Fairytale of New York (9 page)

‘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.’

‘Right…’ I said, amused. ‘Romance and spontaneity not her strong points, then?’

Celia rose and collected our mugs to take to the kitchen for refilling. ‘It’s more like a necessary evil for her.’

‘And for him?’ The question was meant to be inside my head, but instead it inexplicably found a handy escape route out through my mouth. There was a pause. I could hear birdsong outside and coffee being poured in the kitchen. And I swear I could hear Celia
smiling.

She returned and sat down. She handed my mug back, wincing slightly as the heat from its contents scorched her fingers. ‘Now
why
would you want to know that, Rosie?’ she asked slyly.

I blew on my coffee to avoid eye contact. ‘No reason, no reason at all.’

When I got back to my apartment later that afternoon, there was a message from Ed. ‘Rosie, if you get this before 5 p.m, call me at Kowalski’s. Things are happening, girl.
Big
things.’

I didn’t wait to call back. Instead I caught a cab and got there as fast as I could.

Marnie met me at the door, her beaming smile almost as bright as her yellow braids. ‘Rosie, it’s
so
exciting!’ she chirped, grabbing my hand. ‘Come and see!’

She pulled me over to the counter and showed me a pile of order forms, each completed in her swirly handwriting. Ed looked up and was about to approach us when the phone rang. He held up a hand and grabbed the receiver. ‘Yep, this
is
Rosie Duncan’s store,’ he said down the phone, grinning at me and giving a thumbs up. ‘How can I help?’

‘It’s been like this
all day,
’ Marnie explained excitedly. ‘It’s crazy! We got in and all was quiet, then at nine o’clock everything went nuts. People calling and coming in—all asking after you. We even had
Martha Stewart’s
PA call earlier! They all want to order. We’ve filled the order book almost right up till Christmas and we’ve got three weddings booked for June next year.’

Ed finished the call and came over, brandishing another order form with delight. ‘Jon O’Donner,’ he proclaimed.
‘Only
the CEO of the biggest acquisitions company in New York. We got the order for his daughter’s wedding next fall. It’s worth serious money, Rosie.’

While I have to say I was excited, I was also a little anxious, knowing most of the new clients were probably Philippe’s excustomers.

‘Mimi Sutton’s recommended us to her entire circle,’ I explained. ‘They’re leaving Philippe in droves because they’re scared of offending her.’

Ed’s smile disappeared as he saw the concern in my eyes. ‘Ah. Not good, then. Still,’ his smile returned, refuelled by hope, ‘we have always been more than a match for him artistically. Kowalski’s is due some recognition, don’t you think?’

I had to agree. Of course it was OK. It was an open market, after all. Philippe Devereau had no more right to all of it than we did. And Kowalski’s could handle the new business, no problem. We’d need to take on extra staff, but that would be fine. We might need another delivery van. But that would be OK, too. I smiled at Marnie and Ed and allowed myself to feel the tiniest shiver of excitement. ‘I think we’ve finally arrived in New York!’ I replied, as Ed let out a whoop and we grabbed each other in a big group hug.

I decided to stay at the store, breaking my sacred Saturday vow. There was no way I could leave all this excitement. I took over the phone duty and watched in amazement as order after order came in. Now, I’ve always known Kowalski’s had the potential to do well—I’ve always been the one telling everyone else that when things have been decidedly to the contrary—but this level of sudden success took even me by surprise. Putting aside my concerns about Philippe, I resolved simply to enjoy the moment, aware that it couldn’t last at this pace indefinitely.

Just before we were due to close for the night, Ed caught my hand and led me into the workroom at the back of the store. He shut the door and turned to face me.

‘Rosie. About yesterday…’

I took a step back. ‘Ed, I…’

I was stopped in my tracks as Ed’s fingers gently touched my lips.

‘That row shouldn’t have happened yesterday. I guess we both said things we didn’t mean, right? For my part, I’m sorry.’ He registered the relief in me. His eyes softened. ‘I just thought you might be worrying.’

I smiled back. ‘Thanks, Ed. I’m sorry too.’

‘Then it never happened, huh?’

‘What never happened?’

For a moment, we faced each other with mirrored grins. Then he clapped his hands, making me jump.

‘Now, what is the owner of the most happening floristry business in this town doing indulging in idle chat? We have
work
to do!’ He laughed, flung open the door and marched off onto the shop floor.

