I’ll Take New York

CHAPTER SEVEN

Celia and Stewart’s apartment, 91st Street Upper West Side

Bea stepped out of the yellow cab and gazed up at the bay windows of the traditional New York brownstone building. She loved this street and had taken every opportunity to visit since her brother Stewart had moved in here with his girlfriend Celia. The leafy boughs of London Plane trees rustled in the light breeze above her head and gave the street an air of serenity and calm, despite the constant buzz of Manhattan traffic at the end of the block. It seemed a world away from Brooklyn and the perfect place for Bea after the events of the day. Right now, she needed familiarity and comfort – and her brother was the one who could provide it.

‘Bea! Come on up,’ Stewart’s voice crackled through the door intercom and Bea headed inside the elegant brownstone. He was waiting for her as she reached his floor, leaning casually against the doorframe of his apartment. ‘Coffee’s on and I have muffins from M&H Bakers.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ Bea smiled, taking off her coat and walking inside. The apartment was light and airy, bearing more evidence of her brother’s taste since he and Celia had recently redecorated. In addition to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that separated the living room from the dining area, a collection of Stewart’s beloved gadgets, games consoles and gym equipment had been assigned a place near the hallway that led to the bedrooms. True to form, his things were arranged haphazardly, more than a little at odds with the ordered regularity of Celia’s belongings. But, much like their unconventional relationship, it worked perfectly.

Bea and Stewart settled on chairs by the table in the large bay window and Bea helped herself to a triple chocolate muffin, the scent of freshly brewed coffee making her mouth water.

‘Have you eaten lately?’ Stewart asked, inadvertently sounding like their mother.

‘Not much,’ Bea replied through mouthfuls of chocolate sponge. Perhaps it was being so far away from Brooklyn – and Otis – but her recently absent appetite had made a sudden return. She laughed when she saw her brother’s amusement. ‘It must be the magic of M&H.’

‘Now, that I can’t argue with. Seriously, Bea, how are you doing? You left so quickly after the meal the other night.’

Bea felt her heart sink. ‘Well, I didn’t want to hang around. Not with Aunt Ruby’s loud damnations ringing in my ears. Public humiliation isn’t something you want to prolong.’

‘You weren’t humiliated, sis. Your boyfriend on the other hand …’

‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ Bea’s sudden admission made her appetite evaporate once more. ‘Not any more.’

Stewart took a few moments to process this. ‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only you’ve said this before and …’

‘It’s definite this time. I’m done with Otis and his broken promises. I just can’t do it any more.’ She shook her head. ‘Russ thinks I’m being hasty, of course. He’s convinced we’re destined for each other. But he should try dating Otis. I’m tired of the stupid roundabout of my love life, Stew. I’ve decided to get off it for good.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know.’

Stewart refilled their coffee mugs. ‘So what’s the plan now?’

‘Focus on the things in my life that work. Russ is talking about putting a coffee bar into the bookshop and I have lots of ideas for promotions and evening events. Also, I’m thinking of looking for a bigger apartment.’

‘Moving uptown at last, eh?’

Bea laughed. ‘No fear. It’s Brooklyn all the way, baby! I like where I live. I’d just like somewhere with a bit more room.’

‘It all sounds good. But you haven’t answered my question, Bea: how are you really?’

Bea thought back to the night of the doomed family meal – the uniform disappointment of her gathered family members, the sympathy in their expressions that she really didn’t need to see, and the crushing realisation that, once again, Otis had let her down. How was she meant to be after an experience like that?

‘It was mortifying,’ she confessed, staring into the dark depths of her coffee. ‘A whole history of happy-ever-afters around the table and I couldn’t even get my boyfriend to keep a promise he’d made to all of them. It made me feel like a failure, through no fault of my own. And more than anything else, it made me realise that I’m the exception in the James family: I’m destined not to find a decent relationship.’

‘Bea …’

‘I mean it, Stew. Let’s face it, by the law of averages it had to happen to someone eventually. It would be impossible to have so many generations of childhood sweetheart success stories without one blip. That’s just what I am. A blip.’

Her brother’s laugh was gentle but still stung. ‘You’re being melodramatic. This is one relationship, Bea. There’s no unwritten rule that every member of the James family has to find true love at their first attempt. If that were true, I’d have been sunk years ago. The point is we all get there in the end. Otis isn’t The One: that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who might be.’

Bea wanted to believe him, but she couldn’t see anything beyond the possibility of years of disappointment stretching into the future. Frankly, there were other things she would rather expend her energies on. Things that had at least a hope of success attached to them.

‘I don’t know if I can be bothered to look for them any more.’

Stewart took his sister’s hand across the table. ‘Then stop looking for now. You need to be good to yourself, sis. I hate seeing you down.’

‘Am I missing something good?’ The door to the apartment slammed and Bea looked up to see the flamboyant figure of her brother’s partner approaching.

