One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story)

by Mandy Baggot

  Hayley sighed and sat down on the bed. Running her fingers over Michel’s dark hair in the picture, she remembered everything they’d spoken about that night like it was a favourite DVD she’d watched time and again. She’d told him all her secrets. Her ambition to be a fashion designer. How she wanted to finish college, get some work experience with a fashion house in London, work on other people’s designs until she got a chance to deliver her own.

  And he’d listened, looking at her like she held the world in her palm. He’d called her an artist too, said she was going to be making clothes for Hillary Clinton before she knew it. She’d laughed and said she was hoping for someone more like J.Lo.

  Fashion designer. It was almost laughable now. She’d got herself pregnant, listened to her mother’s disappointed I told you so’s and got a job at a factory that made Wellington boots.

  Was Michel still an artist? Did he get to pursue his dreams? She wasn’t sure she really wanted to find out. If he had, she would be jealous. If he hadn’t, she would be disappointed. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Angel.

  She slipped the photo back into her clutch bag and fastened it up.

  * * *

  Vipers Nightclub, Downtown Manhattan

  ‘Any second now and they’re going to be back over here,’ Tony said, his eyes fixed on the group of women moving to a David Guetta song.

  Oliver leaned on the dark wood and surveyed the dance floor from their vantage point. The beer was slipping down well and at last he felt himself start to loosen up. This was good.

  ‘So, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony asked, his mouth at Oliver’s ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony repeated twice as loud.

  ‘I heard what you said I just didn’t know what you meant.’

  ‘Well, is it gonna be the double dating thing or the singular attack?’

  ‘Safety in numbers,’ Oliver answered.

  ‘Yeah but you usually end up with both of them.’

  He shook his head. ‘That happened once.’

  ‘And I’m not letting it happen again.’ Tony loosened the top button of his shirt then ran a hand through his thick black hair. ‘See ya!’ He waved a hand and strode onto the dance floor, his head bobbing and bouncing like an excited emu.

  Oliver laughed, watching his friend sidling up to the object of his affection.

  ‘I know who you are.’

  The blonde-haired woman he’d paid attention to earlier was suddenly at his side, the heat from her body unavoidable.

  He straightened up. ‘You do, do you?’

  She nodded. ‘Uh-huh. You’re Oliver Drummond. I’ve seen your photo in the New York Times.’

  ‘And where have I seen you before? A billboard maybe?’ he flirted, putting his beer bottle on the shelf in front of him.

  ‘That’s cute,’ she responded. ‘So, are you here on your own?’

  He looked over one shoulder and then the other, then turned back to smile at her. ‘Theoretically I guess I am now.’ He widened his smile. ‘But with a capacity crowd I’m sensing potential.’

  ‘Want some closer company?’

  ‘You haven’t even told me your name,’ he responded.

  ‘Buy me a drink and I might let you in on that.’ She smiled with confidence and he nodded, returning the sentiment. She was good. She was practised and a player. She could get his day back on track. And his night.

  ‘What would you like?’ he asked her.

  * * *

  Just walking through the front doors of Vipers brought so many memories flooding back.

  Hayley stepped into the main room of the club and the music enveloped her. A heavy bassline kicked in, a track she recognised, and suddenly she was transported back ten years.

  Her very first New York nightclub. She’d felt so grown-up in her neon pink mini-dress with her glossy hair and dollars destined to be spent on enjoying herself. Dean had pulled her onto the dance floor to something by Whitney Houston. She’d swirled and twirled and got tipsy on vodka within the hour. Her relationship with alcohol had been the most longstanding one she’d had. Some things didn’t change. Even this place hadn’t changed much. The dark woodwork she remembered, the mirrored tiles she didn’t and the walls without mirrors were now painted a sultry plum. It looked like a classy boudoir, with just a dash of decorations to let patrons know that Christmas was coming.

  She paused where she stood, taking in the fashions, seeing what the nightclub-goers of 2015 wore. There were hot pants and tight jeans, little dresses with sequins and sparkle. The men wore smart jeans or suit trousers, more shirts than T-shirts – Vipers had got a little more upmarket. Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 45: Anything goes in the fashion stakes. And that was one of the things she loved about the city most. The non-conformity, the ability to express yourself, be different and unashamed. Freedom. Maybe she was thinking too hard with her ideas book. Perhaps she just needed to relax into it a little more.

  Michel had certainly been relaxed the night they’d met. She remembered exactly what he’d been wearing that night. Faded denim jeans, the hem fraying over his retro Converse. His T-shirt had fitted him perfectly and he’d known it. And it had borne a slogan. She’d had a definite thing for slogan T-shirts back then. It had stated simply, I Shoot People, and then had a sketch of a camera below. It had appealed to her childish sense of humour. And if she was honest she would still find it funny.

  Hayley headed for the bar, almost able to taste the cranberry vodka. It was busy and she joined the throng of individuals waiting for one of the bar staff to give them attention. Dying of thirst was a possibility, judging by the disgruntled groans every time a server took an order from someone who had skipped the line.

