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‘I’ve been thinking – and please feel free to say no – but how would you like to hold the launch of your book at my bookstore? We’d love to have you and I could arrange everything.’
Celia exchanged glances with Stewart and beamed brightly at Bea. ‘Now that is just perfect! I was only saying to your brother last night I thought your place would be ideal. Of course! Pencil it in!’
Bea felt as if the sun had just broken free on a very dark day. ‘That’s wonderful! Why don’t you come down to the bookstore soon and we’ll go through everything you’d like?’
Celia offered a perfectly manicured hand and Bea shook it. ‘You just got yourself a deal, lady!’
As Celia and Stewart began to talk about their respective days at work, Bea gazed out of the bay window to the street below. This was the positive sign she had been longing for – and she was determined to make it a success.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_12648a5e-c151-507d-9e0b-ff94f3c05825)
Private loft apartment, Upper West Side (#ulink_12648a5e-c151-507d-9e0b-ff94f3c05825)
The loft apartment looked like a movie set. As the owner gave Jake a tour, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the space. Architect-designed and full of light, the apartment smelled of money – every detail an indicator of taste and expense. Frosted glass met industrial slate and polished cherry wood floors. Generous couches in neutral tones were arranged around exposed brick walls. Glass and brushed steel staircases rose from either end of the room to a mezzanine above, with bedrooms situated off it. Two-storey glass windows provided the most amazing view of the Upper West Side – at night the lights of the city would meet the stars and guests could wander out onto the slate balcony to admire the view. It was perfect.
‘And you don’t mind if we clear some furniture for the party?’ he asked.
Eric Reynolds, the owner of the gorgeous living space and an old friend from Jake’s Yale days, nodded. ‘No problem. We do it often, actually. My practice holds all its business functions here so we’ve become old hands at furniture removal.’ He slapped a friendly hand on Jake’s back. ‘You know, it’s good to see you, man. I thought we’d lost you to the West Coast forever.’
Jake laughed, but his heart was heavy. ‘Me? Never! Always an East Coast fella.’
‘Good. We should do a weekend at the Hampton house some time. Laura would love to see you.’
‘How is the family?’
Eric chuckled. ‘Growing. Suddenly I’m the father of three teenagers and I have no idea how it happened. The boys are good, though, even if they have relegated me to “old man” status in backyard basketball matches. And Laura hasn’t changed in twenty years. So, what do you reckon?’
Jake looked up at the light flooding in from the glass roof of the apartment. ‘It’s perfect. Ed and Rosie will love it. And I hope you and Laura can join us?’
‘Unfortunately, we’re out of town that Friday. But we’ll expect you all at the house soon, OK?’
In a coffee shop around the corner from the apartment, Jake pulled out his Moleskine notebook and ticked ‘VENUE’ off his to-do list. Remembering that Eric Reynolds had an apartment he let out for events had been a masterstroke this morning and a large part of Jake’s planning conundrum solved. Now what remained was a bar, waiting staff and a caterer, perhaps a DJ, maybe some mood lighting. Jake looked at his list and congratulated himself. This party planning was easier than he’d imagined.
He sipped his flat white and glanced around the coffee shop interior. A long line stretched along the counter towards the door but the speed of service meant that even those at the back of the queue weren’t visibly rattled by having to wait. That said, compared with San Franciscan coffee shop customers, this queue would appear uptight. Jake shuddered as a familiar thud of reality echoed through him. Everything had seemed easier on the West Coast – the sunshine and laid-back atmosphere permeating every aspect of life. Except for his marriage, which should have been the easiest thing of all. Why did Jessica leave him? What happened to change how she felt about him?
Jake groaned. Speculation was pointless. Jess had her reasons – whatever they were – and he was powerless to change her mind. He could go over and over the situation until the end of time and never find the answers. Jessica simply didn’t want to be his wife any longer. The unsigned divorce papers in his still-unpacked apartment were irrefutable evidence of that.
He turned his attention back to the neatly written to-do list. This was what he should focus on, something removed from his marriage situation.
Make this a success, he wrote in bold, confident letters, and the rest will follow.
Alongside the list of engagement party tasks, Jake had written an extensive list that would take even longer to complete. When he moved from San Francisco he had left more than his marital home behind. Along with his friends and lifestyle he had also left his business – a thriving psychotherapy practice that he had built from scratch. Even now, he regretted having to leave his hard work on the other side of the US. Still, at least the money from its sale would go a long way to seeing him established in New York. And, as Ed had joked, there were fewer places in the world more in need of mass therapy than Manhattan.
‘It’ll be a goldmine,’ he’d assured Jake. ‘They’ll be lining up outside to dump their neuroses on you.’
