Fairytale of New York. Miranda Dickinson

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