One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) (5 page)

‘No, Oliver, you can. And you
will
.’ She put her hand on the door. ‘You might be able to let me down without a second thought, but you will
not
let down that charity or betray our connection to it.’

Cynthia whipped open the door and very nearly bowled into Clara carrying the tray of coffee.

‘Oh, Mrs Drummond I was …’ Clara started.

‘I can’t stay I’m afraid, Clara.’ Cynthia cast a look back Oliver’s way. ‘I don’t want to take up any more of Oliver’s precious time.’

He swallowed the pebble of emotion in his throat and dropped his eyes to the floor. Could this day get any worse?

O
liver had been staring
at the figures so hard they were all merging into one big numerical mess. He had structured and re-structured these figures for the Globe so many times. He strained his eyes, forcing them to look harder at the chart in front of him. They actually ached, hurting from overuse. He sat back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. If he was truthful to himself he’d had a headache ever since his mother had left the office that morning. He’d bumbled his way through a lunch meeting, Cole having to do most of the work to get the client onside, and then he’d spent the rest of the day holed up in his office looking at figures and proposals he should have looked at weeks ago. Now he was trying to direct his focus on the thing he cared about most at the moment, the launch of his tablet. He picked up his pen, held it over the report for a second then dropped it back to the desk. It was no good.

The only thing on his mind was the damn McArthur Foundation fundraiser. And how he was going to get out of it. Because that’s what he had to do. There was no way he was going to let his mother put him in that position. The charity stuff was her thing, not his. She liked it. She spent half her life doing it. He, on the other hand, detested the emotion of it all. If people wanted to donate money to a cause then good for them, but he didn’t see the need for dressing up in tuxedos and ball gowns to show how well-meaning you were. Blatant publicity seeking like that had never been his bag.

He grabbed up the baseball stress ball and squeezed it tight in his hand until his knuckles turned white. He released his grip just as the door swung open. Clara came in, almost dropping the files she was holding.

‘Oh, Oliver, you gave me a scare. I didn’t realise you were still here.’

He looked at his watch. ‘What are you still doing here? It’s almost seven.’

‘I had a couple of things to finish off while it’s quiet.’ She put the files into his in-tray. ‘These can all wait for the morning.’

‘Then you should go home,’ he said, putting the ball back on the table.

‘I will if you will,’ Clara said, folding her arms across her chest.

‘As fun as it is to play parlour games with you, I’m not really in the right frame of mind.’ He let out a breath and picked up one of the files she had just delivered.

‘The meeting with your mother didn’t go so well.’

‘It was fine. She was just being a mother and I was playing the son role very badly. Same old.’

‘She told me you’ve refused to go home for Christmas,’ Clara said, adjusting her stance. ‘That you said you were working.’

‘I will be.’

‘Why? We’re not open for business.’

‘Believe it or not, Clara, there’s a great deal of stuff that goes on in the background here.’

‘Nothing that can’t stop for Christmas Day.’

‘Maybe some of us don’t want to stop for a sentimental overdose of carols, candy canes and candles at midnight.’

‘You heard what the doctor said yesterday.’

Why wasn’t she giving up? He just wanted to be left alone. Wanting to spend one day in December doing something different to everyone else shouldn’t be a crime. And he shouldn’t be constantly judged for it. ‘The doctor saw the business suit and made a call based on that.’

‘Oliver, it was a bit more than that.’

He shook his head. ‘Is there a point to this conversation?’

‘Well, that depends.’

She was looking at him with an expression that said
I’m going to treat you like a naughty schoolboy until you start listening
.

‘On what?’ he asked.

‘Whether you want my help with the McArthur Foundation fundraiser.’

He stood up then, shaking his head and moving towards the bank of windows. ‘She told you that too.’

‘She’s worried about you, Oliver, and so am I,’ Clara continued.

He looked out at the Manhattan skyline, lights shining bright as the sky turned black. He could just see the inky tidal movement of the Hudson River, ferries creeping back to the docks. The snow was falling again, thick flurries settling over the thin layer left from the previous night. Here he was, viewing the most incredible scene, an enviable setting and all he felt was trapped.

‘Don’t waste your energy on me, Clara. I’m a lost cause.’ The words were out before he’d even thought about it. Did he really believe that? And if he did, did he really want Clara to know? She was his personal assistant not his counsellor.

‘Phooey!’

