Fairytale of New York (22 page)

‘Nate said this was a large commission,’ I began, intrigued to see David momentarily touch his wounded eye at the mention of Nate’s name. He tried to reply, but I continued, ‘so it’s important at this meeting that we discuss numbers of pieces required so I can prepare my staff well in advance. I need to know roughly how many table pieces and large displays will be needed; which areas of the venue are to feature
flowers; numbers of buttonholes required for guests and bridal party; plus, of course, requirements for the bridal bouquet.’

‘Naturally,’ David replied, producing an envelope from his jacket. ‘I’ve detailed everything here for you.’ He handed it over. As I reached out to take it, his hand brushed lightly against mine. The touch was softer than fine silk. I flinched, but he continued, apparently unaware, ‘Would it be beneficial for your team to see the venue at any time?’

‘Yes it’s…our…normal procedure,’ I was struggling and now he saw it. He leaned closer.

‘Would you like to see it
soon
? I could arrange for you to come out before Christmas, if you wish. Maybe you could make a preliminary visit before you bring your team?’

‘No.’ My answer was strained. I cleared my throat and started again. ‘No, that won’t be necessary. Sometime in January will be fine. So, the next consideration is your specifications for colour and variety of the flowers required.’

David’s gaze remained unmoved. ‘That’s all on the list. I thought it best not to go through it here…
now
…’

We ate our meal quickly, although I sensed David was no hungrier than I was. He explained a little more about the layout of his parents’ new house in the Hamptons and I answered his questions about the type of weddings Kowalski’s had catered for in the past. Throughout the meal we maintained a wellpractised professional composure, much like we had assumed when we first met in London. A warm recollection eased itself slowly into my mind of the first week we worked together: our carefully constructed conversations from behind purpose-built defences. We were two people locked in a subtle game: each determined to retain the upper hand, yet both secretly fascinated with the other. Now, for the smallest moment, we were
back there once more. Though guarded on both sides, tiny glimpses of that same sparkling energy fizzed through our conversation. It was devastatingly smooth warfare: utterly uncomfortable yet morbidly satisfying with its onslaught on my senses. I wondered if he felt it too.

At the end of the meal, David smiled. ‘You’re as adept a businesswoman as you always were, Rosie. Exactly like you were when I met you.’ The vivid memory sent a diamond-edged shard of pain through my heart. His eyes flashed and the corners of his wide mouth lifted slightly. I looked away. I caught the faintest sound of a sigh and he spoke again. ‘I’ll get the bill.’

Once it was settled, we rose to leave and Cecil escorted us to the door. ‘I hope to see you again, very soon, Ms Duncan, Mr Lithgow,’ he smiled as we collected our coats and wrapped up ready for the cold outside. ‘Now, you have our order for seasonal flowers?’

‘It’ll be with you on Christmas Eve, as arranged.’

Cecil’s moustache jumped into a smile. ‘Wonderful. Merry Christmas, Ms Duncan.’

‘Merry Christmas, Cecil,’ I replied as David and I walked outside. I turned to hail a cab, then froze when I felt David’s hand on my shoulder.

‘Rosie, before you go—can we walk a little?’

I slowly turned back. ‘I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.’

His eyes were wide as they met mine; all of a sudden, he looked lost.
‘Please
?’

A thought flickered in my mind.
He might be as hurt as you.
Angrily, I dismissed it. But something in his expression struck an ancient, long-forgotten chord. ‘OK. You’ve got ten minutes. Then I must go.’

We walked until we reached a diminutive community garden dwarfed and overshadowed by an imposing 1920s building.
Most of its former glory had faded, but it proudly retained a dustily majestic air of what it had once been. David walked a little way into the garden until he reached a small wooden bench. He sat down and looked up at me.

‘Please sit with me?’

I wrapped my coat defensively around myself. ‘No, thanks. I’m fine here.’