Jake hoped Ed was right. Certainly their father and eldest brother Daniel had profited handsomely from dealing with the minds of the Big Apple, so there was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t do the same.
If only it were that easy. Finding the right premises was a challenge. Too close to the centre of New York and he could be lost in the city blur; too far away and he would just be lost. He needed to be where people needed him and were willing to pay for his services, so affluent areas were preferable. But affluent areas spelled expensive rents and to place his fledgling business in the wrong area would prove costly indeed.
Deep down, Jake hated that money was always the bottom line. When he graduated from medical school he had entertained lofty aspirations to treat everyone, regardless of income. And, for a couple of years, he had worked in volunteer practices, offering psychological assistance to the police and community outreaches in addition to his junior partner position at a local psychotherapy unit. He had almost burned himself out in the process, but had felt a deep sense of pride to be doing the right thing.
Then, he met Jessica. And everything changed. Her father was a powerful businessman in the city and only too happy to send wealthy colleagues Jake’s way. With the profits from his new clientele, Jake was soon able to set up his own practice, moving wholesale to San Francisco a year later when Jessica was offered a position at a West Coast interior design agency. Since then, Jake’s business had focused solely on private clients – and he had become comfortable with the safety and security it afforded him.
Maybe he had become too comfortable with everything. Maybe that was why Jessica left …
He shook the thought away. He hadn’t changed: she had. He needed to focus on rebuilding his business. Premises and good staff, definitely a great PA, maybe a practice partner in time – all of these things he had control over and could ensure he made a success of.
He spent the afternoon calling recruiters and realtors, his list getting longer as appointments to view premises and meet potential staff built up. Back in his apartment and pleased with a productive day’s work, Jake closed his notebook and stretched his aching arms above his head as the light began to fade over the Williamsburg skyline. He poured a glass of bourbon and relaxed back in his favourite leather chair – one of the few pieces of furniture he had brought from his previous home. The apartment grew dark as streetlights flared into life, casting an eerie orange glow around the bare walls. A single shaft of white light from a neighbouring building’s security lamp illuminated the table by the window – and the dreaded brown envelope confirming the end of his marriage. Taking a long sip of bourbon, Jake let pain wash over him as he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER NINE (#ulink_365e3e5f-e52f-533f-83bd-9bb587cf01a7)
Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn (#ulink_365e3e5f-e52f-533f-83bd-9bb587cf01a7)
‘Celia Reighton is a legend!’ Russ stroked the journalist’s latest column in the New York Times, which was spread across the counter in Hudson River Books.
The column was a wry take on the Mayor of New York’s recent speech at a fundraiser in which he mistakenly referred to Donald Trump as ‘Sir Donald’. A furore had broken out, Manhattan’s journalists having a field day at his expense while political opponents claimed this as evidence of the Mayor’s unsuitability for the job. Celia, in her inimitable fashion, was musing on the Mayor’s secret plan to ‘Olde-Englandise’ New York:
One has to wonder what’s next? Will suits of armour be seen on Wall Street? Will corsets be compulsory at New York Fashion Week? Before we know it, our esteemed Mayor will have the whole of Manhattan as a giant, Disney-esque theme pub. My advice? Be sure to sign up for those jousting lessons now, before the rush begins …
‘I think I actually love her,’ Russ laughed.
‘Well, hands off. My brother’s already claimed her.’
‘Shame.’ Russ studied Bea. ‘You look better today.’
‘Thanks. I feel better.’
‘Did you and Otis talk?’
Bea ignored her irritation. ‘No. We have nothing else to talk about. I’ve been thinking: Celia’s book launch could be the first of many evening events Hudson River Books could host. I thought we could collaborate with the Comedy Cavern and do an open-mic style event nearer the summer, if you’re up for it?’
‘Well look at you, Ms Businesswoman of the Year! It’s all good, Bea.’
‘Thank you.’ Pleased with herself, Bea looked around the bookstore. It was coming together at last.
‘When is Ms Reighton arriving to look around?’
‘About ten. But Stewart said to expect her any time between now and two p.m.’ Bea smiled. ‘Time-keeping isn’t her forte, apparently.’
Russ looked hurriedly around the shop. ‘Heck, I need to tidy this place for when she arrives. We can’t have a New York Times star columnist seeing the bookstore like this.’
‘Like what? It looks great.’
Russ stared at Bea. ‘So you say. But we’re talking New York royalty here. I’m not settling for anything less than perfect.’
