Christmas for One: No Greater Love (21 page)

‘Oh, right. Well, you have the right apartment, but he’s not here right now.’

‘Oh?’ Meg stood still; the wind blew her hair across her face. Her voice was small. Who was this? A cleaner? Friend? Cousin? She mentally ran through the possibilities.

The woman continued in a brisk New York accent. ‘He’s shopping right now, but should be back any time. Was he expecting you?’ She sounded puzzled and was far too informed and asking too many questions for a cleaner.

‘Not really, no.’ Meg heard her heart beating loudly in her ears. ‘Sorry, but who am I talking to?’

‘Flavia, Edd’s girlfriend. And you are…?’

Flavia. Carb- and protein-free, organic Flavia.
Meg placed her hand on her chest.
Ssssshhh.
Her head swam and her legs felt like lead. Her chest heaved with dry sobs, her tears yet to catch up with the tsunami of sadness that engulfed her.
I should have known. I should have known.
She replayed Christopher’s words of advice:
‘Make sure everything is as he says it is. In my experience, young men when faced with a pretty girl will say and do just about anything to win them over.’

‘Won’t they just,’ Meg muttered.

‘Excuse me?’ Flavia strained to hear.

‘Oh, nothing. I was just…’ Meg swallowed the sob that was building in her throat. She pictured herself at nine years of age, walking into the sitting room of yet another foster family on Christmas Day. It was a house that smelled of dog. The mum had a purple paper crown on her head that was ripped and clashed with her bright red hair and she was talking to a fat aunt that had appeared. She remembered the way they all stopped talking, staring at her as though expecting a performance. She had stuck out her chest, clenched her palms, slick with sweat, and twisted her foot inside her black elasticated plimsolls. ‘I’m Megan,’ she had announced and they gazed at her in silence as if to say, so what? And she had realised in that second that she was nothing special.

‘I… I’m Meg. I work for Plum Patisserie.’ She cursed herself for having given too much information. It was an automatic response, given as she tried to control the wobble to her voice and attempted to steady her legs, which swayed beneath her. ‘I’m sorry, I…’ Meg tried, but there were no words for how she was feeling.

‘Hello? Are you okay?’ Flavia’s voice brought her firmly to the present and she realised that nothing had changed, she was still Megan, arriving unannounced, unwanted and surplus to requirements. Nothing special.

Looking up and down the street, she was struck by the appalling thought that she might bump into Edd as he returned home to his girlfriend, laden down with goodies for the festive period, which they would spend on the sofa in his apartment. Even the idea of that was more than she could stand. Meg picked up her small suitcase and ran. At the first turning she came to, she found herself on First Avenue. Placing her luggage on the pavement by her feet, she leant against the wall and clutched her stomach as if in pain. Picturing Lucas, she felt a very, very long way from home.

A howl escaped from her and she bent forward, trying to contain the noise. Great gulps of distress rippled through her body. She didn’t care that people stared, she didn’t care that a couple laughed. She didn’t care about much. Her heart ached in her chest and the thud of a headache throbbed behind her temples. Wiping her tears as fast as they fell, she smeared make-up onto the sleeve of her coat and sniffed, loudly.

‘Oh God! You stupid, stupid cow,’ she muttered, running her hands through her hair and trying to catch her breath between sobs.

Eventually her crying slowed and her breath found an almost natural rhythm.

‘Are you okay?’

Meg recognised the voice from the intercom. She looked up at the woman standing on the pavement. She was holding her silky, patterned, kimono-style top closed over a tight, pale blue vest, her long legs were encased in skinny jeans and cowboy boots, and she had short dark hair, wide, almond eyes and a large, fabulous chest. She reminded Meg of a vintage-styled doll; she was perfect.

‘Is it Meg?’ The woman approached, bending slightly to get a better look at the crumpled mess in front of her.

Meg nodded as she stared at beautiful, beautiful Flavia. Not a badge of protest or a hemp shoe in sight. No wonder Edd wasn’t seriously interested in her – how could he be? Meg knew she could never measure up. She placed her arms across her flat chest, feeling stupid for thinking she might have been able to.

‘I was talking to you via the intercom but getting no response.’ Flavia pointed back towards her home. ‘I came to find you to say if it’s a work thing then come on up to the apartment and wait. I could make you a coffee?’

