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‘How about that?’ asked Celia, triumphantly. ‘You’ve only won over one of the most influential women in Manhattan!’ I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Before I could formulate a reply, Celia continued, ‘But the best of it is the call I got today.’
‘Who from?’
Celia paused for effect. ‘Philippe. He is fuming, Rosie!’
Uh-oh. Not good.
‘What did he say?’ I asked slowly, not wanting the answer.
‘He’s had calls from some of his biggest clients informing him they no longer require his services.’
Incredibly not good. I pulled a face. ‘Let me guess—all these people feature in Mimi’s address book?’
‘Corr-ect!’ Celia sang as I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.
‘Great,’ I yelped. ‘Just great. Have you any idea how much trouble this could cause Kowalski’s?’
Celia’s smile faded slightly. ‘How do you mean, honey?’
‘Think about it! I don’t want to make an enemy of Philippe Devereau. Pretentious and vastly over-priced he may be, but he’s also the market leader in New York. His business is huge. He is not going to take kindly to a little boutique business like Kowalski’s stealing his best customers.’
Celia gave me a hug. ‘You’re not stealing them,’ she smiled. ‘You’re being given them! You worry far too much, Rosie. It’s business—and all’s fair in it.’
I desperately hoped she was right.
Chapter Six (#ulink_f82c9385-c03a-5016-83c0-07d4df69c770)
The next morning was fine and bright. Small wispy white clouds were draped theatrically across the sky and made an impressive spectacle as I pulled back my curtains to let the day in. The silver maple tree planted in the street outside my window was just beginning to adorn itself in its gorgeous yellow-gold hues for the autumn. There was a decided chill in the air as I opened the front door and walked down the brownstone steps onto my street.
It’s only a short walk from my apartment to Celia’s but it’s an essential part of my Saturdays. My Saturdays are as close to sacred as they can be and I guard them jealously. Well, I do now. This was not always the case. When I first took the helm at Kowalski’s I felt I had to be there every single minute the shop was open. I developed a disaster-movie mentality to my business; as if the moment I wasn’t there things would start blowing up, or a meteor would burst through the atmosphere on a collision course with the shop, or aliens would invade—or all of the above—and I would return to find the place gutted with my staff staring blankly at me, asking, ‘Where were you when we needed you?’
After about a year I got so tired and so stressed out that all my creativity drained and we started to lose customers because my designs became lacklustre. It was then that Ed took me to one side and politely but firmly suggested that I needed time away from the business—for everyone’s sake.
‘You need some down time, girl,’ he told me, in no uncertain terms. ‘Marnie and I are more than capable of running the store without you for one whole day. You say you love this city so much? Well, give yourself the time to enjoy it. If you don’t, you’ll never survive here.’ As ever, he was right. So I set aside my Saturdays for seeing Celia and other friends, while Sundays were designated for reading, researching new styles and ideas and generally just spending time exploring my wonderful city, mostly under the wise (if slightly food-obsessed) guidance of Ed.
Talking of food, on my way to Celia’s I always make a oneblock detour south to visit M&H Bakers, my neighbourhood bakery, to pick up some warm pastries, bagels or muffins for our chats. I love the New York combination of good food and good conversation. I’m not sure why, but somehow it’s a whole lot easier to solve life’s problems when you’re in the middle of demolishing a warm bagel smothered in cream cheese with smoked salmon, or a slice of blueberry pie. Even Ed, who vociferously dislikes the Upper West Side, is impressed by this place.
Frank, the small round guy behind the bakery counter, shouted out as I walked in, ‘Good mornin’ to ya, Ms Duncan!’
‘Hi, Frank. How are you today?’
He waved his hand from side to side. ‘Oh, so-so. You know.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I replied with a nod. No matter how brightly the sun is shining, how many customers he has or generally how good his life is, Frank will always find something to despair over. In that sense, he is every inch a New Yorker. ‘So,’ I asked with a smile, ‘what’s the special today, then? Anything good?’
Frank placed a hand across his heart and feigned offence. ‘Do I have anything good? Do I have anything good? I am shocked you gotta ask me! OK, lady, how’s this…’ He reached behind him and lifted a basket onto the counter. ‘Check these babies out.’ I surveyed the basket full of large, golden brown bagels. The smell was amazing—like warm spiced apple pie.
‘Wow. Apple, sugar and cinnamon, right? I’ll take six, please.’
Frank let out a whoop and clapped his hands. ‘She got it!’ He spun round and called loudly into the back of the store. ‘Hey, Luigi, she got it right again!’
A short, incredibly hairy arm appeared round the door that led to the kitchen, and waved. A thick breathy Italian-American voice called back, ‘Dat’s great, Frankie!’
Frank turned back and filled a brown paper bag with bagels. ‘You’re too good, Rosie,’ he smiled, shaking his head. ‘Too good. But we’ll get you one day soon.’
