This city is not mine by birthright – I was born a thousand miles away in a sleepy town in the heart of England. But ever since the day I first set foot on its grey-flagged sidewalks, I have felt caught up in the biggest, most welcoming embrace by every street, store and tree-lined avenue. I don’t know if a city can make a heart decision, but if it’s possible then New York chose to make me belong. And even though some of my most difficult and painful days have been set here, somehow this city has always softened the blows – just like a good friend who sits you down with a cup of tea and tells you to be patient because things will turn out OK in the end. And I know they will. Eventually.
My friend Celia tells me that I’m a “Frustrating But Adorable Optimist In The Face Of Overwhelming Evidence To The Contrary.” If you think this looks like a dramatic city newspaper headline then you’d be almost right: Celia is a journalist who writes a column for The New York Times and she’s lived here all her life. She was one of the first true friends I made in the city and she watches out for me like a slightly neurotic older sister. She won’t mind that description of her though – come to think of it, that’s probably one of hers anyway.
Celia’s apartment is on the second floor in an elegant Upper West-Side brownstone residence just off 91st Street, and every Saturday morning we meet there for coffee and the opportunity to put the world to rights. Sitting at her maple table by the large picture window, I can see out to the street below. “Sit for long enough in New York and you’ll see everyone in the city walk by”, Mr. Kowalski used to say. He’s the original owner of my florist store, now retired and resettled in his beloved Warsaw with his daughter Lenka. And he’s another of the first true friends I made in my adopted country. Remind me to tell you about him sometime. Another time, maybe.
“Rosie, you have no idea how blessed you are to have History in England,” Celia declared as she appeared from the kitchen with the coffee and a basket of warm muffins. As usual, we had entered a conversation a little way in from the start and continued as though we’d been there from the beginning. I couldn’t help but grin at her as she flopped down into the chair beside me.
“ Ah, history…” I replied in learned tone.
“ I mean you Brits just don’t appreciate the awesome privilege of having kings and queens going back centuries. I can’t say that my ancestors were walking in New York in the tenth century. I can’t say that my family is born and bred American. I mean Heaven Only Knows where my family came from. I’m probably four-sixteenths Ukrainian with a touch of Outer Mongolian thrown in somewhere along the line.”
I was about to say that there is actually no such thing as a true English person either, and remark that probably my family came from Moravia originally, but I could see this was a serious topic of concern for my friend. So I stayed quiet and poured the coffee instead.
“Why are you so hung up about it, honey?” I asked.
Celia’s troubled countenance softened and she reached for a muffin.
“It’s the column for next weeks’ Times. We’re doing a series on history and What It Is To Be American. The more I consider it, the more I realise it’s a non-starter. We have no history. We are a hotchpotch of immigrants, convicts and dreamers, all clamouring for some damn utopia that doesn’t exist. We want to belong, but we don’t know what we want to belong to.”
Somehow, I suspected those sentences would appear in her column soon. This is a regular phenomenon, which occurs most weekends. In fact, I think our Saturday morning chats must be the best documented in history. If, in a thousand years’ time, historians want to know what things 21st-century friends were discussing, all they will have to do is to examine Celia’s column archives at the New York Times (which will, by then, be thought-transmitting to its readership, I guess). And they will, on discovering the fruits of our Saturday mornings thus preserved for posterity, deduce our conversations to be “some kind of vague and ancient primitive ramblings, probably connected to ritual activity” – as historians tend to do.
“So – my Author’s Meet next Tuesday night…” Celia said, discarding the former subject and brandishing the next with a warp-speed that would impress Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Star Ship Enterprise, “ I thought Café Bijou in TriBeCa would be ideal. It’s new but worth a risk, so I’m told.”
“Sounds promising,” I said, watching sunlit steam rise as I broke open a warm muffin, letting the pieces fall onto my plate. “Who’s coming?”
