Fairytale of New York (10 page)

‘Despite my shop now increasingly catering for larger events, we’ve never lost the neighbourhood business—and that’s what I love,’ I explained. ‘One minute you’re sitting with a prospective bride discussing thousand-dollar arrangements; the next you’re chatting with someone like Betty Myers, who’s been a Kowalski’s customer for over twenty years, and is a former waitress in Buck’s diner just round the block from my house, designing a $25 gift basket for her niece. It’s all part of the mix.’

‘Unlike places like Devereau Design,’ Josh repeated, raising a telling eyebrow.

I couldn’t resist a smile. Philippe is the kind of florist that my mother despises. ‘All fuss and bluster,’ she’d proclaim with trademark disdain. ‘Nonsense and showmanship are no substitutes for real talent. Swanning about in their designer suits and stapling banana leaves together like it’s the height of skill—charging a King’s ransom for greenery, I ask you!
Any
idiot can do that!’

‘Devereau Design caters for a very different market from Kowalski’s,’ I smiled, deciding to be diplomatic. ‘Their customers expect something a little—’

‘Who is this young man?’ Delores suddenly appeared beside me, making Josh jump.

‘This is Josh Mercer, from the
New York Times.
Josh, let me introduce you to Mrs Delores Schuster, one of Kowalski’s most distinguished customers.’

Josh shot to his feet, respectfully offering his hand to Delores. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs—’

‘Call me Delores, please,’ she answered, her cheeks flushing slightly. ‘You’re here to interview Rosie?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘Oh well, in
that
case,’ Delores began, bustling in between us and lowering herself shakily onto the sofa, gripping our arms for support as she did so, ‘let me tell you all about Kowalski’s and why it’s the greatest florist’s in the whole of New York.’

For the next thirty-five minutes, Delores regaled Josh with long, rambling accounts of her many visits to the store, each one accompanied by generous helpings of Schuster family trivia along the way.

‘…So
then
there was the time my late husband, Henry—may God rest his soul—forgot his aunt Bertha’s Golden Wedding Anniversary. Well,
you would not believe
the
commotion in the family. I tell you, it was like the day they elected Nixon and my grandmother swore she wouldn’t leave the house again while he was in the White House. Aunt Bertha was the kind of woman you
don’t
forget, take my word for it, young man—she had a holler that would scare a werewolf—and she comes storming into our apartment, face all red like a tomato, and skirts flapping like laundry in a tornado, and she yells, “Fifty years of marriage to the same dumb putz and all I wanted to make my sorry life happy was for my one and only nephew to remember!” But my Henry was fast at thinking, if nothing else. He took her hand and he walked her all the way to Kowalski’s—
three whole blocks
he walked her—and he walked straight up to Mr Kowalski and he said, “Franz, would you please tell my beloved aunt Bertha about the surprise arrangement we’re planning for her Golden Wedding Anniversary, which she thinks I forgot?” And—would you believe it—Mr Kowalski stands there, bold as buttons, and calmly describes the most beautiful basket of flowers you ever heard of. Well, Aunt Bertha was not a woman to be lost for words—I mean, even when her husband, Charlie, proposed to her he had to endure a ten-minute lecture on her expectations of marriage, you know—but two minutes of listening to Mr Kowalski and she was a changed woman. And
then
—to finish it all—Mr Kowalski explains that the reason for the unfortunate delay is that the flower warehouse was all out of pink lilac, which he knew was her favourite flower—which it
was
—but there’s no way he could’ve known that because, right up until my Henry marched in there, he hadn’t even known Aunt Bertha existed at all! So that’s why we come to Kowalski’s—even though Mr Kowalski is long gone, probably laughing about the whole Aunt Bertha scenario with my Henry right now. Young Rosie here is a woman after his heart; he
taught her well, you know. Have you got all that down in your book now, Joshua?’

Josh nodded dumbly, his eyes glazing over.

‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t pose for a photograph,’ Delores said, nodding at the camera in Josh’s lap. ‘I’m not one for publicity, you see. Well, I can’t stay here chatting all day. I got things to do, people to see. Edward! Help me up, please!’

Ed stifled his mirth as he assisted Delores back to the counter.

