Fairytale of New York (16 page)

A pretty young waitress appeared by our table, instantly summoning Ed’s attention.

‘Hi, I’m Lydia,’ she smiled.

‘Hi Lydia.’ Ed’s cheeky expression made me groan and avert my gaze.

She blushed and shifted position self-consciously. ‘Can I get you guys anything else?’

‘Rosie? More coffee?’

I politely declined, not that he was listening.

Lydia turned to Ed. ‘And for you, sir?’

‘Well, I’m fine for coffee, but I wouldn’t say no to your number.’

Watching Ed the Serial Dater at work is truly a sight to behold. Lydia didn’t stand a chance against the Steinmann charm. I’ve seen it so many times and yet it never fails to fascinate me. He can make any woman feel like she’s the only other person in the room, just with his attentive smile.

‘Well, when you ask so nicely…’ Lydia scribbled her number on a napkin and handed it to him. Ed, his eyes never leaving hers, accepted it and placed it with great care into his shirt pocket.

‘Call me anytime after seven,’ she beamed.

‘I’ll do that,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’

He watched her skip away and looked back at me. ‘What?’

I laughed. ‘You are impossible, Ed! I can’t take you anywhere.’

He took a triumphant sip of coffee. ‘I’m just in the game, Rosie, that’s all.’

‘Who do we have here?’ a familiar voice interrupted. My heart sank and I looked up to see Philippe Devereau standing by our table, expensively attired arms folded angrily and perma-tan flushed. ‘The talentless Rosie Duncan and her scruffy guard dog, I presume?’

My hard stare at Ed prevented him from saying something he might come to regret.

‘Philippe, what a pleasure. Day off, is it?’

Philippe snorted.
‘Some
of us in this business are able to function outside of our stores, Ms Duncan. Unlike lesser concerns such as Kowalski’s.’

I raised my coffee cup. ‘Proud to be a neighbourhood florist, Philippe. May it ever be thus.’

He slammed a fist down on our table, making the white crockery, silver coffee pot and cutlery jump. People around us had stopped eating and were staring over at the orange-hued, black-suited angry man by our table.

‘Give it up, Ms Duncan! Know your market: the unremarkable masses who think Asiatic lilies are exotic. Leave my customers alone.’

I stared straight at him, keeping my voice low and cool. ‘On the contrary, Mr Devereau, my customers
are
remarkable and understand far more about flowers than you ever will. They appreciate natural beauty—something I think you lost sight of years ago.’ The nervous-looking assistant who had just scampered to Philippe’s side gasped. But I wasn’t finished. ‘And as for your customers, as I said before, I have no intention of pursuing them. But
they
seem intent on pursuing
me.
Now, if you don’t mind, this happens to be my day off and I’d like to finish my breakfast in peace.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ Philippe snarled. ‘To think that I, Manhattan’s premier floral artiste, should have to endure such treatment from a two-bit florist with ideas above her place! Who the hell do you think you are?’

Ed jumped to his feet before I could stop him. ‘Who is she? I’ll tell you who she is, you phony jerk. She is the kind of innovative, passionate designer that this City needs. Rosie understands form and beauty in a way you never will. We both do. Mark my words, Mr Devereau, our designs are going to set this whole damn place on fire and leave you wondering what the hell happened. Now why don’t you just shimmy your little orange ass back to that flower freak show you call an emporium and leave us the hell alone?’ He calmly resumed his seat. ‘Amazing the losers they let in here on a Sunday, huh?’

I smiled at Ed, genuinely touched by his chivalrous defence of me. ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

Philippe and his minion made a noisy exit from the café.

Flowers are very subjective—not everyone likes the same. I dread to think what Philippe’s idea of a perfect bloom is. Celia can’t stand the scent of stargazer lilies, for example. In fact, she is famously picky when it comes to flowers: hyacinths, jasmine and viburnum all elicit her most violent disapproval. That’s why what I do as a florist is more like analysis than simply pure aesthetics. Flowers, as Mr K used to tell us, are like people: each one of us has our own special blend of characteristics just as flowers have different colours, shapes, scents and so on.

