Fairytale of New York (27 page)

‘It’s just that in your last email you mentioned him a lot.’

‘Did I?’

Ben’s laugh was warm. ‘Only about
fifteen
times. Something happen with you guys?’

‘No, of course not. Stop teasing me.’

‘I’m not. I am merely stating a fact: you talked about him a lot.’

I shook my head, even though Ben couldn’t see it. ‘Well, I wasn’t aware of it. We’ve been working together a lot this month, so I guess that’s why.’

‘Whatever. Now, tell me more about this
Nate
bloke.’

There wasn’t much to tell. Since the Grand Winter Ball, he’d more or less kept himself to himself—and, to be honest, that suited me fine. Later that evening, Mum called. She reeled off the usual details of what she was doing, who she’d seen, what
her plans were over the Christmas break and so on—but there was something different about the tone of her voice that made me feel uneasy.

When she’d finished speaking, I had to ask what was troubling her.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, dear,’ she replied, completely unconvincingly.

‘Mum—come on. I know there’s something on your mind.’

There was a pause. ‘I think James is in trouble.’

My Christmas Eve cheer dissolved instantly. ‘Why? What’s he said?’

‘He hasn’t
said
anything, Rosie, it’s just that when I spoke to him this morning he was very…evasive.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, I asked him what he was planning for Christmas and his answer was incredibly vague. You know your brother, darling, he’s usually in a hurry to tell me every detail of all the fabulous parties he’s been invited to and all the beautiful women he’s dating. But he wasn’t like that today. It was—and I know I’m going to sound completely paranoid when I say this—but it was almost like he was annoyed that I’d asked him about it. Then he made some preposterous excuse about having to dash off for a meeting—on Christmas Eve, I ask you—and disappeared. Do you know anything? Did he say anything to you when he visited a while ago?’

I decided not to mention the phone conversation I’d overheard, nor the scant details I had received from Celia. ‘No, he didn’t tell me anything. Look, I’m sure it’s fine, Mum. He’s probably just got himself into another mess with a girl and he doesn’t want to talk about it yet.’

‘I do hope you’re right, darling,’ Mum replied. ‘Promise me you’ll keep an eye on him? Washington is so very far away
from Stone Langley and I feel awful that I can’t take care of my lovely boy.’

I promised I would and said goodbye. Slumping back into my armchair, I rubbed my eyes. I didn’t want to deal with the questions dangling dangerously in my head. What with David’s re-emergence, the strange situation with Ed, and Christmas on the way, I felt neither prepared nor inclined to tackle any of it this year. All I wanted was a nice, quiet Christmas, enjoying it in my own way and resting before the bustle of the New Year began.

Christmas morning was bright and sparkly, a sharp frost the night before giving the snow outside a coating of glitter in the pale December sunlight. I woke early—even though I was spending the day alone, I wanted to enjoy every last minute of it—and pulled on my super-thick white towelling robe, which is several sizes too big for me so it’s excessively snuggly. Padding through to the living room in my slippers, I switched on the tree lights and paused to admire the sight and scent of my tree. Then I grabbed the pile of unopened Christmas cards from the mantelpiece and shuffled through to the kitchen to coax Hissy into something resembling activity. Coffee mug in hand, I picked a couple of mince pies from the pile on the cooling rack and made my way back to the living-room table.

Remembering Ed’s gift from last night, I retrieved it from under my tree and sat down to carefully unwrap it. Inside was a small, square, red velvet box that creaked as I opened it. Lying on a padded bed of black velvet was an antique brooch in the shape of a rose—rose quartz and emerald-green paste stones forming its petals, stem and leaves. I suddenly remembered that, on one of our trips to Greenwich Village a few months back, we had visited a tiny antiquities store and Ed had taken
great pleasure in mocking me about the reaction I’d had to so many sparkly jewellery pieces in one place.

‘You’re such a girl,’ he’d grinned.

‘Guilty as charged,’ I had smiled back. ‘I love this stuff. My gran always says that they don’t make jewellery like they used to and I agree with her. Costume jewellery like this, it’s—well, it’s
magical.
You can pretend to be a princess when you’re wearing one of these.’

Looking at the brooch I now held in my hands, I felt the same childlike thrill shimmering through me as I had in that store. This was by far the most unusual present Ed had ever given me and the surprise of it, coupled with the depth of feeling bestowed by his choice, moved me to tears. Wiping my eyes and laughing at my utter girliness, I picked up the stack of Christmas cards.

