MIRANDA DICKINSON
Fairytale Of New York

Copyright

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2009

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2017

Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2009

Cover photographs © Shutterstock

Cover design © Charlotte Abrams-Simpson 2017

Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9781847561657

Ebook Edition © October 2010 ISBN: 9780007346325

Version: 2017-11-17

Dedication

For Linsey – because she wanted to know what happened next.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

This city is not mine by birthright: I was born over three thousand miles away in a sleepy town in the heart of England. But ever since the day I set foot on its sidewalks, I have felt caught up in the biggest, most welcoming embrace by every street, store and tree-lined avenue. I don’t know if a city can make a heart decision, but if it’s possible then New York chose to make me belong. And even though some of my most difficult and painful days have taken place here, somehow this city has always softened the blows—just like a good friend who sits you down with a cup of tea and tells you to be patient because things will turn out OK in the end. And you know they will. Eventually.

My friend Celia tells me that I’m a ‘Frustrating but Adorable Optimist in the Face of Overwhelming Evidence to the Contrary’. If you think this looks like a dramatic newspaper headline then you’d be on the right track: Celia writes a column for the New York Times and she’s lived here all her life. She was one of the first true friends I made in the city and she watches out for me like a slightly neurotic older sister. She won’t mind that description of her—come to think of it, that’s probably one of hers anyway.

Celia’s apartment is on the second floor in an elegant Upper West Side brownstone residence just off Riverside Drive on West 91st Street, and every Saturday morning we meet there to put the world to rights over coffee. Sitting at her maple table by the large picture window, I can see out to the street below. ‘Sit for long enough in New York and you’ll see everyone in the city walk by,’ Mr Kowalski always used to say. He was the original owner of my florist’s shop, before he retired to his beloved Warsaw with his daughter Lenka, where he lived until his death, just over five years ago. Mr Kowalski was another of the first true friends I made in my adopted country.

‘Rosie, you have no idea how blessed you are to have History in England,’ Celia declared one Saturday morning as she appeared from the kitchen with the coffee and a basket of warm muffins. As usual, we had entered a conversation a little way in from the start and continued as though we’d been there from the beginning. I couldn’t help but grin at her as she flopped down into the chair beside me.

‘Ah, history…’ I replied in a learned tone.

‘I mean, you Brits just don’t appreciate the awesome privilege of having kings and queens going back centuries. I can’t say that my ancestors were walking in New York in the tenth century. I can’t say that my family is born-and-bred American. I mean, heaven only knows where my family came from. I’m probably four-sixteenths Ukrainian with a touch of Outer Mongolian thrown in somewhere along the line.’

I was about to say that there is actually no such thing as a true English person either, and remark that my family probably came from Moravia or somewhere originally, but I could see this was a serious topic of concern for Celia. So I stayed quiet and poured the coffee instead.

‘Why are you so hung up about it, mate?’ I asked.

Celia’s troubled countenance softened and she reached for a muffin.

‘It’s my column for the Times next week. I’m thinking about the importance of history for humans to find their place in the world. The more I consider it, the more I realise it’s a nonstarter. Most of us don’t know our own history here—save for what we learn at school. We’re a hotchpotch of immigrants, convicts and dreamers, all clamouring for some damn utopia that doesn’t exist. We want to belong, yet we don’t know what we want to belong to.’

Somehow, I suspected those sentences would appear in her column soon. This is a regular phenomenon; in fact, I think our Saturday morning chats must be the best documented in history. If, in a thousand years’ time, historians want to know what things twenty-first-century friends were discussing, all they will have to do is to examine the archives of Celia’s column at the New York Times (which will, by then, be thought-transmitting to its readership, I suppose).

‘You are such a writer,’ I smiled. ‘Every word beautifully crafted…’

‘Honey, everything is copy. My father always said that.’ She picked up a teaspoon and frowned at her reflection. ‘And I am starting to look like my mother.’

I couldn’t help but smile at her. ‘You are not.’

It has to be said, Celia is a good-looking lady, immaculately turned out at all times and with one of those complexions that most women would walk over burning coals (or inject odd bits of animal into their skin) to achieve. To look at her, you could never guess her age; despite her strenuous denials of the fact, she can easily pass for an early thirtysomething, when in reality she’s nearer the middle of her forties than she would ever admit. She has a style that seems to exude from deep within her—a quality my mum would call ‘effortless’. Even that morning, when her only appointment was in her own apartment for coffee with me, her jeans and blue linen shirt looked a million times more elegant than they would have done on anyone else.

‘So, my Authors’ Meet next Tuesday night…’ she said, discarding the subject and brandishing the next with a warpspeed that would impress even Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise, ‘I thought Café Bijou in TriBeCa would be ideal. It’s new but worth a risk, so I’m told.’

‘Sounds promising,’ I said, watching sunlit steam rise as I broke open a warm muffin, letting the pieces fall onto my plate. ‘Who’s coming?’

‘Henrik Gund is a definite, and I’m awaiting replies from Mimi Sutton and Angelika Marshall, though of course I’m kinda confident they’ll find it hard to resist. In fact, most of New York’s finest will be there. It has the potential to be amazing…of course there are still a few worries to iron out…’ Celia paused, turned squarely to face me and smiled one of those immaculately painted, high-maintenance Jewish smiles of hers that, I have learned, always precede a Celia Reighton Big Favour.

Somewhere, way in the back of my brain, a familiar little voice began screaming, Don’t do it! Don’t do it…!

But it was too late. I had already conceded to the inevitability of surrender. With acting that would have had Spielberg armwrestling Scorsese for my services, I replied as if I hadn’t a notion of what was coming, ‘That’s wonderful, Celia. It sounds like everything is going to plan, then.’

‘Well…almost everything, Rosie,’ Celia replied slowly.

So, it starts, announced the irritated voice in my head. The smile was widening with every grovelling word Celia spoke. ‘It’s a little delicate, but I have to tell you…seeing as we’re such good friends…it’s just that I’ve been let down by Philippe—’ (for your information: incredibly pretentious and over-priced ‘Floral Artiste’)—‘you know how whim-driven these people can be—And I really need some stylish table pieces.’

‘Oh, that’s dreadful, mate,’ I sympathised, mirroring her agonised tone.

You are SO on your own… The little voice in my head let out an exasperated sigh, packed its suitcase and caught the first Greyhound for Vegas.

‘It is so dreadful you wouldn’t believe.’ Desperation was setting in. ‘Honey, you know I only use Philippe because my agent is seeing his brother. His creations often verge on the vulgar, in my opinion. Did I mention how I just adored what you did for Jessica Robards’ wedding last fall?’ Celia’s increasing grip on her coffee mug was threatening to crush it completely and her smile was fast becoming a cheery grimace.

It was time to put my friend out of her agony.

‘How many pieces do you need and what flowers did you have in mind?’

‘Oh, darling, would you?’ Celia flung her arms around me, lifting me several inches from my chair and letting out a squeal of delight.

‘Yes, OK, I give in! You can have my great expertise at extremely short notice and, no doubt, at a sizeable discount. Now, let me go before you kill me!’

I was duly released and she fell back into her chair, giggling like a delighted schoolgirl.

‘Ooh, you’re so wonderful, Rosie! I knew you wouldn’t let me down! Well, let’s see…I need ten—no, make it twelve—with gardenias—no, roses…Or maybe both? I’ll leave it to you to decide—after all, you’re the designer. But I’m picturing them hand-tied, of course, with plenty of that straw stuff.’

‘Raffia?’ I offered.

Celia didn’t hear. She was already in full artistic flow, gesturing flamboyantly with each new idea that she stumbled across. ‘Well, absolutely, honey, that too! And baskets—ooh, yes…little woven rustic ones like they have in England.’

‘Ah, you mean historical ones…’

Celia stopped abruptly and chastised me with a mock frown. ‘You see, that’s what I was saying, sweetie. You British have so much history that you can afford to throw it away in jest. Pity the poor American here…’

Once again, the conversation shifted, as New York hurried by on the street below.

Work began on Celia’s displays the following Monday. The order from Patrick’s Flower Warehouse was due at 7 a.m. so Marnie, my assistant and Ed, my co-designer, agreed to meet me at the store at 6.45 a.m., on the strict understanding that I would shout them breakfast in return for their loyal service. Once all the boxes were safely inside we locked the store, pulled down the shutters and walked across the street to claim our reward.

There is something ultimately satisifying about walking into a coffee house first thing in the morning. You are invited in by the cosy sofas; then, once over the threshold, wonderfully evocative scents of fresh coffee and warm pastries surround you and draw you in further. Even though the world outside scurries past, inside there is a feeling of unhurried indulgence—a chance to sit a while and enjoy the moment.

Or, in our case this morning, wake up and smell the coffee.

‘So, remind us again why we’re selflessly crucifying ourselves today?’ Ed yawned, his humour much sharper than the rest of his body at this hour.

‘It’s a favour. For Celia,’ I said.

Marnie groaned into her cappuccino.

‘Ah, Celia,’ said Ed, raising an eyebrow. ‘Now tell me, would this be the same Celia who got us making forty Christmas garlands for the Times party with only one week’s notice? Or the Celia who “simply had to have daffodils” in November?’

I pretended to hide behind my mug.

‘Or the Celia who booked our biggest rival for her Valentine Ball but “let us” provide all the gift roses because we were cheaper?’ Marnie added.

‘OK, OK, guilty as charged!’ I protested.

Ed and Marnie exchanged knowing glances, and then faced me with uniform seriousness.

‘See, I have this theory about the cause of the worrying symptoms our patient here is displaying,’ Ed began.

‘Why, Dr Steinmann, what could it be?’ asked Marnie with a squeaky Southern-belle accent she could only have picked up from watching too many episodes of Days of Our Lives.

Ed consulted his paper napkin with practised flair and turned to face her. ‘The problem here is very simple, Nurse Andersson. Our patient is a classic sufferer of Malaise Anglais.’

Marnie placed a hand to her heart. ‘Oh, Doctor, are you sure?’

‘What exactly are you trying to say?’ I giggled.

‘You’re way too British, Rosie,’ Ed declared with a smile. ‘You’re missing the gene that enables you to say No…’

‘…It won’t allow you to learn from each and every mistake,’ said Marnie, clearly enjoying this assault on my character, ‘and it unfortunately manifests itself in repeated attacks.’

‘Of course, it’s the friends of the sufferer that I feel sorry for,’ continued Ed, with merciless vigour. ‘Because, you see, they are the ones who ultimately face the hard work of providing support to the patient.’

‘But, it needs to be said, there can be benefits for them too,’ I said.

‘Such as?’ asked Ed, his blue eyes sparkling.

‘Such as, the privilege of enjoying breakfasts at the patient’s expense.’

Marnie smiled and Ed reached across to squeeze my hand.

‘Absolutely. And it is a privilege. We simply mock because we care, Rosie. When are you going to understand that some people are always out for themselves?’

I let out a sigh. We must have had this conversation a thousand times, but I’m never successful in getting Marnie and Ed to see the situation from my point of view. Undaunted, I began Attempt Number 1001.

‘I know it seems like Celia’s always taking advantage, but she really is a good friend. She’s been there for me every time I’ve needed her. I just want to repay her kindness, that’s all.’

Ed’s expression softened a little and he shook his head. ‘Rosie Duncan, we love you dearly. And if it makes you happy, we’ll gladly spend the many, many hours required in order for you to repay your friend.’

‘Well, thank you,’ I said, draining the last of my latte.

‘Seriously, though, you work too much, Rosie. You need to live a little too.’ Marnie’s voice was full of concern. An alarm bell began to jangle in the back of my mind: I knew where this was going. We were approaching forbidden territory. I braced myself and, sure enough: ‘You so need a man—’ she breathed. My heart sank and I immediately cut her off.

‘I don’t, thank you. So, the schedule for today—’

Marnie wasn’t about to be put off so easily. ‘No, I mean it, Rosie! You’re such a lovely person—if you’d just let a guy get close enough to you, I’m sure you’d be happy…’

Feeling cornered, I gave a too-forced laugh and attempted to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Ah-ah, no—that is a non-negotiable subject and, I need to warn you, will result in a breach of the conditions of your contract if you choose to discuss it further.’

Ed threw his hands up in surrender. ‘OK, OK, boss, we get it. We hereby pledge to pursue it no longer.’

‘Finally, they understand!’ I looked heavenwards, hands outstretched in gratitude. I could hardly believe it—had I really averted the inevitable lecture?

Nope.

‘…Suffice to say, that Marnie and I are committed to bugging you on a regular basis about this—’ Ed was stopped mid-sentence, by Marnie, or rather by Marnie’s hand as it clamped firmly across his mouth.

‘Quiet, Steinmann, I need this job!’ she laughed.

After a brief struggle, she let him go and they both collapsed back, smirking like a pair of naughty schoolkids. Despite my recent discomfort, I had to smile at the pair of them. Ed likes to pretend he’s the serious, surrogate older brother in this terrible twosome, yet often he’s the worse culprit. They are forever swapping jokes, winding each other up or just acting like a couple of big kids—and I love them for it. It makes me feel I’m part of something positive and gives a real, beating heart to Kowalski’s. Most importantly, I know that, behind the humour, they are fiercely protective of each other—and of me.

Ed’s eyes twinkled and he flashed a wide grin at me.

‘Suitably chastened, m’lady,’ he said, giving a little bow as we got up to return to the store. But in the doorway he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me to him. ‘However, this topic won’t go away, Rosie Duncan. It’s definitely one To Be Continued.’

Chapter Two

At the age of twelve and a half I decided I wasn’t going to be a florist.

I made this Important Life Decision whilst helping my mum to create buttonholes for a wedding at five o’clock one Saturday morning. The bride’s mother had called our home an hour before in a blind panic, after realising she hadn’t ordered enough for the groom’s family. I think this was the same day that I made my next Important Life Decision—I was never, ever, ever going to get married. Never. People just seemed to lose all common sense when they were tying the knot.

Mum said that she could separate the soon-to-be-married ladies who visited her shop into four categories: Neurotic, Laid-Back (but usually accompanied by neurotic mothers), Bossy (‘I-know-exactly-what-I-want so-you’d-better-do-what-I-say-or-else’), and Nice and Uncomplicated. It seemed to me that the last category was sadly lacking in members. As I grew older and was given a Saturday job in Mum’s shop, I saw three fistfights, countless heated arguments and one engagement broken, all over the matter of flowers. Totally crazy. What never ceased to amaze me, however, was the way Mum calmly and gently responded to each rude, obnoxious, or just plain psychotic customer, managing to bring them to a satisfactory decision every time.

