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‘Wonderful. Good to see you, Rosie.’ He shook my hand quickly and strode away. I was about to sit down again when the assistant behind the pale green glass reception desk called to me. ‘Ms Sutton will see you now, Ms Duncan.’
I took the glass elevator up eleven floors to Mimi’s office. Another efficient, black Armani-suited assistant took me through two huge pale wood doors into a sumptuous office. Mimi sat at her desk at the far end, the dramatic backdrop of New York skyscrapers adding to her presence. She rose immediately and swept towards me.
‘Well?’ she questioned, waving a hand to indicate her surroundings. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very impressive,’ I affirmed. She led me to three enormous cream leather sofas situated round a frosted glass coffee table on the other side of her office. It was easy to be completely overawed by the sheer luxury of these surroundings, and I was grateful that Celia had phoned with a pep talk earlier that morning so that I was well prepared to meet this character who, I was reliably informed, ‘doesn’t do small’. And Celia, for once, wasn’t exaggerating.
‘Sit, sit!’ Mimi beckoned, draping herself magnificently over one sofa, three strings of pearls undulating around her throat as she spoke. ‘Now, let me see your designs.’ I offered my books, which she eagerly accepted. ‘I’m so glad we met, Rosie,’ she continued, without looking up as she flicked through the pages of photographs. ‘You know, you caused quite a stir at the Meet the other night.’
‘I did?’
‘Sure, honey. The conversation was all about you when you left us. Like, how come you’ve been right under our noses all this time and we’ve never seen you? These designs are good…You know, Philippe is so last year. I love what you’ve done here.’ She held up a page with big mounted displays that I did a few years back for an architects’ ball. ‘This is what I want for the Grand Winter Ball. It’s just before Christmas and we intend to make it the social event of the season. So the décor needs to be the best, naturally. I would need, maybe, thirty of these large displays, plus garlands to cover the grand staircase in the ballroom. Could Kowalski’s handle it?’
I was expecting a large order from this larger-than-life lady, but this took me by surprise. It was huge. I did some mental calculations, and then nodded. ‘I’m sure we can. I’ll put together some initial sketches with my co-designer and get them back to you with an estimate for your approval, if that’s OK?’
Mimi snapped the book shut. ‘Fantastic, Rosie. I’ll have my planners call you and we’ll go from there.’ We stood up. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said, smiling broadly but escorting me swiftly to the door. ‘I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.’
Going down in the glass elevator, I let out a huge sigh as the enormity of the task ahead finally sunk in. I knew that, after the initial shock and protestations, Marnie and Ed would relish the opportunity to work on that scale. But quite how I was going to broach the subject with them, I had no idea.
I was lost in these thoughts as the elevator reached the ground floor and I stepped out. Straight into someone coming the other way. Losing my balance completely, I fell. My books flew out of my hands, opening mid-air before crashing to the ground, sending photographs and business cards sliding, skidding and scuttering across the atrium floor. I landed on the chic polished marble in a decidedly unchic position, surrounded by my belongings, which lay scattered in all directions.
You know how, when something embarrassing happens to you, it’s like someone hits the Pause button and the world seems to stop and stare? Well, this was one of those moments. All the frantically hurrying people found a good reason to postpone their journeys and a hundred spotlights homed in on me as their eyes surveyed my misfortune. Why had I chosen today to wear a shorter than usual skirt and no tights? Dazed from the ugly tumble, yet alert enough to realise I was in grave danger of revealing my choice of underwear to all assembled, I struggled to my knees in a vain attempt to rescue any remaining scraps of my dignity, scrabbling for my belongings as I did so. Stumbling eventually to my feet, I cursed my flushing cheeks and made a woeful attempt at a smile in the direction of the flash mob gathered around me. Only when I was fully upright did I realise that the someone I had collided with was still there. Laughing. Very loudly.
