I’ll Take New York
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‘Shame.’ Russ studied Bea. ‘You look better today.’
‘Thanks. I feel better.’
‘Did you and Otis talk?’
Bea ignored her irritation. ‘No. We have nothing else to talk about. I’ve been thinking: Celia’s book launch could be the first of many evening events Hudson River Books could host. I thought we could collaborate with the Comedy Cavern and do an open-mic style event nearer the summer, if you’re up for it?’
‘Well look at you, Ms Businesswoman of the Year! It’s all good, Bea.’
‘Thank you.’ Pleased with herself, Bea looked around the bookstore. It was coming together at last.
‘When is Ms Reighton arriving to look around?’
‘About ten. But Stewart said to expect her any time between now and two p.m.’ Bea smiled. ‘Time-keeping isn’t her forte, apparently.’
Russ looked hurriedly around the shop. ‘Heck, I need to tidy this place for when she arrives. We can’t have a New York Times star columnist seeing the bookstore like this.’
‘Like what? It looks great.’
Russ stared at Bea. ‘So you say. But we’re talking New York royalty here. I’m not settling for anything less than perfect.’
Bea giggled as her friend set about cleaning the already clean shop. She was used to Russ panicking but today he was doing it at an entirely new level. Bea understood his nerves: she too was a little daunted by the task. It was a coup to host Celia’s event, but, knowing her reputation and respect within the literary community of the city, the prospect of famous authors, socialites and powerful journalists eating canapés and drinking wine at Hudson River Books was slightly terrifying. She was excited though: if the bookstore could pull this off, anything was possible.
As predicted, Celia breezed into Hudson River Books just after one o’clock, by which time Russ was more tightly wound up than a spring. Not wanting to risk her colleague exploding in Celia’s presence, Bea despatched him to the local coffee shop to fetch drinks. At least this way she could guarantee ten Russ-free minutes to talk about the important things with Celia.
‘I love this place!’ Celia said, walking around the bookstore and inspecting the bare-brick walls, comfortable leather chairs and informally arranged bookshelves. ‘It’s so inviting, so warm and welcoming. Every bookstore should be like this.’
Bea had overheard similar conversations between customers over the last couple of years but it was wonderful to hear it said directly to her. It was what she and Russ had worked so hard for: to create a store that people wanted to linger in. Cosy beanbags, cushions and chairs were arranged throughout for customers to sit and enjoy their books; special genre-themed zones changed regularly so there was always something new to discover; quotes from Books of the Month were chalked up on thought-bubble-shaped blackboards around the store; and they had even devised a ‘Take A Chance on Me’ book service, where a pile of titles wrapped in brown paper with labels hinting at the stories within invited readers to discover an author they might not have read before.
As Celia continued to enthuse about the fixtures, fittings and ambience of the bookstore, Bea beamed with pride. She remembered making her Grandma Dot laugh when, as a little girl, she had earnestly asked if the local bookshop in her home town might let her live there if she asked nicely enough. She had even devised a back-up plan if the bookshop declined her idea: the local library’s children’s section had very comfortable patchwork beanbags that could easily make a bed. As long as books surrounded Bea all the time, she wasn’t fussy about where she lived. Now she was living out her childhood ambition – almost. Hudson River Books was definitely the kind of book-filled space that she would happily spend every hour of her life in.
Aware of the brief amount of time she had before her colleague’s return, Bea sat on the large black leather sofa in the corner that would soon house Russ’ coffee bar and invited Celia to join her.
‘I’ve been thinking about the book launch,’ she said, pulling out her notebook and scanning the list of suggestions with the shaking tip of her pen. ‘I’d love it if you would do a reading for us. I thought, with your permission, we could reproduce some quotes from your book and hang them around the walls. We have some bespoke frames that we use for seasonal promotions and Russ is a graphic design whizz.’
‘I like it. Go on.’
Encouraged, Bea shared more items from her list. The French bistro opposite the bookstore had agreed to serve mini versions of its popular dishes as canapés and provide as much wine as the guests could drink, while the small stationery store further down 8th Avenue had offered to hand-print invitations for the event and supply matching goody bags for all attending.
Celia listened to Bea, nodding enthusiastically. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? I must say, I’m impressed. Stewart told me how much this event means to you. Talking of which, how are you? Has that awful man tried to contact you?’