Celia once asked me what flowers everyone at Kowalski’s would be. I didn’t even have to think about it. Ed, for example, would be something like an ornamental thistle or a protea—strikingly attractive yet complex and guarded beneath.
Marnie is absolutely a gerbera girl—bright, kooky and original. Mr K was always like a chrysanthemum, rotund, solid and jolly, multilayered yet somehow completely familiar and approachable. Celia is an easy one: she’d be a gladioli—bold and showy, an acquired taste for some yet irresistible for others. And as for me…well, I suppose my name gives it away: I’m a rose through and through—full of life on the outside, yet incredibly well defended underneath the colour. Those thorns are there for a reason; they have become necessary to help me face the future.

If I was to add Nate to the list, I guess he would be a daisy: laid-back and happy, unashamedly displaying his colours to the world regardless of what they think, but—like the thick foliage beneath the bloom—concealing a more complex character behind the impressive display.

For now, I was content to enjoy the friendly colours on Nate’s surface, but I was already aware that his hidden complexities would become more apparent. The more time I spent with him, the more I was aware of a whole other story going on underneath it all. Whether he would admit to that remained to be seen.

Celia, as ever, remained intensely interested in my and Nate’s burgeoning friendship, keen to analyse each new development. Most of her incessant interrogations took place over food, either at her apartment or at one of the many restaurants and cafés she frequents across the city.

‘Don’t you just
adore
brunch?’ Celia grinned, buttering a slice of toasted brioche one Saturday morning. ‘Whoever thought of this splendid tradition should be cannonised immediately.’

‘Maybe there’s a statue of them somewhere,’ I smiled. ‘Or a pancake named in their honour.’

‘Well, there should be,’ Celia nodded, brushing crumbs off the blue checkered tablecloth. ‘I might just write about that next week.’

Brunch is an institution in New York, especially at the weekends and particularly in my neighbourhood. Celia introduced me to its delights shortly after I arrived in the city—and you would be amazed at the number of venues catering for ‘brunchers’ here. Today we were enjoying eggs, pancakes, brioche and crispy bacon with never-ending cups of strong, chocolate coffee at Annie’s, a small yet perfectly formed eatery three blocks east of Celia’s apartment. It resides in the basement of an old brownstone building and legend has it that the premises were formerly an illegal drinking den that enjoyed considerable success—and notoriety—during Prohibition in the 1920s. Annie’s had been one of Jerry’s favourite haunts and he spent many happy weekends courting Celia there. While she never admits it, Celia maintains a few things in her life that she and Jerry used to do together. I think it’s comforting for her, in an odd way. She still has his Mets baseball on her desk in her apartment, for example, and still buys smoked salmon from Schumann’s deli—even though she constantly complains about the prices and is forever asserting her intention to shop elsewhere.

At best, Annie’s can hold about twenty diners at a time: today the place was packed and a relaxed queue was forming on the steep steps leading up to sidewalk level above.

‘I think we got here at the right time,’ I said. ‘They’re queuing already and it’s only ten thirty.’

‘My mother always says it’s important to head for the restaurant with the queue,’ Celia smiled. ‘She doesn’t trust places that people aren’t flocking to. But then, she hates waiting. I’ve lost count of the number of times we pass restaurant after
restaurant with empty tables just so she can wait in line somewhere else—and then have to endure her constant complaining about how long she’s having to wait. It’s a no-win situation. But, that’s my mother. Never happier than when she
isn’t
happy.’

‘But you still love her, eh?’

