Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle

‘Love one, thanks.’ His gaze remained disconcertingly fixed on me as I powered up Old F, who provided the necessary afternoon decaf after a little gentle coaxing. Then we sat down on the sofa.

‘I was talking about the store being irresistible, by the way, not me,’ he said, and instantly I felt stupid for thinking he meant I was irresistible. As he spread his tailored jacket over the arm of the sofa and stretched out his long legs, I found myself admiring again his effortless style. Moss-green V-neck sweater and pristine white T-shirt underneath, smart yet casual nut-brown trousers and polished expensive brogues—Nate was every inch the man about town. ‘I love this place, Rosie. I feel like I can relax here, you know? Be “me”—whoever that is.’

‘Glad to be of service to you—well, my shop is, at least.’

Nate shook his head. ‘It isn’t just the store. It’s you. Let’s face it: Kowalski’s is you. But I’d like to hazard a guess that if I met you anywhere else, it would still feel like I didn’t have to pretend with you. My life—’ he broke off, as if unsure of how to phrase the sentence. ‘Uh…so much of what people see when they look at me is what other people have prescribed, you know?’

I didn’t. ‘Not really, sorry.’

‘At Gray & Connelle I’m the boy-wonder: the editor who signed three New York Times Bestsellers during his first month at the company and quickly rose to the top. To my parents I’m the blue-eyed boy—difficult, I know, as my irises don’t quite fit the bill—but I’m incapable of doing wrong, as far as they’re concerned. To Caitlin, I’m—well, I don’t exactly know what I am to her, apart from a constant source of disappointment and frustration, it would seem. And as for Mimi—it’s like she’s already storyboarded my existence for her reallife family blockbuster. The only person who accepts me for who I am—who asks nothing more of me other than that I just show up for coffee once in awhile—is you. Don’t give me that look, Rosie; I mean it. Ever since I started coming here, things have been falling into place, you know? I’ve had so much all my life; I’ve never wanted for anything. But it’s all been just—stuff. You see the real Nate, I think; perhaps more than any other living soul. And I want to discover who he is. I like the version of me that I see in your eyes. That’s why I had to see you today.’

I was flattered by what he said, but still I struggled with the picture Nate painted of me. I’m not wise: in many ways events of my life have attested to this fact. I guess I’m just interested in people, in their stories and personalities.

It never ceases to amaze me the number of stories I hear in my day-to-day dealings with the good people of my neighbourhood. There are at least a hundred different people I could tell you about who visit my shop, from occasional customers to people we see week in, week out. Some of them, like Mrs Katzinger and Mrs Schuster, were Kowalski’s customers long before I was here. Like Gloria O’Keefe, for instance, who told me her grandmother bought flowers from Kowalski’s right from when she was a little girl, and Mrs O’Keefe is now a grandmother herself, buying flowers for her own grand-daughter’s birthday. But there are also a lot of people who have appeared since I took over the business.

Take Billy Whitman, for example. He started coming to my shop at the end of last year. He is hopelessly in love with the girl whose desk is across the office floor from his. The highlight of his day is when she crosses the office to the water-cooler by his desk because she always smiles at him. That daily smile has become the reason he can’t wait to get to work in the morning and, even though this is the only contact he has with her each day, it is enough to have completely stolen his heart. Billy sends roses from Kowalski’s every first Monday of the month to the girl across the office—always red and always a dozen, with a card that says, ‘From your office admirer’. To date, he hasn’t yet had the courage to add his name to the card, even though Ed, Marnie and I have all urged him to do so. Consequently, Miss Emily Kelly thinks the roses are from one of the managers and is slowly dating her way through middle management in a bid to discover the sender of her monthly bouquet, while Billy contents himself with the daily smile and tries to muster the nerve to reveal his secret identity to her.

It’s stories like these that make my job so enjoyable: tiny snapshots of other people’s lives that catch my interest, like driving down a street at night and peeking into lit windows.

But not all the glimpses are good ones. For every hopeful, fascinating story, there are darker, sadder ones. Like the man who came into the store not so long ago. He caused such consternation that the mere mention of ‘BlackBerry Guy’—as he has become known—is enough to send Ed and Marnie into animated diatribes about how ungrateful some people are.

It had been raining solidly for a whole week and business had been sporadic, to say the least, with only the bravest of customers daring to brave the New York pelt. By Friday afternoon it was so quiet that I made the decision to close early and we were just starting to shut up shop when BlackBerry Guy came in. Dressed impeccably in a smartly cut dark suit and trench coat, he was engrossed in a call on said BlackBerry and didn’t even acknowledge Ed, who had walked across to greet him. It took Ed physically standing four inches from BlackBerry Guy’s face for him finally to register his existence.

The first thing that annoyed Ed was that BlackBerry Guy didn’t end the call. He merely mumbled, ‘Hold on, would ya? I just gotta sort something,’ into the device and put his hand over it. ‘Flowers, yeah?’

I could see Ed swallowing the comment he would have liked to have made before he politely asked, ‘Any particular type?’

BlackBerry Guy cast a cursory glance at the impressive selection of blooms in our galvanised buckets. ‘Whatever,’ he said with a disinterested swipe of his hand. ‘Just make them expensive, yeah? Money’s not an object here, OK?’ Before Ed could speak again, BlackBerry Guy had returned to his call. ‘Murray, you still there? Yeah, just getting a peace offering for Susie, making sure she doesn’t sue my ass for every nickel. What? Oh yeah, she found out about that bit of skirt I picked up in Philadelphia. Threatening to divorce me. Again. What? Damage limitation, yeah.’ His laugh was dirty and disgusting—and the second thing that annoyed Ed, who cleared his throat loudly and waved at BlackBerry Guy to wrench his attention from the blasted device. ‘Oh wait, the shop guy’s bugging me,’ he said to the caller, placing his hand over the receiver once more and glaring at Ed. ‘What?’