‘Like I said, Kowalski’s is first and foremost a neighbourhood florist,’ I smiled, shaking my head at Josh’s amused expression.

He checked his list of questions. ‘So, how did an English rose like yourself come to be blooming in New York?’

Somehow, I knew this phrase would end up in the article—being friends with Celia has prepared me well for the ways of journalists.

‘I moved here from Boston just over six years ago, worked for a while with Mr Kowalski and then took over the business when he retired,’ I replied, hoping that this would be enough information. Of course, it wasn’t.

‘And were you a florist in Boston?’

‘No.’

‘Oh? What was your previous profession?’

My heart began to thud as my defences prickled. ‘I was creative director for a small advertising firm.’

‘Which one?’

‘It doesn’t exist any more.’

I could tell Josh could sense my discomfort. He looked up from his pad. ‘All the same, it would be good to have some background…’

‘My mother is a florist, so I learned the trade from watching her and helping out in her shop when I was young. Then after
university I chose to enter advertising and—wound up here, eventually.’

‘Forgive me, but I’m curious: why leave your country behind to come to the States?’

‘Well, look around you: New York is fabulous. What girl wouldn’t want to live here? The shops, the restaurants…’ I answered breezily, trying without success to deflect his train of thought.

‘I see. But
England
—it’s so…so…infinitely more interesting than here, don’t you think?’

‘Well, I—’

‘I mean, all that history and literature and amazing countryside; to be able to walk daily in the steps of Shakespeare, Byron and Keats; to visit the great places of learning like Oxford and Cambridge; to revel in the generations of royalty and stand in the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution—surely there was enough to keep you there?’

Josh’s monologue on the greatness of my home country took me aback and I—like Aunt Bertha, many years before—found myself lost for words.

A crimson flush spread over his pale cheeks and he ran a hand self-consciously through his mop of copper-coloured curls. ‘Wow. I am
so
sorry, Ms Duncan. I kinda got carried away there. I adore your country, as you may have gathered.’

Relieved that the interview had strayed from my past, I smiled. ‘Not a problem. Yes, I love all of that about England. Although Stone Langley—the small town where I grew up—is nothing like the regal England you’d expect. But New York stole my heart and this is where I want to be, more than anything.’

After the interview was concluded and Josh had taken all the photographs that he needed, I saw him to the door.

Ed, now a gentleman-at-ease following the departure of Delores Schuster, watched me with intensity. ‘Good interview?’

‘I think it went OK.’

‘Like I said it would.’

‘Yes,
like you said it would, O Wise and Noble One.’ I gave a small bow.

‘Good,’ Ed replied with a self-satisfied air. ‘So how come he grilled you about ending up here then? Checking you had your Green Card?’

‘He seems to be a bit of a serious Anglophile. Couldn’t understand why I wanted to live here.’

‘Hmm—rainy middle England, where the beer is warm and the summers are wet, versus glorious New York with Mrs Delores Schuster and her not-so-potted family histories? Tough call,’ he grinned. ‘Go figure.’

A few hours later, as Marnie and I were replacing the large displays in the window, the workroom door swung open and Ed entered, battered brown leather jacket slung over one arm.

‘So long, sad single people,’ he breezed over his shoulder as he strode through the store.

Marnie and I exchanged glances.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Marnie.

‘I have a date. A
hot
one.’

‘But it’s a Tuesday night. Who goes out for a date on a Tuesday night?’

‘
I
do,’ Ed replied, supremely pleased with himself. ‘I admit, a Tuesday date is a first for me in quite some time, but—to quote the lovely young thing in whose delicious company I will be spending this unusual night—“I just can’t wait till Friday.” So who am I to keep the lady waiting, eh?’

I winked at Marnie. ‘She’s due in court on Friday for a heinous crime.’

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Or her parole officer visits on a Friday.’

‘Or maybe she’s fleeing the country on Friday after a bank heist she’s doing on the Thursday…’

‘…Which she’s
planning
on Wednesday…’

‘…So it
has
to be Tuesday night!’

Ed stared at the pair of us, shaking his head slowly. ‘Well, thank you for your support, ladies.’

‘Aw, Ed, ignore us and just go and have a lovely time.’

‘Thanks, Rosie.’

‘…with the crazy jailbird master criminal!’ Marnie squeaked, sending us both into hysterical giggles once again.

