Fairytale of New York

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.’