Watching him leave, I leaned against the tall worktable and revelled in the peace returning to my mind. It was good to welcome back a certain sense of normality, even in the light of today’s extraordinary trading. I felt exhausted from the marathon of emotions I had been running. Now finally, it seemed, I was nearing the home straight. Allowing myself the tiniest ounce of smug satisfaction, I walked slowly through the flower stands to rejoin my assistants. Hope filled every part of me, opening dusty dark windows to let the sunlight inside. For the first time in a long time, it felt like I was turning a corner in my history. My life, like my shop, was blooming again. Things were going to be wonderful from now on.

I was wrong, of course.

I have always counted optimism as one of my best features. I think it’s always been a part of me; there isn’t a time I can recall ever really being without it. That doesn’t mean to say I don’t lose sight of it when things get tough. Believe me, it’s been challenged enough over the last few years—not least with the events directly preceding my arrival in New York. But despite everything, it remains, sometimes obscured by worry, sometimes shining brightly for all to see—a constant in an ever-changing world. Mum says she’s always relied on that quality in me. Come to think of it, James—for all his selfobsession—has often said it too. Being able to see a bright side has always proved to be my saving grace.

‘If you have hope, you are better than a millionaire,’ Mr Kowalski used to say, ‘because you can give it away every day and it will never run out. You, Rosie, have a large account of hope. So use it to give to the people you meet that have none.’

Mr K lived as he spoke. And, for a man who had endured terrible poverty, prejudice and hardship, this was no mean feat. He always said that God—‘my papa in heaven’—was the one who helped him. Mr K wasn’t religious like you’d expect a man of his generation to be. His faith was who he was. To coin a phrase, he walked the talk.

‘Rosie, Papa is the only friend who has never judged me, let me down or beaten me up. He loves me. End of story. It don’t matter what I do, what mistakes I make, he loves me whatever. That’s all the riches I need,
ukochana,
and they’re free every day.’

Somehow, I always felt life was calmer—brighter, even—when Mr K was around. Just before he left to return to Poland, he handed me a small, hand-painted glass plaque. It bore the words, ‘Nothing is Impossible with God’. Someone gave it to him when he was really young, he explained, and it helped him remember that he wasn’t alone.

‘Take it, Rosie,’ he’d said. ‘Let it remind you, too. Papa’s watching.’

Today, it hangs at the back of the counter in pride of place, and when I see it, I sense a little bit of the calm he brought returning.

It caught my eye again on Monday, as I was refilling metal buckets at the front of the shop with gorgeous lavender hydrangea and sweet-scented freesias. In sharp contrast to the previous Saturday, the shop was blissfully quiet, though it was still early—only 9 a.m. I smiled sadly as thoughts of Mr Kowalski came to mind. It’s always a bittersweet experience to remember him. I still can’t quite believe he isn’t here any more. I expect him to call any minute, or for his friendly old face to appear in the shop doorway. Somehow the world seems just emptier without him in it.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn’t see the silver limousine pull up outside. It was only when the front door opened so fast that the bell nearly came off its fixings that I noticed the tall, permatanned, Versace-clad man striding in. Behind him scurried two nervous-looking assistants, both impeccably dressed, both holding notebooks and both attentive to the man’s every move.
He possessed an immense presence that seemed somehow to fill the entire store and command the undivided attention of everyone.

‘Rosie Duncan.’ It was meant as a question, but appeared more like a statement of disdain.

‘Mr Devereau. Welcome to my shop. How are you?’ I responded, my heart racing. I had put him out of my mind over the weekend and had almost forgotten the fact that Kowalski’s had apparently emptied his order book overnight.

‘Cut the sweet talk,’ Philippe snapped. ‘You know why I’m here.’

‘To admire our designs?’ suggested Ed, suddenly appearing from the workroom and standing protectively at my side.

Philippe glared at him. ‘Don’t mock me, Mr Steinmann. I want to know what the hell you…’ he frantically searched for the word, ‘…
tiny, insignificant
people think you are doing here.’

‘We’re selling flowers, Philippe. What are
you
doing here?’ I calmly replied. Far from diffusing the situation, this served only to inflame Philippe’s anger.

‘How
dare
you? How
dare
you presume to even pretend to know more than me? Because it
is
pretence, Ms Duncan, merely pretence. You cannot hope to aspire to even a
fraction
of my business expertise and artistry—’

Coolly, I cut across him. ‘But it would appear your customers don’t agree, Mr Devereau.’ Light the blue touchpaper. Stand well back…

Boom!
Philippe went stratospheric like an expensive bleachblond rocket. ‘So it would appear. Now, I don’t know
what
you have said to entice them from my company—in the most underhanded and unprofessional way, I may add—but rest assured, Ms Duncan, they
will
be back. Soon. You are merely
a passing phase, a fad. You can’t possibly fulfil my clients’ demands. I am the only one able to do that. I fulfil demands you can’t possibly imagine.’

