One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) (14 page)

O
liver watched Hayley now
, stood on tiptoes at the bar, showing off the photograph she’d pulled from her purse a few minutes before.
Michel
from
Belgium
– or so the guy had told her ten years ago. He hated him already, which was, of course, completely and utterly irrational. He didn’t know him. But
Michel
had known her. Lois. Hayley. The so-called artist, with the scruffy dark hair, had become intimately acquainted with her after just one evening together. Why was that pulling at him? Hadn’t he been intimately acquainted with a number of women that quickly? He swallowed. Almost every woman he’d ever been with. So why was he judging her?

This was madness. What was he even doing here with her? Why had he homed in on her instead of taking up an evening with a simple fling – get in, get out, have fun – the blonde who knew what she wanted?

He swallowed down a mouthful of beer. He could leave. He’d made her no promises, he’d just bought her a drink. But that would be running out on two dates-that-weren’t-dates in two nights. That was serial behaviour. A pattern. He didn’t do that. He’d told
her
he didn’t do that. It would make him into a coward.
Weak.
His heartbeat thrummed and he blinked heavily.

Oliver watched her showing off the photo to staff. He should find Tony. That’s what he was going to do. His friend could be in just as much of a fix as he was. Or not. If Tony was getting on well with the brunette, he wouldn’t want Oliver butting in. He could call. So why wasn’t he moving? Why couldn’t he keep his eyes off her? He didn’t get invested in women. Investment was never on the table.

He watched her turn back around, her face flushed, her hair bouncing with every stride she took. He blew out a breath as she neared. It wasn’t too late. He could still make his excuses.

‘They didn’t recognise him,’ Hayley stated, slipping back into her seat. ‘But the doorman earlier said there’s someone called Artie who has worked here for a lot longer and he might be able to help me.’

He found himself nodding his head but had no idea what he was agreeing to or sympathising with. He didn’t feel peachy with anything about this development.

‘But typically he’s not working tonight.’ Hayley sighed as she pushed the photo back into her purse.

‘That’s that then,’ Oliver finally spoke.

S
he raised
her eyes in response to the flat tone of his voice. Despite all the encouraging things he’d said when she’d elaborated about Angel’s wish, he didn’t understand at all. And why should he? Despite knowing his two middle names he was a stranger.

‘He’s working next on Friday,’ she said.

‘Right,’ he answered.

She carried on. ‘And I have lots of other art galleries to try.’

‘Good luck with that.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Is there something you want to say? You look a little uptight.’ She swiped up her drink. ‘Was my wish not what you were expecting?’

‘If I’m honest, no, it wasn’t.’

‘So what reply do you usually get? Wait, let me guess.’ She adopted a pose, leaning back in her seat, the back of her hand held against her forehead. ‘I wish for … something from Tiffany’s and a night in a bridal suite with you.’

She watched him fidget as if he disliked what she was saying. She was obviously bang on the money.
Money
. His billions he could flaunt however he chose. That’s what he’d been expecting. A wish he could buy.

‘I just don’t understand why you would waste your time trying to find someone who’s not been in your life for ten years.’

He
did
have an opinion. And, from his stance and pallor, it appeared he was very uncomfortable about the whole Michel situation.

‘I’m not doing it for me. I’m doing it for Angel,’ she responded.

‘So you say.’

‘What!’ She couldn’t help a laugh escaping.

‘She’s had her whole life without a father, why the interest now?’

Her mouth sprung open in shocked surprise. Now her fight and flight responses were well and truly triggered. Who did he think he was analysing the timing of her daughter’s request? He knew nothing about the situation. She shouldn’t have told him any of this. The hazel eyes didn’t look so attractive when they were narrowed in accusation.

‘Thank you for the drink.’ Hayley stood, picking up her bag.

‘You’re going?’

