One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) (9 page)

T
oday Oliver was untouchable
. Today nothing was going to get to him. Not the chest pains, not his employees who didn’t understand the complex nature of his position and definitely not his mother’s threats about Christmas. He was going to be that business magnate all the newspapers said he was. A worthy successor to his father’s throne. Not the son who had ruined one career and was playing around with a second.

He had a macchiato in his gloved hands and the streets weren’t too snow-ridden thanks to the constant stream of citizens ploughing through. Horns blasted and brakes squealed as a large guy trying to carry a Christmas tree swayed into the road. The flags hanging from the buildings either side of him battled against the harsh wind and two men pedalling rickshaws fought against the elements, their passengers huddled up under blankets. Oliver smiled to himself. This morning he was going to take control and get a buzz going about the Globe.

Taking a swig from the cardboard cup with his name written on it, he pushed at the doors to his building. Standing on the matting just inside, the coffee caught in his throat.

Right in front of his eyes, to the right of the long stainless-steel reception desk, three men in coveralls were erecting a Christmas tree. A
real
Christmas tree at least ten feet tall. The scent of pine and greenery whooshed up his nose uninvited. What the hell was this doing here? He blinked hard and refocussed. No, it was still there. He gritted his teeth together. This had to go. He couldn’t have that monstrosity staring at him every time he entered and exited the building. When they had it upright, it would be bedecked. Gold, red, silver bells, stars and those damn jolly Santa Clauses. It wasn’t going to happen.

He closed his eyes. He needed to keep hold of his resolve, own the day. Without even looking at the women behind the desk waiting to greet him, he marched towards the bank of elevators. He’d show the season of goodwill exactly what he thought of it. Goodwill was exactly where the tree was heading.

Someone had drugged her. That was the only explanation as to why her brain didn’t feel connected to any other part of her and why her limbs were as heavy as solid rock.

Hayley turned back the bright turquoise duvet cover that was over her and attempted to slide out. Planting two feet on a sheepskin rug, she stood and hit her head on a glitter ball-style lampshade.

She let out a groan and put her hand to her temple, mussing her bed hair over her eyes. As she came to and the room came properly into focus, she realised where she was. New York. Her brother’s gigantic apartment, where everything shouted out his love of sparkles and flamboyance. There was a signed photo of Elton John in a gilt frame on the turquoise wall and below it a sculpture of Liberace, a pink feather boa around his neck. She shook her head, smiling. Her brother was such a stereotype.

She staggered to the door, almost getting her fingers caught in a decorative gold swag on the handle, and pulled it open. The smell of syrup enveloped her and the sound of Frank Sinatra was coming from the kitchen.

She made her way along the hall.

‘Angel Walker, you’re meant to get at least some of the ingredients into the pan!’

Hayley stood in the doorway taking in the scene before her. Angel had a jug in her hand and Dean was in charge of a large pan on the state-of-the-art hob. Last night she’d barely been able to take in the details of Dean’s home. Now, in the morning light, she saw just what an amazing pad Dean had. This kitchen/dining/living space was the jewel in the apartment’s crown. With chocolate brown chenille sofas, rugs, perfectly placed knick-knacks and a fifty-inch plasma TV in the lounge area, a ten-seater contemporary dining table with a chandelier over it and then, this fabulous kitchen. It spoke of Dean’s success, a success Hayley had always been proud of, if not a little jealous.

‘Hey, good morning,’ Dean greeted, spotting her leaning against the doorjamb.

‘Good morning.’ She waved a hand attached to a floppy arm. ‘I think I’m still on English time.’ A yawn took over. ‘Actually, scratch that, I
know
I’m still on English time.’

‘We’re making pancakes,’ Angel announced.

‘So I smell.’ She made her way over to the breakfast bar and hauled herself up onto a stool.

‘D’you want some coffee?’ Dean offered, taking a step back from the cooker.

She looked him up and down, from his immaculately polished brown brogues, his snug fit suit trousers, to his pale blue shirt and accompanying waistcoat. Suddenly, in the pyjamas she was wearing, with her terrible hair, she felt like a poster girl for
The Big Issue
.

‘Can I be really English and have tea?’

‘I’ve got orange juice with bits in,’ Angel said, holding aloft a glass.

‘Sure,’ Dean answered, going back to tending the pancakes. ‘Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earl Grey or Rooibos?’

‘The first one,’ Hayley answered. ‘I can do it if you tell me where the tea cupboard is.’

‘You sit there. You’re my guests.’ Dean, spatula in one hand, reached his other towards a bright red cupboard to his right, opening the door.