Oh, I can, I thought. I’ve heard the rumours. But I didn’t say it. Philippe’s anger was far too entertaining right now.

‘
My
emporium is a palace compared to this…this
hovel,’
he spat. ‘Talent-starved traditionalists like yourselves can only dream of owning a business like mine!’

I had dared to venture into the sacred halls of Devereau Design just once: what I saw made me glad to own a shop like Kowalski’s. Far from being a welcoming sanctuary of form, colour and scent, Philippe’s store was little more than a show-room: no flowers were available for passing trade and a large security man on the door was seemingly employed with the solitary task of dissuading any would-be browsers from setting foot over its hallowed threshold. Walls, ceilings, display surrounds and even the doors were uniform white; the counter, with its black granite top, resembled a hotel reception desk more than a service area; flowers were regimented into stiff, contrived displays—unearthly lit in identical white display boxes by tiny green, blue and magenta spotlights, frozen and unnatural like chilling exhibits in some kind of futuristic freak show. A few staff members paraded around in harshly tailored black suits, wearing matching disinterested expressions, each sporting communication headsets and carrying black clipboards. It was as if the flowers in the stark white boxes were prisoners on display. Worse still, the whole space was devoid of scent—it was like walking into Starbucks without smelling coffee. Completely wrong. It makes me shudder even thinking about it now—the lack of life in the place was almost sinister and completely alien to what a florist store should be like.

‘I sincerely hope that Kowalski’s never looks like your
emporium,’ I returned. ‘We believe in allowing the flowers to be themselves—something you and your team will never understand.’

‘Kowalski’s is
nothing,
and your questionable talent for floral art is so limited that I fear your business will shortly collapse. In fact, I intend to see that it does.’

‘Threaten her again and I’ll personally throw you out,’ Ed growled, stepping to within an inch of Philippe’s face. I caught his arm and pulled him gently back to my side, where he stood glowering at our unwelcome guest.

‘For your information, Mr Devereau,’ I said, white-hot anger seething beneath my cool, steady voice, ‘I have not
stolen
your customers. They were recommended to try Kowalski’s by another of your clients—Mimi Sutton. I believe you know her? If they have
chosen
to leave you, it is entirely their choice and nothing to do with me. You do not have the monopoly on floristry in this city, Mr Devereau, and neither do I.’

‘That may be true, Ms Duncan, however I will not tolerate Kowalski’s pathetic attempts at stealing my
considerable
share. I pity you, not only for your over-inflated idea of your worth in this city, but also for your abominable designs. I intend to drive your business into the
dust
…’

Ed leapt forward and flung the door wide open. ‘OK, buddy, you’ve said enough.
Out
!’

‘But I…’

I moved to Ed’s side. ‘We’d like you to leave. Immediately, please.’

Philippe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His sapphire eyes flashed, his face flushed bright red and he let out an exasperated cry. Spinning round, he strode magnificently out, the two assistants scurrying in his wake. The door slammed and the shop was quiet. Ed and I exchanged glances.

‘Not
a happy bunny,’ I grimaced.

‘Hmm,’ agreed Ed, thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid Kowalski’s has just made a very dangerous enemy.’

‘Good morning!’ Marnie arrived, stopping abruptly in the doorway when she saw our worried expressions. ‘What? What happened?’

‘Philippe Devereau just called by to wish us well,’ Ed smiled nonchalantly.

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Philippe? He’s
so gorgeous.
What did he want?’

Ed picked up a pile of order forms and moved towards the workroom. ‘Oh, you know, he was in the neighbourhood so he thought he’d say hi.’ He turned back at the door and gave a wide-eyed grin. ‘Oh, yeah, and he mentioned he was gonna drive Kowalski’s into the ground as soon as possible.’ He disappeared into the back room.

Marnie’s smile fell and she rushed over to hug me, her blue curls bouncing as she did so. ‘Oh, Rosie, that’s
awful,’
she wailed. ‘What are we going to do?’

I didn’t know. But this was not, I resolved, the time for doom and gloom.

‘We’re perfectly OK,’ I said, hoping my voice matched my optimistic statement. ‘We’ll be
fine.
What does Philippe have to offer that we don’t?’

