Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle

‘There’s no need to look so smug about it.’

‘I’m not. Honestly.’

‘I mean at least I date, right? Not like you.’

I let that one go. ‘Absolutely. So what about last night?’

He grabbed a length of raffia from behind the counter and wound it irritably around the gathered stems. ‘Hmm. Well, it wasn’t a total disaster, I guess. Sarah was perfectly nice and decent, attractive, good company, you know? But…’

‘But what?’

He tied off the bouquet, picked up a pair of scissors, moved to the bin on the other side of the counter and trimmed the stems with one cut. ‘I dunno, Rosie. I just didn’t feel it was worth pursuing. Crazy, huh?’

‘No—no, I don’t think it is.’

‘Well, I think it is. What’s wrong with me? I date all the time, a whole selection of perfectly acceptable women. But none of them, you know, fits.’

‘Fits what? Your ideal? Your lifestyle? Your apartment?’

‘Hilarious. You missed your calling when you chose to be a florist. There’s a stand-up mic somewhere with your name on it. No, I mean they don’t fit me.’

‘Ah, right. Well, I think you’ll find that’s the point of dating.’

‘Which of course you’d know so much about,’ Ed added, quick as a flash. I kicked myself for not seeing that one coming.

‘The difference is that I don’t feel I need another person to make me feel complete,’ I shot back.

‘Do you really believe that, Rosie?’ He threw the bouquet to me and I caught it as he passed and disappeared into the workroom, shaking his head. His last comment hung accusingly in the air above my head—a question I wasn’t willing to answer.

Not yet.

Celia met me on Wednesday night at Bistro Découverte at the edge of Riverside Park, not far from her apartment. It’s one of my favourite places. In the summer, it’s a great place to eat al fresco, your table lit by the rows of tiny white lights across the front deck and the sounds of Café de Paris music drifting lazily in the air. Celia and I come here often. It’s quieter than the other bistros in the area, and many tourists don’t even know it exists. The usual clientele consists of writers, artists and the occasional journalist or celebrity actor, and the hum of conversation is low, welcoming and homely. Tonight, however, the hint of autumn chill drove us indoors. As we began to eat our main course, sharp splats of rain peppered the window and the little lights outside were tossing about in the breeze.

Celia shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s nearing fall already,’ she moaned. ‘Where has summer gone? Before we know it, it’ll be Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Did I tell you I got a call from Jerry today?’

The question was so deftly inserted into her conversation that I almost missed it. ‘Jerry? He called you?’

Celia gave a fatalistic shrug and took a mouthful of winepoached salmon. ‘Eleven months he’s been gone and then today I get a call.’

Celia and Jerry have been partners for well over fourteen years and were, it seemed, blissfully unaffected by each other for all of that time. She went on her assignments, he went on his business trips. They spent three weeks together every summer at their beach house in Martha’s Vineyard, and New Year with his family in Wisconsin. They were a typical highachieving New York couple. Until eleven months ago. Jerry announced he was ‘off to find himself’, packed a suitcase and disappeared. His company didn’t know where he was. His friends didn’t know where he was. Even his mother didn’t know where he was: which was incredibly worrying, as Jerry’s mother is the domestic equivalent of the FBI. Her powers of investigation are unsurpassed and could prove invaluable to the State one day, should it ever need to know exactly, in minute detail, about an individual (eating habits, connections, rumours, bowel movements and so on). I’m convinced she has a vast, underground network of spies, who regularly feed back to her at apparently innocent locations. Come to think of it, she hosts an awful lot of dinner parties and is forever on the phone, so maybe ‘Yes, Rabbi, you’re invited to dinner Wednesday at eight’, actually means ‘Thank you, Agent 482, your information has been received and you will be rewarded well.’

It was unclear whether Jerry’s disappearance was a life-changing, traumatic experience for Celia or just an annoyance. She rarely even mentioned his name and I knew she had been on more than one date recently. Even now, as I faced her across the table, I couldn’t detect any kind of emotion in her measured expression. Except, perhaps, resignation.

‘So how did he seem? What did he say?’ I asked.

Celia shrugged again and looked over my shoulder. ‘That he’s sorry. That he’s in Palm Springs and the golf is good. That he wants me to forgive him.’

‘But he’s not coming home?’ I asked, trying to judge her countenance, which flickered slightly.