‘We’re not really guests, Uncle Dean, we’re family,’ Angel reminded him.

‘I know you are but you’re on holiday. You’re here to relax, take it easy and enjoy. Besides, I have to go in to work this morning so you’ll be doing the tea-making for yourselves until this afternoon.’

‘Ohhhhhh,’ Angel said, sounding disappointed.

‘Angel, not everyone gets to have school holidays,’ Hayley said, picking up a fruit she didn’t recognise from the sequinned bowl on the breakfast bar.

‘I wish I did.’ Dean served some pancakes up onto a plate. ‘But I’ll be back about three and we can go and see Vern and Randy like I promised.’

‘Yay!’ Angel exclaimed.

Dean put the plate of pancakes on the breakfast bar then lifted Angel up onto a stool, pressing a fork into her hand. She used the other hand to steer her New York guide book towards her.

‘So what d’you think you’ll do today?’ Dean asked, pouring hot water into a floral teapot.

‘We could go to the Empire State Building and then we could visit the Statue of Liberty and the Guggenheim museum and …’ Angel started, eyes like marbles.

‘Whoa! Hold that enthusiasm. Mum is going to need a New York minute to get over the jet lag,’ Hayley interrupted. ‘And New York isn’t just tourist attractions, you know. When I came here last time I tried to take in the local culture. The sounds, the scents … the galleries.’

The very first place she wanted to go was the gallery at the top of her hit list. New York Life. She just wasn’t sure how to pitch it to Angel. Telling her about the search was going to get her hopes up. She wanted to have some sort of sniff of hope before she told her daughter what she was doing.

‘But we’re only here for a few weeks and I want to ride on the ferry too and visit the New York Public Library and …’ Angel carried on, flicking over a page in her book

‘Angel, I promise, we will do all those things but …’ Hayley began. Her head was starting to throb.

‘Did I mention I have an Xbox?’ Dean said, diverting Angel’s attention as he poured the tea.

‘Do you?’ Angel’s eyes were wide again. ‘Dylan at school has an Xbox and I played it when I went to his birthday party. Do you have Lego Batman?’

‘You can download any game you like.’

‘Cool.’

Dean put a fine bone china cup full of tea in front of Hayley. ‘So what d’you say? Mum gets a long shower while you fight off the Joker and Penguin and then you can head out and suck up the big city.’

Hayley mouthed a thank you and put a finger through the delicate drinking vessel, bringing it to her mouth like it contained a life-preserving potion. ‘So, have you got a busy day ahead?’

Dean nodded, a mouth full of pancakes. ‘Oh yeah. Thanks to a panicky text from Peter at seven a.m.’

‘What’s happened?’ Angel asked.

‘Oliver Drummond has called a meeting for the whole design and development team at ten.’ Dean shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you how many meetings like this we’ve had. He will have been over the specifications of the Globe again and decided to tweak something that doesn’t need tweaking and me and my team will have to go back to the drawing board just to satisfy his ego.’

‘He sounds horrible,’ Angel said. She drank some of her orange juice.

‘Maybe the meeting won’t be like you think. It might be a good thing,’ Hayley suggested.

‘He’s delayed the sign-off for months now. Before too long the project just won’t be viable and me and everyone else working on it will have wasted so much time and money.’

‘What exactly is the Globe?’ Angel asked.

Dean smiled. ‘It’s like the iPad, only better because … I helped design it.’

‘Wow!’ Angel said.

‘Listen, I promise, no matter how this meeting goes I’ll bring one home and show it to you later.’ Dean got down from his stool and hurriedly finished his coffee. ‘I’ve got to go, get the heads-up on this meeting.’ He smiled at them both. ‘Anything you want, anything you need, eat it, drink it, play with it, treat this place as your place, OK?’

‘OK,’ Angel replied, putting her hand out for a high five.

Dean connected his hand then bent to kiss Hayley on the cheek. ‘Have that long shower and don’t do too much.’

‘Angel, did you hear that? We aren’t to do too much.’

‘Did you know Solomon Guggenheim’s first collections of paintings were displayed at the Plaza Hotel? Can we go there too?’ Angel raised her head out of her book.

‘Sounds like we
are
doing too much,’ Hayley said.

‘See you later. I’ll be back by three. Enjoy the Guggenheim.’ Dean waved a hand as he headed out the door.

‘Please tell me it has a café.’ Hayley picked up her teacup and put it to her mouth again.

Angel nodded her head, looking up again. ‘It does. And they sell fizzy wine.’

‘Perfect,’ Hayley answered.

Angel smiled. ‘Did you bring your ideas book to New York?’

