Fairytale of New York (15 page)

We were entering forbidden territory and I felt my defences building, but something about Nate’s countenance prevented me from changing the subject. An inexplicable calm overcame me and the weirdest thing happened: I found myself wanting to trust this relative stranger. And that
never
happens. My words faltered as I ventured out onto uncertain terrain. ‘Well…I don’t know, really…I thought I did once, but…’

‘Go on.’ His voice was gentle and low—almost a whisper. I wasn’t sure I should continue. I mean, I didn’t really know him. But something about the softness of his expression made me continue.

‘But I was wrong. And it won’t happen again.’

Surprised by this, he sat back, looking perplexed. ‘That sounds incredibly final, Rosie. I figured you as the ultimate romantic.’

‘I work with flowers. It’s an occupational hazard,’ I smiled, the old vulnerabilities beginning to show as I found myself hiding behind humour to avoid honesty. ‘I see romance every day. For other people. And it’s great—for them. I’m more than happy to watch other people’s dreams come true, because…’

‘It’s safer?’ Nate finished, with perception that was far too sharp for comfort.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to remain In Control.

‘That’s a great shame,’ he remarked quietly. ‘So…the officially designated subject of Me and My Love Life it is then. I guess you read about my engagement?’

His honesty startled me. ‘Celia told me. I don’t usually read the gossip columns, of course. Congratulations, then. I suppose that answers the question of what your story is.’

Nate looked away. ‘It isn’t true, Rosie. That is to say, it
shouldn’t
be true. I still can’t figure out how I ended up engaged. See, I never expect things to go well but they have a habit of happening to me anyway.’ His eyes returned to me. ‘Know what I mean?’

I had to smile. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. I expect the best—always—and it never seems to happen for me. Maybe we should swap lives for a bit and then we’d both be happy.’

A huge grin lit Nate’s features. ‘I like you, Rosie. Can we be friends?’

Taken aback, I laughed. ‘We are friends.’

Nate shook his head and waved his hand. ‘No, you don’t understand. I mean I’d like to get to know you—well. Look, Rosie, here’s the deal. It’s obvious I need some of your romantic optimism in order to enjoy my love life and…well…I guess you could use a healthy dose of pessimism to keep your heart safe. I’ll order flowers if you’ll listen to my muddle of thoughts and we’ll ask Old Faithful to provide the coffee. OK?’

It was the most improbable and idiotic suggestion I think I’ve ever heard in my life so far. But I liked it.

‘OK, Mr Amie, you have a deal.’

‘So, what did Nate say about Caitlin?’ Celia was in grave danger of bouncing off her seat with anticipation.

‘Nothing,’ I replied truthfully, knowing this would never satisfy the active volcano sitting opposite me at the large maple table in her apartment. True to expectations, the Saturday tranquillity of the apartment was shattered as Mount Celia erupted.

‘He
can’t
just say
nothing
!’ she spluttered. ‘He must have said more?’ I shook my head and braced myself for her reaction. ‘Nate Amie is
so
infuriating! How can he
not know
whether he’s engaged or not? What is he thinking? He can’t possibly
be in love with Caitlin Sutton! Doesn’t he know she can never make him happy?’

I reached into the M&H Bakers bag and pulled out another of Luigi’s near-legendary double-choc-chip cookies. ‘I don’t think he expects her to make him happy,’ I said, taking a bite and thinking back to the conversation yesterday. ‘I think that’s the point: he doesn’t ever expect good stuff to happen. But it just
does
for him. So maybe he thinks he’ll be pleasantly surprised after all.’

Celia scratched her head. ‘Seneca,’ she pronounced solemnly.

‘Who?’

My nutty friend shook her head in pity at her ignoramus English companion. ‘Do you know nothing about Classics with all your generic history? Seneca was a Roman philosopher who actively practised pessimism, so nothing ever came as a surprise to him when bad things happened. His theory was that, this way, good things would always be a fortuitous occurrence because they were never expected. A classical genius he may’ve been, but that man has a
lot
to answer for.’

‘Celia, being your friend is a constant education. I am in awe.’

She shot me a look and jumped up as another thought sent her hurtling onto a new topic. ‘Well, you won’t have seen this yet, but
here we are.
’ She produced a crisp copy of the
New York Times,
quickly flicked through till she found the article and read out the headline triumphantly. ‘“A Real English Rose Thrives in the Heart of Manhattan”—how about that?’