‘Hi Celia,’ she smiled, standing to receive a hug.

‘Honey, how are you? I was so worried after that awful dinner.’ She placed her hand on Bea’s forehead as if expecting to find a raging temperature. ‘Are you well?’

‘She’s fine,’ Stewart laughed, rising to fetch another mug from the kitchen. ‘Put my sister down before you strangle her.’

Celia pulled up a chair and sat beside Bea. ‘The man is an oaf, Bea darling! He’s not worthy of you. I hope you tore a strip off him when he finally showed his face.’

‘I did more than that,’ Bea replied, secretly touched by Celia’s overblown concern. ‘I told him we were over.’

Celia’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. ‘Oh? Well, I’m proud of you, honey! Men like that have to learn that women aren’t doormats to be abandoned at a moment’s notice.’

‘Can you abandon a doormat?’ Stewart grinned at Bea, but Celia wasn’t listening. For a full five minutes she launched a scathing attack on Otis Greene’s lack of manhood, complete rudeness and inability to be the man Bea needed him to be.

‘You’re better off without him. Why waste your life on a loser?’

Why indeed, Bea smiled to herself. ‘Enough about that, anyway. How’s everything with your book?’

Celia heaved a dramatic sigh as Stewart kissed the top of her head, placing a fresh mug of coffee in her hands. ‘Exhausting. But I think we’re almost there. My publisher insists on making last-minute changes to my manuscript that make no grammatical sense whatsoever – I swear they think I don’t know how to write. I’m only a senior New York Times columnist for heaven’s sake. What the hell do I know?’

‘When do you publish?’

‘In a month. Of course, I’ll be glad when it’s out on the shelves, but I’m not convinced I’d do it again. Still, if it worked for Nora Ephron, I have to hope it’ll work for me.’

Bea decided to ask the question she had been mulling over for a few weeks. If Celia agreed, it would be the first major event Hudson River Books had ever held – and could be the start of a whole new chapter in the bookshop’s success. If not, it was back to the drawing board.

‘I’ve been thinking – and please feel free to say no – but how would you like to hold the launch of your book at my bookstore? We’d love to have you and I could arrange everything.’

Celia exchanged glances with Stewart and beamed brightly at Bea. ‘Now that is just perfect! I was only saying to your brother last night I thought your place would be ideal. Of course! Pencil it in!’

Bea felt as if the sun had just broken free on a very dark day. ‘That’s wonderful! Why don’t you come down to the bookstore soon and we’ll go through everything you’d like?’

Celia offered a perfectly manicured hand and Bea shook it. ‘You just got yourself a deal, lady!’

As Celia and Stewart began to talk about their respective days at work, Bea gazed out of the bay window to the street below. This was the positive sign she had been longing for – and she was determined to make it a success.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Private loft apartment, Upper West Side

The loft apartment looked like a movie set. As the owner gave Jake a tour, he couldn’t help but be impressed by the space. Architect-designed and full of light, the apartment smelled of money – every detail an indicator of taste and expense. Frosted glass met industrial slate and polished cherry wood floors. Generous couches in neutral tones were arranged around exposed brick walls. Glass and brushed steel staircases rose from either end of the room to a mezzanine above, with bedrooms situated off it. Two-storey glass windows provided the most amazing view of the Upper West Side – at night the lights of the city would meet the stars and guests could wander out onto the slate balcony to admire the view. It was perfect.

‘And you don’t mind if we clear some furniture for the party?’ he asked.

Eric Reynolds, the owner of the gorgeous living space and an old friend from Jake’s Yale days, nodded. ‘No problem. We do it often, actually. My practice holds all its business functions here so we’ve become old hands at furniture removal.’ He slapped a friendly hand on Jake’s back. ‘You know, it’s good to see you, man. I thought we’d lost you to the West Coast forever.’

Jake laughed, but his heart was heavy. ‘Me? Never! Always an East Coast fella.’

‘Good. We should do a weekend at the Hampton house some time. Laura would love to see you.’

‘How is the family?’

Eric chuckled. ‘Growing. Suddenly I’m the father of three teenagers and I have no idea how it happened. The boys are good, though, even if they have relegated me to “old man” status in backyard basketball matches. And Laura hasn’t changed in twenty years. So, what do you reckon?’

Jake looked up at the light flooding in from the glass roof of the apartment. ‘It’s perfect. Ed and Rosie will love it. And I hope you and Laura can join us?’

‘Unfortunately, we’re out of town that Friday. But we’ll expect you all at the house soon, OK?’

In a coffee shop around the corner from the apartment, Jake pulled out his Moleskine notebook and ticked ‘VENUE’ off his to-do list. Remembering that Eric Reynolds had an apartment he let out for events had been a masterstroke this morning and a large part of Jake’s planning conundrum solved. Now what remained was a bar, waiting staff and a caterer, perhaps a DJ, maybe some mood lighting. Jake looked at his list and congratulated himself. This party planning was easier than he’d imagined.