David let out a sharp breath, which rose in the frosty night air like steam from city drains. ‘Look, Rosie, I know this is hard for you, but—’

Instantly I snapped back. ‘Pardon me? I’m sorry, I think I misheard you, David. For a moment there I thought you said you
knew
how I felt…’

He opened his mouth to reply but I got there first.

‘…Because, let me tell you, you have
no idea
how I feel. No idea at all. So don’t even think you know how hard this is for me. Because you wouldn’t even come
close.
’

‘OK, OK, I understand. I’m sorry.’ His voice softened and he held out his hand. ‘Just…
please
…it would be better if you’d sit down, OK? That’s all I meant.
Please
?’ That lost look was all over his face again. I hesitated for a moment before relenting, sitting as far from him as I could.
‘Thank you,’
he breathed. I checked my watch. He spoke again, more softly this time. ‘Look at me, Rosie.’

‘No, look, I’m sitting down and—and—I’m here in the first place, all right? So don’t push it. Just say what you want to say and then let me go home.’ My eyes kept their defiant vigil on the floor.

He swore under his breath. ‘OK. Sure. On your terms it is, then.’

On my terms?
my mind screamed silently.
The last six and a half years have been on your terms…

With great effort, I kept my expression steady and my inner disgust hidden as David continued, ‘Man, this is hard…OK…I realise I have no idea what you’ve been through on my account. I’m well aware that—before I start—nothing I say right now is going to sound worthy enough to compensate for what happened…
what I did to you
…I know that, Rosie. But I have to try, surely?’

I knew he was looking straight at me, in the way he used to.

‘Yeah, sure, you’ve every right to be silent. After all, I guess I’ve been silent towards you for all this time. But being silent doesn’t mean you have nothing to say, Rosie. Though we never spoke, I
always
had things I wanted to say to you—you have to believe that. I’ve often thought about you: how you were doing, where you were…I thought you would have gone back to England…And I know I never tried to contact you but I didn’t know where to look…No, uh—no, that isn’t true: I was
too scared
to look for you. I couldn’t face talking to Ben, or Rosemary, both of whom I knew would be gunning for me. And then it got too late and too many things got in the way, like…like Rachel…But, hey, you don’t want to hear about her. No, of course you don’t. Hell, I’m making such a mess of this. I thought I’d never have to say this stuff. I thought I’d never find you, but, well, here you are…Here
we
are…’

I shifted uneasily as pain intensified in my gut.

‘And now I’m struggling, because all the fine words I’d planned to say seem totally inadequate now. Nate was right: I don’t deserve to receive anything from you ever again, let alone your time to hear me out.’

‘Did he hit you?’ I meant to keep my curiosity locked up but the question escaped.

Surprised, David laughed. ‘Yeah, he totally slammed me. I didn’t know he had it in him. We used to joke at Yale that he
was the only guy who could win a boxing tournament with persuasive argument.’ The smile left his voice. ‘But I was wrong, obviously. It seems there are some subjects he’ll make an exception for. Like
you
.’ His words caught me offside and I was suddenly face to face with him before I had chance to think better of it. As though celebrating a goal achieved, triumph lit my opponent’s eyes and broadened his smile. ‘Well,
that
got you looking at me, Ms Duncan.’

Incensed, I stood. ‘I’m going home. I shouldn’t have come here. Good night.’

Without looking back, I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets and began to walk briskly from the garden. I heard him call my name and his footsteps quickening behind me. Shaking my head, I stepped up the pace, breaking into a halfrun as I rounded the block and headed for the light of the metro station entrance a little way ahead of me. He called my name again, this time much nearer.

‘Leave me alone!’ I shouted back. I was almost at the subway—just a little further…My pursuer’s steps came closer—now I could hear his heavy bursts of breath behind me. I tried increasing my speed but it was too late. My right arm jolted back as he pulled me to a halt, spinning me round to face him.

‘Hit me,’ he growled, between large gasps for breath.

‘What?’ I shot back, trying unsuccessfully to break free from his grip that imprisoned both arms now. ‘Let me go.’

‘Hit me…
’ he repeated breathlessly. ‘Just damn well hit me, Rosie. Let the anger out and then we can be civil. What are you waiting for? Come on, give me your best shot!’