Celia smoothed out the red checked napkin on her lap. ‘Of course I do. It’s just not always as simple as I’d like it to be. See, you have to understand that we’ve never had an easy relationship. Not like I see you have with your mother. Mom always wants better for me, you know: better career, better wealth, better relationships—which is good for me, don’t get me wrong; but the end result is that she’s never satisfied with who I am or where I’m at. I always get the feeling she’s disappointed in me somehow. So,’ she brightened and I sensed the subject was being hastily discarded in favour of another, ‘how’s life for you? I heard you and Nate went to the Noguchi Museum on Long Island last week?’

‘Yes, we did. We had a great time—the art is so amazing.’

‘That’s different for you guys, isn’t it? Meeting
outside
of your store?’

I smiled. ‘Nate said he wanted to see if our conversations would work outdoors. As it turned out, we proved his theory.’

‘So, did he say any more about the Caitlin situation
outdoors?
’

It was a good question, yet here’s the odd thing about last Saturday: we talked for four hours solidly and yet even now I couldn’t actually tell you what we discussed. I hadn’t been to Long Island before and Nate knows one of the curators of the museum, so he suggested we visit. The Noguchi is awesome—especially given the approach we made to it walking over the Roosevelt Bridge which, Nate reliably informed me, was the way the great master sculptor walked to work every morning. It was impossible not to be stirred by Isamu Noguchi’s stun
ningly simple sculptures in marble, alabaster, terracotta, slate and glass, amongst other mediums—and I noticed that everyone walking round seemed to be feeling it too, as a sense of reverent calm pervaded each room we entered.

The only snippet of our conversation I remember clearly is when we were strolling round the Noguchi’s tranquil sculpture garden, bathed in warm autumnal sunlight. Nate suddenly went quiet.

‘This place is wonderful,’ I ventured, trying to make conversation.

Nate paused to look at a stone sculpture with water cascading over its surface, his face reflected and distorted by the undulating flow. ‘It’s peaceful,’ he said, his voice sounding far away. ‘You can get rid of all the stuff in your head here, you know?’

‘Stuff like what?’

He sighed and I sensed the weight of his concerns bearing down on his broad shoulders. ‘Just
stuff.
I dunno, Rosie—sometimes I wish life could be as simple as this garden. No clutter, everything in its place, just peaceful and ordered.’

‘Sounds lovely. But it would drive you mad.’

He turned to look at me. ‘Why?’

I patted his arm. ‘Because you’re a native New Yorker: you thrive on chaos and unpredictability. If everything was simple and organised in your life you’d be craving excitement in no time.’

Nate’s trademark grin made a welcome reappearance. ‘You know me so well.’

‘So
what
did he say then? Did he mention Mimi or Caitlin? Or
anybody
?’ Celia was staring at me like an impatient child waiting to meet Santa.

‘No, that was it, and then he changed the subject,’ I said, pushing my fork into the poached egg on my plate and watching
the rich yellow yolk dribble over my pancakes. ‘But I got the impression that things are more or less carved in stone for the two of them. I mean, he protests a lot, but at the end of the day he’s still with her.’

A couple seated at the table beside us began to giggle and held hands across the blue plaid tablecloth. Celia and I watched them for a while.

‘Do you ever get the feeling that everyone’s moving on except you?’ I asked, accidentally out loud.

Celia let out a long sigh. ‘All the time, Rosie. All the time.’

I’m always amazed at how quickly the nights draw in during autumn and the days rush headlong into winter. It’s one of my favourite times of the year—especially walking in Central Park when all the trees are exhibiting their colours. It’s something I loved about Boston and I thought I wouldn’t see it when I moved to New York but, to my delight, New York ‘does’ autumn so well. It seems to get more magical and sparkly with every week that passes through September and October into November and Thanksgiving.

