In A New York Minute

Copyright

Avon

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2015

Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008139827

Version: 2015–01–28

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

In A New York Minute

Keep Reading

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

In A New York Minute

Did you ever see the movie Sleepless in Seattle? Well, there’s a bit in it towards the end where Meg Ryan is sitting in a fancy restaurant at the top of a skyscraper close to the Empire State Building in Manhattan. And it’s Valentine’s night. Anyway, she’s having dinner with the guy she’s engaged to, but has come to realize he just isn’t the man she’s meant to end up with at all.

Instead, she’s spent the whole movie with this mental fixation about her soulmate-to-be, who is actually, tonight, just a few streets away at the top of the Empire State, waiting for her. Course, this being a Nora Ephron movie, the only slight catch is that she hasn’t actually met the soulmate guy as of yet; she’s only ever heard his voice on the radio via one of those confessional call-in shows, which actually sounds quite stalker-ish when you come to think about it. But that turns out to be a minor detail because when Meg Ryan eventually dumps the nice-but-dull fiancé and legs it over to the Empire State, she finds that he’s none other than … *spoiler alert* … Tom Hanks. Cue swelling orchestra finale and cut to the credits.

So that’ll give you a rough idea of how I was planning on tonight working out.

*

How the date should have gone …

Well for starters, Jake might have actually have had the decency to look a bit like his profile picture. i.e., a thirty-something, on-his-merry-way-to-being uber-wealthy Johnny Corporate type. Wait till you see, he’ll turn up wearing a suit, I thought and will have to constantly fend off texts and emails about multi-million-dollar deals on his mobile – sorry, cellphone. (I’m a bit new to Manhattan, so you’ll forgive the odd European reference slipping in.)

Then of course, being the perfect gentleman, Jake would eventually switch the bloody thing off so he and I could really get to know one another properly. In my little fantasy, I figured that after an hour or so of animated chat, we’d would discover we had even more in common that we thought we had online, so he’d eventually suggest we maybe head on somewhere for a bite to eat.

Of course, part two of my dream-date daydream involved him whisking me off to a fabulously bijou little restaurant, totally non-touristy, the kind of place you only ever saw Gwyneth Paltrow and Madonna hanging out in. Like the Monkey Bar, which I was always reading about in Vanity Fair, thinking it the epicenter of New York City gorgeous glamour. We’d have cocktails there and gaily regale each other with stories about life at the coalface of online dating. We’d giggle an unseemly amount at each other’s gags and start accidentally touching each other, so much so that other unfortunate punters on crap dates would throw envious eye darts my way and think, ‘see her over there? Now that is one lucky bitch.’

Naturally this would lead onto Jake suggesting dinner and absolutely insisting on paying the bill, with none of your let’s-each just-pay-for-what-we-ordered-and-by-the-way-I-didn’t-have-a-starter carry on. And after that he’d politely escort me to a cab, before kissing me lightly yet teasingly on the lips, movie-style. And of course he’d take my number, saying he’d call – then, shock horror, actually stick to his word and do it.

Oh, and one last addendum to my fantasy date? We’d have arranged to meet somewhere glamorous and chic, in the corner café at Bloomingdales for instance, or the Magnolia café in SoHo.

Not here.

Most definitely not here. Not in coffee shop/convenience store on the corner of 92nd West St and Battery Park. Mind you, I’m only a newcomer to Manhattan and the whole East/West thing still has me completely confuddled. But my sister Rachel, who I’m staying with and who’s been living here for years assures me that this is most definitely not somewhere you want to meet on a first date, albeit a quick coffee date.

‘He wants to meet you on 92nd West St and Battery Park?’ she said in disbelief when I told her. ‘What’s this guy planning anyway – to mug you? Worse luck is that I can’t even go with you to hang out somewhere close by, I’ll be stuck in meetings all day. So please just take my advice Amy and run while you still can, or else at the very least, cancel and rearrange for a weekend when I can come along to keep an eye on you. And, if you do insist on going, then keep your cell phone on at all times, with cab fare handy in your back pocket. Trust me, you might need it!’

*

How the date actually panned out.

The Sunshine Café had clearly been named ironically, as it turned out to be absolutely anything but. This place was dingy and dark with plastic tablecloths so manky they actually stuck to your hand if you accidentally grazed them. Shame I couldn’t order anything alcoholic, I thought, when my coffee eventually arrived. At least it might have cancelled out the bacteria on the rim of the chipped mug that was unceremoniously plonked down in front of me without even the normal touristy courtesy, ‘enjoy,’ or else ‘Have a nice day.’

And Mr. ‘Johnny Corporate’ himself? Arrived a good ten minutes late, but instead of apologizing brusquely told me, ‘well, you’re a visitor to the city, so I knew waiting wouldn’t be an issue for you. It never is for tourists.’

‘Well actually, I’m technically not a visitor as such …’ I tried to say, but it was too late, he’d already whipped his phone out of his pocket to take a call. He muttered away while I eyed him up and down, the way you do on any first date.

For starters: the way he was dressed? Nothing like I’d figured. My first giveaway should have been him turning up in trainers, a hoodie and actual lycra cycling shorts – when it’s February, by the way, and the temperatures are sub-zero – like he’d just come from the gym. I’d deflated a bit when I clocked him coming in but then decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, I thought, doesn’t Mark Zuckerberg famously only ever turn up in jeans and a T-shirt to work? So who am I to judge, etc.

Anyway, my date then spent the next quarter of an hour checking his phone constantly, coming out with utter shite like, ‘you know how it is, you got to stay on top of things. In my game, you snooze, you lose.’

‘So, you said you worked on Wall. St.?’ I asked, naively thinking this whole date might yet turn around for me and that the scintillating conversation I’d hoped for would surely follow.

‘Yup.’

‘For which company?’

‘Ehh … what do you mean, company?’

‘Well, it’s just that my sister is a hedge fund manager over at Morgan Klein and she and I were wondering, that’s all.’

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