Fairytale of New York

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 (#ulink_06d84ec2-3784-5ee2-ac8b-8d5419380f11)

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?’