  Hayley raised a ten dollar bill in the air, waving it in the direction of a passing barman.

  ‘I find a hundred dollar bill works better.’

  She spun round, looking at the owner of the voice. Oliver Drummond. Clark. Dressed in dark grey trousers, a pristine white shirt open at the neck, those eyes still the colour of cased pistachios. His musky cologne drifted up her nose as her gaze refused to move from him.

  ‘Hello, Lois,’ he greeted.

  She forced a smile. So he recognised her now, did he? ‘Why, Superman, I did think about calling, but wasn’t sure the need for a vodka cranberry was dire enough to require your services.’

  ‘I think it depends just how desperate the drinker is for it.’

  ‘She had a couple of glasses of Italian wine she couldn’t pronounce the name of an hour ago.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t call 911.’ Oliver raised his hand and the barman immediately stopped right in front of them, waiting for orders.

  ‘A bottle of Bud, a white wine soda and a vodka cranberry,’ he ordered.

  ‘Whoa, stop. No white wine chaser for me,’ Hayley said quickly.

  He smiled. ‘It isn’t for you.’

  ‘Ah, already replaced the woman from last night.’ She smiled wider. ‘Are you going to get to the end of the date with this one?’

  He didn’t respond to the question. ‘Thank you for returning my jacket.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing.’ She paused, raising her voice a little louder over the music. ‘Actually, it wasn’t nothing. I’m pretty sure your receptionist thought I was a conquest bringing in your love child.’

  * * *

  He wasn’t sure whether to smile or grimace and he was pretty sure the look he’d ended up with didn’t make the most of his features.

  He watched Hayley’s mouth open like a cartoon character. ‘Wow, you mean that’s actually happened.’

  He nodded, handing the barman the money for the drinks. ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘Whoa.’

  ‘And I hasten to add that none of the children were mine.’ He smiled then and passed her a tall glass filled with red liquid.

  ‘Good to know,’ Hayley said, nodding.

  ‘So,
you’re meeting someone here?’

  She shook her head. ‘No … just checking out an old haunt.’

  ‘You’ve been here before,’ he stated the obvious.

  ‘Years ago.’

  He watched her eyes drift to the glass of white wine he was holding. Shit, he’d forgotten all about the blonde.

  ‘I’d better let you go and give that to your date,’ Hayley said, as if mind reading was her speciality.

  ‘It isn’t a date,’ he answered quickly. He wet his lips.

  ‘Is that how you justify it when you bail out early?’

  ‘That was a one-off.’

  ‘Business then?’ She lowered her voice, inching her head closer into his personal space. ‘Something about the Globe?’

  He reeled back then, shocked by her words. What did she know about something so confidential?

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he answered swiftly.

  She knew about his business. Their encounter at the Chinese restaurant hadn’t been coincidental and neither was this. His hackles were raised now, suspicion rife. Was she competitor or press?

  ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business,’ she spoke fast. ‘It’s just putting my brother in charge of the project practically made his year.’

  His face wrinkled in confusion until everything sunk in. That’s where he had seen Dean Walker before, at the Chinese restaurant, with Lois and the chattering nine-year-old child. Relief flooded his insides and he watched Hayley’s eyes widen.

  ‘Ha! You thought I was from Apple, didn’t you? Luring you into buying me drinks so I could get the inside scoop on the next big thing.’

  He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

  She laughed. ‘You went as white as if I was carrying Kryptonite in this handbag.’

  He tried to recover. ‘How do I know you’re not?’

  She raised her hands. ‘I come in peace. No substances poisonous to superheroes and no Mob connections, I promise.’

  He really wanted to get rid of the white wine. He looked to the blonde across the dance floor. There really was no competition. This English girl was fun and feisty. He liked the idea of a challenge.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Just stay right there and give me one second.’

  20

  Vipers Nightclub, Downtown Manhattan

  What was she doing? She was watching her brother’s billionaire boss, one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, give someone the brush off … again … for her. Her heart was thumping hard. Was she completely out of her mind? She had learned her lesson about starting a relationship in this nightclub ten years ago. It was not somewhere to begin anything. It was jinxed. And she was not in the market for anything. Not drinks with completely unsuitable men. No matter how hot they were. And he was hot. Every inch she could see … and probably all the inches she couldn’t see but could imagine. This was craziness.

  She moved then, quickly, heading across the floor towards a tall, shaven-haired man in his forties wearing a white shirt, his body the width of a Sherman tank. He was chewing gum and had an earpiece in. A doorman might remember Michel. He could have been working here ten years ago. She slipped the photograph out of her clutch bag.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she shouted above the music.

  He leant forward, lining up the ear without the earpiece to her mouth.

  ‘I was wondering if you might have seen this man.’ She offered out the photograph. ‘He used to come in here, a lot I think, and … I’m looking for him.’

  The doorman took hold of the photo and squinted his eyes at the picture.

  ‘You his wife?’ he asked.

  ‘No … of course not,’ Hayley responded, guilt coating her tone anyway.

  He handed the photo back. ‘I’m not sure. I see a lot of people, sweetcheeks.’