He stood, bent double, chest convulsing wildly, with one hand wiping tears from his eyes while the other reached out to help me. His laughter seemed to bounce off every hard surface, filling the space with great booming guffaws. I hugged my books to my chest, still aware of all the unwanted attention from the atrium’s beautiful people.
‘I’m…so…sorry,’ the man gasped. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, but…but that was just hilarious.’
‘Well, thank you.’ I could swear I heard a stifled Armaniclad giggle from the green glass reception desk. Great, said the little voice in my head, nice one, Duncan. The someone was still laughing. The beautiful people were still laughing. But I wasn’t. Realising my embarrassment, the someone regained his composure and straightened up. I was just about to give him a piece of my mind when our eyes met and, instantly, his expression changed from amusement to sincere shock as he recognised me—and I recognised him.
‘Rosie Duncan? Heck, I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?’ he stammered, his voice suddenly full of genuine concern that defused my anger.
‘I’m fine—um—Nathaniel?’
There was more than a hint of relief in his smile. ‘Yes. Uh, Nate. Call me Nate—please. Are you sure you’re OK?’ He bent down and quickly collected the remaining detritus of my fall, carefully handing them back to me. His warm hand rested on mine for a second. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘I’m fine—really. Ego a bit dented, that’s all,’ I replied, smiling weakly.
‘Good—great…’ His voice trailed off and his brow furrowed as he struggled for something else to say. He ran a hand through his closely cropped chestnut-brown hair and then a warm, one-sided grin broke across his face. ‘Uh…well, it was good to—um—bump into you again!’
It was a bad joke, but I still found myself laughing. ‘Yeah—you too.’ We exchanged polite smiles and an uneasy pause. It was obvious this conversation was fast running out of road, so I said goodbye and walked away. I was nearly at the glass entrance doors when I heard Nate call after me.
‘Rosie! Where’s your store?’
‘At the corner of West 68th and Columbus,’ I called back. ‘Kowalski’s.’
Nate bent down to pick up something else from the floor and waved it in the air. ‘Hey, don’t worry, it’s OK—I’ve found your card!’
I could feel the hot rush of embarrassment return. As the floor ignored my urgent telepathic request for it to open up and swallow me, I smiled, hastily turned and made a speedy exit.
‘How many?’
Arms folded, Ed and Marnie stood, like a matching pair of incredulous-looking bookends. This was not going well.
‘Just think of it this way, guys. You’re forever saying we don’t get enough exposure for Kowalski’s—well, this will get us noticed by really important people. Press people, publishers, celebrities. We can take on extra staff for this job. Corey Mitchell at the Molloy College in Bethpage has offered to lend us some of his floristry students any time we want. You guys can really go to town on the whole design process. Come on, I’m confident we can do this.’
Marnie took a deep breath and looked at Ed. They then had one of their weird unspoken conversations. They do this all the time. I hear no words, but somehow a decision is made. Eventually Ed nodded at Marnie then looked at me.
‘OK, OK, let’s do it.’
I whooped and clapped my hands. ‘Thank you so much. It’s going to be so exciting! Time for Kowalski’s to take over New York!’
Marnie and Ed shot me one of their ‘humour her, she’s insane’ glances and Marnie took her position behind the counter while Ed followed me into the workroom at the back of the shop.
One thing Ed loves to do is psychoanalyse people. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of psychiatrists and it’s an inescapable part of his genetic makeup. Ed’s father has never forgiven him for abandoning what has been the family profession for the past three generations. When Ed began his apprenticeship at Kowalski’s he had to regularly defend his decision—and, in turn, his sexuality—to his father, who considered men who worked with flowers to be gay by definition. Even when Ed moved from Kowalski’s to work at Charters, one of Manhattan’s most respected florists, Mr Steinmann refused to be impressed. I wonder sometimes if this is why Ed dates so much—still publicly asserting his heterosexuality to prove his father wrong.