White-hot anger made my answer colder than ice. ‘No, I won’t. And how dare you trivialise everything? What, you think that’s going to solve the situation between us? So I lash out to get it out of my system, is that it? That would be just great for
you, wouldn’t it: one confrontation and it’s all over. Just like one decision solved your problem with me last time. Is that all you think it takes?’

Genuine shock painted his face. ‘I—I…’

‘I will work with you on your wedding, David, as agreed. You will receive the best service that Kowalski’s can offer. Like we offer all our customers. Because that is all you are to me, OK? Just—another—client.’ I paused for breath and silence fell as we faced each other. I felt the anger leave, but steel-cold defiance remain. ‘I’m going home now. Please let me go.’

Still stunned, David’s hands fell away. ‘Can I call you?’

My eyes bore straight into his. ‘Why?’

His lips moved without resulting sound, unable to offer an answer.

‘Good night, David.’ I turned and walked slowly away.

Every season in New York City has its own unique delights, but I have to admit that Christmas time is my favourite. As soon as Thanksgiving approaches and the store windows begin to feature festive themes I get a sparkly sense of excitement all through me. I’ve had it ever since I was a child—even though many of my childhood Christmases were tinged with sadness after Dad’s betrayal of our family. Mum always managed to keep the season light for us, which I think also helped
her
to cope with the time of year. She would spend weeks preparing, baking cakes and biscuits and then, the week before Christmas, she would busy herself filling the house with roses and poinsettias, winding holly and ivy garlands around every flat surface in the house.

I remain such a fan of the season that I even enjoy the annual struggle to single-handedly lug a six-foot spruce tree up three flights of stairs to my apartment (because I refuse to pay $25 extra to get the tree delivered or choose an imitation tree instead). A real Christmas tree is something Mum always insisted on when we were growing up, and I’ve carried on the tradition ever since.

So this was how I came to be standing, as I had done for the past five Christmases, at Chuck’s Festive Tree Yard, on an
impossibly cold Saturday morning, two weeks before Christmas, wearing about twenty-seven layers to keep warm and stamping my feet to retain the circulation in my toes. Having chosen my tree—a gorgeously bushy Blue Spruce—I was now waiting for none other than Chuck himself to net up my purchase so I could drag it home.

Chuck is something of a local hero where I live. He started selling Christmas trees out of the back of his father’s pickup truck in 1953, on the car lot of the old Realto Picture House, three blocks down from my street. The crumbling 1930s cinema was demolished in the late eighties and, by then, Chuck had earned enough to buy the plot. During the year, his business is a small city nursery, selling pot plants and window boxes, but every Thanksgiving he transforms the entire area into the Festive Tree Yard, packed to capacity with every imaginable variety of pine tree. Now in his early seventies, with both his son and grandson working alongside him, Chuck strolls proudly around the yard with a fat wedge of cigar stub hanging permanently out of one side of his mouth, which bobs up and down comically as he proffers his wise advice to customers.

‘Nah, you don’t want that one, lady. That one is for homes less classy than yours. Trust me, I know. What you need is a tree like
this.
Now, don’t you go worrying about that price tag. That price is for customers I don’t like, see? You, I like. So, you can have this classy tree, we’ll call it a straight fifty and it’s yours. What d’ya say, huh?’

The Festive Tree Yard was always busy, but this morning it appeared that everyone in a five-mile radius had decided, like me, to buy their tree today.

‘I like the Norwegian Pine myself,’ said a voice by my ear, making me jump. I spun around to see Ed standing there, a
large cotton shopping bag from Zabar’s slung casually over one shoulder and a huge grin on his face. ‘Happy Holidays!’

‘What are you doing here?’ I smiled.

‘Same thing as you. Looking at over-priced, half-dead trees,’ he smirked. ‘So what sorry specimen did you go for this year?’