I was halfway through opening them when I heard a knock at my front door. Opening the door, I was surprised to see no one standing there. Reasoning it must be someone’s kids in the building playing Christmas pranks, I was about to close the door when I noticed a small brown woven basket with the most amazing arrangement of winter white and Christmas red roses, complemented by dark green palm leaves curled and pinned to make a bouquet effect. Bending down to pick it up, I saw a card nestling amid the blooms. Opening the envelope, I walked back into my apartment as I read the typed note:

May your days be merry and bright,
For you deserve the happiest of all Christmases.
xx

I heard the door at the entrance to my apartment block slam and hurried to the window, just in time to see a yellow cab
pulling slowly away along the snow-edged street. Turning the card over I saw a company name from Lower Manhattan—Turner’s—one I wasn’t familiar with. Sitting back at my table, I placed the basket in front of me and turned it slowly, inspecting every inch of its composition. The style wasn’t one I could identify, either. Mum often says that each florist signs their work—not physically like an artist would, but in the composition and arrangement of the flowers. Working in New York during the past six years, I have come to recognise most of the major florists’ styles. But this particular arrangement threw me completely. Mentally I compiled a list of possible senders. I discounted James (too thoughtful a gesture to come from him), Celia (she wouldn’t send something anonymously as she prefers to bask in the glory of her generosity), David (not something he’d do, and he didn’t know my address anyway), Marnie (she’d be more likely to send me a magazine subscription or kooky handmade jewellery than flowers) and Ed (as he’d never send flowers he hadn’t designed himself). The only remaining possibility was Nate; yet I couldn’t understand why he would choose Christmas Day to send me flowers when the most contact we’d had since Mimi’s event were three text messages. Unless he was trying to say sorry, perhaps? Or maybe attempting to let me know that his loved-up performance at the Grand Winter Ball was just that—an elaborate pantomime for the crowds?

Thinking about everything was too much, especially on Christmas Day. So I pushed the quandary away, switched on my TV, found a channel showing
White Christmas
and snuggled down for a wonderfully quiet day.

No matter what situation I find myself in, I always expect the start of a New Year to be positive. Somehow, with the old year packed away and a fresh one laid out before you like clean linen, it’s possible to believe that anything could happen during the next twelve months.

I have kept a diary ever since I was a little girl. My diaries help me to make sense of life. They demonstrate my ability to cope with problems and remind me of my dreams and aspirations. And they make me laugh when I read them with ageeducated eyes, years from when the first tear-stained words were scribbled on the pages. As a personal ritual, every New Year’s Day I always revisit the January 1st entry in the preceding year’s diary, partly to remind myself where I’ve come from but also to see which of my hopes for that year actually came to fruition. It never ceases to amaze me how much I’ve achieved, or how many of my dreams remain unfulfilled. Some would argue that I never learn; I would say I never stop believing the best is yet to come.

After all the unexpected events of the past couple of months, this ritual now took on a greater significance than before for me. But I wasn’t prepared for the difference between last year’s page and my latest New Year’s entry. Gone was the timid
optimist, hopeful for the future yet too hurt by the past to really grasp the year ahead; in her place was someone I barely recognised: confident, happy to discuss her feelings, looking at the year ahead as one big possibility. Even though I knew that finally facing David had laid ghosts to rest for me, I was still shocked by the change I saw in my own expansive handwriting. A deepening closeness with Ed, my conflicted feelings for Nate and my reaction to meeting David again were all documented—where previously I would have shied away even from committing my feelings to these private pages.

Buoyed by this, I embarked on January’s tasks with a sense of renewed purpose and vigour. Our order book was the healthiest it had been for several years, with three large weddings between January and David’s nuptials in March—and now that the prospect of the Lithgow ceremony no longer filled me with such dread, the future looked promising.

I mentioned to Ed and Marnie about my mysterious Christmas Day delivery, but both of them claimed to know nothing about it. Celia was over the moon that such a delicious conundrum should happen to me—and instantly assumed that Nate was the secret sender. I still wasn’t sure: as the weeks passed and January neared its end, I received nothing but polite text messages—so the idea of him sending the flowers as a covert message seemed ludicrous. Eventually, I gave up, as other more pressing things vied for my attention. Kowalski’s remained as busy as it had been before Christmas—something neither I nor my staff had witnessed before. With increased sales, we were able to take on two of the grads permanently, the extra pairs of hands invaluable as the wedding orders were completed.

Ed said no more about his Specific Somebody, but he was different somehow—more reserved, more contemplative than
usual. The Steinmann Wit still remained gloriously present, so I reasoned that he was working things out and would seek my advice when he needed it. Despite my genuine pleasure for him, a part of me felt slightly removed from him all of a sudden, as if he were imperceptibly moving away from me, like a fractured ice sheet in spring. With the David situation put to rest in my mind, I began to notice an unfamiliar pull in my heart—a need to consider the future and where it might take me. In my braver moments, I even found myself contemplating the possibility of loving someone again—although this was quickly shelved the moment my insecurities kicked in. Watching Ed pursuing—albeit at a snail’s pace—the woman he longed for, caused an oddly heady mix of sadness and hope to wash over my soul. Maybe, if the great Iceberg himself could let someone in, there was hope for me yet.