Slightly taken aback at the speed with which Celia had changed the subject, Bea took a few moments to reply. ‘I – um – I’m fine and no, thankfully, Otis hasn’t been in touch. But then I did tell him we were over, so it’s little wonder he’s left me alone.’
Celia folded her hands in her lap and fixed Bea with a look that made her a little nervous. ‘You know what you need? A night out. Great company, good wine – get away from all thoughts of relationships and enjoy yourself.’
Bea had to admit that sounded good. Lately all she had done was dodge thoughts about Otis and her failed love life. ‘I’d like that.’
Celia’s smile illuminated the store. ‘Excellent! My good friend is having a party in the Upper West Side, Friday night. It’ll be full of interesting people and I hear the private venue is to die for. Say you’ll come.’
Bea laughed at the unexpected invitation. What else would she be doing on a Friday night, anyway? ‘OK. I’d love to.’
That evening, Bea sat alone in her cosy apartment in the Boerum Hill neighbourhood of Brooklyn. To the casual observer, the only differences between her business and her home were a few more chairs, a kitchen sink and a bedroom; the rest of the space being devoted to books. Russ jokingly referred to Bea’s apartment as a ‘flat-share’ arrangement: ‘It’s nice of the books to let you stay. Do they charge you reasonable rent?’
Bea smiled now as she sipped a large mug of hot chocolate and ran her fingers along the spines of her books. Since ending her relationship with Otis she found she was enjoying being alone. The days following the awful family dinner had given her time to reflect on her recent life and what she had seen hadn’t been pretty. She realised she had become so focused on tackling potential problems Otis could cause that she had been neglecting her own life. She had been a fire-fighter rather than the trailblazer she wanted to be. That was going to change.
Bea couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to think only of herself. Between her final year of university and the start of this week she had lurched from one doomed relationship to another, with barely time to catch her breath in between. On one hand it proved she was a woman in demand – as Stewart had often said – but the problem was the kind of men lining up to date her.
She caught sight of her reflection in the vintage mirror she had bought last year at the Brooklyn Flea market. Well, no more, she told herself. From now on, it’s all about me.
She meant it, too. Why should her life revolve around relationships? Who wrote that rule, anyway? More than anything, Bea wanted to be known for who she was, what she could achieve. Placing the responsibility for her happiness on someone else was only going to lead to more heartache. Her family might have the monopoly on successful relationships, but she didn’t have to join them. It was her time to be whoever she wanted to be. And right now, she wanted to be happy being herself.
Her reflection started back, singularly unconvinced. Otis Greene still had a heavy hold on her heart. She let out a sigh. Clearly this was going to take some getting used to.
The shrill ring of her 1950s red Bakelite phone made her turn from the mirror.
‘Hi, Bea James?’
‘Sweetheart! It’s Mum. Can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear.’ Bea smiled and all of a sudden wished her parents hadn’t set off on their long-planned trans-American adventure the day after the family meal. ‘How are you both?’
‘Your dad is driving a forty-two foot Winnebago, so he’s like a kid, as you can imagine. And I’m a happy navigator with my lovely new maps. More to the point, how are you?’
‘I’m good.’ She hesitated, wondering how much to tell her mother, before reasoning that Stewart would most likely fill her in on all the details even if she didn’t. Better to bite the bullet. ‘Single, again. But it’s the right thing.’
‘Good.’ Her mum’s reply didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’m sorry we had to leave so quickly, darling. Thing is, your father has a list as long as your arm that he wants us to get through before we fly home.’
‘It’s fine; I know you’ve been dreaming about this trip for years. Where are you now?’
‘Philadelphia. Next is Boston and New England. I suspect he has the historical tour worked out for every place we visit, but that’s what I get for marrying a history lecturer. Are you sure everything is OK?’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
‘Because if not I can tell your dad to turn the Winnebago around right now.’
Bea could hear a muffled retort from her father and missed him incredibly. ‘You’re not getting out of Dad’s magical history tour that easily.’
‘Rats. Oh well, you can’t blame a girl for trying. I’ll check in next week, though. That’s if your dad hasn’t bored me off the face of the planet.’