OK, time to be honest here: I really didn’t get the concept of Thanksgiving when I first came to America. It seemed like such an odd, archaic excuse for a big meal and, when I asked people about it, nobody could quite explain it in a way that made sense to me. But then I met Celia and experienced a Reighton Thanksgiving, which is, like so many other things Celia does, truly a sight to behold. Featuring three basic ingredients: food that would make Fortnum & Mason quiver; a guest list that Jay Leno would kill for; plus the unique hostess that
is
Celia in all her glory—the combined result is pure New York magic. It was only when I was sat by the bulging Thanksgiving table at her home that I finally understood its significance for my American friends. It’s something instilled
into them from birth: the need to be thankful. And the festival has seemingly taken on a much deeper significance for people today, in light of the highly materialistic lifestyle everyone here is bombarded with every day. It’s part of who they are as a nation and adds to that strange mix of modern consumerism and a strong sense of morals from a bygone era that is wrapped around the psyches of people who live here—where it’s every person for themselves when it comes to getting ahead in life, but impoliteness is still frowned upon. Thanksgiving reminds people where they came from. And now I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

‘Celia’s invited me to Thanksgiving at her place,’ Nate grinned as we sat drinking coffee and watching the good people of New York battling against the icy prevailing wind on the street outside. ‘I hear it’s an awesome event.’

I rested my chin on the edge of my mug and inhaled the rich dark aroma as I raised my eyes heavenwards. ‘Hmm, it sure is. Celia is not known for doing anything small when it comes to celebrations.’

‘She said there’d be plenty of food.’

I took a sip of coffee. ‘She’s not joking! I hear the State of New York has been warned to brace itself for a food shortage after her order’s been met.’ I paused, debating whether or not to ask the question. ‘Are you coming then?’

Nate’s eyes drifted to the street outside. ‘I don’t know yet. I’ll know after the weekend.’

Cue awkward moment. ‘Ah…I guess Caitlin will want you to join her family?’

His expression was hard as stone and the reply was incredibly matter-of-fact. ‘No.’

‘Oh, right.’ I was granted a temporary reprieve from a difficult silence as two taxi drivers screeched to a halt right outside
and began an obscenity-screaming match. I had to giggle. ‘I love New York—it’s such a
friendly
city.’

‘Only you could find romance in a street brawl.’

Placing my hands Buddha-style on my knees I intoned, ‘Nate-Student must learn from Optimism Master. Rosie Duncan say: man without optimism in New York is like Old F’s coffee without good company.’

I think by now Nate had figured I was in fact completely insane. ‘And what, O Great One, is that supposed to mean?’

I shrugged. ‘I have no idea. But it sounded good.’

He laughed. ‘So I’m good company?’

I checked my watch. ‘Yes, thank you, but I’d better do some work,’ I replied happily.

The door opened and an old man entered.

‘Hello, Rosie! The wind blew me in this direction and I wondered why. And then I remembered that today is the second Thursday in the month so I should be here.’

I shook the age-crumpled hand of Mr Eli Lukich. ‘I have your order ready. It’s right here as usual.’

Eli followed me to the counter. ‘You are such a good girl. I was saying to my dear Alyona only this morning what a good girl you are. You remind me of my mother, Valentina Nikolaiova, God rest her soul, when we were in the Old Country. She always remembered special days. You know, she never had a calendar? She just
knew.
So the house in Losk had flowers for birthdays, holy days and saints’ days.’

I handed Eli a small bouquet of yellow roses. His hooded blue eyes scrunched up as he breathed in the scent. ‘Beautiful. Beautiful, Rosie. Like my mother used to love…they grew in Father Gennady’s garden, you know.’

I had heard the story a hundred times, but there was
something about Eli’s tales of old White Russia that captivated me every time. ‘Tell me about the priest, Eli.’

Eli’s attention, however, had moved to Nate, who was watching the conversation with fascination. ‘Hello, young man. My name is Eli Lukich. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.’ He slowly extended his hand and Nate scrambled to his feet to shake it.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Nathaniel Amie.’

Mr Lukich held Nate’s hand for a second and studied his face. ‘I wish you blessings, Nathaniel Amie.’ His eyes returned to me. ‘Now how much do I owe you, Rosie?’

