One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story)

by Mandy Baggot

  The door of his office opened and Clara breezed in. He hurriedly minimised the screen.

  ‘Have you given up on knocking, Clara?’

  ‘I’m sorry. When you told me you weren’t working late tonight I presumed you wouldn’t still be here at eight p.m.’ She slipped some files into his in-tray.

  ‘And what are you still doing here? Has husband number two left you?’

  The expression that filled every inch of her face told him that his attempt at a joke hadn’t gone down so well.

  ‘I was just packing up,’ Clara said, turning her back on him and heading for the door.

  ‘Hey, wait up a second.’ He stood up and his movement or maybe his words made her stop. ‘You haven’t explained why you’re still here.’

  She faced him again. ‘You don’t need to concern yourself with the answer, Oliver. I turn up on time every day and I work late. I am the model employee.’

  ‘I’m not saying you aren’t.’ He tried again. ‘Have I missed something?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘So everything is OK in the house of Fortaine?’

  ‘Oliver, this has never been something we talk about.’

  He nodded his head. She was right. He had always drawn the lines very succinctly. Emotional attachment of any kind was time and effort wasted. But Clara had worked for him since he’d taken over, for his father years before that. For business purposes he should know a little of what was going on in her personal life, shouldn’t he? If she was distracted at home it might make her distracted at work. He drew in a breath. He’d started this now, there was no going back.

  ‘I know we don’t. But I’m asking you now. What’s going on?’

  The question was broad enough to draw out a response. He put his hands on the back of his chair, pressing the leather underneath his fingers. He could see Clara was struggling with this. Why had he said something so flippant without thought?

  ‘I don’t know if he’s going to be there,’ she admitted through a tapered breath.

  Oliver didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected Clara to be so honest. Now he was way out of his area of expertise. Flattery was the extent of his talent with women. Comforting was never part of his agenda.

  ‘We’re going through a difficult patch at the moment,’ Clara elaborated.

  She was wringing her hands together, pushing and pulling at the skin, and he didn’t know what to do. He was no good with stuff like this. It freaked him out.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ It sounded pathetically weak and a little insincere. But it was all he could come up with.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anyone else. I mean, who would put up with him? He’s lazy and ungrateful and his psoriasis is very bad at the moment,’ Clara continued.

  Oliver moulded his fingers into the fabric of the chair a little more, trying to work out how to make this situation he’d created a whole lot better. Should he let her talk? Just stand there and listen? Weren’t people supposed to feel like a weight had been taken off just by talking their load away? That’s what the therapists had tried to tell his mother anyway.

  ‘It’s been like this since he lost his job.’ Clara sighed. ‘He worked for that company for twenty years and in the end it counted for nothing.’

  He moved quietly, coming around his desk and pulling out the seat opposite his desk. He didn’t need to do anything else, Clara was already lowering herself down into it.

  ‘It does something to a man,’ Clara continued. ‘When you give everything you have to a role you love, dedicate yourself to a company like that and then all you’ve ever known is just taken away so fast.’

  She was struggling to hold back the tears now. This was a big deal to her. When had she started struggling so much? He hadn’t noticed anything at work. Or was that merely because he hadn’t been looking? Because he was always so blinkered by what was going on in his own life?

  Clara carried on. ‘I’ve tried to get him to look for something else but he just can’t see past the stigma of being made redundant. Because he thought he was never going to work any place else, he thinks he can’t work any place else.’

  Oliver racked his brain trying to remember what it was Clara’s husband did. He didn’t even recall his name. Mike? Mark?

  Then it was like Clara came to and she turned her head, focussing on him.

  ‘Oh, Oliver, I’m so sorry.’ She got to her feet. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking. You don’t want to hear about all this. And I shouldn’t be bringing it into work.’ She got to her feet, straightening her jacket.

  ‘You haven’t been bringing it into work.’ He paused. ‘And I asked.’

  ‘I know but …’

  ‘Why don’t you have tomorrow off?’ Where had that idea come from? He had never done that in his life before and the absolute shock on Clara’s face told him she thought he was ailing for something.