Ed groaned and opened the door. ‘Fine. Laugh all you want, but
I
will be loved up and happy tonight,’ he turned in the doorway to deliver his parting shot, ‘unlike
you
guys.’

Ouch.

I had to laugh. Ed claimed not to be seeking relationships, preferring the delights of general non-commitment dating instead.

‘I’m young, I’m in no rush to meet The One—whatever that means—or settle down, or have kids. I just like to date. So sue me.’

Meeting people was something Ed was incredibly adept at. His cousin’s lawyer a few weeks back was
nothing
compared to some of his dates. It was almost as if everywhere he went he would fall across eligible women: ‘I was out last week and I stopped for a paper and right next to the newsstand was
this woman
…I swear, I was just walking down Amsterdam Avenue when this beautiful girl stops me and asks me for a date…I took my dry-cleaning to Mrs Ling’s and got chatting to this
babe
…’ I never met any of the ladies in question (or should
that be ‘questionable ladies’?), but that was probably because most of Ed’s dates lasted only a few weeks, so far too short a time to introduce them to the Kowalski’s family.

Next morning, the Ed who walked into the store was very different from the Ed who had walked out of it the night before.

‘So, how did the date with Tuesday girl go?’ I asked eventually, after Ed’s uncommon, unshaven and decidedly dishevelled silence had reigned supreme for nearly half an hour.

Ed stripped the leaves from a long-stemmed red rose in one swift motion, adding it to the bouquet forming in his left hand. ‘Fine.’

‘Right…’

I surveyed him carefully as he moved along the flower buckets, choosing, sizing and stripping leaves off the selected blooms as he went. Turning the untied bunch in his hand to check the arrangement, he then dropped his head and slunk back to the counter. ‘Oh, who am I kidding? It was a disaster.’

‘Really?’

‘There’s no need to look so smug about it.’

‘I’m not. Honestly.’

‘I mean at least I
date,
right? Not like you.’

I let that one go. ‘Absolutely. So what about last night?’

He grabbed a length of raffia from behind the counter and wound it irritably around the gathered stems. ‘Hmm. Well, it wasn’t a total disaster, I guess. Sarah was perfectly nice and decent, attractive, good company, you know? But…’

‘But what?’

He tied off the bouquet, picked up a pair of scissors, moved to the bin on the other side of the counter and trimmed the stems with one cut. ‘I dunno, Rosie. I just didn’t feel it was worth pursuing. Crazy, huh?’

‘No—no, I don’t think it is.’

‘Well,
I
think it is. What’s wrong with me? I date all the time, a whole selection of perfectly acceptable women. But none of them, you know,
fits
.’

‘Fits what? Your ideal? Your lifestyle? Your apartment?’

‘Hilarious. You missed your calling when you chose to be a florist. There’s a stand-up mic somewhere with your name on it. No, I mean they don’t fit
me
.’

‘Ah, right. Well, I think you’ll find
that’s
the point of dating.’

‘Which of course
you’d
know so much about,’ Ed added, quick as a flash. I kicked myself for not seeing that one coming.

‘The difference is that I don’t feel I need another person to make me feel complete,’ I shot back.

‘Do you
really
believe that, Rosie?’ He threw the bouquet to me and I caught it as he passed and disappeared into the workroom, shaking his head. His last comment hung accusingly in the air above my head—a question I wasn’t willing to answer.

Not yet.

Celia met me on Wednesday night at Bistro Découverte at the edge of Riverside Park, not far from her apartment. It’s one of my favourite places. In the summer, it’s a great place to eat al fresco, your table lit by the rows of tiny white lights across the front deck and the sounds of Café de Paris music drifting lazily in the air. Celia and I come here often. It’s quieter than the other bistros in the area, and many tourists don’t even know it exists. The usual clientele consists of writers, artists and the occasional journalist or celebrity actor, and the hum of conversation is low, welcoming and homely. Tonight, however, the hint of autumn chill drove us indoors. As we began to eat our main course, sharp splats of rain peppered the window and the little lights outside were tossing about in the breeze.

Celia shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s nearing fall already,’ she moaned. ‘Where has summer gone? Before we know it, it’ll be Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Did I tell you I got a call from Jerry today?’