‘I’m twenty-nine, Clara. You do the math.’

‘If I thought you were going to drop dead so soon I would have left before you became the CEO.’

‘No you wouldn’t. There isn’t another employer in the city who pays more.’

He heard Clara’s exhalation and regretted not thinking again. He didn’t change position. If he kept focussing on the outside she might just leave.

‘And that’s why you think I work for Drummond Global? Why I work for you?’

There was definite resentment in her tone now. He’d done that. Just by making a stupid, flippant remark.

‘It’s why most other people work here.’

‘If that’s what you truly believe, Oliver, then you have even bigger problems than I thought.’

He nodded to himself. He didn’t need to be told that. He was just a screw-up waiting to die. He turned around just in time for the slam of his office door to tell him he was pretty much burning his bridges with everyone.

His phone vibrated in the pocket of his trousers. Pulling it free, he checked the display. He pressed to answer and put it to his ear. ‘Hey.’

‘Hey, Drummond, what’s happening in the financial sector? Gone into oil yet?’

Tony’s Italian-Brooklyn accent managed to get a smile from him.

‘Has papa started serving fries with those pizzas?’

‘That’s low, man.’

‘You started it.’ He looked out at the lights of the city, finally feeling an internal thaw.

‘Listen, you up for something tonight? I’m cooling my heels and fancy heating them up a little.’

‘Things not go so well with the Pole?’

‘Tonight’s a brand new adventure just waiting to happen, man.’

Oliver smiled, loosening off his tie. ‘Give me an hour.’

‘Can we stop? Please! Can we stop, Uncle Dean?’

Angel had had her face pressed against the darkened windows of the limo since they’d left JFK Airport. As predicted, Rita had called Dean, probably in the advert breaks of
The Chase
, and given him all the details of their flight. They’d been made to feel like felons having their photos and fingerprints taken before they were allowed into the country, then Dean had been waiting in the arrivals lounge, their names in Sharpie on a cardboard sign bordered in red tinsel. Why he’d thought he needed a sign Hayley didn’t know but it had made Angel squeal with excitement and Hayley’s stomach had fluttered with a mix of longing and love for her brother as he’d gathered her up in a hug befitting of a missing relative found on
Surprise Surprise
. After an almost eight hour flight and looking rough, the last thing she wanted was to be stood next to Holly Willoughby.

Angel had been wrestled up onto Dean’s shoulders only until he realised just how much she’d grown since his last visit home. He’d dropped her down to the ground, clasped her hand instead and led the way outside. A sea of yellow taxis had greeted them and a line of weary travellers waiting their turn for a ride. The limousine waiting for the Walker party was a welcome sight although Hayley was never going to admit that to her mother.

‘Gabe, can you pull over?’ Dean called to the driver. ‘My niece wants to stop.’

‘Sir, I wouldn’t recommend doing that. Some of the other drivers told me the cops are getting hot on cars that pull over on the bridge.’

‘It’s OK, Dean. She doesn’t need to see everything this second. We can walk the bridge tomorrow or something,’ Hayley said.

‘No, Mum. I want to see it now. Please, Uncle Dean!’

‘Pull it over, Gabe. We see a cop car, we’ll jump back in and outrun them like an episode of
Blue Bloods
. How does that sound?’ He grinned at Angel and offered his hand for a high five.

Hayley watched their hands connect, the utter joy taking over her daughter’s features. This was all so exciting for her. Seeing New York for the very first time
was
special. It was Angel’s first moments here, ones she would remember forever. Just like she had. The smell of the city – it’s living, breathing heart, its electricity – the feeling that you were right in the midst of something that was constantly evolving. She’d stood on the Brooklyn Bridge at eighteen with her whole life stretching out before her. Wishes, dreams, a blank canvas to fill up any way she chose. She remembered stretching her arms above her head and feeling the breeze filter through each finger. Freedom, a foreign country, dollars in her pocket and a few weeks of indulgence before she knuckled down to college. And then there was that one night, way too much vodka and a Belgian called Michel.

The car pulling to a stop made Hayley come to. Angel was already tugging at the door handle before the brakes had fully engaged.

‘Wait, Angel. You have to be careful.’ She had visions of Angel stepping into traffic and being mown down. ‘There are a lot more cars here than at home.’

Angel let out a hiss of annoyance. ‘I’m not sure that’s actually true. Most people here use the subway.’