  ‘No, that’s ridiculous. I’m fine,’ she insisted.

  ‘I know you’re fine. I’m just suggesting you take a day, spend some time with …’ He really couldn’t remember her husband’s name.

  ‘William,’ Clara offered.

  ‘Yes. Just take a day, Clara.’ He swallowed. A feeling he wasn’t familiar with began to take a stranglehold on him. It was the McArthur Foundation website. Looking at that had turned him into a ball of weakness. He put a hand on one of the buttons of his jacket and fastened it up.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Clara asked, her voice soft and full of vulnerability.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’ He threw an arm towards the door. ‘Now get out of here, get some takeout, go home.’

  He watched her take one step and then she stopped, looking back at him.

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Me?’ What was he going to do? He’d been riding the crest of business success earlier. He wished he’d never opened the stupid website. It had killed his mood. He couldn’t let that happen.

  ‘I’m going to go home, get a shower, call Tony and head out into the bright lights of the city.’

  ‘No more Chinese food,’ Clara said as a warning.

  ‘Perhaps Spanish tonight.’

  Clara took a breath and gathered herself. ‘Thank you, Oliver.’

  He waved a hand quickly, almost desperately. He couldn’t handle any more sentiment. ‘Go home.’

  She smiled again and headed towards the door. Just as she was about to cross the threshold Oliver had an urge to stop her, to ask her if she’d finished the letter to Luther Jameson. He hadn’t signed the cheque yet. He could change his mind. He could give the McArthur Foundation fundraiser his support. He could speak there, he could take his load off.

  As the thought of standing up in front of a function room of people soaked into him, he felt his heart convulse and he had to swallow down the nausea. Clara waved a hand at him and it was all he could do not to throw up. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t changing his mind. It was inconceivable and that was the way it was going to stay.

  18

  Vipers Nightclub, Downtown Manhattan

  ‘I shouldn’t have eaten so many burritos.’ Tony let out a belch, one hand on his chest.

  ‘You think?’ Oliver said. ‘I’d guess it was the two sides of fries that really did it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘Because both of us having heart attacks and going together might be kind of cool.’

  Tony swiped a hand out, catching Oliver on the shoulder. ‘Asshole.’

  Oliver smiled. The music in the club was thudding through his body, banging his ribcage, pulsing through every internal organ and he was relishing it. He wanted this buzz, he needed to be part of this life. People filled the dance floor, their bodies moving to the sounds of Bruno Mars and Jason Derulo, swirling under glitter balls and bright white Christmas lights. Garlands decked the windows, tinsel hung from contemporary art on the walls, the holidays were coming and everyone here was hungry for it. Except him. Because
he didn’t want anything to stop. He needed to be busy, vital, involved in the fabric of something, to stop himself from thinking too much. Like today when he’d clicked on that website and given Clara the day off. Weak.

  He put the bottle of beer to his mouth and let his eyes rove over the clientele. They were spoiled for choice here. There was a group of women to their right joining the dance floor. Despite the snow outside, they were dressed to impress in figure-fitting dresses that didn’t leave much to the imagination. The blonde of the party looked Oliver’s way, sending him a mere hint of a smile. He raised his beer bottle a little, just to show interest. She moved her hips in time to the next track as it came through the speakers and he admired what he saw. Tonight was going to be a good night. He could just feel it.

  ‘I’m seeing this,’ Tony said, nudging Oliver’s ribs with his elbow. ‘Why do they always notice you first?’

  ‘Don’t knock it. It means they get to notice you at all.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Come on,’ Oliver said, stepping towards the group of ladies.

  Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan

  ‘Did you know that Central Park was originally opened in 1857?’

  ‘Did you know if you don’t put that guidebook down I’m going to start eating your pizza,’ Hayley said, playfully.

  They were sat around the large dining table eating pizza Vernon had made from scratch in about ten minutes. It was the most divine-tasting base Hayley had ever had and it seemed her brother’s partner was turning out to be a catch in every department. If only she could meet someone like that instead of being set upon by the likes of Greg.