‘She loves it, Bea-Bea! Love you!’ Bea’s dad called out.
‘Love to you both. Tell Dad to drive safely and let you have a day off for shopping in Boston.’
‘I will. That’s why I love you! Bye, Bea!’
When the call ended, Bea looked around her book-strewn apartment, which suddenly seemed too quiet. I’m fine, she told herself. Absolutely fine.
CHAPTER TEN
Chez Henri, Upper West Side
‘Smoked salmon with wilted spinach and cumin,’ the waiter announced, placing a small tasting plate of beautifully constructed canapés in front of Jake. ‘We also have gazpacho and lime shots and bourbon-marinated beef with wasabi glaze.’
Jake stared at the table covered in white plates with sumptuous edible art and sighed contentedly. Party planning definitely had its perks, not least in Manhattan, and he congratulated himself on the fortunate position he found himself in. He could quite happily do this every day for the rest of his life.
‘It looks wonderful,’ he smiled, noting the pride of the chef standing beside the table. ‘All of it.’
‘Please,’ the chef invited, keen to see his potential customer sample the dishes laid before him.
Every tiny mouthful was an explosion of flavour, layer upon layer of taste experiences that delighted the palate and seemed designed to excite every one of Jake’s senses. Eric had been right about this place. Chez Henri’s food could rival the best in the world and was definitely the hot ticket in New York. No wonder the chef was rumoured to be on his way to achieving a Michelin star for his creations.
Feeling a little uncomfortable with the scrutiny of the chef and attendant waiting staff, Jake turned to Henri DuChamp. ‘Why don’t you join me and talk me though your dishes?’
The waiter and three waitresses exchanged looks of surprise, but Chef Henri’s expression didn’t flicker. With a gesture of his hand the waiting staff retreated to the kitchen and he sat down.
‘Merci, Monsieur.’
‘Call me Jake, Henri, please.’
Henri laughed. ‘Thank you, Jake. This is unusual, but I must confess I prefer it.’
‘You don’t get to do this often?’
The chef shook his head. ‘Most people like to be waited on.’
‘Ah,’ Jake smiled. ‘Well, I am not one of those people. The thing is, I’m organising an engagement party for my brother and his fiancée. They’re very special to me and I want the event to be relaxed, happy and characterised by awesome food.’
‘Then in my opinion, these dishes here would be the best for the occasion,’ Henri replied, pulling plates from the far side of the table. ‘We will begin here and you tell me what you like. Together, we will create the perfect menu.’
‘Sounds good, Henri.’
The chef beamed and then, checking that none of his staff were listening, he leaned closer to Jake. ‘But you know what would make the tasting even better?’
Jake expected Henri to recommend a fine wine, expensive champagne or rich cognac. ‘What?’
Henri chuckled. ‘An ice-cold beer.’
‘A beer? Henri, I like your thinking.’
‘And that, Jake, is why we are going to become firm friends …’
‘Bro, this is too much.’ Ed shook his head as he read the list of dishes Jake had selected for the engagement party. ‘Rosie and I would’ve been happy with a bar somewhere …’
‘I know you would. But if it had been left to you guys to plan this party it wouldn’t have happened. Which is why you asked me. And which, Eduardo, is why you’re having what I decide you’re having.’
Ed whistled and leaned against the florist store counter. ‘Rosie will flip out when she sees this. I haven’t been able to take her to dinner for months; it’s like you’re bringing all the food we’ve missed to one party.’
‘But you think she’ll like it?’
‘Like it? She’s likely to forget she’s engaged to me and marry you instead.’ He put the menu on the counter and shook Jake’s hand with the handshake they had devised as teenagers: hands clasped low, switching to holding thumbs, finished with a fist-bump. ‘Thanks, man.’
‘Hey, my pleasure. Now all I need from you is a list of all the people you forgot in the initial guest list.’
Ed’s sheepish expression confirmed how well his brother knew him. ‘There were a couple I missed off …’
‘What’s this?’ Ed and Rosie’s multi-hued assistant picked up the list, her other hand protectively resting on her considerable baby bump.
‘It’s the menu for the engagement party on Friday, Marnie,’ Ed said.
‘Goat’s cheese? Brie? I can’t eat this, Ed!’
Ed stared at her. ‘Who says you’re invited?’