‘OK, Miss Smarty Pants, have it your way. Fly out of there, but be prepared to get up close and personal with a van load of Krispy Kremes,’ Hayley bit back.

‘Hey, it’s OK. She’s just excited,’ Dean said, sitting forward on the seat. ‘I’ll look after her.’

Hayley let out a sigh. Why was she so jumpy? The guy from airport immigration had set her on edge like he was a mind reader, privy to her innermost thoughts. He’d asked a million questions – who she was visiting, how long for, her plans for the holidays – and then Dean had been there. Calm, confident, gorgeous Dean, who she loved with all her heart but who just seemed to do everything a whole lot better than she did. Including managing her daughter. Her parenting skills were all she had since fashion dreams had been given up. She thought she was doing OK but Dean, clever, industry-led Dean, was just such a natural with his niece. And Angel adored him, bonding again immediately. Was this because a male figure in her life was a novelty? Or because it was something she craved? Would this be what it would be like with her father in her life?

Angel opened the car door, slipping out and stepping up to the metal and wire barrier. Hayley heard the ‘wow’ before her daughter’s feet even hit the snow-covered tarmac. She followed Dean and Angel out of the car and joined them at the edge of the bridge.

And there was that view. Straight out of the movies. A scene so well-known but so completely different when you saw it for real, when it was that close.

High-rise buildings towered up from the banks of the Hudson River, shards of light bouncing off the water, reflecting in the ripples of the tide. Squares of yellow and rectangles of orange and white lights came from the tall, slim blocks across the river. Firm, foreboding but somehow also welcoming. Snow speckled the view, large, slow-moving flakes drifting in the breeze.

‘Which is the highest building, Uncle Dean?’

Hayley looked to Angel. She had her feet up on the first rung of the metalwork, leaning out, but her brother was directly behind her, his body close, his arms holding Angel steady. Snowflakes were settling on their hair. There were moments, like this one, where she saw elements of Michel in her daughter. It was something about her profile, the shape of her nose and definitely her eyes. Hayley continued to watch Angel with Dean. One night ten years ago had never mattered more than it did now.

‘That’s the One World Trade Centre. It stands at one thousand seven hundred and seventy six feet and has a hundred and four floors.’

‘Wow,’ Angel said.

‘See, it’s there,’ Dean said, pointing across the water.

‘How many steps does it have?’ Hayley asked.

‘I don’t know that, but I do know it has elevators,’ Dean responded, grinning at her.

‘Mum didn’t really want to know. She was trying to be funny,’ Angel told him.

‘I know, Angel. She did it all the time when we were growing up.’ He tickled Angel’s ribs until she had to jump back down onto the road. ‘So, are you hungry?’

‘I am. We had chicken on the plane but that was hours ago,’ Angel answered.

‘How about Chinese? I know this great little restaurant,’ Dean suggested.

‘Oh, we don’t need to go out anywhere,’ Hayley began.

‘My treat,’ Dean said.

‘Yes!’ Angel did an air pump.

‘Well, why don’t you hop back in the car and we’ll go and get us some dim sum and fortune cookies,’ Dean said, opening the door for Angel.

Once the excited nine-year-old was back in the car Hayley let out a sigh that had her shoulders rolling. She clutched hold of the ironwork of the bridge but quickly let go as her fingers froze.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ Dean asked, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She hadn’t known her brother was so close. The comfort almost brought tears to her eyes and she realised in that moment just how much she missed him. He’d been here, in New York, since she was seventeen and only now did she grasp just how much that had challenged her. He was her big brother, the only one who had never judged or asked too many questions.

She forced a smile but she wasn’t sure it had met her eyes. ‘I’m fine.’ How could she even begin to tell him everything that was wrong? It was easier this way.

He shook his head. ‘Come on, Hay, you’ve never been able to lie to me since the day you hid your Barbie’s dresses just so I couldn’t put them on Action Man.’

She couldn’t help the laugh escaping. ‘I didn’t understand back then.’

‘Making soldiers cross-dress just seemed natural,’ Dean said in a camp voice. ‘I’m sure I wasn’t alone.’

She looked her brother up and down. Brown brogue shoes, dark blue designer jeans, clean shaven, with his short brown hair gelled up to perfection. His blue knit coat was collecting snowflakes and it was almost exactly like the last time she was here. Younger, more excited, but still vulnerable.