I’ve already had a coffee in your apartment, made in that flashy coffee maker. I drank it from your plain white mug and I sat on the sofa before falling into your bed. Oh God!

‘You seem really upset – what’s wrong?’

Flavia’s concern made Meg cry even harder. It would have been easier if she’d been a cow.

‘Oh!’ Meg swiped at her tears. ‘It’s just because we are so pushed at work and I need to get a few things sorted. I think I’m just very tired.’

Flavia let her eyes widen and her mouth twist in irritation at any woman that could get in such a state over something so seemingly trivial.

‘Do you want to come up and wait for Edd? The offer’s there.’ She splayed her fingers, which Meg checked for an engagement ring. There wasn’t one, although this was scant consolation in the grand scheme of things.

Meg shook her head. ‘No. No, it can wait. I think I’ll get back to the office and get a grip!’ She tried to laugh. ‘But thanks.’

She straightened her back and gathered up her bag as Flavia sauntered back along the pavement to the apartment she shared with Edward Odhran Kelly.

Meg looked up and down the street and tried to think what to do next. She needed a base from which to make calls, use her computer and wash her face. Thankfully, she knew just the place.

As the taxi headed west, Meg ducked down to avoid any last views of East 12th and Edd’s apartment block, pretending to fumble in her handbag on the floor, until it was nothing more than an upscale pile of bricks in the rearview mirror.

The cab bumped the kerb on Bleecker Street outside Plum Patisserie. Despite her broken heart, she felt warmed by the logo that always made her feel at home.

The outside of the café looked beautiful. The windows were sparklingly clean and well lit, bursting with panniers of baguettes and crusty golden boules de campagne. Ornate glass stands displayed a sumptuous array of baked goods that shone like pastel-tinted jewels. They had done it! In just six days since she had last visited, Juno and the team had pulled it off. Meg was glad of this for two reasons. Firstly, all their hard work had been worth it. Secondly, she was confident that Juno would make a great success of the place; and if things at Bleecker Street ran like clockwork, there would be no need for her to come here again – ever. That thought brought a small amount of calm to the rising tide of panic inside her.

Meg hovered outside and used a wet wipe, normally reserved for Lucas’s sticky mitts, to remove the residual mascara that clung to a lash or two. She pinched her cheeks in lieu of blusher and blew her nose. Smiling, she pushed on the door. What she found wasn’t quite what she expected.

‘Yay! I don’t believe it – you came! I’m stoked!’ Juno shouted as she rushed over and grabbed Meg by the arm.

Juno looked stunning in her signature tight bun and high-necked white shirt and black skirt. Today she’d added a generous amount of pillar-box-red lipstick, which accentuated her full mouth. Meg noted the mix of staff and customers. One or two people in black jeans and oversized black-framed glasses – food journalists, she assumed – made notes and swooped on the silver platters being passed around, keen to sample everything.
The launch party.
Meg had had no idea it was today; her heart sank at the realisation.
Oh no, please not today.

Juno looked ecstatic. ‘I sent the invite but I thought, there’s no way she’ll come at such short notice, plus she’s only just gone back,’ she gabbled. ‘But I sent it anyway. It was important that you knew we
wanted
you here. And here you are. I can’t believe it!’ Juno gave a delighted giggle before looking Meg in the eye and gesturing at the space. ‘What do you think?’ Her eyes were wide. ‘Are you happy?’

Happy? I don’t think I’ll ever be happy again. I thought he loved me, but why would he? I’m so stupid.

Meg wanted to hide away in a dark corner and book a flight; instead she was going to have to socialise. The very idea felt like torture. She looked at the clusters of wall lights and remembered her last visit and what they had had to go through to get things finished. She thought of the photograph of Mr Redlitch with his arm around the waist of the girl he loved, lucky girl. ‘I really am. It all looks amazing. You’ve done an incredible job, Juno, all of you.’

‘It wouldn’t have been a proper launch party without you. I’m so glad you came, and you kept it a surprise. You are totally rad, Meg.’ Juno lightly punched Meg’s shoulder.

Meg nodded, feeling far from rad, assuming that was a good thing.

Christmas carols were being piped via the speakers and a small Christmas tree sat in a red china pot on the counter top. In lieu of baubles and tinsel, stars and angels fashioned from baked golden salt dough hung from each branch; they were covered in thick royal icing and edible glitter and threaded with red and white gingham ribbon. They were perfect.