  ‘I realise that.’ She sighed. ‘It’s just … really important I get in touch with him so ...’ She pushed the photo back into his line of sight. ‘If you could have another look.’

  The doorman glanced back towards the photo and shook his head. ‘He’s not familiar to me, sorry. You should ask Artie, on the bar.’ He sniffed. ‘But he’s not on tonight.’

  Hayley tightened her grip on the glass she was holding and forced a smile onto her lips. ‘Thank you.’

  She turned away and saw Oliver heading back towards her. He had to negotiate several groups of people. If she moved now she could be out of the door in seconds. She could disappear into the night like he had from the alleyway at the back of Asian Dawn. But that wasn’t in her nature. Besides, she was starting to think there was a bit more to Oliver Drummond. An ogre-like control freak wouldn’t have just given her brother the head role in the launch of their new lead product.

  And why shouldn’t she enjoy herself for an hour or so? If a billionaire wanted to buy her drinks who was she to stop him?

  He neared, navigating the groups of people quickly. She would have one drink. And then she would move on to showing the bartenders the photo of Michel.

  He was smiling as he approached and she felt its warmth settle on her. He spread out his hand, indicating the tables to their left in the quieter area of the club.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asked.

  ‘Lead the way, Clark.’

  * * *

  ‘So, billionaire businessman, how does that happen?’

  He smiled, watching her take a long sip of her drink, all bright eyes and enthusiasm.

  ‘Haven’t you seen Fifty Shades of Grey?’ he answered.

  She looked up then, a blush on her cheeks as her eyes met his. ‘I’m not sure explaining Christian Grey’s business position was the aim of that movie or the books.’

  He leaned forward in his chair, holding her gaze. ‘What do you want to know?’

  He watched her swallow, wet her lips.

  ‘Whether any of the rooms in your house are red now.’

  He laughed, pure, deep and unfettered. His stomach contracted with the motion, unaccustomed to it. He adopted a more serious look before responding. ‘And if they are?’

  ‘Each to their own, but it’s not for me. I went to an Ann Summers party once and got a little jittery when they said some of the items were refurbished.’

  He smiled. Honesty. No game-playing. This was refreshing.

  He took a swig of his beer. ‘I inherited the company from my father.’

  ‘Old money. So, I guess that makes you a duke?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, but that would be kind of cool.’

  ‘And different from the whole Superman dress up. Do you really do that by the way?’

  He grinned, lacing his hands around his beer bottle. ‘Only on weekends.’

  ‘In the red room.’

  ‘And I thought that was going to stay my secret.’

  It was her turn to laugh then and he delighted in the way she gave into it, her cheeks rising up, her eyes narrowing in pleasure. Suddenly his libido was on high alert. He fingered the paper label on the bottle, picking at a strip.

  ‘Unfortunately the day job gets in the way of the saving the city full time.’ He smiled. ‘Without the aid of tight costumes my father helped to revolutionise the computer industry in the 1980s. I spent a lot of my childhood watching him solder motherboards together.’

  ‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

  ‘Back then I would rather have spent my time watching NFL.’

  ‘And now?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, pretty much still feel that way for the most part.’

  ‘So you’re not all work, work, work, then?’

  Now the unease rolled into his shoulders as he thought about the job he did. The billions of pounds he played with, the employees he was responsible for. It was a burden. He didn’t love it like his father. He wasn’t exceptional like his brother. He was doing his best but he was hanging everything on the Globe. Failure wasn’t an option. He had to make that work or he didn’t know what came next.

  He smiled, regaining his composure
, hopefully before she had even realised it had diminished. ‘All work and no play isn’t my style.’

  ‘If only your staff could hear you now.’

  * * *

  The vodka and cranberry was doing strange things to her tongue. She liked to talk but she wasn’t usually this good at shooting herself in the foot every time words fell out of her mouth.

  ‘Was my name bandied around the dinner table along with the wine you couldn’t pronounce the name of?’

  The tone of his voice had an edge to it and she quickly shook her head. ‘No, of course not. Dean isn’t like that.’ She hurried on. ‘He’s a hard worker and he’s the most intelligent person I know. And he’s very discreet. Completely discreet. Always has been.’ She hoped she had salvaged this.

  ‘Hopefully he won’t be discreet when he brings the Globe to market. I want more press than a red carpet event at the Oscars.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t mind one of the dresses.’

  Her fingers went to the hair clip on the front of her dress then across to the cut-off shoulders she hadn’t had time to hem. She cleared her throat. ‘None of those in my luggage. Anything with Swarovski crystals would completely eat into the baggage allowance.’

  He smiled, seemed to drop his eyes to Angel’s hair clip on her dress. It had looked funky in the mirror at Dean’s apartment, now it felt trashy. Not that she cared. Because she was completely disinterested in men. This man in particular. Who was rude and abandoned dates and was definitely not giving her any kind of hot flush whatsoever.

  ‘So, you’re just visiting?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so …’ She wet her lips. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she corrected. ‘I meant to say, yes.’