One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) (6 page)

‘What is it?’ Dean said in no more than a whisper.

Hayley shook her head and forced a smile. It wasn’t the right time. She wanted to be closer to having answers, find a trail and be heading towards a result before she let anyone in on it. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

And then her cheeks hit the wool of Dean’s coat and the flakes of white mushed up against her skin as he embraced her hard. She breathed in the scent of his cologne, savouring all the memories it brought back. Fun, laughter, simple, uncomplicated times.

‘You’re in New York, Hay! New York! My adopted home town! And it’s Christmas time!’ Dean swung her about in his arms like she was a fabric doll. Then he held her away from him, hands planted on the side of her reddened cheeks as he swayed her head from side to side. ‘I have a whole list of things for us to do. We’re going to finally get you in a horse and cart. We’re going to go skating at the Rockefeller Centre. Vern is going to get us tickets for something on Broadway.’ An ecstatic sigh left him. ‘It’s going to be the best two weeks of your life!’

Hayley took back control of her head. ‘Who’s Vern?’

For a second the wind was taken out of Dean’s sails but then he laughed and clamped a hand on her shoulder. ‘Nice try. Your daughter never keeps anything secret. She must have told you about Vern.’

Hayley smiled. ‘She might have. But I definitely need to know more about Randy. Please tell me it’s a dog and not a pet name.’

‘
Y
ou going
to eat that or stare at it like it wants to buy all your shares?’

Tony shovelled in a mouthful of beansprouts and pulled at Oliver’s plate with his spare hand. His black hair bounced around his forehead as he devoured the food on his plate, spatters of juice speckling his olive skin.

Oliver shook his head at his friend. ‘Really? Just because I don’t eat like a starving woolly mammoth?’ He pulled the plate back towards him.

Tony was right though. He had ordered food he didn’t even want. After the heated debate with Clara, his brain was fried. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on the Regis Software merger paperwork and the stress ball had been given the pounding of its life. He needed to unwind. He was coiled so tightly in every area of his life and now he had his mother on his back. As if he didn’t have enough going on. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe a rapid physical dismantling could happen at any time. A breakdown.
Or a heart attack
.

He picked some noodles up with his chopsticks and put them to his mouth, hoping the ingestion of food would quell the panic, soften the ache in his chest wall. He chewed slowly, trying to savour the subtle flavours, concentrate on just the eating, nothing else. His eyes moved to the other patrons, enjoying the fine food and the unique ambiance of the restaurant. Red paper lanterns hung from vantage points around the room, elaborate Chinese plates and ornaments adorned the walls and each table had a delicate, fresh orchid in its centre with a glowing tea light candle.

‘So, what’s happening in your world?’

Oliver turned his attention back to Tony. ‘Ah, you know, the usual.’

‘Really? Because Momma heard they called an ambulance for you yesterday.’

Oliver threw his napkin to the table and inhaled a breath. ‘All of my staff have signed a confidentiality clause.’

‘And most of them eat at the family restaurant. What can I say?’ Tony lifted his shoulders nonchalantly.

He would identify the employee who was sharing information and make sure they were reprimanded. Reports of ill health, Chinese whispers through the city, would do the company no good whatsoever.

‘Well? I’m waiting here,’ Tony said, his brown eyes fixed on him.

He swallowed. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ He didn’t sound convincing and he knew Tony wouldn’t be fooled.

He dropped his eyes to his plate of food, considering what to say next, if anything. He heard Tony suck in a breath and a chink of glassware made him raise his head.

‘Well, you’re here so you didn’t die,’ Tony stated.

‘I admire your powers of observation.’

Tony shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you. We’ve had this conversation so many times. You said you weren’t going to let this thing take over.’

‘It’s kind of hard not to.’

‘Pa!’ Tony waved a meaty hand in the air. ‘We all know the worst that could happen. You could keel over right here right now, your head in black bean sauce, stomach empty, unfulfilled …’ Tony lowered his voice a notch. ‘Not been laid in forty-eight hours …’

‘Actually it’s a little under twenty-four.’

‘Last night?’ Tony asked, eyes wide. ‘Man, you’re good.’ He took a swig from his beer bottle. ‘So what’s the problem? You made it out of the hospital instead of being transferred to the mortuary, it’s all good.’

‘My mom wants me to go home for Christmas and, if I don’t, she’s going to make me speak at the McArthur Foundation fundraiser.’

‘That cold slab at the mortuary is sounding tempting,’ Tony teased.

Oliver put down his chopsticks and picked up his beer bottle. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like. You have a million cousins, nieces and nephews for Christmas, I have my mom, the shroud of death hanging over the place and Pablo quizzing me on the NHL which I never have time to watch anymore.’

