Fairytale of New York (28 page)

Despite feeling scared, I couldn’t help but smile at this. The poor informer’s days were severely numbered with Celia gunning for him. The clamour of voices was growing louder outside. ‘But how am I going to get there without them following me?’

‘Don’t panic, Rosie. This is what we’re going to do…’

An hour later, I was sitting in Marnie’s apartment while my assistant dashed around, making sure I was comfortable, making me spiced chai tea and generally fussing over me.

‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but that was
so
exciting!’ she beamed as she flopped down onto the orange corduroy sofa beside me. ‘It was like something out of a movie.’

I took a sip of exotically-spiced tea and smiled back. ‘Yes, I have to admit it was a little thrilling.’

Celia’s elaborate plan for sneaking me out of her apartment under the noses of the hacks was worthy of the silver screen. Heaven only knows how she managed to find three sets of workman’s overalls, hard hats and a construction company van at such short notice (with Celia, it’s always better not to ask). Marnie arrived with Sergei, the apartment building’s manager half an hour after Celia’s phone call and both of us changed into the overalls, giggling when we donned the bright yellow hard hats. Then, checking the coast was clear, Sergei led us down a service staircase to the back door, where Chad, one of Celia’s colleagues, was waiting in the van. Emerging onto Celia’s street, we sped past the backs of the waiting journalists whose eyes and lenses were still trained on Celia’s apartment window.

The sense of joy at eluding the press pack was immense—Marnie and I even high-fived in the back of the van as it headed downtown to Marnie’s SoHo home.

Marnie’s apartment was just like her—bright, kooky and kitsch. Flowers were placed in a motley crew of containers, from old cookie tins to flea market glass vases and even an old green Wellington boot in the kitchen window. Rainbowdyed cushions were scattered across the sofa, chairs and stripped wood floor and cosy blankets were stacked in a large white wicker basket underneath an old upright piano by the living
room window. Nothing matched, yet all the furniture, picture frames and furnishings seemed to fit perfectly together. Most of all, it was welcoming, something I found incredibly reassuring given the crazy day I was having.

‘I’ll grab some clothes and things for you from your apartment on my way home,’ she said, plonking a stack of magazines on my lap. ‘In the meantime, just make yourself at home and feel free to go out if you want to. Celia says nobody will expect you to be in SoHo, so it’s OK for you to be walking round here.’

After she left to return to the shop, I decided to venture out, borrowing one of Marnie’s impressive collection of colourful felt hats from the old mahogany hat stand by the door just to make me feel safer. Stepping out onto the street, I breathed in the sharp January air and revelled in my freedom.

I spent an hour browsing a second-hand bookstore just down the street, buying a well-worn blue leather bound edition of the Victorian language of flowers and a couple of poetry books, then headed a couple of blocks down to Oscar’s, a small coffee shop in the ground floor of what had once been an old bakery.

The television was on in the corner at one end of the counter as I entered. I chose a table opposite and sat with my back to the screen, reading one of my bookstore purchases whilst listening to the newscaster talking over my shoulder. Unsurprisingly, a discussion about James was in full flow and a representative from the Consulate-General was giving a dispassionate response to questions about the affair.

‘All we will say at this time is that Mr Duncan is in a safe place while we liaise with the federal authorities on his behalf. He is fully co-operating with the investigators and has agreed to remain in New York until such a time as the situation can be satisfactorily resolved.’

‘What can I get ya?’ asked a rotund, balding man who had appeared by my table.

‘Coffee and something to eat—what would you recommend?’

He smiled broadly and leaned against the chair next to mine. ‘Well, let’s see, lady. You want something sweet or savoury? No—wait—don’t tell me. Let me guess.’ He studied my face, one hand on his chin. ‘Now you look to me like you haven’t eaten much today, am I right? Good. So, that means you’ve come to the right place, ‘cos we only do large here. Trust me, I own this place.’ He offered me his hand. ‘Oscar Arrighi.’

‘Rosie—pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise. So, now we’ve been introduced, we’re family, which means I can share with you my Mama’s secret weapon for combating a bad day. Which, I assume, you’ve had today, am I right?’

I shook my head. ‘You can tell all that just from looking at me?’

Oscar dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s all part of the job, Rosie. That and the fact I just saw your picture on TV.’

