One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) (13 page)

H
ayley looked
at herself in the gold-edged full-length bedroom mirror. The navy blue wool knit dress would have been perfect for the North-Pole-like climate outside but would have baked her under the nightclub strobes. So she’d hacked off the long sleeves. With the arms gone, she’d tidied up the cuts until it hung from her like it was always meant to be that way. One of Angel’s bright white flower hair clips was now positioned on the front as an appliqué and her hair had been tamed as far as it could without the aid of a professional stylist. The reflection declared her almost Rachel Rileyesque and that would have to be enough.

She reached down to the bed to pick up a small silver sequinned clutch bag. Her mother had bought it for her when she was sixteen from a fancy shop you only dared step in for a treat. It was a rare occasion where the two of them had actually got along.

Hayley smoothed her hand over the magnetic clasp then pulled it open. There was just enough room for money, a key, a credit card or two, lipstick, powder and perfume and the only photo you possessed of the father of your child.

She drew out the photo she’d shown Carl at the gallery earlier, pressing the corners a little flatter. There she was, looking young, vibrant, her highlighted hair looking glossy and conditioned, her smile wide, joyous, like someone high on life or maybe someone just full of tequila.

And there, next to her in the photo, was Michel. Michel De Vos. A Belgian artist – or so he’d told her – hoping to make it big in the metropolis. She’d admired his chocolate-brown eyes as well as his accent and she’d listened intently as he talked about his plans for the future over a seemingly never-ending bottle of sparkling wine and a few vodkas thrown in for good measure. They’d danced and they’d sung loudly and completely out of tune and then he’d asked about her.

Hayley sighed and sat down on the bed. Running her fingers over Michel’s dark hair in the picture, she remembered everything they’d spoken about that night like it was a favourite DVD she’d watched time and again. She’d told him all her secrets. Her ambition to be a fashion designer. How she wanted to finish college, get some work experience with a fashion house in London, work on other people’s designs until she got a chance to deliver her own.

And he’d listened, looking at her like she held the world in her palm. He’d called her an artist too, said she was going to be making clothes for Hillary Clinton before she knew it. She’d laughed and said she was hoping for someone more like J.Lo.

Fashion designer.
It was almost laughable now. She’d got herself pregnant, listened to her mother’s disappointed
I told you so’s
and got a job at a factory that made Wellington boots.

Was Michel still an artist? Did he get to pursue
his
dreams? She wasn’t sure she really wanted to find out. If he had, she would be jealous. If he hadn’t, she would be disappointed. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Angel.

She slipped the photo back into her clutch bag and fastened it up.

‘Any second now and they’re going to be back over here,’ Tony said, his eyes fixed on the group of women moving to a David Guetta song.

Oliver leaned on the dark wood and surveyed the dance floor from their vantage point. The beer was slipping down well and at last he felt himself start to loosen up. This was good.

‘So, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony asked, his mouth at Oliver’s ear.

‘What?’

‘I said, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony repeated twice as loud.

‘I heard what you said I just didn’t know what you meant.’

‘Well, is it gonna be the double dating thing or the singular attack?’

‘Safety in numbers,’ Oliver answered.

‘Yeah but you usually end up with both of them.’

He shook his head. ‘That happened
once
.’

‘And I’m not letting it happen again.’ Tony loosened the top button of his shirt then ran a hand through his thick black hair. ‘See ya!’ He waved a hand and strode onto the dance floor, his head bobbing and bouncing like an excited emu.

Oliver laughed, watching his friend sidling up to the object of his affection.

‘I know who you are.’

The blonde-haired woman he’d paid attention to earlier was suddenly at his side, the heat from her body unavoidable.

He straightened up. ‘You do, do you?’

She nodded. ‘Uh-huh. You’re Oliver Drummond. I’ve seen your photo in the
New York Times
.’

‘And where have I seen you before? A billboard maybe?’ he flirted, putting his beer bottle on the shelf in front of him.

‘That’s cute,’ she responded. ‘So, are you here on your own?’

He looked over one shoulder and then the other, then turned back to smile at her. ‘Theoretically I guess I am now.’ He widened his smile. ‘But with a capacity crowd I’m sensing potential.’