‘What d’you want me to say?’

‘I don’t know. That I’m not being a Grade A jerk. That I have every right not to want to spend that day in December that way.’ He was getting agitated just talking about it. He shifted in his seat as an uncomfortable current of pain ran up his left arm.

‘Look at it this way. What scares the crap out of you the most? Spending a few hours stuffing yourself full of turkey with your mom? Or standing up in front of a room full of New York’s finest, talking about your dad and Ben?’

Oliver flinched and tried to hide it by picking up his chopsticks and spearing a clump of noodles. He knew the answer to that. The public affair scared him a lot more than visiting home for the day, but both scenarios were going to open up closed wounds and remind him what he was living with.

‘I don’t know,’ Tony said, sitting back in his chair. ‘I could kill you now instead. We could order up a bottle of Scotch and go out with a bang.’

Oliver couldn’t help the corners of his mouth twitching. Only Tony could turn his death sentence into a joke. His friend had been making him laugh since 1989. Tony’s parents’ Italian restaurant, Romario’s, had been the Drummond’s Friday night out since he was old enough to eat solid food. It was one of the few places he’d visited with his father and brother that he still went to. There wasn’t room for grief amongst the larger-than-life personalities of the Romario family.

‘Seriously, man, if
I
knew I wasn’t going to make old age I wouldn’t be wasting a second worrying about it. I’d be living it.’

‘I
do
live it,’ he countered.

Tony snorted. ‘In between panicking about it.’

There was that word again.
Panic
. From the mouth of his best friend.

‘Order some more drinks,’ Tony said. ‘And I promise, you drop here and now, I’ll keep every secret you ever told me for at least a month after the funeral. After that, it’s open season and capitalising on every talk show this side of the seaboard.’

T
he car stopped
outside the Asian Dawn restaurant and Angel’s jaw dropped at the sight of the frontage. There were china painted dragons, ivory-coloured statues and two flaming torches at the door. Strings of tinsel adorned the dragons’ necks, a garland of gold-coloured candy canes hung over the doorframe and, fixed to the wall, was an image of Santa Claus holding the reins to his sleigh, which flashed on and off in stages of red, white and green.

Angel opened the car door and jumped out onto the pavement, running up to the nearest ornate dragon. As she got out too, Hayley watched her daughter smooth her hands over the pottery mane, fingering the swirls and dips in the masonry.

Angel turned then, looking at her. ‘Can I have anything I want?’

This restaurant looked like something out of a James Bond Shanghai scene. Everything about it signalled top dollar. She’d be lucky to afford a tip let alone a meal.

Hayley opened her mouth to speak.

Dean beat her to it. ‘Of course you can.’

‘Do they have ice cream?’

‘Only the best ice cream in Manhattan.’

‘Dean …’ Hayley started as Angel headed to the door. ‘This place looks lovely but it also looks like somewhere Kim and Kanye would come to be seen.’ She let a breath out. ‘It looks expensive and …’

Dean reached out, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’s on me.’

‘You can’t do that the whole time we’re here, Dean.’ She locked eyes with him. ‘And I don’t want you to. It isn’t fair.’

Dean smiled. ‘Tonight is my treat.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s fill you both up with New York’s good stuff.’

Hayley smiled. She had to admit the thought of sweet and sour chicken and the best ice cream in Manhattan was more than a little tempting. And if she ran into Kimye … well she’d maybe suggest that Kim’s colouring went much better with gold than red.

T
ony let out a belch
. ‘So what was she like?’

Oliver creased his brow at the question. ‘Who?’

‘Miss Less-Than-Twenty-Four-Hours-Ago’

Christa. This one he remembered the name of. ‘If I’m honest, a little bit creepy.’

‘Yeah?’ Tony shifted his body forward in his seat and looked increasingly interested.

‘She made me pretend I was a lemur.’

Tony laughed out loud, a sound that echoed the whole way round the restaurant and back again like an audible boomerang.

‘It’s not funny,’ Oliver hissed.

‘I don’t see the issue.’ Tony wiped his face with his napkin.

‘It works in your perverted world maybe.’

‘Did you get her number?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Shame,’ Tony grinned. ‘I would have been any animal she wanted me to be.’

Oliver shook his head at his friend as Tony’s mobile phone erupted into life.

‘Hey,’ Tony answered, shifting back in his chair. ‘Momma, no, I can’t.’ He rolled his eyes as he looked to Oliver. ‘Momma, Ivano does this every second week …’ He continued the conversation in loud Italian Oliver had no hope of ever translating even if he did know some of the language.