Panicked, I rose quickly, but Oscar’s large hand rested on my shoulder. ‘Now don’t you go worrying, lady. I won’t tell anyone and none of the dumb schmucks in here will have noticed.’ He indicated the other customers who were all hunched over newspapers or engaged in conversation oblivious to everything else. ‘And I ain’t gonna call the TV station either, so relax, OK? Between you and me, I hate journalists. My cousin Luca got in a little trouble last year and the lousy hacks sat outside my Aunt Isabella’s for three whole weeks. They gave her a hernia what with all the stress they caused. So you’re safe here. What you need is my Mama’s meatball
calzone. Trust me, you’ll lose your worries after the first bite. Sound good?’

I smiled up at him. ‘Oscar, that sounds fantastic.’

By the time Marnie arrived home that night, every network was crawling with commentators on my brother’s stupidity. Celia was right, almost every news programme cast James as the evil Englishman, taking advantage of a trusting senator’s wife in order to steal upright American taxpayers’ hard-earned cash. Daily chat shows quickly followed suit and even Letterman joked about it on his
Late Show.

‘Y’know, when the President encouraged the Senate to forge closer relationships with the Brits, this wasn’t
quite
what he had in mind…’

One strange consequence of all the media attention was a sudden upsurge in visitors to Kowalski’s. Ed called me a couple of days after I’d arrived at Marnie’s to report busier trading than we’d ever seen at the shop.

‘I tell you, Rosie, the store’s gone crazy. I mean, forget the Mimi Sutton Effect, this is so much bigger! We did forty percent higher business this week than we did the same time last year.’

I couldn’t believe it. ‘Seriously? I thought all the news stuff and cameras outside the store would put people off.’

‘Are you kidding? This is the Upper West Side, Rosie! You put thirty photographers outside a store and anyone who’s anyone turns up. We had
Joan Rivers
come in here this morning—Marnie was in bits!’

‘That’s completely barmy!’

‘I know! The best thing is, Rosie, the whole neighbourhood has turned up to support you. Mrs Katzinger was the first one in here when the news broke, worried how you were, and Delores Schuster came by this afternoon. She went outside
and gave the photographers a piece of her mind—you should’ve seen it!’

‘That’s so good of her, though.’

‘She did it because you mean a lot to her, Rosie, they all did. I’m pretty sure the hacks will get bored and leave soon. There were less of them this morning and they’re not sticking around as long as they were. Still, while ever you’re on their hit-list, it’s great for Kowalski’s. Notoriety sells in this town, baby!’

I stayed at Marnie’s, safe from the media spotlight, for the next two weeks. While I was frustrated at not being able to go to Kowalski’s, I actually found myself enjoying my enforced holiday. I pottered around the vintage boutiques and arty shops near Marnie’s apartment, caught up on some reading and went to the cinema—something I hadn’t had the time to do for a couple of years. I also spent hours dreaming up new designs, which I shared with Ed on his frequent visits to check on me.

‘You know, I think all of this has actually done you good,’ he said one evening, as he sat at the 1960s purple vinyl-covered dining table eating Vietnamese food with Marnie and me. ‘It’s given you the chance to really concentrate on your design work. And with the added business at Kowalski’s, I reckon the future couldn’t be brighter for us.’

He was right. I looked at my team and felt an overwhelming sense of hope rushing through me. This issue was my brother’s problem, not mine. I had done nothing wrong and my customers had proved that they believed in Kowalski’s and me. In an odd way, it felt good to know that, even in adversity, my business could flourish.

After a while, the media’s attention switched to Washington, where some senators were beginning to voice suspicions over
the Darneks’ credibility. Dismissed as publicity-seekers by the more respected correspondents, nevertheless the press junket indulged them, lapping up every new revelation as it broke. With enough juicy gossip now emerging from Washington to satisfy their bloodlust, the press corps quickly abandoned their camp in my street, which meant I could finally return home and, more importantly to Kowalski’s—and some semblance of normality returned to my life. Mum called frequently, upset that even her beloved BBC had ‘stooped to the level of lesser broadcasters’ to cover the unfolding saga. I heard nothing from James, but this was maybe just as well, given the fact that he was supposed to be in splendid isolation, courtesy of the British Consulate-General. Ed and I discussed the whole sorry affair at length, yet even this faded with the passing days, as really there were no resolutions to the whirligig of unanswerable questions.