With a name like mine, the floristry connection was almost impossible to get away from. Mum called me Rose after my grandmother, but it’s also part of her name—Rosemary. My brother, James, often jokes that he should have been called Daisy to make the floristry theme complete. Nevertheless, as soon as I could, I got as far away from floristry as possible. I studied media and communications at university, got a good degree and moved south to work for a London advertising agency. It was a great job and I loved it. I loved the excitement. I revelled in the deadlines, the intense periods of high creativity and the fulfilment of seeing my finished campaigns on giant billboards across the city. Mum was incredibly proud of me and put a display of my adverts in one corner of her shop, just behind the stargazer lilies. ‘The stars are the limit for my little dreamer,’ she used to tell her customers. But every now and then she would remind me that, in her opinion, my design ability came from my gift for floristry. ‘You’re a natural designer,’ she would say, ‘and nothing will ever give you a thrill like creating something with living things.’ I would laugh at this, but Mum’s calm and knowing smile always left a little discomforting question mark at the back of my mind.

Then, just when I thought my life was complete, I found there was something missing. And one of my Important Life Decisions was put to the ultimate test. I fell in love.

That one, singular happening in my life changed everything. It led me to leave England and a family and career I loved, to move to America and chase my dream.

When my dream died, my other Important Life Decision was reversed and floristry became my saving grace. I rediscovered the joy of creating something with living things; twisting, moulding and combining scents and colours, forms and foliage into something new, something worthwhile. I found that catching the fleeting beauty of flowers seemed to awaken something hidden deep within me: a need to celebrate life—however brief—after my own life had been exposed to so much death. As I placed my creations in the hands of my customers, I found my work marking their lives too—celebrations, commemorations, condolences—and the thrill it gave me to be part of their stories far surpassed anything I’d felt during my previous job. Just like Mum had told me. And now I can’t imagine ever doing anything else.

Celia arrived at noon on the day of her big event to inspect the progress of her order. I was proud to report that we were almost done—only two more arrangements to complete. She skipped around the workroom like a delirious three-year-old, squealing with delight at the ‘quaintness’ of the baskets, the ‘gorgeous English scent’ of the roses and the quality of craftsmanship ‘that Philippe himself could never equal’. After several minutes of gushing and promises of many future orders to come, she was gone again, racing off to her next interview.

Ed wiped his brow and flopped down onto a chair.

‘Rosie, that woman is a human whirlwind. How on earth do you keep up with her?’

I giggled. ‘Sometimes, I ask myself the same question. But her heart’s in the right place, you know.’

‘Sure, but where’s the rest of her?’

Marnie and I finished the final arrangements and stood back to view the wonderful spectacle that is a completed order. ‘Perfect!’ I said. ‘We’re done.’

Ed frowned. ‘Wait—we’ve got to have the Kowalski Ceremony before you can say that.’ He picked up an old, rusty pair of halfmoon spectacles from a shelf, placed them on the end of his nose and adopted a slow, gentle Polish accent. ‘So, I think maybe we are done now, everybody? Good! Let’s clear up and deliver!’

I smiled at him. Some days I miss Mr Kowalski so much my heart aches.

‘Can I go for my lunch break?’ asked Marnie, hopefully.

‘No problem,’ I said, checking my watch. ‘Take an hour, mate. You’ve worked so hard the last two days. Enjoy yourself.’

But before I’d finished speaking, Marnie had grabbed her bag and coat and was out of the door, shouting her thanks over her shoulder as she went.

Ed raised an amused eyebrow. ‘Now there’s another whirlwind in training,’ he said. ‘Must be the guy she met last week in drama class.’

I smiled as I began to collect the scrap foliage and raffia from the worktables. ‘Ah. Another chapter of Marnie’s life begins.’

‘Poor Marnie. Her love life reads like a plot of a daytime soap,’ Ed agreed, and began to carry completed arrangements to the cold store. ‘I was attempting to explain this to my mother the other day. Let me see if I remembered the highlights: there was the med student—he lasted four months, till he announced he wanted to become a gynaecologist…’

‘Always a passion-killer, that one.’

‘Then came the Italian stallion, who said he was on an exchange programme from romantic Sicily, when really he was from romantic Queens.’

‘Hmm, and he only told her that small detail of his life after she’d spent most of her money showing him the sights of New York for three weeks.’

‘And, of course, who could forget the guy she fell head over heels with, who turned out to be her long-lost half-brother?’

We both grimaced at that one. Ed shook his head and picked up the last two arrangements. ‘Now, you make the coffee and I’ll finish up here.’

My coffee machine is just about the best thing ever. It’s one work requirement that I’ve retained from my old days at the advertising agency—I need my coffee in order to be creative. Customers have told me that the comforting scent of coffee mingling with the flowers makes them feel at home when they enter the shop. It seems to encourage them to spend time making their decisions. Nowadays, it’s strictly decaf after 2 p.m.—not least because we all need our sleep at night, but also because Marnie under the influence of too much caffeine is downright scary, and I don’t want to frighten the customers away. My coffee machine doesn’t look or work like it used to, but its battered appearance and the strange noises it emits are all part of its endearing character. Marnie thinks it should be retired, but Ed agrees with me that it makes the best cup of coffee around, and that makes two votes to one. Motion carried. So Old Faithful (as he is affectionately known) remains an important member of my staff.

When the coffee was ready, after much huffing, puffing and weird clunking from Old F, Ed joined me behind the counter for lunch. Ed always eats the most enormous pastrami sandwiches at lunchtime. He buys them each morning from Schaeffer’s Deli, a few blocks down from his apartment in the East Village, on his way to work. I asked him once how he manages to eat so much without becoming the size of a small planet, and he informed me that he has an ‘excellent metabolism’. I reckon it’s more to do with the fact that he runs five miles every day, goes to the gym regularly and seems to spend most of his free time running after (or being chased by) the beautiful women of New York.

After several minutes of happy munching, Ed gave the meat monstrosity a time out and shot me one of his serious looks.

‘So what about your dating history, Rosie?’

Uh-oh. This was one road trip I knew all too well:

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING UNCOMFORTABLE

Population: Just Me

I tried a detour. ‘Not much to tell, really.’

Of course, this wasn’t likely to put him off. In hindsight, it was probably the worst thing I could have said: there is nothing Ed Steinmann likes more than a challenge. I might just as well have slapped him in the face with a gauntlet.

‘Oh, come on, Rosie, there must have been guys you left back in old Blighty?’

‘Umm…’

‘Buzzzz! Hesitation!’ Only Ed could turn an embarrassing conversation into a quiz show. ‘Travelled across the Pond leaving a string of broken hearts behind you, eh?’

I swallowed hard. ‘Something like that.’

‘And then there was…where was it you came here from? DC? Chicago?’

‘Boston.’

‘Ah, Boston. So—any broken hearts there?’

‘I—no, OK? Can we change the subject, please?’

Ed held up his half-eaten sandwich in surrender. ‘Hey, I’m just making conversation. You’ve been here, what, six years and we’ve never seen you dating.’

I let out a long sigh. ‘I don’t have time to date.’

Ed took another bite and munched thoughtfully. ‘That’s because you spend half your life chasing the whims of that mad journalist friend of yours.’

‘Ed, that’s unfair. Celia’s a good friend.’

‘So how come she’s never set you up on a date then?’

‘Ed!’

‘I’m just making an observation. I mean, there must be countless eligible hacks at the Times.’

I folded my arms in a vain attempt to feel less vulnerable. ‘Since when was my love life such an area of fascination for you?’

‘It’s not just me, it’s Marnie too. Actually, mainly Marnie, to be honest. She worries about you.’

Knowing that my staff were discussing my personal life was more than a little disconcerting. It wasn’t that I minded them caring for me—that’s something that I’d always found about my team and it was great to know we all looked out for one another. It was more that I didn’t want to discuss my love life with anyone, especially not my past in London or Boston. Believe me, I had my reasons.

‘Well, she shouldn’t worry. I’m fine. Besides, between the two of you I think we have the eligible contingent of Manhattan pretty much covered, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Good point. So, ask me about my love life then, seeing as you don’t have time for one.’ Ed has this amazing capacity for making you smile when you really should be hitting him hard. It is completely disarming but devastatingly effective.

‘Fine. Who’s the lucky lady tonight, pray tell?’

Ed looked like the cat that got the cream, sapphire blue eyes twinkling. ‘Lawyer.’

‘Oh, nice.’

‘Yep, she is.’

‘Name?’

‘Mona. I think she’s Italian.’

‘Let me guess: second name Lisa, can’t really tell what she’s thinking, bit of an oil painting?’

Ed was unmoved by my humour. ‘Maybe you should call 911, Rosie. My sides are in the process of splitting. No, she’s representing my cousin Klaus.’

‘What’s he up for?’

Ed rested his sandwich on the counter and wiped his hands with a paper napkin. ‘How come you instantly assume my family are all crooks?’

I looked sheepish. ‘Sorry.’ It was nice to be in control of the conversation at last.

‘Hmm. Well, don’t do it again, Duncan. No, he’s being sued by a former patient who claims Klaus hypnotised him during one session, causing him to make a series of disastrous business decisions, which led to the collapse of his company.’

‘Is your cousin a hypnotherapist?’

‘No—that’s the crazy thing. He’s a psychiatrist. All my family are psychiatrists, for pity’s sake, apart from me.’

‘Is this client likely to win?’

‘No way. The guy’s clearly a nut, but hey, this is New York: sneeze in the wrong place and someone’s going to sue your ass from here to eternity. Mona reckons the judge will take one look at him and throw the case out. But, while we’re waiting for that to happen, I owe it to my cousin to ensure that his lovely lawyer is as fully briefed as possible.’

‘Knowing you, it’s probably more a lack of briefs you’re interested in?’

‘Hey, so she just couldn’t resist me. What can I tell ya?’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ I laughed, taking our mugs to Old F for a refill.

‘See, Rosie? Look at all the fun you’re missing out on.’

‘Lawyers aren’t my type and I don’t know any psychiatrists.’

‘Then try a policeman, or a photographer—or a taxi driver, even. Heck, anyone would be worth a shot, if only to get you “out there” again! How about we get Marnie to recommend one of her exes?’

Bringing the filled mugs back, I gave one to Ed and sat down. ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much. Somehow I don’t think any of them will be my type. Now drop it and eat that cow in bread you’ve got there.’

‘Don’t try diversionary tactics. You know they won’t work on me. Just be prepared for us to keep bugging you about it, OK?’

I ignored a sinking feeling and attempted a breezy smile. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’

‘Uh-huh,’ Ed agreed, resuming his one-man onslaught on the mountain of meat.

I watched him for a while. Ed is one of those people you instantly like. I love his quick wit and cheekiness, despite being on the receiving end of it more often than I’d like. Ed can deliver a one-liner faster than a speeding bullet and that always makes me smile. Maybe it’s this mischievous quality in him that the good ladies of Manhattan find so irresistible. I have to admit, when Steinmann puts his mind to something, it’s difficult to say no to him. Mind you, if I believe Ed and Marnie’s theory about me, I seem to have this problem with everybody on account of my Malaise Anglais, so perhaps that doesn’t count. Even when he’s tired or hungover, the charm is never far away; in fact, it is often particularly endearing when he’s looking more dishevelled than usual.

Ed’s style is what he calls ‘relaxed’, but what my mum would term ‘scruffy’. His dark brown hair never really looks tamed no matter what he does with it, but this suits his style down to the ground. He does make an effort occasionally and never looks unprofessionally untidy, but most of the time he has the kind of appearance that makes guys want to hang out with him and women want to take care of him. Today he was wearing a slightly crumpled charcoal shirt over a white T-shirt with faded black jeans. When I asked him why he’d chosen this sombre colour scheme, he remarked that he thought it would be good for counteracting the Marnie Effect, a phenomenon unique to Kowalski’s: my young assistant looks as if she has been bombarded by a spectrum of colours—from her hair (this week, vivid orange), to her clashing T-shirt, skirt, tights and bright yellow Doc Marten boots. As for me, I like to think I’m a foil to both of them. I like to look smart for work, although comfort is a major consideration. One thing Marnie and I have in common is our love of vintage clothes—and in New York we’re blessed with countless boutiques selling retro clothing and one-off pieces. Living in New York I’ve noticed my style has become more relaxed—much like I have.

Since the day I first met Ed, we’ve been really close. And even though to the casual observer it can appear that we mock each other constantly, I do actually care what he thinks of me. While events in my life have made me much more wary of letting people close, having Ed and Marnie there to worry about me is strangely comforting. We’re an odd concoction of personalities, backgrounds and dress styles, but it seems to work. Welcome to Kowalski’s—where the staff are as varied as the flowers!

At four thirty, I packed Celia’s arrangements into the delivery van and headed off to Café Bijou. Marnie and Ed had agreed to man the store for the rest of the day so that I could go, after it became clear that Celia was fast losing the plot. Her anxiety attacks had begun at two o’clock with a frantic phone call, and I found myself promising faithfully that I’d meet her at the venue at five fifteen. Marnie and Ed’s expressions said it all and, once I got into my van, I noticed Ed had drawn up a doctor’s prescription and stapled it to the order sheet.

PRESCRIPTION FOR MS ROSIE DUNCAN FOR THE TREATMENT

OF CONFIRMED CONDITION MALAISE ANGLAIS. THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE TO BE ADMINISTERED LIBERALLY AND ORALLY BY THE PATIENT, WHENEVER NECESSARY: ‘NO, I COULDN’T POSSIBLY. SORRY.’

When I arrived at the restaurant, Celia was already there, clipboard in hand, nervous energy in full flow. I immediately felt sorry for the poor maître d’, who was in danger of being totally overwhelmed by her tirade of questions. When he saw me, his face brightened and he rushed over, leaving a frustrated Celia standing mid-sentence, fuming gently.

‘Oh, Madame, permit me to ‘elp you wiz zese flowers. I will take zem to ze room pour vous,’ he gushed.

‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.’

I approached Celia as he fled.

‘That man is so exasperating!’ she exclaimed, tossing her clipboard onto the polished bar. ‘I have so much to organise and it’s five twenty already. Does Claude have any idea of just how much is left to do?’

I smiled and gave her a hug. ‘Now sit down, Celia. Take a deep breath. Count to two thousand…’

Celia looked up at me like a chastened child. ‘You sound like my mother,’ she said miserably.

‘Things are going to be just great,’ I reassured her, sounding quite a lot like mine. ‘You have plenty of time. Take a moment to come and see the arrangements. The roses smell beautiful and we’ve added some lavender to calm any nerves that might be fraying.’

Celia’s furrowed brow smoothed out as she followed me into the main restaurant area, where Claude was taking his frustration out on one of his staff.

‘Wouldya look at da state of da napkins, Joey?’ he shouted, his French accent sounding decidedly more like the Godfather now. I suppressed a giggle as he spun round and quickly rediscovered his Gallic roots. ‘Ah, Madame Reighton, I trust za room is satisfactory pour vous?’

Celia took a deep breath. ‘C’est trés bon, Claude, merci.’

Claude smiled briefly and hurried off into the kitchen. I squeezed Celia’s arm. ‘Well done.’ For the first time since I’d arrived I witnessed the slightest glimpse of a smile appearing on her flushed face.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rosie!’