The photo was good, even though I’m decidedly unphotogenic, and Josh’s article was excellent. It focused on Kowalski’s more than me, which was a relief, and enthused about the wonderful atmosphere in the shop.

‘An atmosphere that a certain confused, Seneca-revering
publisher seems to find particularly welcoming,’ Celia remarked, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. ‘So he’ll be making regular visits then?’

I smiled. ‘That’s what he said.’

‘And you don’t mind?’

I shrugged. ‘Not at all. It’s fine by me.’

Celia took a bite of cookie and nonchalantly returned to the paper. ‘Oh
good
…’

Nate’s visits were most definitely regular—increasingly so as autumn took Manhattan in its colourful hold. He began to visit my shop most weeks—usually on a Thursday afternoon when he could sneak out of his office—and our friendship seemed to grow with each new conversation. I couldn’t help it: I liked him, from the easy way he seemed to breeze through life, to his delight at meeting some of my customers, and the utter regard he had for my profession. He liked nothing better than watching me and my team at work, mug of Old F’s finest decaf in hand, and I found myself looking forward to his visits as the days and weeks passed. This was the start of what promised to be a beautiful friendship: the optimist and the (admittedly happy) pessimist, drinking coffee and surrounded by flowers on the corner of West 68th and Columbus.

Just after lunchtime one Thursday in the middle of October, the small silver bell above Kowalski’s front door heralded the unexpected arrival of Nate. After nearly two months of his visits, I was becoming more accustomed to his arrival, its effect on my pulse rate marginally less devastating than it had been in the beginning.

‘This is a surprise,’ I said, wrapping paper around an enormous bunch of assorted blooms and foliage for Mrs Katzinger,
who arranges the flowers in the local Episcopalian church, two blocks south of Kowalski’s. ‘I thought the world of publishing waits for no one?’

‘It doesn’t,’ Nate grinned, his cocoa-brown eyes sparkling like a cheeky schoolboy’s, ‘that’s why you have to have escape routes planned. Today, just so you know, you are a retired history professor I’m trying to sign up. You have a fascinating manuscript on late eighteenth-century industrialists that I’d love to get my hands on.’

I ignored his
double entendre
and attempted to maintain my jovial air. This was not lost on Mrs Katzinger, however, who raised an eyebrow with the merest hint of sly humour.

‘Well, Mr High-Powered Publisher, I’ll do my best to decline your generous offer,’ I smiled back at him, our banter sending a shiver of joy right down my spine. ‘After all, a professor of my calibre can’t be
bought,
you know. But I’m glad you could pencil me into your schedule. Right, is that everything, Mrs Katzinger?’

‘I think so,’ she replied, her face reddening as a million and one things raced through her mind. Mrs Katzinger is one of those people who are always busy, always flustered and always on the way to several other places at the same time. Marnie reckons she probably even finds sleeping an exhausting pursuit. To that end, she is pure New York—something I wasn’t quite prepared for when I first arrived here. Whereas in England people are just busy, in New York they are
manic.
Even getting a take-away coffee is a time-consuming activity in their crazy day. Ed jokes that even the homeless guys in the church-run shelter near his apartment have packed-out schedules: he once helped out at the soup kitchen there (when he was trying to date a girl from the congregation) and he said everyone in the line was complaining about how much precious time they were wasting standing there.

Mrs Katzinger handed me her money, shaking her head. ‘Thank you for this, Rosie. You have no idea how busy I am, what with the church flowers and the coffee morning next Thursday. You would not
believe
how long it’s taking me to find a good deal on cupcakes.’

‘Have you tried M&H on 88th?’ I suggested.

Mrs Katzinger’s face lit up. ‘You know, I haven’t. That’s another stop on my journey then!’ She scooped the bundle of flowers into her matronly arms and bustled out of the door, the silver bell jangling a noisy farewell as she hurried away.

‘You are a
fountain
of knowledge,’ Nate observed. ‘Much more than your average florist, eh?’

‘Absolutely. It’s all part of the service Kowalski’s offers to the neighbourhood. Therapist, City guide, advisor, life coach—and sanctuary for escaped editors, of course,’ I grinned.

Nate’s eyes flashed. ‘And an irresistible one at that.’

Blushing, I decided an urgent change of subject was in order. ‘Coffee?’

‘Love one, thanks.’ His gaze remained disconcertingly fixed on me as I powered up Old F, who provided the necessary afternoon decaf after a little gentle coaxing. Then we sat down on the sofa.