‘Want some closer company?’

‘You haven’t even told me your name,’ he responded.

‘Buy me a drink and I might let you in on that.’ She smiled with confidence and he nodded, returning the sentiment. She was good. She was practised and a player. She could get his day back on track. And his night.

‘What would you like?’ he asked her.

J
ust walking
through the front doors of Vipers brought so many memories flooding back.

Hayley stepped into the main room of the club and the music enveloped her. A heavy bassline kicked in, a track she recognised, and suddenly she was transported back ten years.

Her very first New York nightclub. She’d felt so grown-up in her neon pink mini-dress with her glossy hair and dollars destined to be spent on enjoying herself. Dean had pulled her onto the dance floor to something by Whitney Houston. She’d swirled and twirled and got tipsy on vodka within the hour. Her relationship with alcohol had been the most longstanding one she’d had. Some things didn’t change. Even this place hadn’t changed much. The dark woodwork she remembered, the mirrored tiles she didn’t and the walls without mirrors were now painted a sultry plum. It looked like a classy boudoir, with just a dash of decorations to let patrons know that Christmas was coming.

She paused where she stood, taking in the fashions, seeing what the nightclub-goers of 2015 wore. There were hot pants and tight jeans, little dresses with sequins and sparkle. The men wore smart jeans or suit trousers, more shirts than T-shirts – Vipers had got a little more upmarket. Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 45: Anything goes in the fashion stakes. And that was one of the things she loved about the city most. The non-conformity, the ability to express yourself, be different and unashamed.
Freedom
. Maybe she was thinking too hard with her ideas book. Perhaps she just needed to relax into it a little more.

Michel had certainly been relaxed the night they’d met. She remembered exactly what he’d been wearing that night. Faded denim jeans, the hem fraying over his retro Converse. His T-shirt had fitted him perfectly and he’d known it. And it had borne a slogan. She’d had a definite thing for slogan T-shirts back then. It had stated simply,
I Shoot People
, and then had a sketch of a camera below. It had appealed to her childish sense of humour. And if she was honest she would still find it funny.

Hayley headed for the bar, almost able to taste the cranberry vodka. It was busy and she joined the throng of individuals waiting for one of the bar staff to give them attention. Dying of thirst was a possibility, judging by the disgruntled groans every time a server took an order from someone who had skipped the line.

Hayley raised a ten dollar bill in the air, waving it in the direction of a passing barman.

‘I find a hundred dollar bill works better.’

She spun round, looking at the owner of the voice. Oliver Drummond.
Clark
. Dressed in dark grey trousers, a pristine white shirt open at the neck, those eyes still the colour of cased pistachios. His musky cologne drifted up her nose as her gaze refused to move from him.

‘Hello, Lois,’ he greeted.

She forced a smile. So he recognised her now, did he? ‘Why, Superman, I did think about calling, but wasn’t sure the need for a vodka cranberry was dire enough to require your services.’

‘I think it depends just how desperate the drinker is for it.’

‘She had a couple of glasses of Italian wine she couldn’t pronounce the name of an hour ago.’

‘I’m surprised you didn’t call 911.’ Oliver raised his hand and the barman immediately stopped right in front of them, waiting for orders.

‘A bottle of Bud, a white wine soda and a vodka cranberry,’ he ordered.

‘Whoa, stop. No white wine chaser for me,’ Hayley said quickly.

He smiled. ‘It isn’t for you.’

‘Ah, already replaced the woman from last night.’ She smiled wider. ‘Are you going to get to the end of the date with this one?’

He didn’t respond to the question. ‘Thank you for returning my jacket.’

‘Oh, it was nothing.’ She paused, raising her voice a little louder over the music. ‘Actually, it wasn’t nothing. I’m pretty sure your receptionist thought I was a conquest bringing in your love child.’

H
e wasn’t
sure whether to smile or grimace and he was pretty sure the look he’d ended up with didn’t make the most of his features.

He watched Hayley’s mouth open like a cartoon character. ‘Wow, you mean that’s actually happened.’

