Side, New York
Bea turned the card over and over in her fingers, her mind returning to the conversation she’d had with Rosie that evening. If it was a new friend she needed, Rosie would be a strong contender. They had a lot in common and it would be good to talk to a fellow Brit in New York.
‘Pop in anytime you fancy a chat,’ Rosie had offered. ‘We have great coffee …’
Bea smiled as she made her decision.
She was going to Kowalski’s.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jake’s practice, McKevitt Buildings, Broadway
Desiree Jackson was a one-woman wonder. In the short time since Jake hired her, she had already revolutionised the way he ran his business. And that was some feat, considering that his business wasn’t even operational yet. Even though Desiree had no experience of managing a psychiatry practice, she had taken to the task like an incredibly forthright duck to water. Her instincts were spot-on and there was very little advice or guidance Jake could offer to better her service.
She wasn’t just good at her job; she was scarily good at it.
As she whizzed around the reception area, Jake retreated to the safety of his office to call Pam.
‘How’s the new girl?’ Pam asked.
‘She’s not a girl. She’s a woman. And she terrifies me,’ Jake whispered, keeping one eye on the door in case Desiree came in.
I'll Take New York Page 10