He never told his father he was unhappy at Charters, even though most of his five years spent working there were impossibly miserable as, time and again, he was denied the opportunity to progress in the company. In fact, the only person he confided in was Mr Kowalski, who had remained a friend throughout, which was why Ed ended up accepting the position of my co-designer. Mr Kowalski not only offered the fatherly advice denied Ed by his own father, but was also instrumental in affirming Ed’s work and worth. Yet another reason why we all love and miss Mr K so much.
‘So,’ Ed said, resuming work on a hand-tied bouquet of roses, asters and Asiatic lilies, surrounded by deep green banana leaves, ‘Mimi Sutton—what kind of vibe did you get about her?’
‘Quite businesslike. Difficult to tell that much about her, really.’
‘Rosie, turn off the optimism gene for one second and tell me what you honestly thought. I won’t tell. Scout’s honour.’
I thought for a moment. ‘OK, the vibe was—strange.’ I confessed. ‘It feels like something’s missing there.’
Ed looked up from his hand-tying. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I dunno…I mean, she’s very polite, very friendly, but I can’t tell how genuine she is. It’s like all the fire and individuality that she must have had before she got successful has gone somehow. I’m not sure what’s left in their place.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Ed, nodding. ‘Heart replaced by a dollar sign. Soul replaced by a resumé. She sold out.’
Ed is always able to condense an entire conversation into a three-line conclusion. I keep telling him he should be writing tag lines for Hollywood movies. He’d make a fortune.
‘Shame,’ he said, picking up a pale peach rose and spinning the stem between his fingers absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve always liked her books. Just goes to show that the person you think you know from their writing is only the person they want you to see. And what about the other guy—Brent, was it?’
I smiled immediately. ‘Yes, Brent Jacobs. He’s fab. I like him. You’d like him.’
‘Always a good sign. Why?’
‘Because he used to be a criminal psychologist.’
Ed laughed. ‘Uh-oh. Better not let us meet then. I may have been a case study in his former career. I’ve a checkered past, you know.’
‘Oh, I forgot. Ed Steinmann, criminal mastermind. Must be why you fit in so well here.’
‘Hmm, because I’m not the only one with an intriguing hidden history.’ The comment sliced through the humour like a knife through butter. ‘I’m still here if you want to talk, Rosie.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ Instantly I saw hurt narrow his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…I’m fine, Ed, really. But thanks for caring.’
His expression instantly changed and his eyes twinkled.
‘Someday I’m going to write a book about you: Rosie Duncan—One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of the Modern Age. A surefire hit!’
People often tell me they sense about the team at Kowalski’s a closeness they don’t see in other shops. Sometimes customers ask if we’re related—and you should see the look of horror on Ed and Marnie’s faces—as we are every inch the typical family: fighting occasionally, bickering sometimes, but always there for each other. And we have Mr Kowalski in common.
One thing Mr K said again and again was that we were a family. ‘You are children to me. And like a good father, I worry for you. We are a family at Kowalski’s—it is the heart of everything we do.’
I’ve tried to keep the same feeling at Kowalski’s since it became my business. And, odd though it sounds, I sense him here still—five years after his death—that broad, crinkly smile lighting up his lovely old face as he watches the ‘Kowalski’s kids’ with pride.
‘What are you doing Thursday evening next?’ Marnie asked later that afternoon, poking her head round the workroom door. Ed and I looked up from the red, white and gold-themed table centrepieces we were working on for Mr and Mrs Hymark’s Ruby Wedding party. Mrs Hymark worked for Mr K as a Saturday girl in her teens and has trusted Kowalski’s with her floral orders for every occasion since—from her own wedding to the birth of her children and grandchildren, birthdays, anniversaries and funerals.
Ed, obviously unwilling to commit, deferred to me. ‘Uh, Rosie?’
‘Don’t look at me, Steinmann, I don’t manage your diary. I’m free, Marnie.’
‘Yeah, whatever. Although I was planning a quiet one…’
I smiled firmly. ‘Ed and I are both free, Marnie.’
Marnie gave a little whoop and clapped her hands. ‘Great!’
Ed groaned the groan of dread-filled experience. ‘What have we just agreed to?’