He nodded, handing the barman the money for the drinks. ‘A couple of times.’

‘Whoa.’

‘And I hasten to add that none of the children were mine.’ He smiled then and passed her a tall glass filled with red liquid.

‘Good to know,’ Hayley said, nodding.

‘So, you’re meeting someone here?’

She shook her head. ‘No … just checking out an old haunt.’

‘You’ve been here before,’ he stated the obvious.

‘Years ago.’

He watched her eyes drift to the glass of white wine he was holding. Shit, he’d forgotten all about the blonde.

‘I’d better let you go and give that to your date,’ Hayley said, as if mind reading was her speciality.

‘It isn’t a date,’ he answered quickly. He wet his lips.

‘Is that how you justify it when you bail out early?’

‘That was a one-off.’

‘Business then?’ She lowered her voice, inching her head closer into his personal space. ‘Something about the Globe?’

He reeled back then, shocked by her words. What did she know about something so confidential?

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he answered swiftly.

She knew about his business. Their encounter at the Chinese restaurant hadn’t been coincidental and neither was this. His hackles were raised now, suspicion rife. Was she competitor or press?

‘Sorry, it’s none of my business,’ she spoke fast. ‘It’s just putting my brother in charge of the project practically made his year.’

His face wrinkled in confusion until everything sunk in. That’s where he had seen Dean Walker before, at the Chinese restaurant, with Lois and the chattering nine-year-old child. Relief flooded his insides and he watched Hayley’s eyes widen.

‘Ha! You thought I was from Apple, didn’t you? Luring you into buying me drinks so I could get the inside scoop on the next big thing.’

He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

She laughed. ‘You went as white as if I was carrying Kryptonite in this handbag.’

He tried to recover. ‘How do I know you’re not?’

She raised her hands. ‘I come in peace. No substances poisonous to superheroes and no Mob connections, I promise.’

He really wanted to get rid of the white wine. He looked to the blonde across the dance floor. There really was no competition. This English girl was fun and feisty. He liked the idea of a challenge.

He cleared his throat. ‘Just stay right there and give me one second.’

W
hat was she doing
? She was watching her brother’s billionaire boss, one of the world’s most eligible bachelors, give someone the brush off … again … for her. Her heart was thumping hard. Was she completely out of her mind? She had learned her lesson about starting a relationship in this nightclub ten years ago. It was not somewhere to begin anything. It was jinxed. And she was not in the market for anything. Not drinks with completely unsuitable men. No matter how hot they were. And he
was
hot. Every inch she could see … and probably all the inches she couldn’t see but could imagine. This was craziness.

She moved then, quickly, heading across the floor towards a tall, shaven-haired man in his forties wearing a white shirt, his body the width of a Sherman tank. He was chewing gum and had an earpiece in. A doorman might remember Michel. He could have been working here ten years ago. She slipped the photograph out of her clutch bag.

‘Excuse me,’ she shouted above the music.

He leant forward, lining up the ear without the earpiece to her mouth.

‘I was wondering if you might have seen this man.’ She offered out the photograph. ‘He used to come in here, a lot I think, and … I’m looking for him.’

The doorman took hold of the photo and squinted his eyes at the picture.

‘You his wife?’ he asked.

‘No … of course not,’ Hayley responded, guilt coating her tone anyway.

He handed the photo back. ‘I’m not sure. I see a lot of people, sweetcheeks.’

‘I realise that.’ She sighed. ‘It’s just … really important I get in touch with him so ...’ She pushed the photo back into his line of sight. ‘If you could have another look.’

The doorman glanced back towards the photo and shook his head. ‘He’s not familiar to me, sorry. You should ask Artie, on the bar.’ He sniffed. ‘But he’s not on tonight.’

Hayley tightened her grip on the glass she was holding and forced a smile onto her lips. ‘Thank you.’

She turned away and saw Oliver heading back towards her. He had to negotiate several groups of people. If she moved now she could be out of the door in seconds. She could disappear into the night like he had from the alleyway at the back of Asian Dawn. But that wasn’t in her nature. Besides, she was starting to think there was a bit more to Oliver Drummond. An ogre-like control freak wouldn’t have just given her brother the head role in the launch of their new lead product.