Bea giggled as her friend set about cleaning the already clean shop. She was used to Russ panicking but today he was doing it at an entirely new level. Bea understood his nerves: she too was a little daunted by the task. It was a coup to host Celia’s event, but, knowing her reputation and respect within the literary community of the city, the prospect of famous authors, socialites and powerful journalists eating canapés and drinking wine at Hudson River Books was slightly terrifying. She was excited though: if the bookstore could pull this off, anything was possible.
As predicted, Celia breezed into Hudson River Books just after one o’clock, by which time Russ was more tightly wound up than a spring. Not wanting to risk her colleague exploding in Celia’s presence, Bea despatched him to the local coffee shop to fetch drinks. At least this way she could guarantee ten Russ-free minutes to talk about the important things with Celia.
‘I love this place!’ Celia said, walking around the bookstore and inspecting the bare-brick walls, comfortable leather chairs and informally arranged bookshelves. ‘It’s so inviting, so warm and welcoming. Every bookstore should be like this.’
Bea had overheard similar conversations between customers over the last couple of years but it was wonderful to hear it said directly to her. It was what she and Russ had worked so hard for: to create a store that people wanted to linger in. Cosy beanbags, cushions and chairs were arranged throughout for customers to sit and enjoy their books; special genre-themed zones changed regularly so there was always something new to discover; quotes from Books of the Month were chalked up on thought-bubble-shaped blackboards around the store; and they had even devised a ‘Take A Chance on Me’ book service, where a pile of titles wrapped in brown paper with labels hinting at the stories within invited readers to discover an author they might not have read before.
As Celia continued to enthuse about the fixtures, fittings and ambience of the bookstore, Bea beamed with pride. She remembered making her Grandma Dot laugh when, as a little girl, she had earnestly asked if the local bookshop in her home town might let her live there if she asked nicely enough. She had even devised a back-up plan if the bookshop declined her idea: the local library’s children’s section had very comfortable patchwork beanbags that could easily make a bed. As long as books surrounded Bea all the time, she wasn’t fussy about where she lived. Now she was living out her childhood ambition – almost. Hudson River Books was definitely the kind of book-filled space that she would happily spend every hour of her life in.
Aware of the brief amount of time she had before her colleague’s return, Bea sat on the large black leather sofa in the corner that would soon house Russ’ coffee bar and invited Celia to join her.
‘I’ve been thinking about the book launch,’ she said, pulling out her notebook and scanning the list of suggestions with the shaking tip of her pen. ‘I’d love it if you would do a reading for us. I thought, with your permission, we could reproduce some quotes from your book and hang them around the walls. We have some bespoke frames that we use for seasonal promotions and Russ is a graphic design whizz.’
‘I like it. Go on.’
Encouraged, Bea shared more items from her list. The French bistro opposite the bookstore had agreed to serve mini versions of its popular dishes as canapés and provide as much wine as the guests could drink, while the small stationery store further down 8th Avenue had offered to hand-print invitations for the event and supply matching goody bags for all attending.
Celia listened to Bea, nodding enthusiastically. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? I must say, I’m impressed. Stewart told me how much this event means to you. Talking of which, how are you? Has that awful man tried to contact you?’
Slightly taken aback at the speed with which Celia had changed the subject, Bea took a few moments to reply. ‘I – um – I’m fine and no, thankfully, Otis hasn’t been in touch. But then I did tell him we were over, so it’s little wonder he’s left me alone.’
Celia folded her hands in her lap and fixed Bea with a look that made her a little nervous. ‘You know what you need? A night out. Great company, good wine – get away from all thoughts of relationships and enjoy yourself.’
Bea had to admit that sounded good. Lately all she had done was dodge thoughts about Otis and her failed love life. ‘I’d like that.’
Celia’s smile illuminated the store. ‘Excellent! My good friend is having a party in the Upper West Side, Friday night. It’ll be full of interesting people and I hear the private venue is to die for. Say you’ll come.’
Bea laughed at the unexpected invitation. What else would she be doing on a Friday night, anyway? ‘OK. I’d love to.’
That evening, Bea sat alone in her cosy apartment in the Boerum Hill neighbourhood of Brooklyn. To the casual observer, the only differences between her business and her home were a few more chairs, a kitchen sink and a bedroom; the rest of the space being devoted to books. Russ jokingly referred to Bea’s apartment as a ‘flat-share’ arrangement: ‘It’s nice of the books to let you stay. Do they charge you reasonable rent?’
Bea smiled now as she sipped a large mug of hot chocolate and ran her fingers along the spines of her books. Since ending her relationship with Otis she found she was enjoying being alone. The days following the awful family dinner had given her time to reflect on her recent life and what she had seen hadn’t been pretty. She realised she had become so focused on tackling potential problems Otis could cause that she had been neglecting her own life. She had been a fire-fighter rather than the trailblazer she wanted to be. That was going to change.