“Henrik Gund is a definite and I’m awaiting replies from Mimi Sutton and Angelika Marshall, though of course I’m kinda confident they’ll find it hard to resist. In fact, most of New York’s finest will be there. It has the potential to be amazing… of course there are still a few worries to iron out…” Celia paused, turned squarely to face me and smiled one of those immaculately painted, high-maintenance Jewish smiles of hers that, I have learned, always precede a Celia Reighton Big Favour.
Somewhere, way in the back of my brain, a familiar little voice began screaming, “Don’t Do It! Don’t Do It!”… But it was too late. My long-suffering affection for my friend had already blinded me to the inevitability of surrender. With accomplished acting ability that would have had Spielberg arm-wrestling Scorsese for my services, I replied as if I hadn’t a notion of what was coming.
“That’s wonderful Celia. It sounds like everything is going to plan for you, then.”
“Well.. almost everything, Rosie, “ Celia began slowly.
So, it starts, announced the irritated voice of caution in my head, OK, lady, don’t say I didn’t warn you… The smile was widening with every grovelling word Celia spoke. “It’s a little delicate but I have to tell you… seeing as we’re such good friends… it’s just that I’ve been let down by Philippe,” (for your information: incredibly pretentious and over-priced “Floral Artiste”), “…And I really need some stylish table pieces.”
“Oh that’s dreadful honey, “ I sympathised, mirroring her agonised tone.
You are SO on your own… The little voice in my head let out an exasperated sigh, packed its suitcase and caught the first Greyhound for Vegas.
“It is so dreadful you wouldn’t believe…” Desperation was setting in. “Honey, you know I only use Philippe because my agent is seeing his brother… his creations often verge on the vulgar, in my opinion… did I mention how I really adored what you did for Jessica Robards’ wedding last Fall?” Celia’s increasing grip on her coffee mug was threatening to crush it completely and her smile was fast becoming a cheery grimace.
Realising that I was now alone, deserted by my conscience and facing the impending doom that is one of Celia’s Big Asks, I came to an all-too-familiar conclusion: it was time to give up and give in.
“How many pieces do you need and what flowers were you wanting?” I surrendered.
“Oh darling, would you?” Celia exclaimed, throwing her arms around me, lifting me several inches from my chair and letting out a squeal of delight.
“Yes, OK, I give in! You can have my great expertise at extremely short notice and no doubt at a discount too… Now let me go before you kill your florist!” I was duly released and she fell back into her chair giggling like a delighted schoolgirl.
“ Ooh, you’re so wonderful, Rosie! I knew you wouldn’t let me down! Well… uh… I need ten – no, make it twelve - with lilies – no, roses… maybe both? … I’ll leave it to you – after all, you’re the designer… But I’m picturing them hand-tied of course… with plenty of that straw stuff…”
“Raffia?” I offered, grinning. Celia didn’t hear. She was already in full artistic flow, gesturing flamboyantly with each new idea that she stumbled across.
“Well absolutely honey, that too! And baskets – ooh yes… little woven rustic ones like they have in England.”
“Ah, you mean historical ones..” I corrected.
Celia stopped abruptly and chastised me with a mock frown. “ You see, that’s what I was saying darling. You British have so much history that you can afford to throw it away in jest. Pity the poor American here.” Halfway in, once again, the conversation shifted, as New York hurried by on the street below.
***
Work began on Celia’s order the following Monday. The order from Patrick’s Flower Warehouse was due at 7am so Marnie and Ed, my assistants, agreed to meet me at the store at 6.45am, on the strict understanding that I would shout them breakfast at Starbucks in return for their loyal service. Once all the boxes were safely inside we locked the store, pulled down the shutters and walked across the street to claim our reward.
There is something ultimately satisfying about walking into a Starbucks coffee house first thing in the morning. You are invited in by the comforting glow of painted glass lights and welcoming, cosy areas to sit; then, once over the threshold, wonderfully evocative scents of fresh coffee and warm pastries surround you and draw you further inside. Even though life continues to rush headlong into the day as the world outside scurries past the window, inside there is a feeling of relaxed indulgence – a chance to sit awhile and enjoy the moment.
Or, in our case this morning, wake up and smell the coffee.