And why shouldn’t she enjoy herself for an hour or so? If a billionaire wanted to buy her drinks who was she to stop him?

He neared, navigating the groups of people quickly. She would have one drink. And then she would move on to showing the bartenders the photo of Michel.

He was smiling as he approached and she felt its warmth settle on her. He spread out his hand, indicating the tables to their left in the quieter area of the club.

‘Shall we?’ he asked.

‘Lead the way, Clark.’

‘
S
o
, billionaire businessman, how does that happen?’

He smiled, watching her take a long sip of her drink, all bright eyes and enthusiasm.

‘Haven’t you seen
Fifty Shades of Grey
?’ he answered.

She looked up then, a blush on her cheeks as her eyes met his. ‘I’m not sure explaining Christian Grey’s
business
position was the aim of that movie or the books.’

He leaned forward in his chair, holding her gaze. ‘What do you want to know?’

He watched her swallow, wet her lips.

‘Whether any of the rooms in your house are red now.’

He laughed, pure, deep and unfettered. His stomach contracted with the motion, unaccustomed to it. He adopted a more serious look before responding. ‘And if they are?’

‘Each to their own, but it’s not for me. I went to an Ann Summers party once and got a little jittery when they said some of the items were refurbished.’

He smiled. Honesty. No game-playing. This was refreshing.

He took a swig of his beer. ‘I inherited the company from my father.’

‘Old money. So, I guess that makes you a duke?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, but that would be kind of cool.’

‘And different from the whole Superman dress up. Do you really do that by the way?’

He grinned, lacing his hands around his beer bottle. ‘Only on weekends.’

‘In the red room.’

‘And I thought that was going to stay my secret.’

It was her turn to laugh then and he delighted in the way she gave into it, her cheeks rising up, her eyes narrowing in pleasure. Suddenly his libido was on high alert. He fingered the paper label on the bottle, picking at a strip.

‘Unfortunately the day job gets in the way of the saving the city full time.’ He smiled. ‘Without the aid of tight costumes my father helped to revolutionise the computer industry in the 1980s. I spent a lot of my childhood watching him solder motherboards together.’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

‘Back then I would rather have spent my time watching NFL.’

‘And now?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, pretty much still feel that way for the most part.’

‘So you’re not all work, work, work, then?’

Now the unease rolled into his shoulders as he thought about the job he did. The billions of pounds he played with, the employees he was responsible for. It was a burden. He didn’t love it like his father. He wasn’t exceptional like his brother. He was doing his best but he was hanging everything on the Globe. Failure wasn’t an option. He had to make that work or he didn’t know what came next.

He smiled, regaining his composure, hopefully before she had even realised it had diminished. ‘All work and no play isn’t my style.’

‘If only your staff could hear you now.’

T
he vodka
and cranberry was doing strange things to her tongue. She liked to talk but she wasn’t usually this good at shooting herself in the foot every time words fell out of her mouth.

‘Was my name bandied around the dinner table along with the wine you couldn’t pronounce the name of?’

The tone of his voice had an edge to it and she quickly shook her head. ‘No, of course not. Dean isn’t like that.’ She hurried on. ‘He’s a hard worker and he’s the most intelligent person I know. And he’s very discreet. Completely discreet. Always has been.’ She hoped she had salvaged this.

‘Hopefully he won’t be discreet when he brings the Globe to market. I want more press than a red carpet event at the Oscars.’

‘And I wouldn’t mind one of the dresses.’

Her fingers went to the hair clip on the front of her dress then across to the cut-off shoulders she hadn’t had time to hem. She cleared her throat. ‘None of those in my luggage. Anything with Swarovski crystals would completely eat into the baggage allowance.’

He smiled, seemed to drop his eyes to Angel’s hair clip on her dress. It had looked funky in the mirror at Dean’s apartment, now it felt trashy. Not that she cared. Because she was completely disinterested in men. This man in particular. Who was rude and abandoned dates and was definitely not giving her any kind of hot flush whatsoever.

‘So, you’re just visiting?’ he asked.