For a fleeting second he almost sounded like he was back to that person she’d enjoyed playfully sparring with. But she mustn’t be fooled. He thought she was an idiot for being young and getting pregnant by a stranger. And maybe she was, but she didn’t need it rubbed in her face. She had a mother who had done that most of her life. This had been a stupid mistake. She should have just had one drink, sat on a bar stool and quizzed the bar staff … alone.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ she responded. ‘Maybe ask the blonde what her wish is. I suspect it could lead to your red room.’

She smiled at him, then, with her head held high she marched to the exit doors.

O
liver sat there feeling
like he’d been given a beating. Yet, she hadn’t bruised him with her words, hadn’t raised her voice, just made it very clear he’d overstepped the mark in his responses. And he had, he knew that. Because he’d turned all Neanderthal over a man she’d met years ago, and he had no clue what it was like being a parent. He had asked what her wish was, had really wanted to know, and then when she’d told him, been as honest as a person could be, he’d thrown it back at her.
Jerk
.

He pushed his bottle of beer to one side, stood up, slipped on his coat and rushed towards the exit. He couldn’t leave things like this, for reputation purposes only, obviously. He’d apologise. He’d offer her his courtside seats at the Knicks. No, that wouldn’t impress her. Did he want to impress her? He hadn’t done such a great job so far.

One of the doormen bid him goodnight but he didn’t respond. He put his hand on the door and pushed his way out into the night.

The icy wind wound itself around him as he staggered out into a flurry of snowflakes. His only thought was catching her up and apologising. And what then? What was his grand plan after that?

He didn’t stop to think any more. He quickly looked left then right, trying to pick Hayley out from the groups of people on the street fighting the wind. A hint of long brown hair and the cream colour of her coat had him hurrying off right.

His heart was racing and the snow battered his cheeks as he ducked to try and avoid the full force of winter.

‘Hayley!’ He barely recognised his own voice. It sounded needy and desperate.

Was the hair and coat he was chasing really her?

He tried again. ‘Hayley!’

S
he stopped walking
the second she heard her name travelling through the biting breeze. Oliver Richard Julian Drummond. What was he doing following her? By now she’d assumed he would be drinking another beer with a random, asking them what their deepest desire was. She turned around, looking down the street.

There he was, moving at a jog up the pavement towards her, the snow coating his dark woollen overcoat, flecks of white in his tawny coloured hair. Why had she stopped? There was nothing he could say that would excuse his reaction in the nightclub. She should turn around again, head off. But it was like her shoes were stuck to the snow on the ground.

He was within a few yards now, his pace slowing as he neared. She bit her lip, his proximity, the chiselled jawline and full lips affecting her. Her stomach gave a roll like a plane in an aerobatic display.

He stopped opposite her, his body visibly shaking with the cold. He pulled at the collar of his coat, as if he was trying to close off every gap to the elements.

‘I have to get back,’ Hayley said quickly. ‘I don’t want to leave Dean with Angel too long.’

‘Sure,’ he responded. ‘Just let me apologise.’

She folded her arms across her chest, the wind circling her body, blowing up her hair and finding its way into every exposed inch. ‘There’s no need.’

‘There’s every need.’ He put a clenched hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. ‘I was behaving like a spoilt child and I offended you.’

Hayley’s stomach took a dip. His words made a mark. He hadn’t needed to catch her up. He had
wanted
to. How did that make her feel? Tingly was the answer, tiny, dancing sparks of heat were doing a Zumba class inside her. But that was all just circumstantial. He was a user of women – she’d seen it first-hand – and she was not in the market for being picked up.

She shook her head at him. ‘Buying me a vodka and cranberry doesn’t entitle you to pass judgement on me. If I’d had any idea, I would have bought my own drinks.’

‘Ouch,’ he answered, his eyes on her.

‘If you’d had to hear your daughter asking so desperately to meet her father, you’d be here doing exactly the same thing.’