Oliver toyed with his food and finally lay down his chopsticks in defeat. He just wasn’t hungry and he sensed what was coming. Tony ended the call and picked up his beer bottle, downing the contents.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Tony announced.

‘Trouble at the restaurant.’

‘Another one of Ivano’s diva moments. He’s walked out. Momma needs help in the kitchen.’

‘You’re going to cook? You hate cooking,’ Oliver reminded him.

‘Sshh, you’re ruining my rep. All Italians love to cook.’ He took his wallet from his trouser pocket and began pulling out bills.

Oliver waved him away. ‘Forget about it.’

‘Don’t pull the billionaire card again, you did that the other night and I know how much I drank.’

Oliver smiled. ‘I can’t take it with me, can I? Go on, get out of here. Go and whip up some pasta with Momma.’

Tony paused. ‘On one condition.’

‘Go on.’ Oliver looked sceptical.

‘Woman at my six o’clock all on her own.’ Tony nudged his head, indicating a booth behind him. ‘She might be in need of some wish fulfilment.’

Oliver tilted in his seat to get a look. Long chestnut hair almost to her waist and a red dress that showed off every curve. He had to admit he liked what he saw. But unlike last night, he was conflicted. The trip to the hospital
had
affected him. He didn’t know if he had it in him tonight.

‘Call me with the details tomorrow,’ Tony said, grinning.

‘I’ll see you,’ Oliver said, waving a hand. He watched his friend depart then blew out a breath before beckoning the waiter to him.

‘Yes, Mr Drummond.’

‘Would you please send a glass of your best champagne to the lady at that table over there?’

‘The lady in the red dress?’ the waiter queried.

Oliver nodded. ‘She is dining alone, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, sir, she is.’

‘Fine. When you take over the drink, ask her if she’d like to join me for dessert.’

‘Very good, sir,’ the waiter said, backing away from the table.

‘Oooo can we sit near the lobsters? Did you know lobsters can live for up to seventy years?’

The young girl’s voice was British and far too knowledgeable for the age she sounded. Oliver turned his head and watched the girl, a tall man in his mid-thirties and a brown-haired woman enter the restaurant and head towards a vacant table to his left.

‘If any survive more than seventy days in this restaurant I’d be surprised,’ the woman of the party answered. He watched her brush the snow from her coat then remove it, laying it over her arm as the man pulled out seats for them.

Family.
Looking forward to Christmas. All the things he couldn’t cope with. Except the child. He didn’t have any experience of that. Wouldn’t. Living with your head in a noose made you discount certain agendas.

He turned his attention back to the waiter and the woman in the red dress just across the walkway from him. The glass of champagne was being offered but the woman was waving it away. This didn’t look good. And despite his uncertainty, he didn’t want to be rejected. He hoped the waiter would direct the woman’s attention his way so he had a chance to work his magic.

Right on cue, the waiter stepped back, indicating Oliver. This was his chance.

‘No one’s allowed to eat this one!’

It was the child’s voice again and despite the woman looking his way, he was drawn to turn his head to see what she was doing. She was kneeling up on her seat, her fingers at the glass of the tank that housed the live menu.

‘Do not give it a name.’ That sentence came from the mother and it provoked his lips into a smile.

‘I’m going to call him Lyndon. After Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth president of the United States.’

Oliver smirked. This kid sure knew her presidents.

‘Fine. I’ll have anything off the menu that hasn’t been christened,’ the woman said.

‘Mr Drummond.’

He snapped his head back as the waiter addressed him from his left.

‘The lady doesn’t drink champagne,’ he began. ‘But she said if you would like to join
her
for dessert you’d be very welcome.’

‘Is that so?’ Oliver said, leaning a little to get a better view of the woman in red. She was definitely worthy of his time and moving seats would get him away from the audible intelligence of a child who looked no more than ten.

He cleared his throat, dropping his napkin to the table and picking up his beer. He needed to get away from the happy family with the knowledgeable child, no matter how amusing she was. Mom and Dad could have been poster models for the American Way. Any minute there would be laughter and cosy hand-holding.

He swigged at the liquid in his bottle, deliberately setting his eyes on his playmate across the room. She was looking back at him, assertiveness coming out of every pore, but her eyes said something else as well. The look written there was telling Oliver she was open, ready for adventure, excitement. She was flattered by his attention but she wasn’t a pushover. This was going to be much more sophisticated than impersonating jungle animals.

He stood then, his eyes still on her. He addressed the waiter. ‘I’ll have the lychee ice cream.’