In all the years I’ve come to this place, I’ve never actually seen Luigi. Well, only the incredibly hairy arm and the disembodied voice. Why is he always out back? What if they have to keep him there? What if the sight of all of him is simply too traumatic for the average bakery customer? I have this theory about Luigi. Picture the scene: a young couple in Italy go to see the priest in their small village, late at night. In the priest’s small, dimly lit kitchen they present their one and only child to him. Horror paints the priest’s face and he has to look away. Even in the meagre candlelight the child is hideous. The mother sobs and turns to her husband. In desperation, the father begs the priest: is there anything, anything, you can do for our son? His life will be miserable—people will judge him by his appearance, not what he can do…The old priest’s face is filled with compassion for the plight of this child. He thinks for a while. There is one thing, he replies. If we can teach him a trade—one that brings pleasure to others—he may have a chance of respect…The parents place their son in the care of the local monastery, and he learns to be a pastry chef…Many years later, after the young man finishes his apprenticeship, he emigrates to America to seek his fortune and finds work—here—at M&H Bakers, and the wise old priest’s plan appears to have been successful. But prejudice runs deep—even in the Land of the Free—and while his delectable creations bring undeniable pleasure to Upper West Side residents, his physical appearance leaves him condemned to always, always stay out back…
‘Your imagination is crazy,’ laughed Celia, emerging from the kitchen as I recounted my theory, ‘but your taste in pastries is impeccable!’
I gave a little bow. ‘Well, thank you.’
Celia sat down. ‘So tell me. What happened to you yesterday? You looked white as a ghost when I saw you.’
I winced as still-fresh images took centre stage in my mind. ‘Um, I had a bit of a difficult conversation.’
Celia frowned. ‘Oh?’
‘With Ed.’
‘Oh…why difficult?’
‘We had an argument about—’ I stopped and checked what I was saying. ‘You know, it was so petty I can’t even remember what it was about.’ I looked at Celia, hoping she wouldn’t press me. Luckily for me, she was far too concerned with details of what happened next. ‘Anyway, it got ugly, I apologised, we made up, and then…um…’
Celia leaned forward, coffee mug almost spilling with anticipation. ‘And then…?’
‘…Then I nearly ended up telling him everything. About why I came to America. About what happened.’
Celia gasped, her face a picture of surprise. ‘But you didn’t?’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t. What’s worse was it made me look like I don’t trust him enough.’
Celia let out a cry. ‘Oh, sweetheart, it doesn’t look that way at all.’
‘You don’t think?’
‘Not one bit. But I take it you’re not sure you made the right decision?’ She was right. I wasn’t. Celia reached across the table and clamped a hand over mine. ‘You are perfectly at liberty to tell anyone whatever you choose to—or not. Nobody has the right to demand that kind of information from you, honey, you understand?’
I nodded. ‘Ed said I’m scared to let people close. And he’s right, I am.’ I took a long sip of coffee and looked out to the street below. ‘I don’t know, maybe I should open up more. Maybe it’s time. There’s just this feeling I have that I’m not ready yet. But then, do you ever reach a point where you know you’re ready, or does it just happen?’
Celia straightened up and smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘From my experience, you’ll discover you’re ready when you’re in the middle of telling someone.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I replied, taking another sip of coffee. ‘I’m just not sure if I missed my cue there, you know?’
‘Rosie, you’ll do this in your own time, believe me. I mean, look at when you told me: we’d barely known each other longer than a couple of weeks and out it came, right in the middle of my kitchen, when I was making chicken soup for Jerry.’
I had to smile. My impromptu revelation to Celia had surprised me even more than it had her. ‘How New York was I with that? It was almost worthy of its own series on HBO.’
Celia grinned. ‘As I recall, our outfits were nowhere near as fabulous enough for that!’
I cast my gaze around the rich creams and dark blues of Celia’s living room, noting the antique painting of a jar of lilies, which we often joke about, seeing as she cannot stand the real article. ‘The fact is, I think deep down I’m scared of becoming my past. I don’t want to become synonymous with what happened to me, you know? I’m scared of being given a label that people use instead of my name—like they do on those reality talk shows: “Monica, 34, Idaho, Desperate for a Baby…Jim, 27, Tennessee, Clinically Depressed…” I’m frightened of the inextricable link that would be made between my past and who I am now.’
Celia saw my struggle and smiled.
‘Rosie, you are a beautiful person all round. You have so many people who love you and accept you for who you are. What happened to you in Boston was not your fault, remember? You couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen and you were not responsible for the mess that drove you here. Look at you now: you have a successful business, you’re in a city you adore more than any sane individual should, and, most importantly, you are a good person. The people who matter won’t think any differently of you if you trust them with your secret.’
I smiled a little. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so. Hey, I’m the reporter here. So trust my journalistic instincts, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘And talking of journalism, I’m sure you’ll get a good piece in the Saturday edition. My editor thinks your story is going to be perfect.’
‘Really?’
Celia nodded. ‘Absolutely. Josh Mercer’s not just a great reporter, you know, he also happens to be the finest photographer we’ve had in years too. Only the best for Kowalski’s! You’ll be in very safe hands with him. So stop worrying already.’
‘Thanks, Celia. Not just for that, for everything.’