On the last day of January, news about my brother broke.

It began with a series of phone calls to Kowalski’s from journalists, demanding to speak to me (Ed fended off every attempt), followed by several hacks coming into my shop on the pretence of placing orders, trying to score an exclusive interview. I hid in the workroom, being brought cups of Old F’s finest decaf whilst Ed, Marnie and Jack insisted I wasn’t in. Not even able to go home—as I was reliably informed by a neighbour that the press had set up camp outside my apartment building—Celia arranged for a car to pick me up at the rear of the shop and bring me to her office. By the time I arrived, CNN and ABC had both picked up on the story, with the BBC not far behind them.

Even when I was safely ensconced in Celia’s office, I still remained ignorant of the situation James was in. After twenty minutes of reassuring my best friend—who blamed herself
entirely for not telling me the full extent of the rumours—I managed to calm her down sufficiently to find out the details of the crisis now unfolding across Washington and New York.

‘James has been accused of being in cahoots with Mrs Elizabeth Darnek, wife of well-respected Senator John Darnek. They’re saying James was her lover.’

I groaned but Celia held up a hand.

‘There’s more?’

‘There’s much more, I’m afraid.’

I folded my arms and prepared myself for the gory details.

‘Senator Darnek was one of only three senior congressmen trusted to advise the President on possible lucrative building contracts in the Middle East. It was felt that certain Arab states would be agreeable to the US placing significant sums of money into mutually beneficial developments, in return for open talks to resolve conflicts in the area. These politicians were handpicked by the President to suggest developments that matched the criteria, giving them unprecedented power of attorney over the process.’

‘I don’t understand what this has to do with James.’

‘FRS Construction, one of the companies James represents, is a multimillion-dollar building corporation, which has recently faced scrutiny for alleged arms deals in return for exclusive building contracts across Africa and Asia. This has yet to be proved, of course, but in politics suggestion is often more persuasive than the truth. His affair with Mrs Darnek has been common knowledge amongst the hacks on Capitol Hill for several months—never reported, but understood within the journalistic fraternity as gospel. So when the President’s Development and Progress Committee suddenly identified FRS Construction as the best contractor to undertake the chosen Arab-US development, reporters in Washington smelled a rat.
The long and short of it is that someone alerted a senator opposed to the initiative; he lodged a complaint with Congress and the story broke at around 9 a.m. today.’

The news hit me like a thunderbolt, throwing my mind into chaos as I tried to make sense of what I’d just heard. I was angry that James could be so stupid; frustrated that, true to form, he had created a mess he couldn’t get out of alone; incensed that I didn’t pick up on the signs…Then I remembered his whispered phone conversation in my apartment, months ago—and suddenly everything made sense.

‘I think he tried to stop it,’ I said, as the memory returned in full colour.

‘What? How?’

‘When he came to visit, in the autumn. I overheard a call he was making, saying he wanted out of whatever situation he was referring to.’

‘Well, I hope for his sake that he manages to express that publicly,’ Celia replied, her face grave and anxious, ‘because he’s about to be thrown to the lions here.’

‘What about the woman?’

She grimaced. ‘Elizabeth Darnek has been a politician’s wife for too many years to let this bring her down. She’s already issued a statement unreservedly apologising to Congress and her husband, blaming James entirely. She claims he sought an affair with her purely for the influence she could assert over her husband. Add to that Washington’s desire to draw attention away from the Senator’s misdemeanours, plus the clichéd image of the evil Englishman, and James is ripe for vilification.’

‘I need to call him.’

‘I would imagine his cell is well and truly unobtainable by now, honey.’

‘Then I’ll try his personal number. Maybe the press won’t have found it yet.’

Celia walked to the door. ‘Then I’ll leave you in peace. Coffee?’

‘Yes, please—and thanks for everything.’

‘You are entirely welcome. Make the call.’

Taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down, I quickly found James’s number. After five rings, a muffled voice answered.

‘Yes?’

‘James—is that you? It’s Rosie.’

There was a pause on the line. ‘Rosie? How great to hear you. It’s Hugh. Hugh Jefferson-Jones—do you remember me?’

I smiled despite the growing nervous nausea in my stomach. Knowing James was not alone—and with the infamous
Huge
Jefferson-Jones, of all people—lifted my spirits considerably. ‘Of course I remember you, Hugh. Hello again.’

‘Great bit in the
NYT
about you, by the way,’ Huge’s booming voice sounded almost jovial in stark contrast to the severity of the current situation.

‘Thanks. Is James with you?’

‘Yes—yes he is. I’m trying to work things out my end. With the Consulate, I mean.’