She nodded.

‘Oh, Celia…’

She held up a hand and looked me square in the eyes. ‘It’s fine, Rosie. Honestly, I’m fine. He can go—no, he’s welcome to go. I’m amazed we lasted as long as we did. We never married—what can I say? Such is life. There isn’t anyone else, though. And I don’t think I’d care if there was. Besides,’ she added, her wry smile making a welcome comeback, ‘I hear toy boys are all the rage for women over forty now. So maybe I’ll get me one of those. Maybe I’ll give Nate Amie a call…’ her eyes twinkled naughtily, ‘…unless you have any objections, that is?’

It was obvious that the Jerry topic was now closed, so I played along, glaring at her. ‘I don’t object at all. But Caitlin Sutton might have something to say about it.’

‘Aha!’ Celia’s face was a picture of triumph. I had obviously fallen for her bait. ‘Not if what I heard today is anything like the truth.’

I leaned forward, curious to hear more. ‘So, tell me, then. What did you hear?’

Celia looked shocked. ‘Rosie Duncan, I do believe you are enquiring about a man!’

I protested. ‘Only out of sheer curiosity and the need for a bit of juicy gossip.’

‘Like I believe that…Well, I was talking to Brent Jacobs this morning, and he told me—ooh, and make sure you don’t forget he’s—’

‘Coming to my shop tomorrow morning, yes, I know. What about Nate?’

‘Patience, Rosie! I’m coming to that,’ Celia stated, delighting in my suspense. ‘He told me he was at a theatre premiere at the Lincoln Center yesterday and he saw Mimi, Nate and Caitlin. Right in the middle of the performance, Caitlin stormed out. And Nate didn’t follow her. Then Mimi received a call at the after-show party and had a blazing row with Nate, in front of everyone. He called his driver and left, and Mimi was heard to say that he had not heard the last from her on the subject. She was in such a foul mood that she totally ruined the party and most people left as soon as she did.’

I was still interested. ‘And…?’

Celia sat back. ‘That was it.’

Disappointment is always a difficult thing to hide. ‘Oh…What was Brent’s take on things?’

Celia took a sip of Pinot Gris. ‘He was as much in the dark as everyone else. But his theory is that Caitlin and Mimi have been pressing for marriage and Nate won’t play ball.’

‘So, does this mean he won’t be ordering those large and frequent bouquets from me, after all, then?’ I moaned with a smile.

‘Well, Brent reckons he’ll—’ she was interrupted by the waiter, who informed her she had a phone call. ‘Excuse me one second, Rosie. I’ll be right back.’

I refilled my glass and sat back in my chair to look out at the driving rain and wildly swinging fairy lights. Why I found this information interesting, I couldn’t exactly pinpoint. After all, I didn’t really know Nate Amie. Only that he had a laugh that could fill an atrium and knew nothing about lavender. Yet somehow I found myself intrigued that his name had cropped up in conversation so often this past week.

Celia returned about five minutes later, shaking her head. ‘Can you believe that?’ she asked. ‘I leave them alone for five minutes and all hell breaks out.’ She saw my mystified face and took a breath. ‘Sorry, honey. I’ve got my sister’s twins over for a few days. Didn’t I tell you? Well, I have. They’re on vacation from Washington State and wanted to see New York. It appears they decided to throw a party while I was out and have played music so loud that my good neighbours called 911. I need to go sort it out. I’m sorry, sweetie. Call you tomorrow?’ She grabbed her bag, kissed me and hurried away to her engagement with New York’s finest.

The waiter approached. ‘Will madam be ordering dessert?’ he asked.

‘No, no, thank you. I’ll settle up, if I may.’

‘Sure. No problem.’ He disappeared again. I finished my wine and took a last look out at the windswept Hudson. For the briefest of seconds, my mind flashed up an image of a lopsided grin and a soft, low voice. Surprised, I checked myself and rose to leave.

As I stepped outside into the icy rain, I wrapped my coat tightly round my body and began the short walk home. The wind whipped at my hair and New York seemed to be asking me the same questions that already filled my mind, despite my desire to avoid the subject.

It was an unusual relief to click the key into the front door of my block and jog the three flights up to my apartment. Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against the frame, breathing in the familiar scent and willing my heart to slow down. I was removing my coat when the intercom beeped. I jumped.

‘Hello?’