She smiled with satisfaction. ‘You’re most certainly welcome. Oh…oh!’ she exclaimed, as her thoughts violently altered course. ‘I meant to tell you yesterday, but I guess I forgot. How could I forget? It’s so interesting.’ She waved her hands in the air, struggling to catch her breath in the sudden rush of excitement that now had her in its grip.
I giggled. ‘Celia, take a breath—calm down—what is it?’
She paused for dramatic effect, then gestured as though presenting a precious gift to me. ‘Nathaniel Amie,’ she announced triumphantly, her expression lit by fires of expectation.
My reaction failed to play its part. ‘The publisher guy? From the party?’ Celia was nodding impatiently. I pretended I was still in the dark. ‘What about him?’ I asked breezily, appearing unconcerned, but secretly enjoying this new game.
Close to spontaneous combustion now, Celia’s eyes were in danger of leaving their sockets. She let out an incredulous cry. ‘Oohh, Rosie Duncan, you are impossible! You might at least try to look interested.’
I could hold my serious face no longer. ‘Sorry, Celia. I am interested, honest.’
Celia pulled a good-natured grimace. ‘Well, act like it already.’
I clasped my hands together. ‘Please tell me about Nathaniel Amie, Celia, I beg you!’
She clapped her hands with delight. ‘OK, OK. How about this. When you left yesterday I had to go see him about my book—did I tell you I’m writing a book?’
‘Only a few thousand times.’
She didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Well, anyway I am. So, I had to go see him about publishing my work with Gray & Connelle. And he asked me—about you!’
‘Really?’ I said carefully, suddenly interested for real.
‘Mm-hm,’ she affirmed and then accused me with a wagging finger. ‘You didn’t tell me you saw him at Mimi’s place.’
‘I did—er—bump into him, yes.’ I smiled, hoping Celia didn’t know all the details.
She did. ‘He told me. He said he walked straight into you and sent you flying.’
‘Great,’ I groaned, slapping my hand over my eyes.
‘No, sweetie, he was concerned he’d hurt you. Really. He said you shot out of the building faster than Britney from rehab. He was worried he’d offended you.’
I groaned again. ‘I was so embarrassed, Celia. It was not the best way to make an impression.’
Celia tried unsuccessfully to stifle her amusement. ‘Well, you made an impression on Nate, apparently.’
Outside the sun broke free from the clouds that had been steadily building all morning, and bright rays flooded into the room.
‘I did? What did he say?’
‘He asked me about you. How old you are. Where in England you’re from. How long you’ve lived in New York. What brought you here in the first place.’ She saw my expression. ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him. I just said you were offered a job in Boston, Ben invited you to stay with him so you could take it up and then later you decided to switch career and move here. Acceptable?’
I couldn’t hide the relief in my voice. ‘Yes—most acceptable—thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. As I was saying, he wanted details. He said he might just have to come see you at the store. He has very expensive tastes when it comes to flowers. He orders a lot, you know…’
‘He does? You’re such a journalist, Celia.’ I moaned. ‘OK, OK, yes, I want to know why he orders so many flowers.’
‘Well, you know he’s been dating Mimi’s daughter Caitlin?’
Suddenly, the reference I remembered seeing in Mimi’s email made sense. So the Caitlin in question was Caitlin Sutton. No wonder Mimi wanted a wedding so badly.
‘No, I didn’t know. Is she nice?’
‘Hmm—nice is not the particular adjective I’d choose.’ Celia frowned, her eyes twinkling. ‘Try manipulative, self-centred or, in fact…’
‘…Just like her mother?’ I ventured.
‘Ha! You got it. But gorgeous, though.’
‘Ah. I see. The old adage: “You can forgive a woman anything so long as she looks great”?’
Celia’s eyes lit up. ‘Definitely…’ She stopped and changed her mind. ‘Well, no, actually. I guess Nate just figures it makes good sense to be with her. She’s rich, she’s influential and, well, it undeniably adds to his profile to have her on his arm at parties.’
That was odd. From the little I knew of him, Nate didn’t seem to be the type of guy who looked for ‘trophy’ girlfriends.
‘How come she wasn’t at the Authors’ Meet, then?’
Celia grimaced. ‘She hates books. And writers. Especially writers. She’s a businesswoman—things have to be cut and dried, black and white. Artistic people confuse her. She thinks creativity is something people with no intelligence resort to in order to find work.’
‘Bet she loves you, then.’
‘About as much as my mother loves waiting. And I guess you can imagine what she’d make of you. But she has one weakness—flowers. Lots of them. Nate orders her several bouquets a week…’
‘Oh, well, that’s sort of romantic.’
‘…At her specific request,’ Celia finished. ‘But she only has them in her office. She likes her colleagues on Wall Street to think she is adored. People who visit her home always comment on the flowers in every room, yet I have it on good authority that the house staff are instructed to remove them as soon as visitors leave. Now, I don’t know if this is true, but I heard she gave Nate a list of bouquets she expected to receive on Valentines Day—the bill ran to over $2,000! She even specified the exact words to be written on each accompanying card.’