‘I was talking about the store being irresistible, by the way, not me,’ he said, and instantly I felt stupid for thinking he meant
I
was irresistible. As he spread his tailored jacket over the arm of the sofa and stretched out his long legs, I found myself admiring again his effortless style. Moss-green V-neck sweater and pristine white T-shirt underneath, smart yet casual nut-brown trousers and polished expensive brogues—Nate was every inch the man about town. ‘I love this place, Rosie. I feel like I can relax here, you know? Be “me”—whoever that is.’

‘Glad to be of service to you—well, my shop is, at least.’

Nate shook his head. ‘It isn’t just the store. It’s
you.
Let’s face it: Kowalski’s is you. But I’d like to hazard a guess that if I met you anywhere else, it would still feel like I didn’t have to pretend with you. My life—’ he broke off, as if unsure of how to phrase the sentence. ‘Uh…so much of what people see when they look at me is what other people have prescribed, you know?’

I didn’t. ‘Not really, sorry.’

‘At Gray & Connelle I’m the boy-wonder: the editor who signed three
New York Times
Bestsellers during his first month at the company and quickly rose to the top. To my parents I’m the blue-eyed boy—difficult, I know, as my irises don’t quite fit the bill—but I’m incapable of doing wrong, as far as they’re concerned. To Caitlin, I’m—well, I don’t exactly know what I am to her, apart from a constant source of disappointment and frustration, it would seem. And as for Mimi—it’s like she’s already storyboarded my existence for her reallife family blockbuster. The only person who accepts me for who I am—who asks nothing more of me other than that I just show up for coffee once in awhile—is
you.
Don’t give me that look, Rosie; I mean it. Ever since I started coming here, things have been falling into place, you know? I’ve had so much all my life; I’ve never wanted for anything. But it’s all been just—
stuff.
You see the real Nate, I think; perhaps more than any other living soul. And I want to discover who
he
is. I like the version of me that I see in your eyes. That’s why I had to see you today.’

I was flattered by what he said, but still I struggled with the picture Nate painted of me. I’m
not
wise: in many ways events of my life have attested to this fact. I guess I’m just interested in people, in their stories and personalities.

It never ceases to amaze me the number of stories I hear in my day-to-day dealings with the good people of my neighbourhood. There are at least a hundred different people I could tell you about who visit my shop, from occasional customers to people we see week in, week out. Some of them, like Mrs Katzinger and Mrs Schuster, were Kowalski’s customers long before I was here. Like Gloria O’Keefe, for instance, who told me her grandmother bought flowers from Kowalski’s right from when she was a little girl, and Mrs O’Keefe is now a grandmother herself, buying flowers for her own grand-daughter’s birthday. But there are also a lot of people who have appeared since I took over the business.

Take Billy Whitman, for example. He started coming to my shop at the end of last year. He is hopelessly in love with the girl whose desk is across the office floor from his. The highlight of his day is when she crosses the office to the water-cooler by his desk because she always smiles at him. That daily smile has become the reason he can’t wait to get to work in the morning and, even though this is the only contact he has with her each day, it is enough to have completely stolen his heart. Billy sends roses from Kowalski’s every first Monday of the month to the girl across the office—always red and always a dozen, with a card that says, ‘From your office admirer’. To date, he hasn’t yet had the courage to add his name to the card, even though Ed, Marnie and I have all urged him to do so. Consequently, Miss Emily Kelly thinks the roses are from one of the managers and is slowly dating her way through middle management in a bid to discover the sender of her monthly bouquet, while Billy contents himself with the daily smile and tries to muster the nerve to reveal his secret identity to her.

It’s stories like these that make my job so enjoyable: tiny
snapshots of other people’s lives that catch my interest, like driving down a street at night and peeking into lit windows.

But not all the glimpses are good ones. For every hopeful, fascinating story, there are darker, sadder ones. Like the man who came into the store not so long ago. He caused such consternation that the mere mention of ‘BlackBerry Guy’—as he has become known—is enough to send Ed and Marnie into animated diatribes about how ungrateful some people are.

It had been raining solidly for a whole week and business had been sporadic, to say the least, with only the bravest of customers daring to brave the New York pelt. By Friday afternoon it was so quiet that I made the decision to close early and we were just starting to shut up shop when BlackBerry Guy came in. Dressed impeccably in a smartly cut dark suit and trench coat, he was engrossed in a call on said BlackBerry and didn’t even acknowledge Ed, who had walked across to greet him. It took Ed physically standing four inches from BlackBerry Guy’s face for him finally to register his existence.