Bea couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to think only of herself. Between her final year of university and the start of this week she had lurched from one doomed relationship to another, with barely time to catch her breath in between. On one hand it proved she was a woman in demand – as Stewart had often said – but the problem was the kind of men lining up to date her.
She caught sight of her reflection in the vintage mirror she had bought last year at the Brooklyn Flea market. Well, no more, she told herself. From now on, it’s all about me.
She meant it, too. Why should her life revolve around relationships? Who wrote that rule, anyway? More than anything, Bea wanted to be known for who she was, what she could achieve. Placing the responsibility for her happiness on someone else was only going to lead to more heartache. Her family might have the monopoly on successful relationships, but she didn’t have to join them. It was her time to be whoever she wanted to be. And right now, she wanted to be happy being herself.
Her reflection started back, singularly unconvinced. Otis Greene still had a heavy hold on her heart. She let out a sigh. Clearly this was going to take some getting used to.
The shrill ring of her 1950s red Bakelite phone made her turn from the mirror.
‘Hi, Bea James?’
‘Sweetheart! It’s Mum. Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear.’ Bea smiled and all of a sudden wished her parents hadn’t set off on their long-planned trans-American adventure the day after the family meal. ‘How are you both?’
‘Your dad is driving a forty-two foot Winnebago, so he’s like a kid, as you can imagine. And I’m a happy navigator with my lovely new maps. More to the point, how are you?’
‘I’m good.’ She hesitated, wondering how much to tell her mother, before reasoning that Stewart would most likely fill her in on all the details even if she didn’t. Better to bite the bullet. ‘Single, again. But it’s the right thing.’
‘Good.’ Her mum’s reply didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m sorry we had to leave so quickly, darling. Thing is, your father has a list as long as your arm that he wants us to get through before we fly home.’
‘It’s fine; I know you’ve been dreaming about this trip for years. Where are you now?’
‘Philadelphia. Next is Boston and New England. I suspect he has the historical tour worked out for every place we visit, but that’s what I get for marrying a history lecturer. Are you sure everything is OK?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Because if not I can tell your dad to turn the Winnebago around right now.’
Bea could hear a muffled retort from her father and missed him incredibly. ‘You’re not getting out of Dad’s magical history tour that easily.’
‘Rats. Oh well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll check in next week, though. That’s if your dad hasn’t bored me off the face of the planet.’
‘She loves it, Bea-Bea! Love you!’ Bea’s dad called out.
‘Love to you both. Tell Dad to drive safely and let you have a day off for shopping in Boston.’
‘I will. That’s why I love you! Bye, Bea!’
When the call ended, Bea looked around her book-strewn apartment, which suddenly seemed too quiet. I’m fine, she told herself. Absolutely fine.
CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_f2a13a3a-6a87-5411-8a29-73646738fcf5)
Chez Henri, Upper West Side (#ulink_f2a13a3a-6a87-5411-8a29-73646738fcf5)
‘Smoked salmon with wilted spinach and cumin,’ the waiter announced, placing a small tasting plate of beautifully constructed canapés in front of Jake. ‘We also have gazpacho and lime shots and bourbon-marinated beef with wasabi glaze.’
Jake stared at the table covered in white plates with sumptuous edible art and sighed contentedly. Party planning definitely had its perks, not least in Manhattan, and he congratulated himself on the fortunate position he found himself in. He could quite happily do this every day for the rest of his life.
‘It looks wonderful,’ he smiled, noting the pride of the chef standing beside the table. ‘All of it.’
‘Please,’ the chef invited, keen to see his potential customer sample the dishes laid before him.
Every tiny mouthful was an explosion of flavour, layer upon layer of taste experiences that delighted the palate and seemed designed to excite every one of Jake’s senses. Eric had been right about this place. Chez Henri’s food could rival the best in the world and was definitely the hot ticket in New York. No wonder the chef was rumoured to be on his way to achieving a Michelin star for his creations.
Feeling a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny of the chef and attendant waiting staff, Jake turned to Henri DuChamp. ‘Why don’t you join me and talk me though your dishes?’
The waiter and three waitresses exchanged looks of surprise, but Chef Henri’s expression didn’t flicker. With a gesture of his hand the waiting staff retreated to the kitchen and he sat down.
‘Merci, Monsieur.’
‘Call me Jake, Henri, please.’
Henri laughed. ‘Thank you, Jake. This is unusual, but I must confess I prefer it.’
‘You don’t get to do this often?’
The chef shook his head. ‘Most people like to be waited on.’