Marnie stuck out her chin. ‘Rosie did. And Jake. And you for that matter.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Ah.’
‘Exactly. I can’t believe you wouldn’t consider the needs of your very important pregnant friend.’
Ed groaned. Jake jumped in to save his brother from the terrifying fury of Marnie Andersson’s pregnant indignation. ‘But we did, Marnie.’ He took the paper gently from her clenched fist and drew her attention to an extra set of dishes printed on the reverse. ‘These are specially designed with the specific needs of your pregnancy diet in mind. No unripened soft cheese, no egg yolk, no rare meat or fish, no alcohol.’
Marnie squeaked and hugged Jake as best she could around her belly. ‘You’re a darling! If I wasn’t with Zac …’
‘And almost eight months pregnant,’ Ed pointed out.
‘That wouldn’t matter.’ She shrugged off the suggestion. ‘He looks like Henry Cavill, only with blue eyes. The twins would love him.’ Happy, she waddled away to greet a customer who had just arrived.
Jake felt his cheeks burning. ‘Wow.’
‘She’s an original,’ Ed agreed. ‘And, thankfully for you, very in love with Zac, otherwise known as the Fit Guy.’
‘Can you tell I’m relieved?’ Jake’s heart was thudding nevertheless. Despite the growing acceptance of his new single status, he wasn’t quite ready to be propositioned by a heavily pregnant woman. He grinned at his brother, who handed him a mug of smoky coffee from Kowalski’s ancient-looking coffee machine. ‘Hasn’t Rosie retired that thing yet?’
Ed feigned offence. ‘Shh! That’s a very valuable member of our staff you’re abusing. Trashing Old F would be sacrilege. Besides, as long as he makes great coffee, who are we to judge how he looks?’
‘I hear you.’ He tasted the coffee and was again surprised by how excellent a brew could come from such a dubious coffee maker. ‘OK, what?’
Ed was looking at him intently and the instant sinking sensation Jake experienced could only herald one thing: he was about to receive a ‘concerned older brother chat’. He had learned it from their father – a past master at the serious Steinmann conversation switch – although Ed would vehemently deny it if Jake ever pointed this out to him.
‘Have you dealt with – it – yet?’
Jake folded his arms. ‘It?’
‘Come on, man, you know what I mean. The letter. From Jessica’s lawyer. That, I’m guessing from your expression, is still in the envelope it arrived in?’
Jake wished his brother didn’t know him quite as well as he did. Of course he hadn’t replied to the letter. He’d told himself he was too busy and had made sure the engagement party preparations demanded as much of his time as possible. Between that and his to-do list for establishing his new Manhattan practice, what time was there left to deal with lawyers who only wanted to fleece him anyway?
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘Yeah, sure. When do you reckon that’ll be, hmm? Five years? Twenty? You need closure on this. As soon as you can.’
Irritation rising, Jake prepared to face him down. ‘Easy for you to say. Before you met Rosie you never had a relationship last long enough for lawyers to notice. Apart from the ones you were bedding, that is.’
‘Ouch. You cut me deep, bro.’
Ed was mocking him, but Jake didn’t care. He was so sick of the entire world feeling entitled to tell him how to live his life: Jessica and her lawyer, Jake’s father, Ed, his own lawyer Chuck – even the lady who sold him coffee at his new neighbourhood coffee place had somehow learned that he was going through a divorce. What right did any of them have to advise him, however well meaning they were? ‘Of course I’ll answer the damn letter.’
Ed held up his hands. ‘Hey, it’s your call. Just don’t leave it too long.’
In the cab heading back to Williamsburg, Jake was still fuming. He knew Ed was right, but the truth of it was that he didn’t want to start the process that would inevitably lead to the end of his marriage. Jessica might have made herself undeniably clear when she walked out on him, but while they were still legally bound to one another there remained the possibility that – just maybe – there was a chance they might be reconciled. Jake hated the stubborn hope within him and wished that he didn’t still yearn for Jess to reconsider her decision. But, he reasoned, you didn’t spend almost ten years of your life loving someone only to let go of them so easily, did you?