‘I did.’

‘So maybe we could go to some fashiony places too,’ Angel suggested.

‘Maybe,’ Hayley answered.

‘Oh no, fashion alert. Uncle Dean’s forgotten his jacket.’ Angel’s eyes went to the dining area.

Hayley looked at the tailored grey suit jacket hanging over the back of the chair. Stylish, expensive – everything Dean had was top of the range to her bargain basement.

‘Can we drop it in to him?’ Angel asked.

‘Are we going to have time between all this culture?’

‘We might have to miss out the fizzy wine.’

Hayley slid down from the stool. ‘Going for a shower. Make the Xbox game quick! Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 89 – there’s so much to do!

O
liver smiled
and shook his head at Tony’s attempt at text humour. Ten o’clock was nearing and he was nervous. He worked the fingers of both hands over the pliable material of his stress ball, trying to grind out the tension. He leant forward in his chair and pressed a button on his phone.

Two rings. Three rings
. Impatience coursed through him. Where was she?
Four rings
.

‘Oliver,’ Clara finally spoke through the connection.

‘Where were you, Clara?’ he barked.

There was a short hesitation before the answer came. ‘I was collecting your mail.’

He shook his head in frustration. ‘Could you come to my office?’

‘Would you like the mail?’

‘Is it ready?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Look, forget the mail, just come in here.’ He ended the call and stood.

This week he had let situations get the better of him. He’d given in to his medical condition and, in the aftermath, he had dwelt on it all way too much. Today, and every other day going forward, was going to be strictly business, emotion free. The second he dropped his guard, even just a centimetre, he lost sight of the big picture, what he wanted. And, for the most part, all that was was to be left alone. No questions, no complications and no promises.

He paced now, his irritation fuelling every step. How long did it take to walk the corridor for God’s sake? Perhaps he ought to suggest she wore shoes she could actually move in. There was a knock on the door and then it was pushed open, Clara appearing a little flustered and distracted, her leather portfolio in her hands.

‘I need you to take a letter,’ he barked before the whole of her had entered.

‘Of course.’ She bustled in, heading for the chair opposite his.

‘It’s to Luther Jameson. The usual address.’ Oliver began to gather speed as he walked up and down in front of the windows showing off the Manhattan skyline.

‘Luther Jameson?’ Clara asked.

He turned to look at her, saw her pen poised over her pad, hesitating.

‘Is there a problem with that?’ He ground his teeth together, just waiting for her to dare to oppose him.

‘No, I …’ Clara began.

He cut her off. ‘
Dear Luther. I was sorry to miss you at the golf club last month. I hear a good time was had by all and a considerable sum of money was raised for the McArthur Foundation. Unfortunately, due to prior commitments, I will be unable to attend the fundraiser on …
’ He paused, turning back to Clara. ‘Add the date in there whenever it is.
But, to go some way towards an apology I enclose a cheque for $25,000 in addition to Drummond Global’s annual donation. I hope you have a successful and lucrative night for the charity and I wish you and your family a wonderful Christmas.
’ Oliver let out a sigh. ‘He isn’t Jewish, is he?’

Clara kept her eyes fixed on the notes she was taking.

‘Clara, is the man Jewish? Does he celebrate Christmas?’

‘I’ll check.’

‘Send it out today, I’ll sign the cheque.’

Clara was unmoving.

‘That’s it,’ Oliver said, walking back to his desk. ‘You can go now. I’ve got a meeting with design and development at ten.’

Clara got to her feet, hugging the portfolio to her chest. ‘Oliver …’

‘There is one other thing,’ he interrupted. He breathed in hard. ‘I don’t know who organised that monstrosity of a Christmas tree in the lobby but I want it gone. Today.’

He sat down in his chair and put his hand on the mouse next to his keyboard. This was how a day should be started. Controlled, conducted, nothing left to chance. Long may it continue.

As Oliver arrived at the boardroom door he could hear the hubbub of voices. He strained his ears, trying to catch snippets of the words. He could imagine what they were saying. They all thought he had called them here to pull apart the latest version of the Globe. All the revisions it had been through had been necessary. Since he’d started on the project, he knew he wanted to create something to really rival Apple. Lots of companies had tried but he was going to be the one to succeed. Because, despite what some people thought, he
did
know this business. His father had made sure of that.