Marnie looked despondent. ‘He’s been Floral Artiste of the Year for the past ten years. His business is worth multimillions. He scouts the world for the best designers and gets them. Ooh, and he has the biggest range of tropicals and exotics to order—’

I interrupted her. Philippe was looking too invincible. ‘Yes, I know,
OK,
but he doesn’t spend time with his customers. Or provide free delivery. Or…’ I was struggling already, ‘…or…’

‘Offer them coffee?’ Marnie suggested, a little less hopefully than she’d intended.

I snapped my fingers.
‘Or
offer them coffee. Exactly! But
we
do. We have,’ I continued, walking over to my beloved coffee machine and patting its cracked lid, ‘the ultimate advantage right here.’

‘Old F?’ asked Marnie, still unconvinced. ‘Old Faithful is our secret weapon?’

‘Absolutely. Philippe Devereau
may
be able to head-hunt the world’s finest for his business, but he’ll never be able to make a decent cup of coffee for his clients, will he?’

Ed appeared in the workroom doorway. ‘Maybe we should give Old F a raise,’ he suggested, ‘or promote him to CEO.’

I smiled confidently. ‘So, if we all stay positive and make sure Philippe doesn’t try to head-hunt our coffee machine, Kowalski’s will survive this!’

Ed and Marnie made a brave attempt at a helpful cheer, but their expressions spoke otherwise.

After the excitement of Monday, Tuesday arrived with little fanfare—so much so that I almost didn’t remember Celia had arranged my dreaded
New York Times
interview for later that day. In fact, when the young, ginger-haired reporter entered my shop, I initially mistook him for a student seeking parttime work. It was only when he produced his card that I saw who he was.

‘Josh Mercer,
New York Times?
Celia arranged an interview today?’

‘Yes, of course, I-I’m sorry,’ I stammered, extending my hand for him to shake. ‘I’m Rosie Duncan and this is my co-designer, Ed Steinmann.’

Ed and Josh shook hands. ‘You guys grab the sofa and I’ll
make some coffee,’ Ed offered, much to Josh’s delight. It turned out that he’d spent the morning interviewing warring parties involved in a dispute over a controversial neighbourhood regeneration project in the East Village.

‘So, great news story but not so great if you’re expecting a decent cup of coffee,’ he explained, flopping down on the old leather sofa and rummaging through his canvas satchel for his notebook. ‘Disgruntled people aren’t predisposed to good hospitality, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, you won’t find disgruntled locals here,’ I joked as Ed arrived with two mugs of coffee. ‘Just friends, flowers and a great cup of medium roast.’

‘I love the vibe in your store,’ Josh smiled, sipping his coffee and looking around as if he was mentally photographing every angle, feature and detail. ‘I mean, Kowalski’s is so different from the other Upper West Side florists—like Devereau Design. This isn’t a boutique—it’s…more personal, I guess. How do you keep it that way?’

‘We have a long tradition of serving the neighbourhood,’ I replied—and right on cue the silver bell over the door tinkled cheerily as a lady in her eighties entered, laden with shopping bags. Ed rushed over to her, gathering the bags from her as she feigned protest.

‘I’m fine, Edward. Quit fussing so!’

‘Now, Mrs Schuster, what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t assist you?’ Ed smiled, offering his arm, which she accepted, her hand the colour of rose-tinted tissue paper daintily placed on his sleeve as he escorted her to a small white wicker chair by the counter.

‘You’re just like my late husband, God rest his soul,’ she smiled. ‘Upright and uptight—that was Henry. And I’ve told you before, young man, you
must
call me Delores.’

Josh was watching Delores Schuster with intense interest, his ballpoint pen hovering thoughtfully over his notepad as his reporter’s eyes drank in every detail.

‘She’s a regular?’

‘Oh yes. Mrs Schuster’s been coming to Kowalski’s since her family got their apartment on West 71st Street, over forty years ago. She was one of Mr Kowalski’s first customers and she’s been coming here ever since.’

‘Do you find it difficult to balance the day-to-day side of the business with the growing number of large-scale commissions you’re now taking on?’

It was a good question, but one I hadn’t really considered before. We don’t have to make a special effort to keep both the day-to-day and the event stuff running. It is just what we do—and something I love my business for. Yes, sometimes we are so busy I can’t even tell you what day of the week it is and, equally, in our quieter times, there are sometimes days on end where you can count the customers venturing into the shop on the fingers of one hand. But that’s the nature of the business: you can only work with what you have available at the time. The unpredictability would scare many, but I enjoy it.