He stared out at the grey Manhattan afternoon; the vivid yellow of New York cabs on either side of him appearing like splashes of sunlight against the leaden palette of the passing city. I’ll sign the papers soon, he decided. But I’m not ready yet.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn
If it was possible to have a coronary induced by new culinary machinery then Russ O’Docherty was going to need a paramedic. Bea watched her colleague unwinding bubble-wrap from the bookstore’s new espresso machine with the kind of breathless reverence normally reserved for priceless works of art, expensive gifts and beautiful women.
‘She … is … stunning …’
‘How do you know it’s female?’
‘Are you kidding me? Look at her curves, the shine on her chrome, the delicate curve of her milk arm …’
Bea shuddered. ‘That’s just creepy now. It’s a machine, Russ, not Marilyn Monroe.’
Russ clicked his fingers and stared at Bea as though she had just shared the meaning of life with him. ‘That’s perfect! We’ll call her Marilyn.’
‘We will?’
‘Sure! Men will want to worship at her feet, women will want to hang out with her and bask in her beauty.’
‘O-K … Well, when you’re done worshipping her, perhaps you can help me clear the corner where her shrine will be? The carpenter will be here in an hour.’
Reluctantly, Russ left the gleaming object of his affections to begin packing boxes of books as Bea dismantled a shelving unit that was making way for the new coffee bar. He shook his head as they worked, casting wry glances at Bea. And, while it pained her to admit it, Bea loved him for it. This was the way things had always been between them since the day they first met in a mutual friend’s dorm at Columbia. They had gone under the auspices of studying for a group project, but somebody had found a bottle of vodka and the gathering had quickly descended into hook-ups and hilarity. Attempting to avoid the advances of a particularly persistent English Lit major, Bea had headed for Russ, who looked like the only other person in the room who was as uncomfortable as she felt. Acting quickly upon seeing her predicament, Russ pulled her to him for a hugely theatrical stage kiss, sending her disappointed would-be suitor sulking away. When Bea recovered from the shock of his sudden embrace they struck up a conversation, and Bea discovered a kindred spirit with a wicked sense of humour whom she quickly felt an affinity with.
They had once tried to recreate the fake kiss for real, not long after their graduation when, both despondent after recent break-ups, they ended up drowning their sorrows in beer and cheap takeaway pizza at Bea’s apartment. It was a spontaneous moment that very nearly progressed further than either of them was prepared for, but before clothes were removed, Russ had pulled away. Bea had understood completely – the sudden awkwardness of their kiss sobering her – and they had never spoken of it since. Russ relied on Bea to be his closest friend and Bea felt the same. Their relationship represented the nearest thing to a successful partnership that either of them had experienced and therefore was not something they were willing to risk.
‘Look at this,’ Bea said, keen to take her mind off the sudden recollection of their historic drunken clinch. She held up a slightly faded hardback, its cover protected with the kind of plastic sleeve usually seen in libraries.
Her colleague’s expression instantly softened. ‘Oh, hello old friend! I didn’t realise Sid was still with us.’
Bea gave the cover an affectionate pat. ‘I think HRB would collapse if Sid ever left.’
Motorcycling For Life by Sid ‘Wolfman’ Wolkevic was the very first book Bea had unpacked as she and Russ had prepared to open their store, just over three years ago. At the time it had been the cause of their first argument in Hudson River Books, as neither of them would admit to ordering the book from the distributor. Since then, the book had periodically appeared on different shelves around the bookstore and, consequently, had become something of a phenomenon.
‘We should put him somewhere prominent,’ Russ suggested. ‘Or make him a one-off sale item. See if we can re-home him at last.’
Bea stared at her friend. ‘Or maybe we could just hide him on a new shelf and see if he finds his way to another one?’
‘You don’t want to let Sid leave, do you?’ Russ grinned, knowing he was right.
Bea hugged the book. There was no use denying the fact. ‘He’s like one of the family now. I’m not sure how I’d feel if someone tried to buy him.’
‘So take him home.’
‘But he lives here.’ Bea knew she was being sentimental, but Motorcycling for Life had become as much a part of the fixtures of Hudson River Books as the exposed brick walls, worn American oak floorboards or brushed steel lamps that hung from the high ceiling. Knowing that there was one book in their stock that never changed was oddly comforting, as if demonstrating to Bea that the hope and ambition with which she and Russ had founded the bookstore was unchanged too.