Café Bijou was very new indeed—you could still smell faint traces of fresh paint in the entrance lobby. But it was comfortable and welcoming, approached from the sidewalk via some impressive stone steps that rose elegantly from the tree-lined street. The interior was warm and understated, decked out in dark wood tables and chairs with aubergine velvet seats, subdued lighting, and walls painted in shades of brown, caramel and cream. Each table was covered in crisp white linen, and polished oak floorboards creaked satisfyingly beneath my feet. Though I say it myself, the floral arrangements worked incredibly well in this setting—cream and palest pink rosebuds, offset by dark green foliage and small bunches of dried lavender, packed tightly into dark wicker baskets and finished with generous amounts of pale yellow-gold raffia, which trailed out onto the tablecloths.

When all the tables were finished and place cards had been distributed, Celia stood back to view the scene. She let out a sigh. ‘You were right, Rosie,’ she said, flinging a relieved arm round my shoulders. ‘Everything is just fine.’

Now I know that, to many people, Celia appears completely impossible. She even tested my mum’s famously steady countenance when they first met. But I’ve known her long enough to realise that beneath the crazy exterior beats a heart of pure gold. Celia is very New York—she isn’t happy unless there’s some aspect of the world she’s putting to rights. The rents are astronomical, restaurant and hotel prices are ridiculous and have you seen the state of the parks these days? Not to mention the fact that New York simply has not been the same since Giuliani finished as mayor (even though she moaned constantly about him while he was in office…). Her column is much loved by New Yorkers for its wry perspective on city life. She writes like they talk—a mixture of intellect, snobbery and good, old-fashioned complaint, seasoned with inimitable humour and completed with sly observation. It’s largely due to Celia that I have grown to understand and love the idiosyncrasies of this city, its unique take on life.

Let me tell you how we met: Celia befriended me at a party I went to, not long after I decided to move from Boston to New York. She was in town visiting her recently relocated mother, and a mutual friend suggested she come along to the event as a celebrity guest. Most of the guests at the party were Harvard graduates who met up once a year for an informal reunion. My friend Ben was one of these illustrious alumni. I met him at university and shared a house with him and five others in the not-so-posh bit of York. After graduation he decided to complete a Master’s degree at Harvard and subsequently stayed in Boston to work. I lodged with him there for nearly six months until I left for New York. He introduced me to Celia and we liked each other straight away. She invited me to stay with her and her partner Jerry until I found an apartment of my own.

It’s always easier to go to a new city when you know someone, and Celia proved to be a good person to know. She found my apartment for me and, after she’d learned I knew about floristry, persuaded me to meet her life-long family friend, Mr Kowalski. He was looking for someone to take on his business when he retired and Celia was certain I was the right person to do it.

I remember the very first time I walked into the shop—it felt like I was coming home. The little bell on the door that tinkled when we came in was identical to the one at Mum’s shop. The flowers in neat little galvanised steel buckets were arranged in a rainbow of colours—great swathes of reds, yellows, blues and purples from left to right. And there was that unmistakable smell, which you can’t really describe but recognise whenever you walk into a florist’s shop.

Mr Kowalski told me to call him Franz, but somehow ‘Mr Kowalski’ seemed more appropriate for a man of his great experience and wisdom. He had, like me, grown up around flowers—his family had lived and worked in New York’s Flower District from the time his parents arrived from Poland in the early 1920s. Although born in New York—the youngest child of six—he retained a strong Polish accent. He taught me so much when I worked with him during the year before he retired. Celia was overjoyed that she had been right in her judgement, and made sure all her friends came to our shop for their flowers.

Celia may give the impression of being completely selfabsorbed, but deep down I know she worries about how people see her. It’s this secret, slightly self-conscious person hidden so well inside the brash, confident exterior that I love and respect so much.

It has been said that a true friend is one who is willing to share the pains and joys of your life in equal measure: well, I can honestly say that Celia has always looked out for me, always championed my cause. She has cried with me when things have gone wrong—she is one of the few people who knows all the details of why I came to the States—and she has been an amazing source of strength to me at my lowest ebbs. She has celebrated with me when good things have happened too, like the time Kowalski’s won a top industry award the first year I was in charge. And when Celia puts her mind to celebrate, she does it with every last drop of her energy.

Celia’s events are the Golden Fleece in the Upper West Side. She is one of the few people in the country who can gather a stellar group of America’s finest in one room at less than a year’s notice. Her knack for creating interesting groups of guests is unsurpassed. And she always invites me. Which is the best bit, really. And while I suspect her main motive for including me in the guest list is to introduce me to eligible men, I love her for it. It is always a pleasure to meet the fascinating, creative people at Celia’s parties and I have made many firm friends that way in the past.

Celia’s guests began arriving just after eight, and within an hour Café Bijou was filled with the happy hum of conversation. Many of the writers present had not seen one another for some time, kept busy by national tours for their latest works or the ever-fruitful lecturing circuit. Small groups of friends gathered, excitedly inspecting the gift bags that Celia had given to each guest—neat little linen carriers filled with selections of the latest books from the authors present. As I navigated the room, checking my creations as I went, drifts of conversation washed over me.

‘…It seems to me that Bernann’s critique of Gershwin’s contribution to the American musical identity simply focuses on one solitary point…’ ‘…And you should have seen the hotels my agent found for me in Quebec…’ ‘…But I cannot abide the style of modern English favoured by Ivy League departments right now…’ ‘…Call me Neanderthal if you wish, but I have yet to find a credible philosopher to match the ancient greats in twenty-first-century America. I know, I know, I’m hard to please…’

One conversation caught my attention particularly. A group of three women and two men were standing by one of the tables, inspecting the basket arrangement closely.

‘No, I think you’ll find it is French Lavender,’ said one woman, positioning her reading glasses on the end of her nose and peering at the flowers.

‘Well, what’s the difference between French and English?’ asked the younger of the two men.

‘Easy, I know that one,’ said the other, with a wide, happy grin. The group looked at him, expectantly, waiting for the answer. ‘One comes from France and the other comes from England!’ This was received with good-natured groans and the investigation resumed.

‘If I may join the debate,’ I ventured, entering their conversation, ‘the difference can be seen in the flower heads. French lavender has a much bigger head, with two or three large petals, while English lavender has a smaller head with tight, compact flowers. The lavender in question is English lavender and we import it especially from a farm on the Isle of Wight.’

The group appeared pleased and the lady with the reading glasses extended her hand.

‘Thank you for your knowledgeable contribution. I’m Mimi Sutton.’

I returned her warm handshake. ‘Rosie Duncan. I’m Celia’s friend and also her florist.’

This information was met with murmurs of approval and congratulations from the others in the group, whom Mimi proceeded to introduce to me. Anya Marsalis, a tall, angular woman with striking black hair and huge green eyes was first. She was new to the literary circuit, having recently retired as an international model and published her first book—a travelogue of her time in Milan, Paris and Rome. Next was Brent Jacobs, the man with the wide grin, who had worked for twenty years as a criminal psychologist and now wrote very successful thrillers. His stomach was almost as broad as his smile and his thinning grey-blond hair curled up around his ears. The third woman, diminutive in both stature and personality, was Jane Masterson-Philips, a fortysomething history specialist whose biographies on great Americans had won her much critical acclaim. Her whole appearance seemed to be pulled back and neatly pinned in place, just like her tight chignon.

The final member of the group caught my attention the most. He was younger than the rest—my guess was about thirty-two or so—with a laid-back casual air and clothes to match. I was instantly reminded of a phrase Mum often uses to describe my brother, James—‘he’s always so comfortable in his own skin’. Aware I was staring, I checked myself and looked at Mimi. But before she could introduce him, he stepped forward. He effortlessly swung one hand out of his trouser pocket to meet mine in a single movement.

‘Hi,’ he smiled, his voice soft and low, ‘I’m Nathaniel Amie. Call me Nate.’

‘Nathaniel works for Gray & Connelle Publishing,’ Mimi informed me. ‘He’s a professional pessimist and the protagonist of many a nightmare for us in the literary fraternity.’ This description seemed far removed from the apparently warm and easy-going person I had just been introduced to.

Anya guessed my reaction and explained, ‘Nathaniel is the one who decides whether or not our precious works reach print. Thankfully for all of us, he has taken big risks to make sure we’re published.’

‘And we love him dearly,’ Jane added, her cheeks reddening as Nate winked playfully and brought an arm round her for a quick squeeze.

‘I love you all too,’ he replied, then shook a finger at Jane. ‘But you still have to make those changes we discussed today before I’ll let it through.’

‘See what I mean?’ Mimi confided. ‘Absolute nightmare.’

‘I see you’ve met my wonderful friend,’ sang Celia, breezing in. ‘Mimi, you simply must let her create the floral decor for your upcoming Winter Ball. She is a genius!’

I winced as I caught Nate’s amused expression. ‘Genius?’ he mouthed, his dark chocolate eyes twinkling with fun. I tried to smile and looked at my empty glass to avoid his stare.

‘Well, sure…’ Mimi said as she consulted her pocketbook and produced a business card. ‘Any recommendation from Celia Reighton is well worth following up. Give me a call next week, Rosie, and we’ll discuss.’

‘Thank you.’ I replied, taking her card. Celia was beaming so brightly she could have lit up Times Square all by herself.

‘Do you have a store?’ asked Brent, taking a small black leather notebook from his jacket pocket and brandishing a pencil. ‘It’s my wife’s birthday at the end of the month and I’d love something special for her.’

‘No problem,’ I replied, handing him a business card, pleased with these new opportunities. ‘I’m on the corner of West 68th and Columbus. The store’s called Kowalski’s. Come in and we’ll design something original for you.’

‘…And you’re guaranteed something special. Rosie’s designs are to die for,’ Celia emphasised with a manic grin and a flamboyant gesture reminiscent of one of those over-zealous salesmen on cheap TV commercials. ‘Now I won’t allow you to hog my florist a moment longer. I’m whisking her away!’ And, grabbing my hand, she was good to her word.

As we left the group and they returned to their conversation, I was aware that Nate Amie didn’t move to join them. Celia was already introducing me to someone else, but I could see Nate looking at me across the room. He raised his glass to me and smiled, then turned back to his friends.

Much later, when the food had been enjoyed, the speeches made and the conversations done, Celia was still beaming.

‘An incredibly successful evening all round, I think,’ she proclaimed.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, taking the last arrangement from the table and handing it to her. ‘To the hostess for her latest overwhelming triumph.’

Celia clamped an impassioned hand over her heart. ‘A Kowalski’s creation, for me? I’m so honoured!’

I smiled and shook my head. ‘My strange old American friend.’

‘Hey—less of the old. Though I’m beginning to feel it.’ She pulled a face and rubbed her neck. ‘I’m thinking my entertaining days are numbered.’

‘You? Give up your famous parties? Never!’ I retorted, pleased to see her face brighten in reply. ‘It was another amazing gathering of people. Once again you’ve orchestrated orders for my business and allowed me to meet some fascinating individuals. As I said, a triumph!’

We finished clearing up, packed my van and then I drove Celia back uptown to her apartment. Though it was late, the lights along Broadway burned brightly as ever as we made our way slowly up through Manhattan to Columbus Circle and on into the Upper West Side.

There is something uniquely magical about driving through New York late at night. It’s almost as if you should hold your breath in reverence as you pass through the neighbourhoods, each with its own trademark architecture and atmosphere. All-night diners are packed with customers hunched over their never-ending coffees, whilst brightly lit store windows reveal their treasures even when their doors are locked. The ubiquitous yellow taxis are everywhere, winding in and out of the traffic as if travelling on air. Sometimes it can feel as if the whole city has been put into slow-motion mode; its perennial activity transformed into a deftly choreographed ballet—a symphony of movement, sound, light and scent. No matter how many times I drive through the City That Never Sleeps, I never cease to be amazed by its majestic beauty and proud self-assuredness. Just like the people who walk its streets, work in its resplendent buildings and call it home, New York knows that it is special and unashamedly declares it to the world.

We arrived on West 91st Street and parked by the steps to Celia’s apartment block. As she was about to leave, she turned back. ‘Thank you, Rosie. Thank you for putting up with my panics. Thank you for always being there for me. I don’t say it often enough, but you are a true friend. See you Saturday?’

I smiled. ‘Sure. Good night, Celia.’

‘Good night. I’ll call you!’

As I began the drive back home, I couldn’t help but smile. It had been a surprisingly good evening all round.

Chapter Three

Mimi Sutton called the day after Celia’s event to invite me to meet her at her offices in SoHo the following day. I arrived a little early, design books in hand, and was shown by an assistant to a waiting area in the atrium of the ultra-modern building. In typical artsy minimalist style, the whole area was filled with clean lines with shiny metal and glass. Cobalt spotlights, discreetly hidden everywhere—behind frosted glass screens, in the middle of lush green foliage and inside tall steel and glass pillars—bathed the area in a soothing glow. This was a perfect complement to the white marble floor, which produced a rhythmic percussion as people crisscrossed its wide expanse.

I love arriving somewhere early to get a feel for the place. In this city you never know what to expect when you walk through the door of a building. You can experience classic styling, baroque opulence, bohemian chic or even puritan austerity as you move down a single street. It’s nothing short of inspirational. Maybe it’s my designer instinct, but I have days when everything inspires me. Even the scary kitsch stuff that most people with any remote sense of taste would be appalled at. I love trying to interpret the styles I see with my flowers—it’s a constant challenge I like to set myself to keep my designs fresh and different.

Mimi Sutton is a highly successful writer-turned—literary agent. She made her name writing blockbuster novels, most of which have, in turn, become blockbuster movies. She is constantly courted by Hollywood’s movers and shakers. The film rights for her most recent book had been sold three months before she began work on it, and a gaggle of screenwriters (if that is the correct collective term) had accompanied her for most of the writing period. When I asked Celia why on earth Mimi wanted to be an agent for other people when she had achieved so much success of her own, Celia smiled.

‘It’s all about power, Rosie. And power in Manhattan is something Mimi simply cannot do without.’

About fifteen minutes after I had arrived, the elevator doors opened to reveal a familiar face, though I couldn’t remember the name or the exact place I knew him from. Thankfully for me, the person fast approaching didn’t have the same problem.

‘Ms Duncan!’ he exclaimed loudly as he strode briskly across the atrium to where I was. Reaching me, he took my hand between both of his and gave a wide smile. ‘I guess you don’t remember me? Brent Jacobs—from the Authors’ Meet? Good to see you again. You here to see Mimi?’

‘Yes I am.’

He smiled. ‘Excellent. Hey, don’t forget you said you’d help me with flowers for my wife. Would the last Thursday of the month be convenient?’

I checked my diary. ‘Yes, no problem. About eleven?’

‘Wonderful. Good to see you, Rosie.’ He shook my hand quickly and strode away. I was about to sit down again when the assistant behind the pale green glass reception desk called to me. ‘Ms Sutton will see you now, Ms Duncan.’

I took the glass elevator up eleven floors to Mimi’s office. Another efficient, black Armani-suited assistant took me through two huge pale wood doors into a sumptuous office. Mimi sat at her desk at the far end, the dramatic backdrop of New York skyscrapers adding to her presence. She rose immediately and swept towards me.