  Hayley drained the wine from her glass in one mouthful then took a look at her watch. It was almost ten o’clock and she couldn’t help feeling that Angel should really be in bed. It was the second late night in as many days and coupled with the jet lag it didn’t bode well for tomorrow. She also had plans of her own for tonight. Plans that didn’t involve the company of a nine-year-old. Vipers nightclub.

  ‘What was your favourite animal at the zoo?’ Vernon asked, topping up Dean and Hayley’s wineglasses.

  ‘Oh I loved the sea lions,’ Angel announced. ‘Did you know that sea lions can stay under the water for up to forty minutes?’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Vernon answered.

  ‘The longer you know Angel, the greater your life’s knowledge will be, trust me,’ Hayley said, picking up a piece of pizza.

  ‘The only thing Mum is an expert on is EastEnders,’ Angel piped up.

  Hayley put a hand to her chest and looked shocked. ‘You’ve burned me! I also happen to be an expert on hits of the year 2000.’

  ‘That takes me back. 2000, pleather before it was pleather and Madonna’s “Music”,’ Dean said.

  ‘I concur. I graced a few dance floors to that one,’ Vernon joined in.

  ‘You never did!’ Dean said, smiling.

  ‘Just because we haven’t been out dancing yet doesn’t mean I can’t,’ Vernon said.

  ‘OK, Fred and Ginger, no spats at the dinner table,’ Hayley said.

  ‘Did you know Madonna is afraid of thunder?’ Angel said, sipping from her glass of Coke.

  ‘What? You’ve made that up,’ Hayley said.

  Angel shook her head. ‘I read it somewhere.’

  Hayley nudged Vernon’s arm. ‘See what I mean? Child genius.’

  Angel smiled and looked at Dean. ‘We met Mr Meanie’s personal assistant today, Uncle Dean.’

  ‘I’ve heard all about it,’ Dean replied.

  ‘And we really don’t need to hear any more,’ Hayley added. She screwed her face up at Angel, pushing her tongue forward in her mouth and jutting out her chin.

  ‘Isn’t that a form of swearing in America?’ Angel asked loudly.

  ‘So what did you think of the offices?’ Dean asked.

  ‘It’s massive! How many floors does it have?’ Angel asked.

  ‘You mean you don’t know,’ Hayley teased.

  ‘Eighty. And it’s quite a workout if you take the stairs,’ Dean answered.

  ‘Do you have to rehydrate at the top?’ Angel held her empty glass aloft. ‘Can I have some more Coke?’

  ‘I’ll get you some,’ Vernon said, rising from his chair.

  ‘Oh, Angel, go with him. He has trouble with the ice machine,’ Dean encouraged.

  ‘OK. Vern, can we let Randy out of the spare bedroom when we’ve finished eating?’ Angel asked as she got up.

  ‘As long as you keep him away from the cushions,’ Dean answered.

  ‘There we go,’ Vernon said. ‘As long as he stays away from the precious fripperies.’

  Hayley couldn’t help smiling. The two men sounded like an old married couple. It was nice. She hadn’t seen Dean this happy or settled before. She waited for Angel to make it to the kitchen area then put a hand on Dean’s arm.

  ‘So could you watch Angel for me tonight? So I can go to Vipers and ask if anyone remembers Michel?’ Hayley’s heart jumped into her throat. ‘It is still there isn’t it?

  ‘Yeah, it’s still there but …’ Dean started.

  ‘I know Vernon is here and everything, but it’s late, she’ll be asleep the second her head hits the pillow, I promise.’

  Despite having no luck in the gallery today her stomach was fizzing with anticipation about visiting Vipers. The place she’d met Angel’s father. There was a chance, maybe a small chance, that he might even be there. Just because ten years might have gone by didn’t mean everything had changed.

  Dean looked over at Vernon and Angel laughing as crushed iced spurted out from the refrigerator.

  ‘See, she’s being a doll and Vernon likes her and I finally got her to part with the dreadful Christmas book she made us read every December.’