‘I think so …’ She wet her lips. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she corrected. ‘I meant to say, yes.’

He looked quizzical then.

‘I’ve got a return ticket for just after New Year.’

His gaze was unsettling her now. She pulled at a petal on the hair clip. ‘School starts back in January.’ She swallowed. ‘You know I have a daughter. The one your PA probably told you went on and on about you being an eligible bachelor.’

She really needed to stop talking now.

‘And she was getting very talkative about the lobsters at the restaurant the other night,’ he said.

Hayley looked up, a smile on her face. ‘You heard that?’

‘To be honest it was pretty hard not to,’ he said with a wry smile

‘Yeah, she’s loud and opinionated and too clever for her own good.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Angel,’ Hayley said.

‘It’s pretty.’

‘I think she would rather be named after someone from history now she’s nine. Every day I wait for the forms to change her name to Boudicca.’

Oliver laughed hard and her insides took note. He had a nice laugh, it wasn’t false or pretentious, it was warm and genuine. She had trouble believing this man was the mean tyrant who ruled with a rod of iron. Not that you could tell anything from a laugh. She clamped her lips to her glass.

‘So, talking of names …’ he started.

‘Yes, Clark.’

‘I can’t carry on calling you Lois.’

‘Why not? Don’t you like an air of mystery?’

‘You know
my
name.’

‘Not all of it.’

He sat back in his chair and looked confused. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know your middle name.’ She sucked at her drink. ‘If you’re almost a duke you have to have at least one middle name. I think it’s royal law or something.’

O
liver shook
his head vehemently but he was enjoying every second of this repartee. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d engaged in anything like it. Most of the time, when he was looking for some female distraction, it involved small talk he needed to put no effort into.
Say they look nice. Ask about their job. Flatter them.
Here, with Lois, he was fully in the moment, not because he needed to prove he could be, simply because he
wanted
to be. A ripple ran through him. That thought scared the shit out of him.

He moved, leaning his elbows on the table, shifting forward in his seat and looking directly at Hayley.

‘OK, so are we doing a deal here? Because I’m quite the negotiator.’

‘You must want to know my name really badly.’

‘Maybe I do.’ Did he? They’d only had two conversations.

‘You first,’ she said as the music lowered and a softer track began to filter.

‘Which one d’you want?’

Her mouth formed a small ‘o’ and he couldn’t help his lips, moving upwards in a grin at her reaction.

She licked her lips, rolling the straw in her drink between her thumb and forefinger. ‘I think I’m going to have to have both. Don’t tell me there are more than two.’

‘Just two.’

‘Phew.’

‘But if you want them both you’re going to have to give me your first name
and
something else.’

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Just because I don’t have two middle names? What sort of negotiation is that?’

‘The only one I’m willing to agree to.’

‘And …’ She paused to suck a little harder on her drink. ‘What’s this other thing you want?’

He had said the words so many times. Maybe too many times. Yet, somehow this time, he really wanted to know. He stripped another piece of label from the beer bottle, his eyes not leaving hers. He took a breath. ‘If you could make one wish, what would it be?’

‘Is one of your middle names “genie”?’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘Me too.’

‘Neither of my middle names until you answer.’

T
he way
he was looking at her was making her insides squirm like she had a belly full of snakes. Was he for real? Her hands straight away went to her silver clutch bag, settling over the clasp. She could tell him she wanted a dress like Lady Gaga’s or even to
make
a dress for Lady Gaga, that would be giving him something real. But it wouldn’t be the truth. Because there was only one thing she wanted at the moment. And was she really about to share that with Dean’s boss?

Hayley took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let the words come out in a rush of breath.

‘My name’s Hayley and I wish to find the guy I had a one-night stand with ten years ago.’

She flicked open her eyes to gauge Oliver’s reaction. He was looking back at her, no emotion evident, his fingers toying with the paper he’d ripped from the bottle.

Her heart was hammering in her chest as he still made no move to respond. What was there to say now? She had turned flirtatious banter into Desperation Central.

He took a swig of beer from his bottle and placed it back down on the table. ‘Richard and Julian.’ He nodded. ‘Now we’re even.’