She was becoming way too impassioned now. But it was bursting out of her. The quandary she’d been in about coming to New York, her love for Angel, how stupid she still felt about falling for the first guy to buy her wine. This time when she shook her head it was at herself. She stamped the snow off her shoes.

‘I’m sorry.’ He put a hand to his hair, shaking the flakes from it. ‘I was being petulant.’ He paused. ‘And to be honest, I was thinking selfishly.’ He took a breath. ‘I don’t know why but …’ He swallowed. ‘I didn’t want to think about you spending time with an artist from Belgium.’

His words spiralled through the space between them, out of control, refusing to settle. What did that mean? She met his gaze, her body’s engine pumping a rush to each nerve ending. His eyes were unrelenting, holding hers captive, making it impossible to look away. What was happening here? It was like her body was conspiring against her. Every sense was rising up, awake and alert, setting off a chain reaction that started in her toes and moved like lightning through the rest of her body. She couldn’t breathe, her stomach was being sucked in as if stuck in the middle of a vortex, her chest had contracted on an inward breath and her eyes were static … on him.

And then the gap was closing. She didn’t know if she was moving or he was moving or whether they were both inching forward in unison. All she did know for certain was she felt a little bewitched, out of control, completely not in charge of her own will.

His body was so near now, his face close. She could see every eyelash outlining those beautiful hazel eyes, every tiny dot making up the fine layer of bristle on his jaw, the way his lips curved so gently, so sensuously.

Her brain was incapable of logic. All it was processing was his presence and exactly how that was making her feel. It was like mice had invaded her stomach and were chasing each other around in circles. And she hated it as much as she was relishing it. This was not in her plan. This was reckless behaviour, just like ten years ago. This was her brother’s boss. She’d had two conversations with him. One was by a fire exit when he was running out on a date. The other involved cranberry and vodka. This was Christmas spirit in overdrive and she needed to stop now, reclaim her common sense.

His hot breath entwined with hers, mixing together in the freezing night air and, as the seconds ticked by, Hayley was spinning faster and faster towards something she didn’t understand. All she knew, as her body moved of its own accord, was it was going to happen.

And then their mouths met in an urgency like no other she’d experienced before. His lips parted hers, the kiss binding them together as the snow floated down around them. Any annoyance at his earlier selfishness had evaporated in the heat of the moment and all she wanted to do was hold onto this feeling, hold onto him, for as long as she could.

Hayley closed her eyes, bringing her hand up to his cheek, letting her ice-cold fingers graze his jaw as his mouth swept over hers.

A car horn sounded and she broke away, a shiver running through her body. Reality finally kicked in. What was she doing? The same nightclub. Another man she barely knew. This was only her second night in New York and she was kissing someone! Someone who had challenged her quest to find her daughter’s father. She was officially certifiable. It had to be the wine she hadn’t known the name of mixing with the vodka or the jet lag.

She took a step back from him. ‘I have to go.’

‘Go?’

The surprise in his voice pulled at her. She shouldn’t have kissed him. She shouldn’t have let him kiss her. It didn’t matter who had started it. She was going to finish it.

‘Yes, I have the Belgian artist’s daughter to worry about and …’ She was backing away so quickly snow was puffing up around her feet with every movement. ‘It was nice to see you again.’ She made to turn away.

‘Hayley, wait,’ he called.

She waved a hand. ‘Goodnight, Superman.’ She was leaving while she’d managed to regain control of her senses.

O
liver had been
in the office since before six a.m. He’d dictated four letters and read through two reports before Manhattan started to wake up. Now he was stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows taking in the view.

People like ants, racing up the sidewalks, crossing the streets, moving with purpose through the latest snowfall. Yellow cabs lined up in traffic, cars with Christmas trees strapped to their roofs, school buses, bicycles, all going somewhere on the straight roads between the high-rise buildings. He sucked in a breath.
Hayley
.