He sipped his flat white and glanced around the coffee shop interior. A long line stretched along the counter towards the door but the speed of service meant that even those at the back of the queue weren’t visibly rattled by having to wait. That said, compared with San Franciscan coffee shop customers, this queue would appear uptight. Jake shuddered as a familiar thud of reality echoed through him. Everything had seemed easier on the West Coast – the sunshine and laid-back atmosphere permeating every aspect of life. Except for his marriage, which should have been the easiest thing of all. Why did Jessica leave him? What happened to change how she felt about him?

Jake groaned. Speculation was pointless. Jess had her reasons – whatever they were – and he was powerless to change her mind. He could go over and over the situation until the end of time and never find the answers. Jessica simply didn’t want to be his wife any longer. The unsigned divorce papers in his still-unpacked apartment were irrefutable evidence of that.

He turned his attention back to the neatly written to-do list. This was what he should focus on, something removed from his marriage situation.

Make this a success, he wrote in bold, confident letters, and the rest will follow.

Alongside the list of engagement party tasks, Jake had written an extensive list that would take even longer to complete. When he moved from San Francisco he had left more than his marital home behind. Along with his friends and lifestyle he had also left his business – a thriving psychotherapy practice that he had built from scratch. Even now, he regretted having to leave his hard work on the other side of the US. Still, at least the money from its sale would go a long way to seeing him established in New York. And, as Ed had joked, there were fewer places in the world more in need of mass therapy than Manhattan.

‘It’ll be a goldmine,’ he’d assured Jake. ‘They’ll be lining up outside to dump their neuroses on you.’

Jake hoped Ed was right. Certainly their father and eldest brother Daniel had profited handsomely from dealing with the minds of the Big Apple, so there was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t do the same.

If only it were that easy. Finding the right premises was a challenge. Too close to the centre of New York and he could be lost in the city blur; too far away and he would just be lost. He needed to be where people needed him and were willing to pay for his services, so affluent areas were preferable. But affluent areas spelled expensive rents and to place his fledgling business in the wrong area would prove costly indeed.

Deep down, Jake hated that money was always the bottom line. When he graduated from medical school he had entertained lofty aspirations to treat everyone, regardless of income. And, for a couple of years, he had worked in volunteer practices, offering psychological assistance to the police and community outreaches in addition to his junior partner position at a local psychotherapy unit. He had almost burned himself out in the process, but had felt a deep sense of pride to be doing the right thing.

Then, he met Jessica. And everything changed. Her father was a powerful businessman in the city and only too happy to send wealthy colleagues Jake’s way. With the profits from his new clientele, Jake was soon able to set up his own practice, moving wholesale to San Francisco a year later when Jessica was offered a position at a West Coast interior design agency. Since then, Jake’s business had focused solely on private clients – and he had become comfortable with the safety and security it afforded him.

Maybe he had become too comfortable with everything. Maybe that was why Jessica left …

He shook the thought away. He hadn’t changed: she had. He needed to focus on rebuilding his business. Premises and good staff, definitely a great PA, maybe a practice partner in time – all of these things he had control over and could ensure he made a success of.

He spent the afternoon calling recruiters and realtors, his list getting longer as appointments to view premises and meet potential staff built up. Back in his apartment and pleased with a productive day’s work, Jake closed his notebook and stretched his aching arms above his head as the light began to fade over the Williamsburg skyline. He poured a glass of bourbon and relaxed back in his favourite leather chair – one of the few pieces of furniture he had brought from his previous home. The apartment grew dark as streetlights flared into life, casting an eerie orange glow around the bare walls. A single shaft of white light from a neighbouring building’s security lamp illuminated the table by the window – and the dreaded brown envelope confirming the end of his marriage. Taking a long sip of bourbon, Jake let pain wash over him as he closed his eyes.

CHAPTER NINE

Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn

‘Celia Reighton is a legend!’ Russ stroked the journalist’s latest column in the New York Times, which was spread across the counter in Hudson River Books.

The column was a wry take on the Mayor of New York’s recent speech at a fundraiser in which he mistakenly referred to Donald Trump as ‘Sir Donald’. A furore had broken out, Manhattan’s journalists having a field day at his expense while political opponents claimed this as evidence of the Mayor’s unsuitability for the job. Celia, in her inimitable fashion, was musing on the Mayor’s secret plan to ‘Olde-Englandise’ New York:

One has to wonder what’s next? Will suits of armour be seen on Wall Street? Will corsets be compulsory at New York Fashion Week? Before we know it, our esteemed Mayor will have the whole of Manhattan as a giant, Disney-esque theme pub. My advice? Be sure to sign up for those jousting lessons now, before the rush begins …

‘I think I actually love her,’ Russ laughed.

‘Well, hands off. My brother’s already claimed her.’