  ‘I don’t have a problem with minding Angel, Hay, I’m just worried about you. I know you’re doing this for Angel but are you really ready for it?’ Dean asked.

  Hayley sucked in a giant breath. She was trying to do everything but think about whether she was ready for it or not. She just had to be. This wasn’t about her.

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t ready for the end of Spooks but I had to deal with it all the same.’

  Dean was looking at her, seemingly scrutinising every nuance. She tried another smile and picked up her wine glass, sipping at the contents.

  ‘I don’t think you should go there on your own,’ Dean said.

  ‘I promise I won’t go off with any suspicious-looking characters and come back pregnant.’ Hayley held her hand up like she was committing to the Girl Guide promise.

  ‘That isn’t funny.’

  ‘No, I know but I am doing it for Angel.’ She sighed. ‘I have no secret yearning to see Michel again.’

  Now Dean was eyeing her with suspicion.

  ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

  He sighed. ‘Well, how many boyfriends have you had since Michel?’

  ‘Come on, I’ve got a nine-year-old daughter.’ She looked over to the kitchen. Vernon and Angel were making artwork out of the glass of Coke with a paper umbrella, straws and fruit.

  ‘So there’s been nobody?’

  ‘I’m not particularly comfortable having this conversation with my brother.’

  ‘Hayley …’

  ‘There’s been a few, OK. A couple of dinners and a couple of nights at their places.’ Her mind went to Greg. ‘A desperate colleague who wanted to iron out my creases and so much more.’

  ‘What?’

  Hayley sighed. ‘There’s been no one special enough to meet Angel.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Not because I still hold out hope of reuniting with someone I knew for half an evening, one night and half a morning ten years ago.’ She huffed out a breath and dug her fork into a baby tomato.

  ‘Listen, don’t get me wrong, I think you’re right about focussing on Angel but …’ Dean began.

  ‘Look what Vernon made me!’ Angel hel
d aloft the fluted glass of Coke festooned with every embellishment imaginable. Saved by the bell – read Coke.

  ‘We thought it went with Uncle Dean’s cushions,’ Vernon remarked, retaking his seat.

  ‘Funny guy,’ Dean said, a smile at his lips.

  ‘Do you like it, Mum?’ Angel asked, sitting back down and showing Hayley her glass.

  ‘I think it looks worthy of a nightclub,’ she answered, defiant eyes shifting to Dean.

  19

  Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan

  Hayley looked at herself in the gold-edged full-length bedroom mirror. The navy blue wool knit dress would have been perfect for the North-Pole-like climate outside but would have baked her under the nightclub strobes. So she’d hacked off the long sleeves. With the arms gone, she’d tidied up the cuts until it hung from her like it was always meant to be that way. One of Angel’s bright white flower hair clips was now positioned on the front as an appliqué and her hair had been tamed as far as it could without the aid of a professional stylist. The reflection declared her almost Rachel Rileyesque and that would have to be enough.

  She reached down to the bed to pick up a small silver sequinned clutch bag. Her mother had bought it for her when she was sixteen from a fancy shop you only dared step in for a treat. It was a rare occasion where the two of them had actually got along.

  Hayley smoothed her hand over the magnetic clasp then pulled it open. There was just enough room for money, a key, a credit card or two, lipstick, powder and perfume and the only photo you possessed of the father of your child.

  She drew out the photo she’d shown Carl at the gallery earlier, pressing the corners a little flatter. There she was, looking young, vibrant, her highlighted hair looking glossy and conditioned, her smile wide, joyous, like someone high on life or maybe someone just full of tequila.

  And there, next to her in the photo, was Michel. Michel De Vos. A Belgian artist – or so he’d told her – hoping to make it big in the metropolis. She’d admired his chocolate-brown eyes as well as his accent and she’d listened intently as he talked about his plans for the future over a seemingly never-ending bottle of sparkling wine and a few vodkas thrown in for good measure. They’d danced and they’d sung loudly and completely out of tune and then he’d asked about her.