Celia continued to apologise, fussing over me like a neurotic nanny, despite my assurances that I didn’t blame her for James’s predicament. She sent fruit baskets, arranged for grocery deliveries and phoned at least five times a day, checking to make sure I was still coping and not dangling from the nearest high rafter. She really needn’t have worried: I wasn’t scared or suicidal; I was just incredibly angry at my brother’s complete lack of thought for anyone other than himself. It was his utter selfishness that had got him into this situation—and countless other lamentable scrapes beforehand—and now he was expecting the whole world to stop and bail him out.

In the event, his help was to come from a most unexpected source.

The media attention had switched to possible legal consequences of the scandal and had started to speculate that James might be subpoenaed to appear before the Grand Jury. For a
time, this reignited the attraction for the press, with several journalists from not-so-quality publications sneaking into Kowalski’s posing as customers but seeking dirt on the situation. Ed suggested I take a few days off until the next wave of interest washed the hacks in another direction.

I was holed up in my apartment with the phone unplugged, when the door intercom buzzed smartly.

‘Hello?’

A familiar voice came from the tinny speaker. ‘Rosie, it’s me. I have bagels. Can I come up?’

I smiled and pressed the button. ‘If you have bagels you are more than welcome.’

Celia appeared at my front door, breathless and carrying several Zabar’s bags. ‘The traffic is so bad you wouldn’t
believe,’
she gasped, bustling into my kitchen and wrestling the packed bags onto the work surface. ‘I had to
walk,
for heaven’s sake!’ It sounded like the worst possible hardship in the world, but as far as Celia was concerned, it was.

I giggled as I watched her fling open the fridge and produce item after item from the bags. It reminded me of Mary Poppins and her carpet bag: I half-expected to see a birdcage and a standard lamp emerging from the carriers. ‘Did you buy the entire store?’

‘Stop mocking me, Rosie Duncan,’ Celia retorted, grabbing a plate and emptying bagels onto it from a crumpled M&H Bakers paper bag. ‘I just brought you some essentials, that’s all.’

‘Celia, your idea of “essentials” is most people’s idea of a banquet.’

‘Well, you deserve a banquet, sweetie. So get the coffee on because…’ she paused for dramatic effect, ‘…we are
celebrating
!’

‘Celebrating what?’

Celia’s eyes sparkled as she passed me on her way into the living room, plate of bagels held aloft. ‘So bring the coffee through and I’ll tell you already.’

She took a deep breath and placed the bagels on the coffee table. ‘OK. I had a breakthrough.’

‘With what?’

‘With your brother.’

‘Sorry?’

She reached forward and clasped my hand. ‘Sweetie, I heard those rumours way back before Christmas and I didn’t tell you. I thought it was the usual Washington baloney we hear all the time and I didn’t want to worry you. Besides, as you well know, James and I haven’t been the best of buddies, so I didn’t think you’d believe me anyhow. But I’ve just felt so
awful
about this whole mess and I wanted to help.’

‘You have been helping, hon. I mean, all the shopping and the phone calls, not to mention busting me out of your apartment in a Hollywood-style a fortnight ago.
That
was impressive. You’ve been really kind.’

‘But it’s not
enough,
Rosie. At least, it wasn’t enough for
me.
I couldn’t bear for you to have to endure the worst that my profession can do to people. It’s a side of journalism that I don’t much care for—the way that we hunt people down just to get an exclusive. We forget the person behind the story and all we can think of is getting our hands on the scoop before anyone else.’

‘I don’t really understand where this is all leading, Celia.’

She squeezed my hand again. ‘James is off the hook.’

I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘What? How?’

‘I had a breakthrough yesterday—I would have told you straight away but I had to make sure the right people heard
it first. I got the call an hour ago and I headed straight to Kowalski’s, but Ed told me you were here. So I picked up some groceries on the way and here I am!’

My heart was thumping fast. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I’d like to claim it was my brilliant journalistic instinct, but in truth it was just the most
glorious
coincidence,’ Celia rushed on, on the edge of tears as she spoke. ‘After all, so much of journalism is down to chance and being in the right place at the right time. But whatever—the thing is that I’ve been interviewing our Arts Editor’s daughter for a piece I’m planning on New York kids moving to other cities to pursue careers. Sandi is an intern on Capitol Hill in Washington and she hopes to make it to presidential staff one day. I’ve been emailing her for a couple of weeks, finding out about her current responsibilities, aspirations for the future and so on. She’s worked in several offices but most recently was assigned to one Senator John Darnek.’