The first thing that annoyed Ed was that BlackBerry Guy didn’t end the call. He merely mumbled, ‘Hold on, would ya? I just gotta sort something,’ into the device and put his hand over it. ‘Flowers, yeah?’

I could see Ed swallowing the comment he would have liked to have made before he politely asked, ‘Any particular type?’

BlackBerry Guy cast a cursory glance at the impressive selection of blooms in our galvanised buckets. ‘Whatever,’ he said with a disinterested swipe of his hand. ‘Just make them expensive, yeah? Money’s not an object here, OK?’ Before Ed could speak again, BlackBerry Guy had returned to his call. ‘Murray, you still there? Yeah, just getting a peace offering for Susie, making sure she doesn’t sue my ass for every nickel. What? Oh yeah, she found out about that bit of skirt I picked up in
Philadelphia. Threatening to divorce me.
Again.
What? Damage limitation, yeah.’ His laugh was dirty and disgusting—and the
second
thing that annoyed Ed, who cleared his throat loudly and waved at BlackBerry Guy to wrench his attention from the blasted device. ‘Oh wait, the shop guy’s bugging me,’ he said to the caller, placing his hand over the receiver once more and glaring at Ed. ‘What?’

Ed smiled with gritted teeth. ‘Sorry to bother you,
sir,
but I need to know what kind of arrangement you require and if you need it to take now or wish for us to deliver it?’

BlackBerry Guy let out an irritated sigh and resumed his call. ‘Yeah, Murray? I gotta go. Seems you gotta endure the third degree to get a damn bunch of flowers round here. Ha, I know! Later.’ He had ended the call and raised both hands. ‘Good for you?’

‘Much better,
thanks,’
Ed replied, the sarcasm in his tone evident to everyone else except the man stood before him.

By the time BlackBerry Guy had finally left Kowalski’s—after having answered three further calls and sent numerous emails—
everyone
was wound up. For a man who had betrayed his wife, he’d showed little remorse—in fact, he’d only stopped joking about it when he saw the disgusted looks on our faces. He’d spent over a hundred dollars on an apology that was more about saving him from an expensive divorce than it was about saying sorry. It’s sad, but it’s life, and just another part of the rich mosaic of individual stories that make this city what it is.

‘Do you ever wonder if you could end up like BlackBerry Guy?’ Ed asked one Sunday morning, as we sat on burgundy-red cushions in the window seat of Caffe Marco on Lafayette Street in NoLita, eating
bomboloni
—tiny Italian breakfast doughnuts
filled with chocolate, custard and jam (a particular favourite of Ed’s). We come here quite a lot on our weekend expeditions. Ed is fascinated by the décor in the café: it’s typically over the top, from the huge crystal chandeliers and ornately carved white-painted wooden chairs to the neat, regimented lines of pastries standing to attention in glass and steel display cabinets beneath the polished white marble service counter. The coffee’s pretty good too—rich and dark with the kind of kick that can wake up even reluctant-riser Ed on a Sunday morning.

‘I don’t think either of us could be so callous,’ I replied, taking a sip of smoky espresso and enjoying the instant buzz.

‘Nevertheless, I worry about it sometimes, you know? That I’ll one day get so wrapped up in my own life that I’ll stop thinking about other people. I guess it’s something you don’t notice about yourself until it’s too late.’

‘You want to watch that Caffe Marco espresso,’ I smiled. ‘It looks like it could be melting you, Mr Iceberg.’

‘Mock all you want, Rosie, but any one of our customers could be us one day. What was it Mr K used to say? “Everyone’s story is one step away from yours.”’ He shuddered. ‘Remind me never to buy a BlackBerry, OK?’

‘I really don’t think the device determined the man there, Ed.’

‘I know, but when you see everyone else’s lives, the comparison with your own is inevitable, don’t you think?’ He popped another doughnut into his mouth and I could almost see his brain whirring as he munched away. ‘I mean, look at Billy Whitman: I bet he never thought that one day he would fall so hopelessly in love with somebody that he’d end up spending hundreds of dollars because he didn’t have the nerve to tell her his feelings.’

There are many things I’m
not
certain of in my life, but I can honestly say that Billy Whitman’s situation was one I was pretty convinced wasn’t likely to happen to me. ‘Billy will tell Emily how he feels one day,’ I said with conviction. ‘These things just take time. And no, I don’t worry that will happen to me.’

A strange look passed across the ice-blue Steinmann stare. ‘Still, it’s a scary thought, huh?’