‘Well?’ she questioned, waving a hand to indicate her surroundings. ‘What do you think?’

‘Very impressive,’ I affirmed. She led me to three enormous cream leather sofas situated round a frosted glass coffee table on the other side of her office. It was easy to be completely overawed by the sheer luxury of these surroundings, and I was grateful that Celia had phoned with a pep talk earlier that morning so that I was well prepared to meet this character who, I was reliably informed, ‘doesn’t do small’. And Celia, for once, wasn’t exaggerating.

‘Sit, sit!’ Mimi beckoned, draping herself magnificently over one sofa, three strings of pearls undulating around her throat as she spoke. ‘Now, let me see your designs.’ I offered my books, which she eagerly accepted. ‘I’m so glad we met, Rosie,’ she continued, without looking up as she flicked through the pages of photographs. ‘You know, you caused quite a stir at the Meet the other night.’

‘I did?’

‘Sure, honey. The conversation was all about you when you left us. Like, how come you’ve been right under our noses all this time and we’ve never seen you? These designs are good…You know, Philippe is so last year. I love what you’ve done here.’ She held up a page with big mounted displays that I did a few years back for an architects’ ball. ‘This is what I want for the Grand Winter Ball. It’s just before Christmas and we intend to make it the social event of the season. So the décor needs to be the best, naturally. I would need, maybe, thirty of these large displays, plus garlands to cover the grand staircase in the ballroom. Could Kowalski’s handle it?’

I was expecting a large order from this larger-than-life lady, but this took me by surprise. It was huge. I did some mental calculations, and then nodded. ‘I’m sure we can. I’ll put together some initial sketches with my co-designer and get them back to you with an estimate for your approval, if that’s OK?’

Mimi snapped the book shut. ‘Fantastic, Rosie. I’ll have my planners call you and we’ll go from there.’ We stood up. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ she said, smiling broadly but escorting me swiftly to the door. ‘I’ll see you soon. Goodbye.’

Going down in the glass elevator, I let out a huge sigh as the enormity of the task ahead finally sunk in. I knew that, after the initial shock and protestations, Marnie and Ed would relish the opportunity to work on that scale. But quite how I was going to broach the subject with them, I had no idea.

I was lost in these thoughts as the elevator reached the ground floor and I stepped out. Straight into someone coming the other way. Losing my balance completely, I fell. My books flew out of my hands, opening mid-air before crashing to the ground, sending photographs and business cards sliding, skidding and scuttering across the atrium floor. I landed on the chic polished marble in a decidedly unchic position, surrounded by my belongings, which lay scattered in all directions.

You know how, when something embarrassing happens to you, it’s like someone hits the Pause button and the world seems to stop and stare? Well, this was one of those moments. All the frantically hurrying people found a good reason to postpone their journeys and a hundred spotlights homed in on me as their eyes surveyed my misfortune. Why had I chosen today to wear a shorter than usual skirt and no tights? Dazed from the ugly tumble, yet alert enough to realise I was in grave danger of revealing my choice of underwear to all assembled, I struggled to my knees in a vain attempt to rescue any remaining scraps of my dignity, scrabbling for my belongings as I did so. Stumbling eventually to my feet, I cursed my flushing cheeks and made a woeful attempt at a smile in the direction of the flash mob gathered around me. Only when I was fully upright did I realise that the someone I had collided with was still there. Laughing. Very loudly.

He stood, bent double, chest convulsing wildly, with one hand wiping tears from his eyes while the other reached out to help me. His laughter seemed to bounce off every hard surface, filling the space with great booming guffaws. I hugged my books to my chest, still aware of all the unwanted attention from the atrium’s beautiful people.

‘I’m…so…sorry,’ the man gasped. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, but…but that was just hilarious.’

‘Well, thank you.’ I could swear I heard a stifled Armaniclad giggle from the green glass reception desk. Great, said the little voice in my head, nice one, Duncan. The someone was still laughing. The beautiful people were still laughing. But I wasn’t. Realising my embarrassment, the someone regained his composure and straightened up. I was just about to give him a piece of my mind when our eyes met and, instantly, his expression changed from amusement to sincere shock as he recognised me—and I recognised him.

‘Rosie Duncan? Heck, I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?’ he stammered, his voice suddenly full of genuine concern that defused my anger.

‘I’m fine—um—Nathaniel?’

There was more than a hint of relief in his smile. ‘Yes. Uh, Nate. Call me Nate—please. Are you sure you’re OK?’ He bent down and quickly collected the remaining detritus of my fall, carefully handing them back to me. His warm hand rested on mine for a second. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine—really. Ego a bit dented, that’s all,’ I replied, smiling weakly.

‘Good—great…’ His voice trailed off and his brow furrowed as he struggled for something else to say. He ran a hand through his closely cropped chestnut-brown hair and then a warm, one-sided grin broke across his face. ‘Uh…well, it was good to—um—bump into you again!’

It was a bad joke, but I still found myself laughing. ‘Yeah—you too.’ We exchanged polite smiles and an uneasy pause. It was obvious this conversation was fast running out of road, so I said goodbye and walked away. I was nearly at the glass entrance doors when I heard Nate call after me.

‘Rosie! Where’s your store?’

‘At the corner of West 68th and Columbus,’ I called back. ‘Kowalski’s.’

Nate bent down to pick up something else from the floor and waved it in the air. ‘Hey, don’t worry, it’s OK—I’ve found your card!’

I could feel the hot rush of embarrassment return. As the floor ignored my urgent telepathic request for it to open up and swallow me, I smiled, hastily turned and made a speedy exit.

‘How many?’

Arms folded, Ed and Marnie stood, like a matching pair of incredulous-looking bookends. This was not going well.

‘Just think of it this way, guys. You’re forever saying we don’t get enough exposure for Kowalski’s—well, this will get us noticed by really important people. Press people, publishers, celebrities. We can take on extra staff for this job. Corey Mitchell at the Molloy College in Bethpage has offered to lend us some of his floristry students any time we want. You guys can really go to town on the whole design process. Come on, I’m confident we can do this.’

Marnie took a deep breath and looked at Ed. They then had one of their weird unspoken conversations. They do this all the time. I hear no words, but somehow a decision is made. Eventually Ed nodded at Marnie then looked at me.

‘OK, OK, let’s do it.’

I whooped and clapped my hands. ‘Thank you so much. It’s going to be so exciting! Time for Kowalski’s to take over New York!’

Marnie and Ed shot me one of their ‘humour her, she’s insane’ glances and Marnie took her position behind the counter while Ed followed me into the workroom at the back of the shop.

One thing Ed loves to do is psychoanalyse people. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of psychiatrists and it’s an inescapable part of his genetic makeup. Ed’s father has never forgiven him for abandoning what has been the family profession for the past three generations. When Ed began his apprenticeship at Kowalski’s he had to regularly defend his decision—and, in turn, his sexuality—to his father, who considered men who worked with flowers to be gay by definition. Even when Ed moved from Kowalski’s to work at Charters, one of Manhattan’s most respected florists, Mr Steinmann refused to be impressed. I wonder sometimes if this is why Ed dates so much—still publicly asserting his heterosexuality to prove his father wrong.

He never told his father he was unhappy at Charters, even though most of his five years spent working there were impossibly miserable as, time and again, he was denied the opportunity to progress in the company. In fact, the only person he confided in was Mr Kowalski, who had remained a friend throughout, which was why Ed ended up accepting the position of my co-designer. Mr Kowalski not only offered the fatherly advice denied Ed by his own father, but was also instrumental in affirming Ed’s work and worth. Yet another reason why we all love and miss Mr K so much.

‘So,’ Ed said, resuming work on a hand-tied bouquet of roses, asters and Asiatic lilies, surrounded by deep green banana leaves, ‘Mimi Sutton—what kind of vibe did you get about her?’

‘Quite businesslike. Difficult to tell that much about her, really.’

‘Rosie, turn off the optimism gene for one second and tell me what you honestly thought. I won’t tell. Scout’s honour.’

I thought for a moment. ‘OK, the vibe was—strange.’ I confessed. ‘It feels like something’s missing there.’

Ed looked up from his hand-tying. ‘How do you mean?’

‘I dunno…I mean, she’s very polite, very friendly, but I can’t tell how genuine she is. It’s like all the fire and individuality that she must have had before she got successful has gone somehow. I’m not sure what’s left in their place.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Ed, nodding. ‘Heart replaced by a dollar sign. Soul replaced by a resumé. She sold out.’

Ed is always able to condense an entire conversation into a three-line conclusion. I keep telling him he should be writing tag lines for Hollywood movies. He’d make a fortune.

‘Shame,’ he said, picking up a pale peach rose and spinning the stem between his fingers absent-mindedly, ‘I’ve always liked her books. Just goes to show that the person you think you know from their writing is only the person they want you to see. And what about the other guy—Brent, was it?’

I smiled immediately. ‘Yes, Brent Jacobs. He’s fab. I like him. You’d like him.’

‘Always a good sign. Why?’

‘Because he used to be a criminal psychologist.’

Ed laughed. ‘Uh-oh. Better not let us meet then. I may have been a case study in his former career. I’ve a checkered past, you know.’

‘Oh, I forgot. Ed Steinmann, criminal mastermind. Must be why you fit in so well here.’

‘Hmm, because I’m not the only one with an intriguing hidden history.’ The comment sliced through the humour like a knife through butter. ‘I’m still here if you want to talk, Rosie.’

‘Well, I don’t.’ Instantly I saw hurt narrow his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that…I’m fine, Ed, really. But thanks for caring.’

His expression instantly changed and his eyes twinkled.

‘Someday I’m going to write a book about you: Rosie Duncan—One of the Great Unsolved Mysteries of the Modern Age. A surefire hit!’

People often tell me they sense about the team at Kowalski’s a closeness they don’t see in other shops. Sometimes customers ask if we’re related—and you should see the look of horror on Ed and Marnie’s faces—as we are every inch the typical family: fighting occasionally, bickering sometimes, but always there for each other. And we have Mr Kowalski in common.

One thing Mr K said again and again was that we were a family. ‘You are children to me. And like a good father, I worry for you. We are a family at Kowalski’s—it is the heart of everything we do.’

I’ve tried to keep the same feeling at Kowalski’s since it became my business. And, odd though it sounds, I sense him here still—five years after his death—that broad, crinkly smile lighting up his lovely old face as he watches the ‘Kowalski’s kids’ with pride.

‘What are you doing Thursday evening next?’ Marnie asked later that afternoon, poking her head round the workroom door. Ed and I looked up from the red, white and gold-themed table centrepieces we were working on for Mr and Mrs Hymark’s Ruby Wedding party. Mrs Hymark worked for Mr K as a Saturday girl in her teens and has trusted Kowalski’s with her floral orders for every occasion since—from her own wedding to the birth of her children and grandchildren, birthdays, anniversaries and funerals.

Ed, obviously unwilling to commit, deferred to me. ‘Uh, Rosie?’

‘Don’t look at me, Steinmann, I don’t manage your diary. I’m free, Marnie.’

‘Yeah, whatever. Although I was planning a quiet one…’

I smiled firmly. ‘Ed and I are both free, Marnie.’

Marnie gave a little whoop and clapped her hands. ‘Great!’

Ed groaned the groan of dread-filled experience. ‘What have we just agreed to?’

‘The opening night of my community theatre play, of course!’

A look of panic washed across his face. ‘Oh—wait—I just remembered, I have a…a…thing next Thursday.’

Marnie’s face instantly fell. ‘What thing? Oh, Ed, can you reschedule? It’s really important that you guys come. It’s the world premiere, you know.’

Ed opened his mouth to protest but I got there first. ‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Marnie.’

A week later, Ed and I stood in the small queue outside Hudson River Players’ tiny studio theatre. To call it a theatre was lavishing high praise indeed: in truth, it was an old dock warehouse that had been converted ten years ago into a theatre space for the local neighbourhood. Nevertheless, for all the effort and care the drama group’s members had gone to for the ‘world premiere’ of their new play, it might as well have been Radio City Music Hall or Madison Square Garden.

‘Welcome,’ boomed a stony-faced, wiry-framed man clad entirely in black, who was handing out programmes like they were death warrants.

‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Ed as we passed into the shadowy heart of the black-curtained warehouse space.

‘Would you stop complaining?’ I hissed under my breath as we found our seats—or rather, wooden bench.

‘So, remind me again why we’re willingly inflicting this torture on ourselves tonight?’ Ed remarked, looking round at the other, equally unenthusiastic members of the audience.

‘We’re here for Marnie,’ I replied, trying to look interested in the Xeroxed programme but seeing only spelling mistakes—such as ‘dirrectors’ and ‘tragik’. ‘We promised.’

‘But it’s community theatre,’ he protested. ‘It’s like death, only much, much slower! I mean, come on, Rosie—look around you: nobody wants to be here. This place is worse than Edgar Allen Poe on twenty-four-hour repeat. Oh, wait, no—I think I’ve just seen him leaving because it’s too depressing.’

‘Be quiet and enjoy the experience. It’s Marnie’s play. Part of Kowalski’s family, remember?’

Ed’s shoulders dropped in defeat. ‘Sure, I get it.’

The play, it has to be said, was everything bad you’ve ever heard about experimental theatre—and then some. When we’d asked Marnie what it was about, she had solemnly informed us that Armageddon: The Miniseries was an ‘existential politico-comedy with tragic overtones’—which did nothing to enlighten us or prepare us for the experience. All seven actors were dressed in black and appeared to be playing about thirty parts each. ‘We use the Brechtian device of gestus to completely remove the audience from any perceived reality of the play, choosing instead to represent rather than impersonate,’ intoned the programme notes. ‘We have also challenged the concept of a single director, opting for a group-conscious approach in its stead.’

A player ran onstage carrying a pig’s head in one hand and what appeared to be two pounds of tripe in the other.

‘This is the play that they make you watch when you’re eternally damned,’ whispered Ed, ‘over and over and over…Ow! That was my ankle!’

‘Shhhhh, Marnie’s coming on.’

Marnie walked slowly to the centre of the stage with an expression like stone and a red ribbon tied around her left wrist. ‘Enough!’ she shouted, hands aloft like a Druid priest. ‘Time is not what we think it is!’ I could see her counting to three slowly and then she exited as solemnly as she had entered.

‘Two lines? I just sat through three hours of the worst play in the known universe for two lines?’ Ed moaned as we sat in the all-night diner across the street afterwards.

‘I know, but Marnie was so thrilled we came. And look, I bought you your favourite chocolate cheesecake to say thank you,’ I replied, pointing at the slab of dessert in front of him so big he could barely see over the top of it.

Ed’s blue stare zoomed in on me. ‘Don’t think the “family” excuse is going to work on me every time, Duncan. Tonight I felt generous, that’s all.’

I smiled. ‘Fine. You just keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better.’

Ed muttered something obscene into his cheesecake.