Ed smiled with gritted teeth. ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to know what kind of arrangement you require and if you need it to take now or wish for us to deliver it?’

BlackBerry Guy let out an irritated sigh and resumed his call. ‘Yeah, Murray? I gotta go. Seems you gotta endure the third degree to get a damn bunch of flowers round here. Ha, I know! Later.’ He had ended the call and raised both hands. ‘Good for you?’

‘Much better, thanks,’ Ed replied, the sarcasm in his tone evident to everyone else except the man stood before him.

By the time BlackBerry Guy had finally left Kowalski’s—after having answered three further calls and sent numerous emails—everyone was wound up. For a man who had betrayed his wife, he’d showed little remorse—in fact, he’d only stopped joking about it when he saw the disgusted looks on our faces. He’d spent over a hundred dollars on an apology that was more about saving him from an expensive divorce than it was about saying sorry. It’s sad, but it’s life, and just another part of the rich mosaic of individual stories that make this city what it is.

‘Do you ever wonder if you could end up like BlackBerry Guy?’ Ed asked one Sunday morning, as we sat on burgundy-red cushions in the window seat of Caffe Marco on Lafayette Street in NoLita, eating bomboloni—tiny Italian breakfast doughnuts filled with chocolate, custard and jam (a particular favourite of Ed’s). We come here quite a lot on our weekend expeditions. Ed is fascinated by the décor in the café: it’s typically over the top, from the huge crystal chandeliers and ornately carved white-painted wooden chairs to the neat, regimented lines of pastries standing to attention in glass and steel display cabinets beneath the polished white marble service counter. The coffee’s pretty good too—rich and dark with the kind of kick that can wake up even reluctant-riser Ed on a Sunday morning.

‘I don’t think either of us could be so callous,’ I replied, taking a sip of smoky espresso and enjoying the instant buzz.

‘Nevertheless, I worry about it sometimes, you know? That I’ll one day get so wrapped up in my own life that I’ll stop thinking about other people. I guess it’s something you don’t notice about yourself until it’s too late.’

‘You want to watch that Caffe Marco espresso,’ I smiled. ‘It looks like it could be melting you, Mr Iceberg.’

‘Mock all you want, Rosie, but any one of our customers could be us one day. What was it Mr K used to say? “Everyone’s story is one step away from yours.”’ He shuddered. ‘Remind me never to buy a BlackBerry, OK?’

‘I really don’t think the device determined the man there, Ed.’

‘I know, but when you see everyone else’s lives, the comparison with your own is inevitable, don’t you think?’ He popped another doughnut into his mouth and I could almost see his brain whirring as he munched away. ‘I mean, look at Billy Whitman: I bet he never thought that one day he would fall so hopelessly in love with somebody that he’d end up spending hundreds of dollars because he didn’t have the nerve to tell her his feelings.’

There are many things I’m not certain of in my life, but I can honestly say that Billy Whitman’s situation was one I was pretty convinced wasn’t likely to happen to me. ‘Billy will tell Emily how he feels one day,’ I said with conviction. ‘These things just take time. And no, I don’t worry that will happen to me.’

A strange look passed across the ice-blue Steinmann stare. ‘Still, it’s a scary thought, huh?’

A pretty young waitress appeared by our table, instantly summoning Ed’s attention.

‘Hi, I’m Lydia,’ she smiled.

‘Hi Lydia.’ Ed’s cheeky expression made me groan and avert my gaze.

She blushed and shifted position self-consciously. ‘Can I get you guys anything else?’

‘Rosie? More coffee?’

I politely declined, not that he was listening.

Lydia turned to Ed. ‘And for you, sir?’

‘Well, I’m fine for coffee, but I wouldn’t say no to your number.’

Watching Ed the Serial Dater at work is truly a sight to behold. Lydia didn’t stand a chance against the Steinmann charm. I’ve seen it so many times and yet it never fails to fascinate me. He can make any woman feel like she’s the only other person in the room, just with his attentive smile.

‘Well, when you ask so nicely…’ Lydia scribbled her number on a napkin and handed it to him. Ed, his eyes never leaving hers, accepted it and placed it with great care into his shirt pocket.

‘Call me anytime after seven,’ she beamed.

‘I’ll do that,’ he replied. ‘Thank you.’

He watched her skip away and looked back at me. ‘What?’

I laughed. ‘You are impossible, Ed! I can’t take you anywhere.’

He took a triumphant sip of coffee. ‘I’m just in the game, Rosie, that’s all.’

‘Who do we have here?’ a familiar voice interrupted. My heart sank and I looked up to see Philippe Devereau standing by our table, expensively attired arms folded angrily and perma-tan flushed. ‘The talentless Rosie Duncan and her scruffy guard dog, I presume?’

My hard stare at Ed prevented him from saying something he might come to regret.

‘Philippe, what a pleasure. Day off, is it?’

Philippe snorted. ‘Some of us in this business are able to function outside of our stores, Ms Duncan. Unlike lesser concerns such as Kowalski’s.’

I raised my coffee cup. ‘Proud to be a neighbourhood florist, Philippe. May it ever be thus.’

He slammed a fist down on our table, making the white crockery, silver coffee pot and cutlery jump. People around us had stopped eating and were staring over at the orange-hued, black-suited angry man by our table.

‘Give it up, Ms Duncan! Know your market: the unremarkable masses who think Asiatic lilies are exotic. Leave my customers alone.’