Scanning the bistro tables, which were crammed with people, Meg tried to keep smiling, fighting the temptation to sob loudly. There were some faces she recognised, including those of Elene and Salvatore. They were busy gorging themselves on tiny crème-filled caramelised choux buns from the impressive St Honoré gateau on the table in front of them. The St Honoré was a Plum Patisserie staple, filled with vanilla-bean cream and topped with Chantilly and they were clearly enjoying it. Meg smiled. Elene’s badgering had obviously paid off.

On the wide wooden counter sat millefeuille stacks: three layers of pastry, crème pâtissière and confiture de fraises topped with thick fondant icing and combed through with threads of chocolate. Dainty pyramids of macaroons in flavours that ranged from pistachio to rose were arranged in a rainbow of colours. Mini tartes au citron were interspersed with tiny glazed lemon frangipane tarts. Eclairs oozing fresh cream and topped with glossy blankets of shiny chocolate jostled for space alongside tiny sugar-dusted beignets that were garnished with sugar-paste sprigs of green holly and red berries.

The patisserie looked and smelt fantastic and the assembled New Yorkers beamed as they let the delicacies melt on their tongues, washing everything down with fragrant teas, chocolat chaud and chilled champagne. Everyone clearly loved the ambience and fare of this new kid on the block.

The blackboard on the back wall was written up in Juno’s neat script: ‘Join us at Plum Patisserie every morning from 7 to 9 a.m. to enjoy the Bleecker Street Breakfast – a flat white coffee, two giant fresh-baked golden croissants and pots of confiture d’abricots and organic honey for dipping. See you in the morning!’

‘I hope you don’t mind.’ Juno pointed at the board. ‘Nancy said it was Mr Redlitch’s favourite and he was so looking forward to popping in each morning for his breakfast. We thought it would be a nice thing to do.’

Meg nodded. ‘I think it’s a great thing to do.’ She widened her eyes and blinked away her tears.
Poor Mr Redlitch…

Juno gave her a small hug. ‘I know. It’s been an emotional journey getting to here.’

Meg smiled; she didn’t know the half of it.

‘Hey, here’s Victor!’ Juno released her grip and went to greet the building superintendent.

He had spruced up for the occasion and looked older somehow in his pale slacks, long-sleeved shirt and Christmas sweater. Meg noticed how he reached for his belt loops, searching for the keys and torch of his uniform, props that he didn’t have at hand to rely on, not today. Meg felt so weakened; it took super-human effort to raise her hand and wave at him from across the room. He beamed back, any misdemeanour on her part now clearly forgiven.

‘I just need to go and freshen up, put my slap on,’ Meg called after Juno, indicating the back offices and kitchens, below stairs, before rubbing her make-up-free eyes, still gritty with tears.

‘Yes, sure. You look beat, actually. This jet-set lifestyle must be taking it out of you,’ Juno called back over her shoulder, touching her hand to her own heart as if noticing for the first time her boss’s less than sparkling demeanour.

I am beat. Beaten.
‘Shan’t be a mo!’ Meg smiled with false bravado and picked up her bag, trying to make her way across the room without having to stop and chat. She could feel a sob building in her chest and didn’t want it coming out there on the café floor.

‘Meg! Hey, Meg! Over here, sweetie!’ Elene gestured wildly from her table.

Meg had no choice but to acknowledge her. She raised her hand and made her way over.

Elene beamed and with her crimson nails elegantly pulled the choux bun from her fingers and placed it on the table. This enabled her to lay her sticky, sugar-coated palm on Meg’s coat.

‘Honey, this is my friend Stella, the one I told you about.’ Elene gestured at the diminutive elderly lady beside her with grey set hair and a heavy palette of make-up smeared over her crêpey jowls.

‘Pleased to meetchoo.’ Stella nodded graciously to the side.

‘Yes, you too.’ Meg indicated the detritus of pastry, cream, crumbs and droplets of icing on the table in front of them. ‘How are the cakes?’

Elene clapped her hand on to the pussy bow of her leopard-print blouse. ‘Oh my word. They are the finest cakes I have ever tasted – ever! I said to Sali, I thought I could bake, but oh my, these are somethin’ else. Isn’t that right, Sali?’

‘Sure.’ He shrugged.

‘Ignore him.’ Elene pointed at her husband with her thumb as though he were deaf. ‘He can’t give a compliment in case his face cracks.’