‘The opening night of my community theatre play, of course!’
A look of panic washed across his face. ‘Oh—wait—I just remembered, I have a…a…thing next Thursday.’
Marnie’s face instantly fell. ‘What thing? Oh, Ed, can you reschedule? It’s really important that you guys come. It’s the world premiere, you know.’
Ed opened his mouth to protest but I got there first. ‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Marnie.’
A week later, Ed and I stood in the small queue outside Hudson River Players’ tiny studio theatre. To call it a theatre was lavishing high praise indeed: in truth, it was an old dock warehouse that had been converted ten years ago into a theatre space for the local neighbourhood. Nevertheless, for all the effort and care the drama group’s members had gone to for the ‘world premiere’ of their new play, it might as well have been Radio City Music Hall or Madison Square Garden.
‘Welcome,’ boomed a stony-faced, wiry-framed man clad entirely in black, who was handing out programmes like they were death warrants.
‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Ed as we passed into the shadowy heart of the black-curtained warehouse space.
‘Would you stop complaining?’ I hissed under my breath as we found our seats—or rather, wooden bench.
‘So, remind me again why we’re willingly inflicting this torture on ourselves tonight?’ Ed remarked, looking round at the other, equally unenthusiastic members of the audience.
‘We’re here for Marnie,’ I replied, trying to look interested in the Xeroxed programme but seeing only spelling mistakes—such as ‘dirrectors’ and ‘tragik’. ‘We promised.’
‘But it’s community theatre,’ he protested. ‘It’s like death, only much, much slower! I mean, come on, Rosie—look around you: nobody wants to be here. This place is worse than Edgar Allen Poe on twenty-four-hour repeat. Oh, wait, no—I think I’ve just seen him leaving because it’s too depressing.’
‘Be quiet and enjoy the experience. It’s Marnie’s play. Part of Kowalski’s family, remember?’
Ed’s shoulders dropped in defeat. ‘Sure, I get it.’
The play, it has to be said, was everything bad you’ve ever heard about experimental theatre—and then some. When we’d asked Marnie what it was about, she had solemnly informed us that Armageddon: The Miniseries was an ‘existential politico-comedy with tragic overtones’—which did nothing to enlighten us or prepare us for the experience. All seven actors were dressed in black and appeared to be playing about thirty parts each. ‘We use the Brechtian device of gestus to completely remove the audience from any perceived reality of the play, choosing instead to represent rather than impersonate,’ intoned the programme notes. ‘We have also challenged the concept of a single director, opting for a group-conscious approach in its stead.’
A player ran onstage carrying a pig’s head in one hand and what appeared to be two pounds of tripe in the other.
‘This is the play that they make you watch when you’re eternally damned,’ whispered Ed, ‘over and over and over…Ow! That was my ankle!’
‘Shhhhh, Marnie’s coming on.’
Marnie walked slowly to the centre of the stage with an expression like stone and a red ribbon tied around her left wrist. ‘Enough!’ she shouted, hands aloft like a Druid priest. ‘Time is not what we think it is!’ I could see her counting to three slowly and then she exited as solemnly as she had entered.
‘Two lines? I just sat through three hours of the worst play in the known universe for two lines?’ Ed moaned as we sat in the all-night diner across the street afterwards.
‘I know, but Marnie was so thrilled we came. And look, I bought you your favourite chocolate cheesecake to say thank you,’ I replied, pointing at the slab of dessert in front of him so big he could barely see over the top of it.
Ed’s blue stare zoomed in on me. ‘Don’t think the “family” excuse is going to work on me every time, Duncan. Tonight I felt generous, that’s all.’
I smiled. ‘Fine. You just keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better.’
Ed muttered something obscene into his cheesecake.