There’s always a lot of banter when Ed and I are together, mainly because we have so much in common. We share similar tastes in movies and music; we both consider huge steaming hot dogs and ice-cold papaya shake from Gray’s Papaya on West 72nd Street the finest guilty pleasure on a Sunday afternoon; and we both enjoy psycho-analysing everyone we meet in a manner that would impress even the cast of Dawson’s Creek. Most of all, we share a passion for New York: Ed because he’s lived here all his life and me because, well, I fell in love with the city the moment I got off the train at Grand Central Station and walked into the frenetic bustle of the world-famous concourse with its stunning star-strewn ceiling. Before I came here I didn’t really believe people who said New York felt like a place where dreams are made, yet that is completely what I felt on that first day; like anything was possible in this city—even the most implausible hope or wildest aspiration.

It was Ed who encouraged me to explore New York and Ed who volunteered to escort me on my journey of discovery. So, most Sundays for the past five years or thereabouts, Ed and I have met on the subway and headed off to a new destination: strolling down Bleecker Street with its boho-chic boutiques; browsing superheroes old and new at Forbidden Planet, the comic shop on Broadway; watching the sun set across the city from the observation deck of the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings (‘You have to see both views to understand the race to be the tallest,’ Ed says); eating oysters in the vaulted brick bar nestled deep beneath Grand Central; sneaking into private Gramercy Park once after being slipped a coveted key by an old school friend of Ed’s who works at the Gramercy Hotel (seriously, the people Ed knows in this city you wouldn’t believe); and hour upon hour of long, laughter-filled conversations in various coffee houses, diners and restaurants across Manhattan. It’s true what they say about this city: it’s a million different experiences in one place. Even now, six years since I arrived, I don’t think I’ve even scratched the surface of the delights New York has to offer.

The day after Marnie’s play was an unusually quiet one for Kowalski’s. Usually we don’t stop on a Friday from the minute we lift the shutters to the moment we turn the Open sign to Closed. We took the opportunity to do some long-overdue housekeeping around the store—the kind of jobs you always intend to get round to doing yet invariably end up putting off. We gave the light wood floor a good clean, dusted the shelves behind the counter, restocked the flower buckets and tidied up the workroom. Even Mr K’s old half-moon spectacles received a much-needed polish and sat resplendent on the shelf afterwards, sparkling almost as much as Mr K’s eyes used to.

By three o’clock it was obvious that the good people of the Upper West Side didn’t want flowers today, so I was about to suggest we close up early when Ed asked, ‘Are you guys OK to finish up here without me? I mean, it’s quiet and I’d like to leave early tonight.’

I smiled. ‘It’s probably worth closing now anyway. I think we’ve all worked hard enough today.’

Marnie looked at me and shrugged. ‘That is so typical. I was hoping you might need me to stay later tonight. My crazy land-lord’s fixing my shower and I really don’t want to be there while he’s working.’

‘Ah, still trying to match-make you and his son, huh?’ Ed grinned.

Marnie pulled a face. ‘Is he ever.’ She hunched her shoulders and adopted a gruff, Italian-American accent. ‘“You such a nice lady, Ms Andersson, you could do a lot worse than my Vinnie, you know. He’s gonna inherit the building when I retire. He got prospects—a lady like you needs a guy with prospects…” Yeah, and a lady like me also needs cleanliness—and fresh breath. All Vinnie has to offer me is too much butt-crack over his jeans and halitosis like you wouldn’t believe.’

Ed and I giggled—not least because of the hilarious sight of Marnie, colourfully attired as always, stomping around like Don Corleone in pigtails.

‘Hey, I have an idea,’ I said, giving her a wink. ‘Seeing as our esteemed colleague is deserting us, how about you and I head over to SoHo for something to eat?’

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, Rosie, that would be amazing! I could show you that store I was telling you about—the vintage one?’

After a day at Kowalski’s the thought of a spot of retail therapy followed by a great meal was more than a little tempting. ‘You’re on.’

Ed shook his head. ‘What is it about the word “shopping” that makes women go nuts?’

‘It’s a girl thing, Steinmann. You’re not invited,’ Marnie grinned.

‘So, how come you’re skiving off early?’ I asked him.

Ed lifted his chin and attempted to look aloof, the success of this severely compromised by the mischief dancing in his blue eyes. ‘Can’t tell you. It’s a boy thing, Duncan.’

‘So what’s her name?’

Sly humour began to pull up one corner of his mouth. ‘Carly, if you must know.’

‘Hang on, isn’t this the same Carly you saw last Saturday night?’

Ed looked decidedly sheepish. ‘It might be.’

Marnie’s eyes widened. ‘Wait—you saw Carly on Wednesday as well, didn’t you?’

A scarlet blush slowly creeping up Ed’s neck was giving the game away. ‘It’s…possible…’

I whistled. ‘Three dates with the same girl?’

Ed rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. ‘Four, actually.’

Marnie let out a squeak and flung her arms around Ed’s waist. ‘It’s serious! Oh, Eddie, I’m so pleased for you!’

Ed wrestled himself free of her limpet-like embrace. ‘It is not serious. She happens to have tickets to a show tonight that I quite like the idea of seeing.’

‘Is he talking about the show or Carly?’ I smirked at Marnie.

‘You like her…’ Marnie said, singsong style, poking a finger in his ribs.

‘Stop it.’

‘Four dates with the same girl? That’s practically an engagement,’ I laughed. ‘Should we buy our hats now? I can recommend a great florist for the ceremony.’

Ed let out a groan and grabbed his jacket from behind the workroom door. ‘Whatever. You two have a great time tonight doing your girl stuff, OK?’

He left, shaking his head, as Marnie began singing a gutsy rendition of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’.

It was only when Marnie and I were browsing Victoria’s Vintage in SoHo later that afternoon, that I realised how much I needed a ‘girly’ evening. Work had been pretty intense at Kowalski’s lately, with an unexpected rush of small orders that all seemed to be needed on the same days and I had become so wrapped up in the sheer volume of day-to-day stuff at the store that I had neglected my own free time.

‘Isn’t this fun?’ Marnie said, appearing from behind a crowded clothes-rail with a vivid sixties tie-dyed T-shirt.

‘It’s bright,’ I smiled.

‘I don’t mean this,’ Marnie frowned, waving the garment dismissively, ‘although it is rather fabulous. I mean us hanging out.’

‘Yes, it’s great. Just what I needed. So are you buying that?’

Marnie checked the price tag and her face fell. ‘I would be if I didn’t have to pay my rent this month,’ she replied, hanging the T-shirt back on the rail and stroking it wistfully. ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’

I nodded. ‘There’s a Biba blouse I liked over there I think I’m going to buy. I’ll meet you outside, OK?’

Five minutes later we had crossed the street to Ellen’s, a small cosy restaurant much beloved by the local art fraternity. More a laid-back, all-hours coffee shop than a highclass eaterie, Ellen’s was a lazy hum of activity; its expansive, well-worn couches littered with chatting, colourfully-attired customers making the interior look as if a shabby rainbow had exploded and strewn its fragments haphazardly across the room. It was no wonder this was one of Marnie’s favourite haunts—there weren’t many places in New York where she could ‘blend in’, but Ellen’s was a notable exception. Surreal and abstract paintings on huge canvases adorned the bare brick walls and a jazz trio nodded sleepily in one corner. We found a table with mismatched dark wood chairs by the window and sat down.

‘I love it here,’ said Marnie as we perused the hand-drawn menu. ‘My art class used to come here all the time last semester.’

‘I like it,’ I smiled. ‘I wonder how Ed’s getting on.’

Marnie surveyed me quizzically. ‘Now why in the world would you say that?’

Something about her expression unnerved me a little. ‘No reason. I was just wondering, that’s all.’

Marnie leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if the other customers may suddenly take an unwelcome interest in her next comment. ‘Do you like him, Rosie?’

‘Of course I like him, mate. He’s one of my best friends.’

Marnie gave my hand a playful tap. ‘I don’t mean it like that. You know what I mean.’

‘Don’t be silly. I was just wondering how he was going to cope with so many dates with the same woman. You have to admit, it would be a first for him.’

Marnie nodded. ‘That guy has almost more dates than me. I don’t know where he meets them all.’

‘Wherever he goes, apparently. He even got a date when he called an emergency plumber last year.’

‘He dated the plumber?’

‘No, the plumber’s sister, who was along for the ride.’

‘I don’t know why he spends so long chasing women he’s no intention of settling down with,’ Marnie said, turning the menu card over.

‘He likes the chase, I think.’

‘Hmm. I reckon you and he should get together.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Seriously, Rosie, I mean it! Think about it: you spend loads of time together already, you like the same places in New York, you’re both crazy about old movies and eating out—’

‘Stop right there, please. You’re scaring me.’

‘Oh, come on, you mean to tell me that you don’t find Ed in the least bit attractive?’

‘Well, I…’

‘Exactly! He’s gorgeous, Rosie! That guy could charm pollen from a bee. I tell you, if I wasn’t his friend and he didn’t bug the hell out of me like some annoying older brother, I would—’

‘Marnie!’

‘OK, right, so when he comes into the store the morning after a rough night, and he’s all ruffled and unshaven, you haven’t once considered…?’

Just as this conversation was veering wildly towards the point of no return, a waiter appeared by our table to spare my blushes.

‘Hi, ladies, welcome to Ellen’s. Our special tonight is Pancetta Mac Cheese and…wow—uh—hi, Marnie.’

Marnie looked slightly flushed but pleased. ‘Hey, Todd.’

Todd’s eyes appeared transfixed by the vision in orange and purple sitting before him. ‘It’s really good to see you.’

‘You too. Oh, this is my boss, Rosie.’

Todd wrenched his gaze away from Marnie long enough to shake my hand. ‘The florist, right? Hey.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I replied, noting the chemistry between them.

‘So—we’ll have the specials, please, if that’s OK with you, Rosie?’

I nodded. ‘I’ll go with your recommendation.’

‘Great,’ Todd replied, scribbling the order on his pad. Tearing off a strip, he placed it carefully in front of Marnie. ‘Call me,’ he smiled shyly before disappearing into the dimly lit depths of the restaurant.

‘Well, he was nice,’ I said, full of curiosity.

Marnie shrugged and played with a napkin. ‘He’s OK, I guess. We dated a little last year.’

‘Looks like he’s keen to see you again,’ I smiled, indicating the strip of paper laid lovingly on the table. ‘He’s a nice-looking guy too.’

‘Too restrained for me,’ Marnie replied coolly. I couldn’t help but think this probably could apply to most of Manhattan’s single male population when compared to Marnie’s vivid personality and appearance. She beamed cheekily. ‘Not as fine as Ed though, hey?’

Although I would never dream of admitting it to Marnie, I had to privately concede that Ed did have an alarming skill for looking great when most men would just have looked rough. Of course, I could understand how he managed to find so many women eager to go out with him; it was that legendary Steinmann twinkle that rescued him from so many otherwise tricky situations with devastating effect. Even when we have had the biggest rows at Kowalski’s, I’ve never managed to stay angry at him for long. Which is frustrating in the extreme, but then, that’s Ed: like that brown leather jacket of his—a little beaten up by life but so warm and engaging that you forgive the lack of polish immediately. I suppose all those women found themselves torn between admiring the Steinmann twinkle and wanting to take care of him. Unfortunately for them, Ed’s idea of a perfect woman seemed to be, ‘spend time with me when it’s fun and then don’t bother calling’. Not that he was ever cruel: from the little he told us of his dates it appeared that most of the ladies shared his ethos.

Halfway through our Pancetta Mac Cheese, I couldn’t wait any longer to hand Marnie the turquoise Victoria’s Vintage bag I’d been masquerading as my mythical Biba blouse. Flinging aside the vivid magenta tissue paper, Marnie let out a squeak that momentarily made the whole clientele of Ellen’s stop and look at us.

‘It’s the one I was looking at! Oh, Rosie, you shouldn’t have!’

I smiled. ‘You deserve it.’

What many people who see Marnie today don’t realise about her is that her confidence was hard-won. A painfully shy child, her formative years were spent hiding from the other kids in her New Jersey neighbourhood who had noticed early on that both she and her family were different. They taunted her for the colourful handmade clothes her artist mother lovingly dressed her in; for her smiling, bearded art teacher father, whose style remained firmly locked in the sixties; and for the orange VW camper van parked outside their home, standing out like an alien spacecraft amid the sea of sedans that lined the street. While her parents always encouraged her to assert her individuality, it took an incident at Marnie’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ school prom to change how she viewed herself.

Without a date for the night, she had joined the ranks of the singletons sitting around the periphery of the dancefloor, watching and waiting for someone to notice them. To the surprise of everyone, one of the most popular guys in her year left his date to walk over to ‘no date land’ and ask Marnie if she wanted to dance. Struggling to combat her embarrassment, Marnie shyly accepted and walked with him to the centre of the floor, all eyes following her. As she was about to take his hand, however, a cruel smile broke across her partner’s face as he flipped her skirt over her head and yelled, ‘Freak on the dancefloor!’ to the utter delight of those watching.

It was then that Marnie experienced what she describes as ‘my epiphany’. In the centre of the hall, battling the urge to run away, all the years of pent-up frustration and hurt finally found a vent and, like a multicoloured volcano, Marnie erupted. Popular Guy didn’t stand a chance as Marnie’s left fist slammed into his jaw, laying him out cold in the middle of the high school gym, encircled by sparkles from the revolving mirrorball overhead.

‘I’d rather be different than a jerk like you!’ she yelled, as the ‘no date land’ inhabitants broke into spontaneous applause. The event brought about a deep change in Marnie—not least for the rest of that evening, where boys who had never acknowledged her existence before suddenly stood in line to dance with her. From that moment to this, Marnie’s love life has always been well populated, if limited in terms of success. Nevertheless, the confident, kooky young woman who bounces into Kowalski’s every morning is a breath of fresh air and I wouldn’t be without her for the world.

If Marnie and I had entertained any ideas that Ed might finally have found a longer-term prospect in Carly, we were to be quickly proved wrong. By Monday, he had already agreed to see three other ladies and Carly’s name was never mentioned again. When Marnie pressed him for more information a week later, all she got in return was a disinterested shrug and a mumbled excuse about them ‘wanting different things’—which, translated, meant she was probably keener than he. In an odd way, knowing that the Great Steinmann Dating Express was still on its non-committed tracks was strangely comforting. It confirmed that Kowalski’s was still the same: Ed was still dating, Marnie was as colourful as ever, Celia continued to fly in and out and the shop was as much as a neighbourhood hub as it had always been. It felt safe—and nobody knows the value of that feeling like I do.

Little did I know then that seemingly innocuous events just around the corner were going to change everything.

Chapter Four

There is nothing quite like returning home after a long day. Don’t get me wrong: I love my shop. But I get a kick from turning the key in the lock to reveal the welcoming sight of my apartment. It has this unique smell—wood polish, old coffee and lavender. It signifies just one thing to me: I’m home.

The first thing I do is crank Old F’s sister, Hissy (after the noise it makes and the fits it occasionally throws in the process) into action. Slightly younger than my workmate, but equally as unprepossessing, my home coffee maker gurgles happily into life and infuses the whole place with its fragrance. Then, mug in hand, I check my answer machine.