‘Blue spruce,’ I replied, jutting my chin out defiantly. ‘And I happen to think that a real tree is essential for Christmas.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, lady,’ grinned Chuck, appearing from the forest in front of us and handing me my tree. ‘Blue spruce—a fine choice for a fine woman. Don’t you agree, sir?’

‘If you like that kind of thing,’ Ed replied nonchalantly.

Chuck’s wrinkled brow furrowed further. ‘Is he referring to the tree or to you?’ he asked me, clenching the cigar between his teeth as he spoke.

I smiled. ‘Non-believer.’

Chuck let out a big throaty laugh. ‘Aha, I see. Well, Happy Holidays, lady—and to you, sir.’ And with that he disappeared back into the trees.

‘So how are you getting this back home?’ Ed asked. ‘Hailing a cab?’

‘No, walking it back.’

Ed surveyed the tree and then me, eyes wide. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘Nope,’ I replied, picking up the end of the trunk and dragging the tree behind me, leaving a pine-needle-studded trail in the snow. ‘It’s all part of the magic.’

Ed wasn’t convinced. ‘Right…Here, let me help.’ He scooped up the other end of the tree, cursing as the needles broke through his gloves, and hooked it under his arm. ‘Onward, Duncan!’

Laughing and joking, we walked the three blocks back to
my apartment block, enjoying the snow flurries as they patted against our cheeks and landed on our clothes. The sky above us was the colour of melted marshmallows—pale pink and white—as butterscotch-hued clouds heavy with snow drifted slowly across the tops of the skyscrapers. Everyone we passed seemed to be smiling, as if the tree we carried was some kind of talisman that broke through the usual barriers of propriety and endeared us to our neighbours.

I have to say that manoeuvring the tree up to my apartment was a lot less tricky with two people—albeit with one of them moaning
incessantly
throughout. After much twisting and turning to navigate the narrow stairwells, we reached my front door and, with one final decisive effort, triumphantly delivered the spruce to its desired location. Ed let out a long whistle and collapsed on my sofa, while I made us celebratory coffee to mark the occasion.

‘So,’ I said, flopping down beside him, ‘how come you were up here today?’

‘I was just in the neighbourhood.’

‘You’re
never
in this neighbourhood.’ I surveyed him carefully.

‘Yes I am,’ he protested.

‘When you come to see me.’

‘Yes. And also when I
just happen
to want to visit the Upper West Side.’

‘You hate the Upper West Side.’

‘I do not.’

I turned to face him, now highly suspicious. ‘Yes, you do. You always say it’s full of people with more money than brains who view shopping as some kind of vocation.’

He had to concede that point. ‘One of my particularly favourite personal observations, that one.’

‘Hmm. So why decide to come shopping here today?’

‘I like the cheese at Zabar’s.’

‘You are such a liar.’

‘I am not. It’s a well-known fact that their cheese selection is excellent,’ he replied defiantly. ‘I
like
cheese.’

‘Be serious.’

He held up his hands. ‘OK, OK, you win, Miss Marple. I happened to be in the neighbourhood because I wanted to make sure you’re all right.’

‘I’m fine. I’ve just got my tree, so I’m happy.’

The Steinmann Stare locked on. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘So what are you getting at?’

Ed sighed. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right with
me
.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I owe you an apology. Again. This is becoming a worryingly regular occurrence for me these days.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I feel like I haven’t supported you enough.’

‘Yes, you have,’ I disagreed. ‘Anyway, the shop’s been crazy, we’ve had the students helping out and you’ve been busy.’

‘But you had the
David
thing.’

‘All sorted. He knows where I stand and I feel better for saying it.’

Ed’s voice became gentler, ‘And—the
Nate
thing.’

‘What Nate thing?’

‘He hasn’t been around lately.’

I folded my arms defensively. ‘He’s been busy as well.’

‘What—avoiding you?’

‘Ed, that’s unfair.’

‘You like him, Rosie. It’s plain as day.’

‘He’s my
friend.
’

‘I think he likes you too,’ Ed continued.

‘He’s
engaged.
As in, getting married to someone else,’ I
retorted. ‘And you know how I feel about relationships. You are so way off on this.’