She was all he’d been able to think about since she’d left him in the street last night. They had kissed. He had kissed her like he hadn’t kissed anyone in a long time. With his heart. He shook himself, moving away from the window and heading back to his desk. And then she’d fled. That was, without a doubt, a good thing.

He sat down in his seat, stretching his arms out and linking his fingers behind his head. He had apologised for his unwarranted reaction to her wish but it wasn’t enough. He should have done more. He moved in his chair, bringing his arms down, one hand finding the mouse. It wasn’t too late. He could do something to redeem himself. He minimised Dean Walker’s employment record and fired up Google. He started to type intently.

A knock on his office door directed his attention away from the screen.

‘Come in.’

The door opened and there stood a blonde-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar. Did she work for him? What was her name?

‘Good morning, Mr Drummond.’ She stepped forward.

‘Good morning.’ He had no idea what this woman was doing here. He moved his hand to the phone, a finger hovering above the button for security.

‘Mr Drummond, Clara asked me to fill in for her today.’

Shit
. He’d forgotten he’d given Clara the day off. And Clara had known he would forget and had arranged cover like the highly efficient individual she was.

‘Good, right.’ He moved his hand away from the phone. ‘So there are some dictations waiting to be typed and I’ll let you know when I have something else for you.’ He looked back to his PC, hovering the mouse over the search box.

‘Sir, I think you should be aware of today’s news.’ The woman held a broadsheet out towards him.

‘Thank you, just leave it on the desk.’ He usually read news on his phone while he stood in the queue for coffee. This morning the only thing on his mind had been a woman who drank vodka and cranberry.

‘I really think you should take a look, Mr Drummond.’

He raised his eyes then, saw the concern and urgency in hers. ‘What’s your name?’

She shook her blonde hair off her shoulders and moistened her lips. ‘It’s Kelly.’ She placed the paper onto his desk.

‘Well, Kelly, what is it in the news that’s so important I need to drop everything and read it now?’

He watched her disposition flake before his eyes. Today wasn’t a good day. Today he was cranky. Because he hadn’t had enough sleep and he’d been given the brush-off by a woman who intrigued him.

‘Well, sir, you’re on the front page.’

The cramping in his chest took a hold as all the things it could be came to mind. The McArthur Foundation? A reporter he’d spoken to about health concerns and technology? The Globe? He was getting palpitations now just thinking about the fall out if news about the Globe had leaked to the press already. His rivals would have a field day if they got their hands on that.

He slipped his fingers over the newspaper and dragged it across the desk towards him, his heart bumping an unhappy rhythm.

Whatever perfume Kelly was wearing started to infiltrate his nose, mouth and eyes. It was nauseating. He turned the paper around until it was straight in front of him. Then he unfolded it. The headline took his breath.

One Wish in Manhattan

There was a photo of him from a business dinner he’d attended a month ago. His eyes roved the report, picking lines out as a sick feeling rose in his stomach.
Serial single… granting fantasies..
.
death of his father… Christian Grey… modern day genie… Regis Software.

He knew straightaway who had done this.

As the first flush of anger filled his body, his mobile started to ring, the display flashing on and off in his peripheral vision. Tony’s laughing face taunted him. He snatched the phone up and pressed to answer.

‘What d’you want?’ he snarled.

‘I see you’re making headlines, man. Your wish-making secret’s out. I’m wondering what your play is gonna be now. I’m thinking mind-reading. The mystical power of thought. That would get them every time.’

He closed his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood for his best friend’s lousy sense of humour and he was starting to perspire. Kelly was also just standing in front of his desk like a spare part. His left hand started to shake and he clenched his fist tight.

Oliver’s vision started to blur as he tried to focus on the framed 2014 business infographic at the very end of his office. The pie charts and graphs all started to merge into one as his breath quickened and someone sat a sack of rubble on his chest.

‘Mr Drummond, are you OK?’

It was Kelly’s voice but it sounded so far away. He opened his mouth to speak but had nothing.

‘Oliver? Are you there?’ Tony’s voice called from the mobile.