‘Could he be indicted?’

I heard a long sigh as Huge picked his words with extreme care. ‘It’s possible. But we have to hope that, once the initial media frenzy dissipates, the situation can be considered rationally and objectively.’

‘And until then? I’ve seen scandals like this, Hugh. They can go on for months.’

‘Quite true. But we must hope this one fades sooner. For now, however, James will stay with me, as a guest of Her
Majesty’s Consulate-General. I am pushing for political asylum, with the offer of him facing trial back in the UK, should it be necessary.’

‘Be honest with me, Hugh. Is James likely to go to prison for this?’

‘The indicators at this stage are that it’s possible a civil suit could be brought against him. As he isn’t a US citizen, it’s unlikely he’ll face a gaol term. For now, I’m advising him to lie low whilst I negotiate.’

‘Can I do anything?’

‘Just sit tight, Rosie. And pray it doesn’t come to prosecution.’

Right on cue as I ended the call, Celia appeared with coffee. I explained to her what Hugh had told me, watching her expression for any suggestion of her own opinion.

‘I think your brother’s saving grace is that no contracts were awarded—the FRS recommendation was merely theoretical at the time it was revealed. Had it been signed and sealed, James would be facing a far more serious situation than he is right now.’

‘How did the media make the connection between me and James?’

‘It wasn’t me, I swear. But I’d hazard a guess that someone you know alerted them to your association.’

‘Mimi?’

‘Possibly. Or maybe even Philippe?’

That didn’t seem likely, especially given as he was now restored to ‘flavour of the month’ with Mimi. Perhaps I was wrong, but despite his obvious abhorrence of me, I couldn’t quite believe that he’d alert the national press to my association with James. I didn’t even think he knew I had a brother, let alone that said brother was an adulterous, scheming idiot.

I rubbed a weary hand over my aching eyes. ‘I don’t know, Celia, every time I think life is going well it seems to jump up and bite me again.’

Celia offered a sympathetic smile and patted my hand. ‘That’s just life, honey. You should be used to crushing disappointment by now.’

Knowing the paparazzi were camped outside my apartment building, I couldn’t go home, which was frustrating. Celia gave me the keys to her apartment and I headed over there as soon as I could. Later that afternoon, Marnie called me.

‘Rosie, how are you? We’ve been so worried about you.’

‘I’m fine, honestly, just frustrated I can’t get home.’

‘How long do you think this is going to last?’

I looked out of the window to the street below. ‘I’ve no idea. This is so ridiculous, Marnie. I need to be at Kowalski’s, not holed up in my best friend’s apartment.’

‘I’ll stop by after work and bring you some stuff if you like?’

I couldn’t help but smile. My assistant sounded so grownup all of a sudden. ‘That would be wonderful, thank you.’

I spent the next couple of hours trying to keep busy, but it was no use. My mind wouldn’t settle. Flicking through magazines, watching random shopping channels on TV and listening to music all did nothing to help me. I was just contemplating whether to try baking something when I heard a commotion outside. Walking to the window, I saw to my horror a large CBS van parked and a swarm of photographers jostling for prime position on the sidewalk. My mobile started to ring, making me jump.

‘Hello?’

‘Ms. Duncan, this is Dan Donnelly, CBS News. Can you confirm the whereabouts of your brother?’

‘No, I can’t. Leave me alone, please.’

‘Is James Duncan’s behaviour something you condone?’

‘What? No, of course not, I…’

‘Then would it be correct to assume that both you and your family are shocked and disgusted by your brother’s actions?’

Anger was rising steadily within me as I answered. ‘Look, I’ve asked you to leave me alone. Please go away.’ Hands shaking, I snapped my phone shut and stood frozen to the spot. Celia’s door phone began buzzing and someone on the street yelled, ‘There she is! Up there!’ as the crowd below looked up at me and their cameras began flashing wildly. Sinking to the floor by the window, panic gripped every fibre of my being. I was trapped—hemmed in by the waiting mob downstairs. My mobile rang again and I answered it angrily.

‘Just leave me alone! Go away and…’

‘Rosie, honey, it’s me, don’t hang up,’ Celia interjected quickly. ‘I think someone here’s told the press where you are.’

‘They’re already here. I can’t get out.’

‘OK, listen to me. I’ve just spoken to Marnie and we’re going to get you over to her apartment, OK?’

‘Won’t they follow me there?’

‘Trust me, honey, journalists are essentially lazy. They’re not going to bother trying to track down the home addresses of all Kowalski’s staff—it’s too much work and they’re all on short deadlines with this story. I was an easy tip for them. So we’ll get you to Marnie’s and then you can relax a little. Meanwhile, I’m going to find the jerk who ratted on me here and kick his sorry ass all the way to Tennessee.’