This particular late summer’s day there were three—the first two were from Mum, reminding me about my brother’s birthday and informing me that James would be in the States on business next week. It’s possible to have a conversation with Mum’s answer machine messages because she leaves gaps where you would normally say ‘Mmm’, ‘I see’, or, ‘Oh dear’ in a phone call.

‘It would be lovely if James could visit you, but he says he’ll be tied up in Washington the whole time…’

‘That’s a shame…’

‘It’s a shame, I know.’

‘Hmm…’

‘I’d like to say he’ll call you, but you know what he’s like, dear.’

‘Yes, so wrapped up in his own universe that no one else matters…’

‘He’s so wrapped up in his work commitments that he never has time to do the things he wants. Anyhow, darling, I must go…’

‘I expect this call’s expensive…’

‘It’s so expensive to call you at this time of night.’

I smiled. ‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’

‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’ The message ended. I shook my head and smiled before taking a long sip of coffee. For the tiniest second, I wished myself home with Mum in England again.

The last message was from Celia. There are normally several messages from Celia, their length, volume and coherence depending on how near a total breakdown she is at the time.

‘Rosie, it’s me. It’s six forty-five. Where are you? Call me the second you get this.’

‘OK, OK, wait one second while I get changed,’ I muttered, walking into my bedroom.

True to form, Celia wasn’t listening. No sooner had I kicked off my shoes, the phone rang.

‘All right, fine, seeing as you insist, I’ll talk to you first then,’ I sighed.

‘Rosie—thank goodness, honey. I was thinking something awful must have happened to you.’

I smiled despite myself. ‘I caught a bus to the deli and then walked home. It’s actually light this time of day in August, you know. What could possibly have happened to me?’

‘Anything, Rosie! My colleague has been working on a piece about how many single young women meet supposedly wonderful young men in bars after work, only to have their apartments ransacked once they’ve slept with them…’

‘Celia, listen to yourself! I’m fine. I haven’t slept with any supposedly wonderful young men today and everything in my apartment is just as I left it this morning.’

‘Well, I only worry because I care about you,’ Celia said, with more than a hint of offence in her tone.

‘I know—and I really appreciate it. Now, what can I do for you?’

‘I need you to come by the office tomorrow, if you can.’

‘Why?’ I asked carefully, picturing Ed and Marnie’s stern faces.

‘I want to feature you in our “West Siders” column. So many guests who met you at the Authors’ Meet have been asking about you.’

I frowned. This was the second time I’d heard that today and it seemed weird. All I’d done was have one conversation about lavender and take part in a lot of polite smalltalk. ‘Mimi Sutton said the same thing when I rang her today, Celia. Just who has been asking about me?’

‘Everyone, sweetie! Angelika, Henrik, Jane, Brent—in fact I spoke with Brent this evening and he said he’d seen you briefly at Mimi’s office. He’s very taken with you, y’know. He said you’re like an English Sandra Bullock.’

‘I look nothing like Sandra Bullock,’ I commented.

‘Oh, you do, Rosie! Everyone says it! Mimi said it at the party and I’ve heard that Ed from your store say it too.’

‘Ed said it?’ I repeated, making a mental note to challenge him on that tomorrow. ‘Well, I have dark hair and dark eyes, but there the similarity ends,’ I replied, ‘I mean, if Sandra Bullock put on a stone then maybe we’d be more alike.’

Celia was obviously getting tired of this subject. ‘Well, whatever, Rosie, you’re officially a hit! Just like I said you would be. Look, my editor asked me today to find interesting, upcoming West Side individuals for the new column and I thought what a great opportunity it would be to get the word out on you! Come by at one tomorrow and we’ll discuss it all. Love you, must go.’

And with that, she was gone and blessed peace was restored.

Slowly, I put the receiver down and reached for my diary, as my mind clicked into hyperdrive. Why had there been so much interest in me from the party? I couldn’t understand it. The question remained at the forefront of my mind as I grilled chicken and made a large salad. As I ate my evening meal, my eye kept returning to the open diary page for tomorrow. While I found myself quite excited at the prospect, an undeniable underlying note of caution sounded too.

Publicity can, I have discovered, work one of two ways. Either it can be incredibly successful, or it can backfire on you Big Time. Like the time my mum paid to place an advert in the local paper, informing readers that, ‘Eadern Blooms are taking 50% off prices for the first week of May’, yet somewhere between Mum faxing the details and the newspaper being printed, Eadern Blooms had become ‘Eadern Bloomers’ and for a week she was inundated with irate OAPs demanding cutprice underwear. Or, like the time my brother, James, was in the paper for one of his early business ventures. He was pictured with a girlfriend, who, the interview stated, had been going steady with him for three years and was looking forward to becoming Mrs James Duncan in the not-too-distant future. Problem was, four girls who he was also seeing at the time read that article too. They turned up at our house en masse and all hell broke loose. Still, James had always said he wanted to travel in an ambulance with its siren blaring and lights flashing…

With this in mind, I decided that I would go to see Celia as planned, and politely but firmly refuse her offer. We were doing fine at Kowalski’s: the neighbourhood business was as good as ever and now, with Mimi Sutton’s commission for the Grand Winter Ball, things were looking decidedly healthy on the event front. The publicity we could gain from me being in the ‘West Siders’ column might only serve to swamp us with work we were unprepared for—and the last thing I wanted was to run before we could walk. Right now the balance between day-to-day sales and special events was just about right. I wasn’t about to sell out and ruin what, in my opinion, set Kowalski’s apart from other, larger florists in New York. Decision made, I went to bed content and fell asleep almost straight away.

That night, my dreams were incredibly vivid. Images flashed through my mind at supersonic speed—Ed smiling, Mimi Sutton in her magnificent office, Brent’s wide grin, bumping into Nate Amie and Mum’s phone message about James. Then, suddenly, I could feel a man’s heartbeat, the warmth of his arms around me, his breath in my hair. It was wonderful. I felt…safe. I raised my head from his chest to look in his eyes…At first, I couldn’t make out his features. Then, I recognised him. The feeling of safety dissolved, replaced with a vice-grip of nausea. Suddenly, the scene changed. I was now standing in a garden, facing a group of familiar faces. They were smiling at me. I heard myself speak—voice full of emotion, fighting back tears: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…’

I woke with a start. Shafts of moonlight pooled in through the bedroom window. Breathing hard, face wet with tears and perspiration, I sat bolt upright and looked around to regain my bearings. Reaching across to the bedside table, I snapped the light on. A warm golden glow bathed the features of my room—the antique whitewashed chair by my bed with its flea-market-find patchwork quilt throw, the painting of Bridgnorth that Mum had brought on her last visit, the dark wood chest of drawers Celia had donated when I first moved here—familiar décor soothing my burning eyes. I wiped my brow and forced myself to breathe deeply. Slowly, the hammering of my heart eased. But the nausea sat defiant in my stomach.

‘Get a grip, girl,’ I chastised myself. ‘It’s just a dream. It’s gone now—it isn’t real.’

Well, it isn’t real now, said a voice inside my head. But it was once.

Chapter Five

‘Rosie, no! You have to do this!’ Ed insisted, banging down his coffee mug on the counter to emphasise his point. ‘It’s the best potential publicity we’ve had in years. The entire readership of the New York Times—think how many potential customers we could reach.’

My amazing, fail-safe plan for getting out of Celia’s ‘West Siders’ column was obviously going well…I thought I’d picked the perfect moment when Ed came into work early the following morning. Marnie wasn’t due in for another hour so I figured I could talk Ed round and avoid too many disagreements. Simple—or so, I thought. I’d made him a coffee as usual and then mentioned, so casually that the comment could have carried a Gap label, what I was planning to do. I was already reconciled to the fact that I’d probably face the standard Steinmann Rant but I was certain that even he, eventually, would have to agree with my point of view.

He didn’t, of course. This wasn’t what I wanted. Not this morning, still unnerved by the dream from last night. I dropped my head behind the battle lines and dug in for a long fight. Taking a deep breath, I began my defence.

‘I just don’t see why anyone would want to read about me, Ed. About Kowalski’s—yes, fine—but not about me.’

Ed’s expression changed from incomprehension to incredulous. ‘What?’ he said, looking at me like I’d just told him the Statue of Liberty had been painted pink. ‘How do you figure that, Rosie?’

I struggled to find a reply. ‘I…I…just think there are other, more deserving people than me, that’s all…’

Ed shook his head. ‘Exactly how more deserving? What are you afraid of?’

I punched my hands onto my hips, my anger rising ‘Nothing. I just—’

But I didn’t get the chance to finish. Ed had rearmed and was sounding dangerously like Mum. ‘Rosie, you’ve made this store a success. So much so that you’ve single-handedly scored our biggest commission to date with Mimi Sutton. And don’t give me that “we can’t cope with any more big orders” crap. We don’t stop being who we are just because our arrangements are a little bigger. I’ve already told you, Marnie and I are more than happy to branch out. I think maybe it’s time, don’t you? So I don’t know why on earth you think people wouldn’t be interested to read about you…’ His voice trailed off as understanding dawned across his features. His voice was low and conspiratorial when he spoke next. ‘Ah. Yeah, I see now. I get it.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘This isn’t about you being embarrassed. Or about Kowalski’s growing too big too soon. This is about you facing the danger of having to open up, for once. You’re scared,’ he taunted, jabbing his finger at me.

‘I am not scared—’

‘Yes, Rosie, you are. You’ve read this kind of interview before: name, age and favourite colour isn’t enough for journalists these days. Maybe they’ll be content to cover the basics about you. But then again, maybe they won’t. And that’s what scares you the most.’

‘Ed, I can’t believe you’re making such an issue out of this—’

‘And I can’t believe you think I’d fall for your “I’m too humble to court fame” line. I know you too well, Rosie.’

‘Well, obviously you don’t know me as well as you think. Because if you did you’d understand why I don’t want to do the interview.’

Ed’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed as he squared up to me. ‘OK, so tell me why.’

Halfway between tears and righteous indignation, I struggled to reply. I hate it when Ed and I fight. He always knows how to get right under my skin and it’s so annoying that he’s better at the whole shebang than I am.

‘I…I don’t know. I just don’t want to do it. So stop bugging me and leave it now, OK?’ I looked away.

Ed threw his hands up. ‘Ha! Exactly what I thought! You have no good reason. Except maybe one.’

‘Would you just leave it? And since when does my supposed reluctance to share every single detail of my life with everyone have anything to do with you?’

‘Because it stops you doing so much.’

‘Like what? Like spending my entire life on a never-ending rollercoaster of one-off dates? A million identical conversations, the only difference being the new face on the other side of the table? Oh, yeah, I’m really missing out on that one.’

Ed let out a groan of frustration. ‘What I choose to do on my own dates is up to me, don’t you think?’

‘Absolutely. I just feel sorry for the girls who date you, that’s all.’

‘Well at least I have a ready supply of willing volunteers to be let down by me,’ he returned, looking hot under the collar. ‘I don’t hear any of them complaining.’

‘Maybe that’s because you never stick around long enough to find out the truth. You’re a tart, Ed Steinmann. A singledate, commitment-phobic tart!’

‘Well, at least I’m not hiding away pretending I’m happy,’ he shot back. ‘At least I have a life outside this store. And sure, it may not be the kind of life you’d choose, Miss Highly Principled Florist, but I get by.’

I snorted and looked away. ‘Whatever.’

Ed shook his head. ‘I don’t get you, Rosie. I’m sorry, I just don’t. You obviously have stuff you don’t want to share with other people—I mean, heck, who doesn’t have things hidden in their past they’d rather keep concealed? But you don’t even open up to your closest friends. Marnie and I still don’t know why you came to New York. It’s like there’s a whole side of you we know nothing about.’

‘You don’t need to know,’ I replied, pushing the rising fear away at the mention of the subject. ‘I am not my past. I don’t look back. So just accept me for who I am or don’t bother at all.’

Ed crossed his arms. ‘Do the interview, Rosie.’

‘No. I don’t want to.’

Ed’s stare narrowed. ‘Fine. You don’t want to tell the story? Maybe I’ll just do it for you, right now.’ He strode over to the door and flung it open. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Manhattan, may I present, for your consideration, the great Rosie Duncan, who thrives on each and every challenge her business throws at her, but is so damn scared of sharing her heart with anyone…’

‘You idiot!’ I grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut. Wounded, but certainly not down yet, I found a renewed impetus to fight and promptly returned fire. ‘You’re unbelievable, Ed! And this diagnosis of my life from the great Ed Steinmann, amateur psychiatrist, who feels licensed to comment on everyone else’s life but never shares his own! The man who must be so damn perfect because he’s apparently the only person in the whole world with no cares at all?’

My last comment hung in the air like gun smoke. We stopped firing and stared at each other, our breathing quick and short, our minds whirring. But remorse was beginning to kick in.

Ed looked away and took a long, deep breath. ‘You have no idea what my cares are, Rosie.’ Gone was the anger, replaced instead with a steady, measured defiance.

‘And you don’t know mine,’ I returned. My voice sounded weak and shaky.

Tears stung my eyes. We were like two gunslingers one minute after high noon, waiting for someone to realise we’d been mortally wounded. For a moment, I was determined not to give in. Until Ed spoke.

‘Well. Thank you for your honesty. At last I know where I stand.’ Real fear hit me as his words sunk in. Someone had to back down. I took a step towards him, scanning his expression in the hope I might catch a flicker of redemption there.

‘Ed, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just…I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry…Can we be friends…please?’

I could see the tension gripping his broad shoulders as they rose and fell quickly with his breath. Head lowered, staring at the floor, his mussed-up dark hair was almost obscuring the blue eyes that had burned into mine moments before. I waited for his response, fearful of what it might be. It seemed an eternity before he slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. He studied me like he couldn’t believe I could hurt him so much. My pulse quickened, scared I could have blown our friendship for the sake of a few cheap shots. The store was silent except for the slow, rhythmic tick of the clock behind the counter. The world outside seemed to be holding its breath. Watching. Waiting.

Finally, Ed sighed and came close. His hug was warm and forgiving, the scent of his woody cologne mingling with the fresh cotton of his shirt, soft against my cheek. Relief washed over me as I held him tight. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie…’ he breathed, stroking my head. ‘I didn’t mean it either. It’s OK, it’s OK now…’

Then my tears came, gently at first but rapidly increasing in intensity, until soon I was sobbing hard against Ed’s shoulder. For a long time the only sounds were my tears and the insistent beat of his heart. Then he spoke in a soft whisper right by my ear.

‘It’s time you started to live a little, OK? That’s all I’m saying. You have people who care about you and this amazing city to play in. You can trust us with anything, you know?’

Slowly, my tears began to ebb. I pulled my head up and we locked gazes.

‘You just have to trust me on this, Ed. I know you care about me and I know I can tell you anything. It’s just that the reason I came to New York is something I’m still trying to work out. I can’t tell you about it yet. But I promise you, as soon as I’m ready, you’ll be the first to know. Is that OK?’