Thinking about his father his mind harked back to a time when they’d sat in the house together dismantling a Dell. Ben was away at camp and Oliver had planned to be out playing football but a deluge of rain had put paid to that. Instead he and Richard had taken out the screwdrivers and taken apart the computer. He’d watched his father, saw the excitement in his eyes, the concentration on his brow as each section was carefully disassembled and inspected. Richard had encouraged him, advising him on each component, telling him how each one worked and their relationship to each other in the overall operation of the machine. It had been more than a lesson in electronics that day, it had taught him everything about his father’s vision and passion. The insurmountable drive Oliver struggled with on a daily basis. Why couldn’t he commit like his father had? Because he didn’t have a long future ahead of him? His father had known that too and he’d carried on regardless, fearless to the end. Or maybe because it wasn’t that first dream. The football career at his feet. The path he’d chosen not the one that had been given to him. He swallowed. At least he
had
a path. How short it was going to be was anyone’s guess.

As if sensing his thoughts his body reacted, his chest tightening, forcing him to stand taller to iron it out. Oliver put his hand on the door and pushed it open.

All conversation stopped the second his shoes hit the carpet of the room and he made his way to the seat at the head of the chrome and glass table. It was time to get some respect back.

‘Good morning everyone,’ he greeted, putting a folder on the table and keeping his eyes there.

‘Good morning,’ came the mumbled reply from the dozen individuals present.

He flicked open the folder then looked up, his eyes glossing over all the team members. ‘So, the Globe.’

He could sense the tension in the air. It was as if it was electrically charged, just waiting to crackle apart if he dismissed this prototype again. He had been harsh over this, he knew, but it had been necessary. You didn’t just mock up a product to rival one of the world’s biggest companies in five minutes. It had to be right. More than that, it had to be perfect. And even perfect didn’t mean they stood a chance. It was a cut-throat business. It would be scrutinised by the best in the industry, compared to its counterparts. There was no way it was going to fall short on his watch.

He picked up the controller on the table and pointed it at the flat screen panel behind him. Displayed for the whole room to see was a graphic he’d prepared earlier. There was the seven point nine inch smooth-lined rectangular tablet moving around in a slow circle, showing off its curves as well as a beauty pageant contestant. One by one the features and specifications began to appear next to the rotating piece of technology. 32mb as standard, Wi-Fi and free 3G, a camera to rival the best on the market, Spotify free for six months, free unlimited cloud storage, apps from a large online partner site.

Oliver clicked the controller again and stopped the spinning tablet and held the specifications where they were.

‘I know you’ve spent a great deal of time on this product. And I also know how many setbacks there have been.’

He could almost hear the collective groan, even though there was nothing but silence. They were looking at him, their faces blank, not giving away any of their feelings. But he knew. He knew his holding back of this product had caused conflict within the company. He also knew this team had spent hours, days, weekends and family time trying to get this project completed. But he had pushed hard because Drummond Global and Oliver himself couldn’t afford to produce anything less than acme.

‘But setbacks are all part and parcel of creating something like this. Something revolutionary.’ He spread his hands out. ‘So, who thinks this product is ready for market?’

He put the question out there but he knew no one would answer. After the months of toing and froing, they were all too concerned about losing face to risk putting themselves out there.

But then a hand went up. A dark-haired man seated at the middle of the table had raised his hand in the air. This was unexpected. But not necessarily unwelcome. The man looked vaguely familiar. Had he worked with him closely before? If he had he didn’t remember his name.

‘Please, stand up. Tell everyone here why you think the Globe is ready to go into production,’ Oliver invited.

The employee got to his feet, pushing his chair back a little as he created more space. ‘This latest model incorporates all the great concepts of Apple’s iPad but with more. We’ve made it 32mb as standard with the fastest processor on the market driving it. We haven’t compromised on style, design or functionality. There’s really nothing else we can do to make it better without having to increase the price points we’ve fixed on. Sure, in six months we might be able to come up with a faster processor but, right now, this is as good as we can make it.’ The man paused for a second. ‘Plus, I’ve been using one of the models for a week now and there’s no way I’d go back to my other tablet.’

Oliver watched as the employee’s face took on a glow as he came to the end of his speech. The man put his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked slightly awkward, as if not knowing whether to keep standing or to sit down.

‘What’s your name?’ Oliver asked.

The twitching of his comrades, the turning heads and shifting in chairs told him they were expecting harsh words not a ‘what’s your name’.

‘Dean Walker, sir.’

He nodded. ‘Good.’ He pushed a button on the controller and revealed the final wording on the screen behind him.

‘Dean Walker, you’re in charge of making this happen.’ He picked his file up from the desk. ‘I’ll get a date set for the next briefing.’

He nodded at the team sat before him then headed from the room. The door hadn’t even closed when the collective cheer went up. Oliver smiled. Back in the game.