Ed held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. It’s none of my business. And it’s beside the point. I wanted to say sorry for not being there for you, that’s all. It’s just that I’ve—’ He broke off, running a hand nervously through his dark hair. ‘I’ve been a little…
preoccupied
lately.’

‘Ed, we’re fine.’ There was something in his expression that I couldn’t place. ‘What’s been on your mind?’

He took a deep breath and squared himself to face me. ‘Now this is hard for me because of—you know—the
iceberg
thing?’

The earnestness of his expression made me giggle involuntarily. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to stuff my laughter back behind a serious expression. ‘Take all the melting time you need—just be sure to clear up afterwards, OK?’

The twinkle had made a welcome return to his eyes. ‘Philistine. All I wanted to say was that I’ve had a revelation, of sorts. You remember when you said to me that the time to start worrying was when you wanted a
specific somebody,
not just anybody?’

‘Erm, yes, I think so.’

‘Well, start worrying.’

I couldn’t believe it. ‘Really?’

He nodded, a vulnerability suddenly cracking the usual steely exterior. ‘Absolutely. Now is
that
time.’

I stared at him for a while and—I’m not quite sure why—I began to detect the slightest ripple of sadness deep within me. Maybe it was because someone I had always assumed would be forever single, like me, had made a leap I wasn’t prepared to take. Whatever it was, I mentally pushed it away and smiled my brightest smile instead. ‘Wow. That’s—that’s wonderful. So how did she break through the iceberg then? The sheer warmth of her love melted you, eh?’

Ed raised an eyebrow. ‘You read way too many chick-lit books for your own good. It’s nothing like that. It’s, uh, a bit of an
afar
thing, actually. She—she has no idea.’

‘Yet.’

‘Sorry?’

‘She has no idea
yet.
But you’re going to tell her, right?’

He shook his head wildly. ‘Absolutely no way, José. I am not prepared to jump that far. I’ve only just reached this momentous stage in my “melting”. I don’t want to do anything drastic.’

‘That’s fine, but remember Billy Whitman and his watercooler girl. Don’t leave it for ever to tell her.’

He grimaced. ‘I know. I will tell her—when the time is right. It’s just too early for that right now.’

I smiled at him and patted his arm. ‘I’m proud of you. You’re doing so well.’

‘Don’t patronise me,’ he retorted, blushing slightly.

‘I’m not. I’m really pleased. So—who is she?’

‘That information is classified,’ he stated, military fashion.

‘Right,’ I said, grabbing a cushion and waving it menacingly at him. ‘Then I will have to resort to other methods to get it.’

A sparkle of mischief washed over his face. ‘Oh, right, attack first, ask questions later. You are
so
US military.’ He snatched the cushion from behind his back and swung it at me. Skilfully, I ducked, landing a counter-blow squarely on his chest. ‘Ohho, that’s
war
now!’ he yelled, pulling another cushion out and pummelling me with both at once. Giggling, I pulled my weapon back as far as I could in order to get as much swing as possible. Unfortunately for me, I lost my balance, toppled backwards and landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor.

Laughing uncontrollably, Ed reached down and helped me up, pulling me to him and wrapping his arms around me as we collapsed into breath-stealing guffaws. Gradually, our
laughter subsided—but the embrace remained, his chin resting on my shoulder and my cheek pressed against his neck. It felt
safe.
Instinctively, we both pulled away and sat facing each other, wide grins spreading across our faces, flushed from the laughter.

Ed checked his watch. ‘Well, it’s time I headed off. I want to check on the Saturday kids on my way home. And
you,’
he added, waggling a finger at me sternly, ‘have a Christmas tree to decorate.’

‘Yes, I have,’ I smiled as we stood and went to the door. ‘So, Mr Iceberg…’

Ed walked out into the hallway and turned back to face me. ‘Yes?’

‘Happy melting.’

The wide, crooked grin flashed brilliantly and he saluted me before walking down the stairs and out of sight.