‘No money, Mr Lukich. I’ll settle for a story from the Old Country,’ I replied with a smile. This was the usual, expected answer and delight lifted every line in Eli’s face.

‘Then I will tell you of the time Ivan Ivanovich’s cow became stuck in the river…’

Eli proceeded to spin his tale, painting characters as vivid as the intricate designs on a Matryoshka doll. He told us about Ivan the schoolteacher, who had bought a cow for his aged mother only to find the animal preferred the lush grass of his own garden; nevertheless he persisted in leading the stubborn bovine down the dusty road from the village to his mother’s house at the forest’s edge, again and again.

‘Eight times Ivan led the cow to the forest house; eight times the cow appeared again in his garden. In frustration, Ivan strode across the fields to calm his temper. He crossed the river and was walking across a meadow when he heard a loud splash. Turning round, what should his eyes behold but the disobedient animal lying on its side in the fast-flowing water! Once again, the cow had followed him. Well, Ivan Ivanovich tried to move it, but it was stuck fast between some rocks. Just when he was about to give up hope, who should come over the hill but
Ivan’s mother! You will never believe what happened next…She leaned close to the cow’s ear and whispered something. Then she reached into the water and lifted the rock that imprisoned its leg. Without another word, she turned to walk home and the cow followed her. From that day on, the cow remained at the forest house. So that is the story of Ivan Ivanovich and the disobedient cow. And now, I must go. My wife is waiting for me.’ He said goodbye and we watched the old man leave, happily cradling his roses. Nate’s smile was wider than I’d ever seen before. ‘What an awesome guy. Who are the flowers for?’

‘His wife, Alyona. She’s ninety-three: two years his senior. It caused a big rift in their families when they married.’ Something occurred to me. ‘You asked me a while back how I knew what a man in love looks like…well, you’ve just met him. Eli Lukich comes into my shop every second Thursday in the month and buys a small bunch of yellow roses for his wife. Then he takes them home and proposes to her again. He’s done that every month since they married, over seventy years ago.
That’s
what a man in love should look like.’

Nate blew out a long whistle. ‘That’s a tall order, then. You must be the ultimate romantic, Rosie Duncan, if you expect
that
from a relationship.’

It was a sideswipe I deftly avoided. ‘Ah, but I don’t expect it, because I don’t expect a relationship at all.’

‘So, real love has to be perfect like theirs?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know if love today could come close to theirs. Their love has survived the hardest tests imaginable. They were disowned by their families and then fled to the US to escape persecution. They came here with nothing and, even now, they live on practically nothing. Their four children died before any of them reached the age of five. Their
love is the only valuable thing they’ve ever owned. They’ve sacrificed everything to be together.
They
are the reason love should be as strong as possible. As a tribute to them, it
has
to be all or nothing. And…now I’m going to get down off my soapbox because I’ve got carried away.’

Nate’s smile was warm. ‘Yes you have. But that’s OK because I am learning that enjoying your deep philosophy comes with the territory.’

‘So is he coming to Thanksgiving here tonight or
not
?’ Celia’s frustration had reached breaking point as she appeared from the kitchen.

‘I don’t know,’ I replied, picking up a bagel and turning it over absent-mindedly.

‘Aarrggh,
men!’
Celia rejoined me at the large maple table and looked out of the window to the street below. ‘I think Macy’s parade might get snowed on this year. There’s that smell in the air.’

‘No need to worry then, ‘cos Santa will be there and I’ve heard he’s OK with snow.’

‘I swear you are a five-year-old trapped in a grown-up’s body. So how are you and Nate getting on, then?’

That must qualify for one of the most heavily weighted questions in history, but it was delivered with such nonchalance that I had to smile. ‘Just fine, thank you.’ Ever the investigative journalist, Celia was not going to be defeated so easily. She wanted her story and she was going to get it. Come hell, high water or bloody-minded best friends.
‘How
fine, exactly?’