There’s always a lot of banter when Ed and I are together, mainly because we have so much in common. We share similar tastes in movies and music; we both consider huge steaming hot dogs and ice-cold papaya shake from Gray’s Papaya on West 72nd Street the finest guilty pleasure on a Sunday afternoon; and we both enjoy psycho-analysing everyone we meet in a manner that would impress even the cast of Dawson’s Creek. Most of all, we share a passion for New York: Ed because he’s lived here all his life and me because, well, I fell in love with the city the moment I got off the train at Grand Central Station and walked into the frenetic bustle of the world-famous concourse with its stunning star-strewn ceiling. Before I came here I didn’t really believe people who said New York felt like a place where dreams are made, yet that is completely what I felt on that first day; like anything was possible in this city—even the most implausible hope or wildest aspiration.
It was Ed who encouraged me to explore New York and Ed who volunteered to escort me on my journey of discovery. So, most Sundays for the past five years or thereabouts, Ed and I have met on the subway and headed off to a new destination: strolling down Bleecker Street with its boho-chic boutiques; browsing superheroes old and new at Forbidden Planet, the comic shop on Broadway; watching the sun set across the city from the observation deck of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings (‘You have to see both views to understand the race to be the tallest,’ Ed says); eating oysters in the vaulted brick bar nestled deep beneath Grand Central; sneaking into private Gramercy Park once after being slipped a coveted key by an old school friend of Ed’s who works at the Gramercy Hotel (seriously, the people Ed knows in this city you wouldn’t believe); and hour upon hour of long, laughter-filled conversations in various coffee houses, diners and restaurants across Manhattan. It’s true what they say about this city: it’s a million different experiences in one place. Even now, six years since I arrived, I don’t think I’ve even scratched the surface of the delights New York has to offer.
The day after Marnie’s play was an unusually quiet one for Kowalski’s. Usually we don’t stop on a Friday from the minute we lift the shutters to the moment we turn the Open sign to Closed. We took the opportunity to do some long-overdue housekeeping around the store—the kind of jobs you always intend to get round to doing yet invariably end up putting off. We gave the light wood floor a good clean, dusted the shelves behind the counter, restocked the flower buckets and tidied up the workroom. Even Mr K’s old half-moon spectacles received a much-needed polish and sat resplendent on the shelf afterwards, sparkling almost as much as Mr K’s eyes used to.
By three o’clock it was obvious that the good people of the Upper West Side didn’t want flowers today, so I was about to suggest we close up early when Ed asked, ‘Are you guys OK to finish up here without me? I mean, it’s quiet and I’d like to leave early tonight.’
I smiled. ‘It’s probably worth closing now anyway. I think we’ve all worked hard enough today.’
Marnie looked at me and shrugged. ‘That is so typical. I was hoping you might need me to stay later tonight. My crazy land-lord’s fixing my shower and I really don’t want to be there while he’s working.’
‘Ah, still trying to match-make you and his son, huh?’ Ed grinned.
Marnie pulled a face. ‘Is he ever.’ She hunched her shoulders and adopted a gruff, Italian-American accent. ‘“You such a nice lady, Ms Andersson, you could do a lot worse than my Vinnie, you know. He’s gonna inherit the building when I retire. He got prospects—a lady like you needs a guy with prospects…” Yeah, and a lady like me also needs cleanliness—and fresh breath. All Vinnie has to offer me is too much butt-crack over his jeans and halitosis like you wouldn’t believe.’
Ed and I giggled—not least because of the hilarious sight of Marnie, colourfully attired as always, stomping around like Don Corleone in pigtails.
‘Hey, I have an idea,’ I said, giving her a wink. ‘Seeing as our esteemed colleague is deserting us, how about you and I head over to SoHo for something to eat?’
Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, Rosie, that would be amazing! I could show you that store I was telling you about—the vintage one?’
After a day at Kowalski’s the thought of a spot of retail therapy followed by a great meal was more than a little tempting. ‘You’re on.’
Ed shook his head. ‘What is it about the word “shopping” that makes women go nuts?’
‘It’s a girl thing, Steinmann. You’re not invited,’ Marnie grinned.
‘So, how come you’re skiving off early?’ I asked him.