The phone fell from his hand.

‘Ow! You pinched my arm!’ Angel exclaimed, frowning.

‘Sorry, we just need to get a move on. Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 44 – street entertainers. Look!’ Hayley said, pointing. She dodged left as a bicycle mounted the pavement, zipped right to avoid a man dressed as Santa Claus pushing a shopping cart. There was Christmas music on repeat coming from every store and people dressed in costume holding charity buckets on the sidewalk. Snow White and seven dwarves danced in a circle while a man in a very tight fairy outfit showed off far more than his gruff voice tackling ‘The First Noel’.

She’d woken up late and now only had a couple of minutes to reach the office of Majestic Cleaning. Dean had left early for work, Vernon and Randy had left even earlier and the only choice she had was to take Angel with her.

Angel quickened her pace, her mouth descending on the bagel she was holding. ‘Where are we going anyway? My guidebook says the best time to see the Statue of Liberty is in the afternoon.’

The noise of the city was so distracting. Was she supposed to cross over here or carry on? Which way was north? Hayley narrowed her eyes against the winter sunshine, squinting for a street sign.

‘Mum, you’re not listening.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m trying to work out whether we have to cross the road.’

‘The street.’

‘That dark grey thing there, lines of cars, slush and ice …’

‘I was just saying, that in America you should say “street” not “road”.’

‘Well, actually, where we’re going I need to sound as English as … as …’

‘Emma Watson?’

Hayley turned to Angel. ‘Yes! Yes, exactly. Emma Watson.’ She took hold of Angel’s bagel-free hand. ‘I think it’s this way. It can’t be far now.’

‘So, where did you go last night?’

Hayley swallowed. Last night. She’d done nothing but think about Oliver since the second she’d arrived back at Dean’s apartment. What the hell had she done? Why had her sense deserted her? How had she let her obviously fickle body have control over her brain? The strongest coffee Dean’s machine could make had numbed her shock a little.

‘I went to… catch up with a friend.’ She wasn’t about to tell Angel the real reason she was scouring a nightclub. Not yet anyway.

‘You have a friend in New York already?’

‘Sort of.’ She should have known saying she had a friend in New York was going to further her daughter’s interest.

‘You really should say “kind of”, being as we’re in America.’

‘And you, young lady, should really stop lying to your mother at nine years old.’

A rouge appeared on Angel’s cheeks as they continued to walk. ‘Uncle Dean said he wouldn’t tell you.’

‘You told me, no, you
promised
me you hadn’t brought “Alfie and the Toymaker” with you.’

‘I don’t think I actually said those very words.’ There was a brief contrite look then the expression changed to a smile. ‘Vernon loved it.’

‘That’s good to hear because he’ll be the only one reading it to you.’ Hayley stopped, turning to her left. ‘OMG, this is it.’

In front of them was a plain black door, a small brass plaque attached to the middle of it stating ‘Majestic Cleaning’. There was a bell on the doorjamb. Hayley went to press it but hesitated. Did she really need to do this? She closed her eyes. She needed the money. She needed to be prepared for whatever happened with the search for Michel. Was she really not going to take that flight home if they hadn’t found him by New Year? She swallowed. Money gave you options that was all she wanted right now.

‘Majestic Cleaning,’ Angel read aloud.

‘Yep,’ Hayley responded.

‘Is this where we have to be?’

How was she going to explain this to Angel? She couldn’t believe she had got this far without more questions.

‘What are we doing here, Mum?’

The voice was so soft and concerned she didn’t know what to say in response. She took her daughter’s hand and pushed at the door with the other. ‘Let’s just go inside out of the cold.’

‘I don’t think Uncle Dean needs a cleaner. His apartment already has shiny everything.’

They’d climbed the stairs and to the left was a white wooden door with a brass doorknob on it. From behind it there was the sound of a woman on the telephone, talking very slowly and eloquently, like she was describing a ten thousand pound vase on
Antiques Roadshow
.