I conceded defeat with a smile. ‘OK, OK…well, he comes for coffee most weeks—usually on a Monday or a Thursday around three o’clock. And sometimes we visit places at the weekends, like the Noguchi, or the Rubin Museum of Art or
talks at that Writers’ Collective charity bookstore in the East Village you like so much. And we talk.’

If Celia had a pressure meter fitted, it would now be reading ‘Danger’. ‘I am
aware
that you
talk
…You have been
talking
since the summer. What on earth do you still find to discuss?’

‘Well, it began with Nate wanting to work out what his “story” was and, now we know each other a bit better, we’ve widened our remit. It’s anything and everything: whatever happens to be flowing through our minds at the moment. I can’t explain it: I feel happy when we spend time together. He makes me smile and it feels good. I like the fact that he doesn’t have this massive inside track on me; all he knows is the person I am now, not who I was when I first came to New York, or who I was before…I’d forgotten how exciting it can be to start a friendship from scratch. He likes me for who I am, not what he thinks I should be. He doesn’t try to tell me how to live my life. And I like that. So, we talk, we laugh, we drink coffee—and it’s
wonderful.
Of course, the conversation usually comes back to Nate and his love life—but before you ask, I have nothing further to report on that subject yet.’

Celia folded her arms irritably like a mutinous three-year-old. ‘That man is so
infuriating
! Doesn’t he know his sole purpose in life should be to keep us informed about his private life?’

I smiled and looked away towards the window. ‘The thing is, Celia, the last conversation we had was actually about
my
private life, not his.’

If you’d told Celia she’d just won the leading role in a George Clooney movie, she couldn’t have looked any more utterly shocked than she did right then. ‘What? Oh, Rosie, did you tell him about what happened in Boston?’

Now it was my turn to look shocked. ‘Of course not! But I
told him about Mr Kowalski and then I ended up telling him about what Dad did.’

Celia clamped a hand to her forehead melodramatically. ‘I am just in my
forties
—not that anyone apart from you and my mother know this, Rosie—you shouldn’t give me shocks like that! Feel my heart now—go on, feel it—I swear I have palpitations!’

‘Don’t worry, you’ll live.’

‘You cruel English florist,’ she continued, taking a few deep breaths and flapping her hand in front of her face like she’d just completed the New York Marathon. ‘The least you can do to make up for shocking me half to death is to tell me
exactly
how the conversation happened.’

I obediently obliged.

Nate had arrived a little late, flustered and weary from his day. This was unusual. ‘Why is it that so many people in this city are pathologically incapable of waiting for anything?’

‘Hmm…had one of those days, eh?’

The now familiar lop-sided grin reappeared. ‘Oh boy, have I ever. I had three agents calling me every twenty minutes to see if I’d read their clients’ work yet.
Then
my CEO calls and demands we rush through a celebrity writer’s new manuscript because Fox and Miramax have optioned it for development. Whatever happened to taking your time over anything?’

‘I wish you’d met Mr K. You would’ve got on famously.’

‘Y’know, it’s strange, but I feel like I already know him. I mean, you talk about him so much. It’s almost like he was a kind of father figure to you.’

That took me by surprise. But I had become used to that too. Nate’s perceptiveness was almost as sharp as Ed’s wit. And normally the subject of my father is way off limits to anyone. But I found myself telling Nate all about Dad: how he had
conducted an affair in secret with a family friend for over fifteen years; how my mum had found out when a neighbour made a chance remark about ‘that nice lady who comes round when you’re at work’; how my family had been ripped apart by Dad’s constant refusal to admit his deception was wrong and his clumsy attempts to be reconciled with Mum—even though he had no intention of leaving his mistress—not to mention the ultimate betrayal when he stopped contact altogether. Nate listened intently. He even held my hand when I confessed that Mr K was the first man I’d felt I could truly trust. I think that conversation marked a turning point in our friendship. Call it trust, respect or whatever; from that moment it was as if something deepened between us.