Ed shook his head, the faintest glimmer of a smile appearing. ‘You are very lucky to have me as a friend. I’ll hold you to that promise, you know, Duncan.’

I smiled back, relieved to be moving away from the subject I dreaded more than anything. ‘Absolutely.’

Nobody ever tells you when you’re little how hard life can be when you grow up. They don’t explain that friendships stop being simple, choices stop being easy and the joys of childhood stop altogether. They just ask you what you want to be when you’re older. Whatever the minefield of life could hold in store for you, it seems the answer to this single question is all you need to be armed with. Which is all very well if you happen to have picked something sensible for your future career—like being a doctor or a brain surgeon—but not if, like me, you say you’d like to be Tinkerbell. They smile and pat you on the head…but you guess from this reaction that they will be relating your career aspiration at their grown-ups’ dinner parties for years to come. And the world of the Grown-Up becomes an irresistibly romantic utopia: one that you would do anything to visit. Well, almost anything.

Now that I have reached that illustrious pinnacle, I often find myself wanting so badly to be five years old again. Choices were simpler (orange or blackcurrant squash?) and I knew what I wanted (always blackcurrant). I remember thinking that being a lollipop lady like Mrs Pearson, our next-door neighbour, was really cool (if you couldn’t achieve your fairy ambitions, that is). In fact, I spent a whole summer when I was five making my brother pretend to be a car so I could step out in front of him with my homemade paper-plate-and-stick lollipop. When you’re a kid, your whole ethos about what makes a good friend can be turned upside down by the offer of a Fruit Salad chew from a 10p mix. Friendships were simple—I’ll be your friend if today you’re not speaking to her, but not if you’re her friend tomorrow. Come to think of it, though, that’s not altogether unlike the way some so-called grown-ups behave right now. Maybe there are a lot of people who are really just big kids in suits. Especially in a city like New York.

As I was soon to discover.

At twelve thirty I left the shop and hailed a yellow taxicab to travel to the offices of the New York Times. My morning had been incredibly hard. Coming so close to revealing my past to Ed had unnerved me, but sitting in the back of the cab now, I couldn’t shake the niggling doubt that I might not get another chance. I shifted my position, still feeling uncomfortable.

‘You OK, lady?’ asked the smiling oriental taxi driver, looking at me in his rear-view mirror. I managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’

This is not always a wise question to ask in New York. You are usually treated to a delightful combination of complaints and strongly worded opinions about anything and everything from the price of rents and the state of the US domestic situation to the possible parentage of the driver in front. Usually, I don’t ask. But my mind was attempting to process too many thoughts and needed distracting for a while.

Thankfully today, Ken, my friendly driver, only wanted to talk about his new baby girl. He reached behind the sunshield, pulled out a photo and passed it over his shoulder to me. A smiley lady was pictured holding a tiny, equally smiley baby.

‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

Ken smiled. ‘Sunshine. Sunshine Wang. We call her Sunny for short. She’ll be five weeks tomorrow. My wife is so proud. She always wanted to be a mother. You know she left a good job on Wall Street to look after Sunny? I’m working double shifts so she can be a stay-home mom.’

‘That must be difficult for you,’ I sympathised, handing the precious photo back.

‘Nah, it’s OK, lady.’ he replied, taking it from me and carefully replacing it. ‘I just spend every day showing New York my little blessing girl.’

I smiled and sank back into the cab seat to watch New York pass by. Buildings, people and traffic merged into a colourfilled blur as I let my aching mind drift a little in the soothing anonymity of the yellow taxi carrying me through the city I love. I was tired; wearier than I had felt in a long time. But there was something else, too: something new. Deep inside me I sensed a change, subtler than the switch from late summer to early autumn, heralding a new season of sorts. The dream last night had brought so many well-concealed memories bubbling back up to the surface and a large part of me felt completely ill-equipped to deal with them. Just as I was six years ago…Only this time, there seemed to be even more at stake.

Hiding a secret takes more than simply not revealing it to others. It involves every part of you: conscious thoughts, physical actions, untold emotions; and still, even when each is covered and supposedly well-guarded, your work isn’t done. In every situation you enter, the ever-present mental checklist remains: conversation topics you should avoid, light-hearted comments that might give more away than you plan, and, most of all, people you shouldn’t get too close to, for fear of the secret slipping out.

Whilst I hated to admit it, Ed had absolutely hit the nail on the head earlier:

It’s like there’s a whole side of you we know nothing about.

There was a good reason why I guarded my secret: I had no intention of letting anyone get close enough to me to find out why I came to America and why I eventually sought sanctuary surrounded by Mr K’s peaceful blooms. Only one other person in New York knew what I hid: Celia. And even she didn’t know it all.

The cab made a sharp right turn, as if to mirror my train of thought. But it’s been six years, my conscience ventured shyly, well aware of the magnitude of this suggestion. Perhaps the dream last night meant it was time to let go of the past? I caught my breath as the bold assertion glimmered before my eyes like the sunlight glinting along the roof of a taxi speeding alongside mine. How long should you hold on to something like this? What would be the worst that could happen if someone else knew? Were Ed and Marnie likely to allow the revelation of my past to affect how they saw me now? My heart rate began to increase and heat began claiming my face as a dim image of the possible scenario played out like a flicker-book film in my mind.

As the cab slowed to approach the home of the New York Times, I quickly bundled the debate to the darkest recesses of my mind and forced my thoughts to snap back to the present as I rummaged in my handbag for my purse.

Celia was waiting by the building’s grand entrance. I could see her checking her watch irritably and looking accusingly up the street as my cab pulled up. Once out on the sidewalk, I turned to Ken and handed him a few more notes than he’d asked for. On seeing his puzzled expression I explained: ‘Something extra for your little blessing girl.’ Exit one immensely proud and smiley father.

Celia grabbed my arm impatiently and whisked me inside the building. Before I knew it, we were already in the elevator and up to the fifteenth floor. When Celia is on a mission, you end up moving fast.

‘I can tell you’ve had a bad morning, sweetie,’ she said, as the chrome doors opened to reveal her office, ‘but we’ll talk about it later, OK?’

I agreed, not taking the slightest offence. Celia cares deeply about her friends and will get to chat about their important stuff eventually, once whatever is driving her at that moment is resolved. I don’t mind. I especially didn’t mind today. I was in no hurry whatsoever to repeat the whole discomforting soul-searching thing. It felt like my soul had, this particular morning, been scrutinised way too much already.

‘Now, about the interview—I’m so thrilled about it! I’ve got our new features reporter, Josh Mercer, to do it for us,’ Celia informed me once we were sitting in her office. ‘I thought his take on you would be fresher and more immediate than mine. We’ll need a photo too, but Josh can do that when he visits. I suggested he come to Kowalski’s to talk to you—is that OK?’

Hands raised in surrender, I had to smile. ‘Fine.’

‘Wonderful! So, he’ll come by Tuesday next week? That way we can be ready for the weekend edition.’

There was no point trying to argue with her. ‘Sounds great,’ I smiled, hoping I sounded somewhere near convincing.

But Celia was already well into her next task, tapping accusingly on her keyboard and looking decidedly vexed. ‘How annoying can technology be? Oh, where is it? I had it on screen just a second ago and now it’s not there…ah, here we are…’ She stopped, looked over at me and gave a sheepish smile. ‘Wait, I’m sorry, Rosie. I haven’t even said hi to you.’

I grinned back and gave a little wave. ‘Hi, Celia.’

‘Hi, Rosie. Sorry.’

‘It’s OK.’

A new page loaded on her screen and the Celia Reighton Express was off again. ‘Now, where was I? Ah, mmm…this.’ She pointed to the screen. ‘I wanted you to see this, Rosie. You said you didn’t know why people have been asking about you since the Authors’ Meet? Well, this will show you how big a stir you’ve caused.’ She motioned for me to come to her side of the desk. On screen was an email from Mimi Sutton:

To: celia.r@nyt.com

From: madamemimi@suttoncorps.com

Re: Your wonderful English Rose Darling Celia,

I just got another call from your florist—who is adorable—she definitely has something new with her designs. I’m impressed already. In fact, I emailed my entire address book today with the news about her store. So now anyone who wants to be anyone in this town will choose her. Though I say it myself, it’s another trend New York can thank me for. Rosie Duncan is now, officially, the Next Big Thing. As for Nathaniel Amie…well, expect an order from him VERY SOON, if our conversation today was anything to go by—dare I suggest he might be about to finally make an honest woman of Caitlin? We can but hope…Don’t forget—drinks at Viva Gramercy next Thursday at 6 p.m. Much love, Mimi x

‘How about that?’ asked Celia, triumphantly. ‘You’ve only won over one of the most influential women in Manhattan!’ I wasn’t quite sure what to say. Before I could formulate a reply, Celia continued, ‘But the best of it is the call I got today.’

‘Who from?’

Celia paused for effect. ‘Philippe. He is fuming, Rosie!’

Uh-oh. Not good.

‘What did he say?’ I asked slowly, not wanting the answer.

‘He’s had calls from some of his biggest clients informing him they no longer require his services.’

Incredibly not good. I pulled a face. ‘Let me guess—all these people feature in Mimi’s address book?’

‘Corr-ect!’ Celia sang as I groaned and dropped my head into my hands.

‘Great,’ I yelped. ‘Just great. Have you any idea how much trouble this could cause Kowalski’s?’

Celia’s smile faded slightly. ‘How do you mean, honey?’

‘Think about it! I don’t want to make an enemy of Philippe Devereau. Pretentious and vastly over-priced he may be, but he’s also the market leader in New York. His business is huge. He is not going to take kindly to a little boutique business like Kowalski’s stealing his best customers.’

Celia gave me a hug. ‘You’re not stealing them,’ she smiled. ‘You’re being given them! You worry far too much, Rosie. It’s business—and all’s fair in it.’

I desperately hoped she was right.

Chapter Six

The next morning was fine and bright. Small wispy white clouds were draped theatrically across the sky and made an impressive spectacle as I pulled back my curtains to let the day in. The silver maple tree planted in the street outside my window was just beginning to adorn itself in its gorgeous yellow-gold hues for the autumn. There was a decided chill in the air as I opened the front door and walked down the brownstone steps onto my street.

It’s only a short walk from my apartment to Celia’s but it’s an essential part of my Saturdays. My Saturdays are as close to sacred as they can be and I guard them jealously. Well, I do now. This was not always the case. When I first took the helm at Kowalski’s I felt I had to be there every single minute the shop was open. I developed a disaster-movie mentality to my business; as if the moment I wasn’t there things would start blowing up, or a meteor would burst through the atmosphere on a collision course with the shop, or aliens would invade—or all of the above—and I would return to find the place gutted with my staff staring blankly at me, asking, ‘Where were you when we needed you?’

After about a year I got so tired and so stressed out that all my creativity drained and we started to lose customers because my designs became lacklustre. It was then that Ed took me to one side and politely but firmly suggested that I needed time away from the business—for everyone’s sake.

‘You need some down time, girl,’ he told me, in no uncertain terms. ‘Marnie and I are more than capable of running the store without you for one whole day. You say you love this city so much? Well, give yourself the time to enjoy it. If you don’t, you’ll never survive here.’ As ever, he was right. So I set aside my Saturdays for seeing Celia and other friends, while Sundays were designated for reading, researching new styles and ideas and generally just spending time exploring my wonderful city, mostly under the wise (if slightly food-obsessed) guidance of Ed.

Talking of food, on my way to Celia’s I always make a oneblock detour south to visit M&H Bakers, my neighbourhood bakery, to pick up some warm pastries, bagels or muffins for our chats. I love the New York combination of good food and good conversation. I’m not sure why, but somehow it’s a whole lot easier to solve life’s problems when you’re in the middle of demolishing a warm bagel smothered in cream cheese with smoked salmon, or a slice of blueberry pie. Even Ed, who vociferously dislikes the Upper West Side, is impressed by this place.

Frank, the small round guy behind the bakery counter, shouted out as I walked in, ‘Good mornin’ to ya, Ms Duncan!’

‘Hi, Frank. How are you today?’

He waved his hand from side to side. ‘Oh, so-so. You know.’

‘Uh-huh,’ I replied with a nod. No matter how brightly the sun is shining, how many customers he has or generally how good his life is, Frank will always find something to despair over. In that sense, he is every inch a New Yorker. ‘So,’ I asked with a smile, ‘what’s the special today, then? Anything good?’

Frank placed a hand across his heart and feigned offence. ‘Do I have anything good? Do I have anything good? I am shocked you gotta ask me! OK, lady, how’s this…’ He reached behind him and lifted a basket onto the counter. ‘Check these babies out.’ I surveyed the basket full of large, golden brown bagels. The smell was amazing—like warm spiced apple pie.

‘Wow. Apple, sugar and cinnamon, right? I’ll take six, please.’

Frank let out a whoop and clapped his hands. ‘She got it!’ He spun round and called loudly into the back of the store. ‘Hey, Luigi, she got it right again!’

A short, incredibly hairy arm appeared round the door that led to the kitchen, and waved. A thick breathy Italian-American voice called back, ‘Dat’s great, Frankie!’

Frank turned back and filled a brown paper bag with bagels. ‘You’re too good, Rosie,’ he smiled, shaking his head. ‘Too good. But we’ll get you one day soon.’

In all the years I’ve come to this place, I’ve never actually seen Luigi. Well, only the incredibly hairy arm and the disembodied voice. Why is he always out back? What if they have to keep him there? What if the sight of all of him is simply too traumatic for the average bakery customer? I have this theory about Luigi. Picture the scene: a young couple in Italy go to see the priest in their small village, late at night. In the priest’s small, dimly lit kitchen they present their one and only child to him. Horror paints the priest’s face and he has to look away. Even in the meagre candlelight the child is hideous. The mother sobs and turns to her husband. In desperation, the father begs the priest: is there anything, anything, you can do for our son? His life will be miserable—people will judge him by his appearance, not what he can do…The old priest’s face is filled with compassion for the plight of this child. He thinks for a while. There is one thing, he replies. If we can teach him a trade—one that brings pleasure to others—he may have a chance of respect…The parents place their son in the care of the local monastery, and he learns to be a pastry chef…Many years later, after the young man finishes his apprenticeship, he emigrates to America to seek his fortune and finds work—here—at M&H Bakers, and the wise old priest’s plan appears to have been successful. But prejudice runs deep—even in the Land of the Free—and while his delectable creations bring undeniable pleasure to Upper West Side residents, his physical appearance leaves him condemned to always, always stay out back…

‘Your imagination is crazy,’ laughed Celia, emerging from the kitchen as I recounted my theory, ‘but your taste in pastries is impeccable!’

I gave a little bow. ‘Well, thank you.’

Celia sat down. ‘So tell me. What happened to you yesterday? You looked white as a ghost when I saw you.’

I winced as still-fresh images took centre stage in my mind. ‘Um, I had a bit of a difficult conversation.’

Celia frowned. ‘Oh?’