Hayley raised her hand and knocked.

‘Come!’ a voice called.

Hayley turned to Angel. ‘Could you wait here?’

Angel looked like she’d just told her to play on a motorway. The girl stuck her hands on her hips and looked even more affronted. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Nothing.’ Hayley knew she was going pink. ‘Just wait here, don’t you move anywhere, OK? Not one inch. And I promise when I’m done we’ll go to the Statue of Liberty.’

‘Come in!’ the voice called again.

She gave Angel her very best pleading expression. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’

Giving Angel no chance to say anything more, Hayley put her hand to the doorknob and pushed her way into the room.

The smell of lavender took her breath from her lungs. She didn’t dare breathe for fear of coughing. A woman no more than her own age stood up and came around the desk. She was wearing a maroon-coloured uniform, pleats in all the right places. Her hair was the colour of polished walnut set into a bun and just visible under a tricorne hat. A whiter than white blouse was buttoned up high on her neck, then came flawless skin and glossy lips.

‘Hello, I’m Rebecca Rogers-Smythe,’ the woman greeted. ‘You must be Ms Walker.’ The woman held out her hand.

‘Hayley.’ She realised she had emphasised her British accent as she gave Rebecca’s hand a solid shake. Emma Watson would be so proud.

Rebecca let Hayley’s hand go and looked her up and down from her winter boots to her hair that was flecked with snow. She realised then she probably should have made more of an effort. She could have added one of Dean’s fancy door swags to her coat or some silver buttons. Too late now.

‘So, what experience have you had?’ Rebecca asked, pointing to a floral embroidered carver chair as she returned to her desk.

‘In cleaning?’ Hayley asked, sitting down and gripping the arms of the chair with sweaty palms.

‘Here at Majestic we like to call it hygienic maintenance.’

‘Sorry.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve worked in several office buildings and a local hostelry. My last job was in a dry-cleaning … establishment.’

‘And you could provide references?’

‘Yes.’

‘We never deal with spills on wool.’

‘No?’

‘If there is any sign of vomit or defecation you do not touch anything, you call me.’

The tastes were in her mouth already but she managed to nod her head. It was actually hard to get a word in.

Rebecca let out a breath of what sounded like relief. ‘I don’t usually take people on without a thorough vetting procedure, but I had an employee leave two days ago and I cannot let my regular clients down.’

‘I …’

‘I’ll pay you cash. Ten dollars an hour.’

Hayley swallowed. Ten dollars an hour. A few hours for the time she was here. That would mean not dipping into her minimal dollar pot for entrance fees to all the places Angel wanted to visit. Anything more would be a bonus to tide her over when they got home.

‘Right,’ she found herself responding. She crossed her fingers.

Rebecca picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to Hayley. ‘Familiarise yourself with everything written on here.’ She shook the papers as if to signify their importance. ‘The client I’m giving you today has a Diana.’

‘A Diana?’

‘Yes. We have levels of service at Majestic. The Queen Elizabeth is a deep clean, the full works, from blinds and tracks to baseboards, with everything in between. The Princess Diana is more of a personal service.’ Rebecca let out a sigh. ‘It’s a medium-level clean with the emphasis on the areas of the home that mean most to the family.’ Rebecca presented a hand forward, stroking the air. ‘It’s all about the little touches. The plumping and arranging of cushions, placement of ornaments and decorative features, bed-making, beautifying. With the Diana, the focus is the family, not the dust. We make their house a home again.’

Hayley now felt she needed a hygiene degree to take on this role. When did cleaning become so technical?

‘Finally, we have the Camilla,’ Rebecca said.

She was almost afraid to ask. She swallowed. ‘What’s that?’

‘A quick whip-round and the garbage taken out.’

Hayley forced a smile and wondered what a Prince Andrew or a Prince Harry might entail. She didn’t dare think about a Prince Philip.