Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle

‘No.’

‘Oh? What was your previous profession?’

My heart began to thud as my defences prickled. ‘I was creative director for a small advertising firm.’

‘Which one?’

‘It doesn’t exist any more.’

I could tell Josh could sense my discomfort. He looked up from his pad. ‘All the same, it would be good to have some background…’

‘My mother is a florist, so I learned the trade from watching her and helping out in her shop when I was young. Then after university I chose to enter advertising and—wound up here, eventually.’

‘Forgive me, but I’m curious: why leave your country behind to come to the States?’

‘Well, look around you: New York is fabulous. What girl wouldn’t want to live here? The shops, the restaurants…’ I answered breezily, trying without success to deflect his train of thought.

‘I see. But England—it’s so…so…infinitely more interesting than here, don’t you think?’

‘Well, I—’

‘I mean, all that history and literature and amazing countryside; to be able to walk daily in the steps of Shakespeare, Byron and Keats; to visit the great places of learning like Oxford and Cambridge; to revel in the generations of royalty and stand in the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution—surely there was enough to keep you there?’

Josh’s monologue on the greatness of my home country took me aback and I—like Aunt Bertha, many years before—found myself lost for words.

A crimson flush spread over his pale cheeks and he ran a hand self-consciously through his mop of copper-coloured curls. ‘Wow. I am so sorry, Ms Duncan. I kinda got carried away there. I adore your country, as you may have gathered.’

Relieved that the interview had strayed from my past, I smiled. ‘Not a problem. Yes, I love all of that about England. Although Stone Langley—the small town where I grew up—is nothing like the regal England you’d expect. But New York stole my heart and this is where I want to be, more than anything.’

After the interview was concluded and Josh had taken all the photographs that he needed, I saw him to the door.

Ed, now a gentleman-at-ease following the departure of Delores Schuster, watched me with intensity. ‘Good interview?’

‘I think it went OK.’

‘Like I said it would.’

‘Yes, like you said it would, O Wise and Noble One.’ I gave a small bow.

‘Good,’ Ed replied with a self-satisfied air. ‘So how come he grilled you about ending up here then? Checking you had your Green Card?’

‘He seems to be a bit of a serious Anglophile. Couldn’t understand why I wanted to live here.’

‘Hmm—rainy middle England, where the beer is warm and the summers are wet, versus glorious New York with Mrs Delores Schuster and her not-so-potted family histories? Tough call,’ he grinned. ‘Go figure.’

A few hours later, as Marnie and I were replacing the large displays in the window, the workroom door swung open and Ed entered, battered brown leather jacket slung over one arm.

‘So long, sad single people,’ he breezed over his shoulder as he strode through the store.

Marnie and I exchanged glances.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Marnie.

‘I have a date. A hot one.’

‘But it’s a Tuesday night. Who goes out for a date on a Tuesday night?’

‘I do,’ Ed replied, supremely pleased with himself. ‘I admit, a Tuesday date is a first for me in quite some time, but—to quote the lovely young thing in whose delicious company I will be spending this unusual night—“I just can’t wait till Friday.” So who am I to keep the lady waiting, eh?’

I winked at Marnie. ‘She’s due in court on Friday for a heinous crime.’

Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Or her parole officer visits on a Friday.’

‘Or maybe she’s fleeing the country on Friday after a bank heist she’s doing on the Thursday…’

‘…Which she’s planning on Wednesday…’

‘…So it has to be Tuesday night!’

Ed stared at the pair of us, shaking his head slowly. ‘Well, thank you for your support, ladies.’

‘Aw, Ed, ignore us and just go and have a lovely time.’

‘Thanks, Rosie.’

‘…with the crazy jailbird master criminal!’ Marnie squeaked, sending us both into hysterical giggles once again.

Ed groaned and opened the door. ‘Fine. Laugh all you want, but I will be loved up and happy tonight,’ he turned in the doorway to deliver his parting shot, ‘unlike you guys.’

Ouch.

I had to laugh. Ed claimed not to be seeking relationships, preferring the delights of general non-commitment dating instead.

‘I’m young, I’m in no rush to meet The One—whatever that means—or settle down, or have kids. I just like to date. So sue me.’

Meeting people was something Ed was incredibly adept at. His cousin’s lawyer a few weeks back was nothing compared to some of his dates. It was almost as if everywhere he went he would fall across eligible women: ‘I was out last week and I stopped for a paper and right next to the newsstand was this woman…I swear, I was just walking down Amsterdam Avenue when this beautiful girl stops me and asks me for a date…I took my dry-cleaning to Mrs Ling’s and got chatting to this babe…’ I never met any of the ladies in question (or should that be ‘questionable ladies’?), but that was probably because most of Ed’s dates lasted only a few weeks, so far too short a time to introduce them to the Kowalski’s family.

Next morning, the Ed who walked into the store was very different from the Ed who had walked out of it the night before.

‘So, how did the date with Tuesday girl go?’ I asked eventually, after Ed’s uncommon, unshaven and decidedly dishevelled silence had reigned supreme for nearly half an hour.

Ed stripped the leaves from a long-stemmed red rose in one swift motion, adding it to the bouquet forming in his left hand. ‘Fine.’

‘Right…’

I surveyed him carefully as he moved along the flower buckets, choosing, sizing and stripping leaves off the selected blooms as he went. Turning the untied bunch in his hand to check the arrangement, he then dropped his head and slunk back to the counter. ‘Oh, who am I kidding? It was a disaster.’

‘Really?’