‘With Ed.’

‘Oh…why difficult?’

‘We had an argument about—’ I stopped and checked what I was saying. ‘You know, it was so petty I can’t even remember what it was about.’ I looked at Celia, hoping she wouldn’t press me. Luckily for me, she was far too concerned with details of what happened next. ‘Anyway, it got ugly, I apologised, we made up, and then…um…’

Celia leaned forward, coffee mug almost spilling with anticipation. ‘And then…?’

‘…Then I nearly ended up telling him everything. About why I came to America. About what happened.’

Celia gasped, her face a picture of surprise. ‘But you didn’t?’

I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t. What’s worse was it made me look like I don’t trust him enough.’

Celia let out a cry. ‘Oh, sweetheart, it doesn’t look that way at all.’

‘You don’t think?’

‘Not one bit. But I take it you’re not sure you made the right decision?’ She was right. I wasn’t. Celia reached across the table and clamped a hand over mine. ‘You are perfectly at liberty to tell anyone whatever you choose to—or not. Nobody has the right to demand that kind of information from you, honey, you understand?’

I nodded. ‘Ed said I’m scared to let people close. And he’s right, I am.’ I took a long sip of coffee and looked out to the street below. ‘I don’t know, maybe I should open up more. Maybe it’s time. There’s just this feeling I have that I’m not ready yet. But then, do you ever reach a point where you know you’re ready, or does it just happen?’

Celia straightened up and smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘From my experience, you’ll discover you’re ready when you’re in the middle of telling someone.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ I replied, taking another sip of coffee. ‘I’m just not sure if I missed my cue there, you know?’

‘Rosie, you’ll do this in your own time, believe me. I mean, look at when you told me: we’d barely known each other longer than a couple of weeks and out it came, right in the middle of my kitchen, when I was making chicken soup for Jerry.’

I had to smile. My impromptu revelation to Celia had surprised me even more than it had her. ‘How New York was I with that? It was almost worthy of its own series on HBO.’

Celia grinned. ‘As I recall, our outfits were nowhere near as fabulous enough for that!’

I cast my gaze around the rich creams and dark blues of Celia’s living room, noting the antique painting of a jar of lilies, which we often joke about, seeing as she cannot stand the real article. ‘The fact is, I think deep down I’m scared of becoming my past. I don’t want to become synonymous with what happened to me, you know? I’m scared of being given a label that people use instead of my name—like they do on those reality talk shows: “Monica, 34, Idaho, Desperate for a Baby…Jim, 27, Tennessee, Clinically Depressed…” I’m frightened of the inextricable link that would be made between my past and who I am now.’

Celia saw my struggle and smiled.

‘Rosie, you are a beautiful person all round. You have so many people who love you and accept you for who you are. What happened to you in Boston was not your fault, remember? You couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen and you were not responsible for the mess that drove you here. Look at you now: you have a successful business, you’re in a city you adore more than any sane individual should, and, most importantly, you are a good person. The people who matter won’t think any differently of you if you trust them with your secret.’

I smiled a little. ‘You think so?’

‘I know so. Hey, I’m the reporter here. So trust my journalistic instincts, OK?’

‘OK.’

‘And talking of journalism, I’m sure you’ll get a good piece in the Saturday edition. My editor thinks your story is going to be perfect.’

‘Really?’

Celia nodded. ‘Absolutely. Josh Mercer’s not just a great reporter, you know, he also happens to be the finest photographer we’ve had in years too. Only the best for Kowalski’s! You’ll be in very safe hands with him. So stop worrying already.’

‘Thanks, Celia. Not just for that, for everything.’

She smiled with satisfaction. ‘You’re most certainly welcome. Oh…oh!’ she exclaimed, as her thoughts violently altered course. ‘I meant to tell you yesterday, but I guess I forgot. How could I forget? It’s so interesting.’ She waved her hands in the air, struggling to catch her breath in the sudden rush of excitement that now had her in its grip.

I giggled. ‘Celia, take a breath—calm down—what is it?’

She paused for dramatic effect, then gestured as though presenting a precious gift to me. ‘Nathaniel Amie,’ she announced triumphantly, her expression lit by fires of expectation.

My reaction failed to play its part. ‘The publisher guy? From the party?’ Celia was nodding impatiently. I pretended I was still in the dark. ‘What about him?’ I asked breezily, appearing unconcerned, but secretly enjoying this new game.

Close to spontaneous combustion now, Celia’s eyes were in danger of leaving their sockets. She let out an incredulous cry. ‘Oohh, Rosie Duncan, you are impossible! You might at least try to look interested.’

I could hold my serious face no longer. ‘Sorry, Celia. I am interested, honest.’

Celia pulled a good-natured grimace. ‘Well, act like it already.’

I clasped my hands together. ‘Please tell me about Nathaniel Amie, Celia, I beg you!’

She clapped her hands with delight. ‘OK, OK. How about this. When you left yesterday I had to go see him about my book—did I tell you I’m writing a book?’

‘Only a few thousand times.’

She didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Well, anyway I am. So, I had to go see him about publishing my work with Gray & Connelle. And he asked me—about you!’

‘Really?’ I said carefully, suddenly interested for real.

‘Mm-hm,’ she affirmed and then accused me with a wagging finger. ‘You didn’t tell me you saw him at Mimi’s place.’

‘I did—er—bump into him, yes.’ I smiled, hoping Celia didn’t know all the details.

She did. ‘He told me. He said he walked straight into you and sent you flying.’

‘Great,’ I groaned, slapping my hand over my eyes.

‘No, sweetie, he was concerned he’d hurt you. Really. He said you shot out of the building faster than Britney from rehab. He was worried he’d offended you.’

I groaned again. ‘I was so embarrassed, Celia. It was not the best way to make an impression.’

Celia tried unsuccessfully to stifle her amusement. ‘Well, you made an impression on Nate, apparently.’

Outside the sun broke free from the clouds that had been steadily building all morning, and bright rays flooded into the room.

‘I did? What did he say?’

‘He asked me about you. How old you are. Where in England you’re from. How long you’ve lived in New York. What brought you here in the first place.’ She saw my expression. ‘Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him. I just said you were offered a job in Boston, Ben invited you to stay with him so you could take it up and then later you decided to switch career and move here. Acceptable?’

I couldn’t hide the relief in my voice. ‘Yes—most acceptable—thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. As I was saying, he wanted details. He said he might just have to come see you at the store. He has very expensive tastes when it comes to flowers. He orders a lot, you know…’

‘He does? You’re such a journalist, Celia.’ I moaned. ‘OK, OK, yes, I want to know why he orders so many flowers.’

‘Well, you know he’s been dating Mimi’s daughter Caitlin?’

Suddenly, the reference I remembered seeing in Mimi’s email made sense. So the Caitlin in question was Caitlin Sutton. No wonder Mimi wanted a wedding so badly.

‘No, I didn’t know. Is she nice?’

‘Hmm—nice is not the particular adjective I’d choose.’ Celia frowned, her eyes twinkling. ‘Try manipulative, self-centred or, in fact…’

‘…Just like her mother?’ I ventured.

‘Ha! You got it. But gorgeous, though.’

‘Ah. I see. The old adage: “You can forgive a woman anything so long as she looks great”?’

Celia’s eyes lit up. ‘Definitely…’ She stopped and changed her mind. ‘Well, no, actually. I guess Nate just figures it makes good sense to be with her. She’s rich, she’s influential and, well, it undeniably adds to his profile to have her on his arm at parties.’

That was odd. From the little I knew of him, Nate didn’t seem to be the type of guy who looked for ‘trophy’ girlfriends.

‘How come she wasn’t at the Authors’ Meet, then?’

Celia grimaced. ‘She hates books. And writers. Especially writers. She’s a businesswoman—things have to be cut and dried, black and white. Artistic people confuse her. She thinks creativity is something people with no intelligence resort to in order to find work.’

‘Bet she loves you, then.’

‘About as much as my mother loves waiting. And I guess you can imagine what she’d make of you. But she has one weakness—flowers. Lots of them. Nate orders her several bouquets a week…’

‘Oh, well, that’s sort of romantic.’

‘…At her specific request,’ Celia finished. ‘But she only has them in her office. She likes her colleagues on Wall Street to think she is adored. People who visit her home always comment on the flowers in every room, yet I have it on good authority that the house staff are instructed to remove them as soon as visitors leave. Now, I don’t know if this is true, but I heard she gave Nate a list of bouquets she expected to receive on Valentines Day—the bill ran to over $2,000! She even specified the exact words to be written on each accompanying card.’

‘Right…’ I said, amused. ‘Romance and spontaneity not her strong points, then?’

Celia rose and collected our mugs to take to the kitchen for refilling. ‘It’s more like a necessary evil for her.’

‘And for him?’ The question was meant to be inside my head, but instead it inexplicably found a handy escape route out through my mouth. There was a pause. I could hear birdsong outside and coffee being poured in the kitchen. And I swear I could hear Celia smiling.

She returned and sat down. She handed my mug back, wincing slightly as the heat from its contents scorched her fingers. ‘Now why would you want to know that, Rosie?’ she asked slyly.

I blew on my coffee to avoid eye contact. ‘No reason, no reason at all.’

When I got back to my apartment later that afternoon, there was a message from Ed. ‘Rosie, if you get this before 5 p.m, call me at Kowalski’s. Things are happening, girl. Big things.’

I didn’t wait to call back. Instead I caught a cab and got there as fast as I could.

Marnie met me at the door, her beaming smile almost as bright as her yellow braids. ‘Rosie, it’s so exciting!’ she chirped, grabbing my hand. ‘Come and see!’

She pulled me over to the counter and showed me a pile of order forms, each completed in her swirly handwriting. Ed looked up and was about to approach us when the phone rang. He held up a hand and grabbed the receiver. ‘Yep, this is Rosie Duncan’s store,’ he said down the phone, grinning at me and giving a thumbs up. ‘How can I help?’

‘It’s been like this all day,’ Marnie explained excitedly. ‘It’s crazy! We got in and all was quiet, then at nine o’clock everything went nuts. People calling and coming in—all asking after you. We even had Martha Stewart’s PA call earlier! They all want to order. We’ve filled the order book almost right up till Christmas and we’ve got three weddings booked for June next year.’

Ed finished the call and came over, brandishing another order form with delight. ‘Jon O’Donner,’ he proclaimed. ‘Only the CEO of the biggest acquisitions company in New York. We got the order for his daughter’s wedding next fall. It’s worth serious money, Rosie.’

While I have to say I was excited, I was also a little anxious, knowing most of the new clients were probably Philippe’s excustomers.

‘Mimi Sutton’s recommended us to her entire circle,’ I explained. ‘They’re leaving Philippe in droves because they’re scared of offending her.’

Ed’s smile disappeared as he saw the concern in my eyes. ‘Ah. Not good, then. Still,’ his smile returned, refuelled by hope, ‘we have always been more than a match for him artistically. Kowalski’s is due some recognition, don’t you think?’

I had to agree. Of course it was OK. It was an open market, after all. Philippe Devereau had no more right to all of it than we did. And Kowalski’s could handle the new business, no problem. We’d need to take on extra staff, but that would be fine. We might need another delivery van. But that would be OK, too. I smiled at Marnie and Ed and allowed myself to feel the tiniest shiver of excitement. ‘I think we’ve finally arrived in New York!’ I replied, as Ed let out a whoop and we grabbed each other in a big group hug.

I decided to stay at the store, breaking my sacred Saturday vow. There was no way I could leave all this excitement. I took over the phone duty and watched in amazement as order after order came in. Now, I’ve always known Kowalski’s had the potential to do well—I’ve always been the one telling everyone else that when things have been decidedly to the contrary—but this level of sudden success took even me by surprise. Putting aside my concerns about Philippe, I resolved simply to enjoy the moment, aware that it couldn’t last at this pace indefinitely.

Just before we were due to close for the night, Ed caught my hand and led me into the workroom at the back of the store. He shut the door and turned to face me.

‘Rosie. About yesterday…’

I took a step back. ‘Ed, I…’

I was stopped in my tracks as Ed’s fingers gently touched my lips.

‘That row shouldn’t have happened yesterday. I guess we both said things we didn’t mean, right? For my part, I’m sorry.’ He registered the relief in me. His eyes softened. ‘I just thought you might be worrying.’

I smiled back. ‘Thanks, Ed. I’m sorry too.’

‘Then it never happened, huh?’

‘What never happened?’

For a moment, we faced each other with mirrored grins. Then he clapped his hands, making me jump.

‘Now, what is the owner of the most happening floristry business in this town doing indulging in idle chat? We have work to do!’ He laughed, flung open the door and marched off onto the shop floor.

Watching him leave, I leaned against the tall worktable and revelled in the peace returning to my mind. It was good to welcome back a certain sense of normality, even in the light of today’s extraordinary trading. I felt exhausted from the marathon of emotions I had been running. Now finally, it seemed, I was nearing the home straight. Allowing myself the tiniest ounce of smug satisfaction, I walked slowly through the flower stands to rejoin my assistants. Hope filled every part of me, opening dusty dark windows to let the sunlight inside. For the first time in a long time, it felt like I was turning a corner in my history. My life, like my shop, was blooming again. Things were going to be wonderful from now on.

I was wrong, of course.

Chapter Seven

I have always counted optimism as one of my best features. I think it’s always been a part of me; there isn’t a time I can recall ever really being without it. That doesn’t mean to say I don’t lose sight of it when things get tough. Believe me, it’s been challenged enough over the last few years—not least with the events directly preceding my arrival in New York. But despite everything, it remains, sometimes obscured by worry, sometimes shining brightly for all to see—a constant in an ever-changing world. Mum says she’s always relied on that quality in me. Come to think of it, James—for all his selfobsession—has often said it too. Being able to see a bright side has always proved to be my saving grace.

‘If you have hope, you are better than a millionaire,’ Mr Kowalski used to say, ‘because you can give it away every day and it will never run out. You, Rosie, have a large account of hope. So use it to give to the people you meet that have none.’

Mr K lived as he spoke. And, for a man who had endured terrible poverty, prejudice and hardship, this was no mean feat. He always said that God—‘my papa in heaven’—was the one who helped him. Mr K wasn’t religious like you’d expect a man of his generation to be. His faith was who he was. To coin a phrase, he walked the talk.

‘Rosie, Papa is the only friend who has never judged me, let me down or beaten me up. He loves me. End of story. It don’t matter what I do, what mistakes I make, he loves me whatever. That’s all the riches I need, ukochana, and they’re free every day.’

Somehow, I always felt life was calmer—brighter, even—when Mr K was around. Just before he left to return to Poland, he handed me a small, hand-painted glass plaque. It bore the words, ‘Nothing is Impossible with God’. Someone gave it to him when he was really young, he explained, and it helped him remember that he wasn’t alone.

‘Take it, Rosie,’ he’d said. ‘Let it remind you, too. Papa’s watching.’

Today, it hangs at the back of the counter in pride of place, and when I see it, I sense a little bit of the calm he brought returning.

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