“So, remind us again why we’re selflessly crucifying ourselves today?” Ed yawned, his wry humour much sharper than the rest of his body at this hour.
“It’s a favour. For Celia.” I said. Marnie groaned into her cappuccino.
“Ah, Celia,” said Ed, raising an eyebrow, “Now tell me, would this be the same Celia who got us making forty Christmas garlands for the Times party with only one week’s notice? Or the Celia who ‘simply had to have daffodils’ in November?”
I pretended to hide behind my mug.
“Or the Celia who booked our biggest rival for her Valentine Ball but ‘let us’ provide all the gift-roses because we were cheaper?” Marnie added.
“OK, OK, guilty as charged!” I protested.
Ed and Marnie exchanged knowing glances, and then faced me with uniform seriousness.
“See, I have this theory about the cause of the worrying symptoms our patient here is displaying,” Ed began.
“Why, Dr. Steinmann, what could it be?” asked Marnie with a squeaky Southern-belle accent she could only have picked up from watching too many episodes of Days Of Our Lives.
Ed consulted his paper napkin with practised flair and turned to face her. “The problem here is very simple, Nurse Andersson. Our patient is a classic sufferer of Malaise Anglais.”
Marnie placed a hand to her heart, “Oh, Doctor, are you sure?”
“What exactly are you saying?” I giggled.
“You’re too British, Rosie,” Ed declared with a smile, “You’re missing the gene which enables you to say No…”
“…It won’t allow you to learn from each and every mistake,” said Marnie, clearly enjoying this assault on my character flaws, “… And it unfortunately reveals itself in repeated attacks of an incredibly frequent nature.”
“Of course, it’s the friends of the sufferer that I feel sorry for,” continued Ed, with merciless vigour. “Because, you see, they are the ones who ultimately face the hard work of providing support to the patient...”
“… Although it needs to be said that there are benefits for them, too,” I interrupted.
“Such as?” asked Ed, his blue eyes sparkling like his wit.
“Such as the privilege of enjoying breakfasts at the patient’s expense,” I returned. Marnie smiled and Ed reached across and squeezed my hand.
“Absolutely. And it is a privilege. We simply mock because we care, Rosie. When are you gonna understand that some people are always out for themselves?”
I let out a sigh. We must have had this conversation a thousand times, but I’m never successful in getting Marnie and Ed to see the situation from my point of view. Undaunted by this impressive pedigree of failure, I began Attempt #1001.
“I know it seems like Celia’s always on The Ask, but she really is a good friend. She’s been there for me every time I’ve needed help and I just want to repay her kindness.”
Ed’s amused expression softened a little and he shook his head. “Rosie Duncan, we love you dearly,” he said. “And if it makes you happy, we’ll gladly spend the many, many hours required in order for you to repay your friend.”
“Well, thank you.” I said, draining the last bit of my latte.
“You work too much, though Rosie. You need to live a little, too.” Marnie said, her voice full of concern. An alarm bell began to go nuts in the back of my mind: I knew where this was going. We were approaching forbidden territory. I braced myself for the impending comment, and sure enough it came. “You so need a man…” she breathed. My heart sank and I immediately cut her off.
“Ah, ah – no - that is a non-negotiable subject and, I need to warn you, will result in a breach of your contract conditions if you choose to discuss it further.”
Ed threw his hands up in mock surrender. “OK, OK, boss, we get it! From here on in we will pursue it no longer.”
“Finally, they understand!” I looked heavenwards, hands outstretched in gratitude. For a moment it seemed I had succeeded, though I could hardly believe it. Had I really averted the inevitable lecture? Were my assistants giving up the battle?
Nope. Ed wasn’t finished. “…Suffice to say that Marnie and I will resort to vain hopes that one day you will discover the love of your life and receive the happiness you are so entitled to…” Ed was stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, by Marnie, or rather by Marnie’s hand as it clamped firmly across his mouth.
“Quiet, Steinmann, I need this job!” she shouted as he tried to wrestle her hand away. After a brief struggle, she let him go and they both laughed. Ed’s eyes twinkled and he flashed a wide, friendly grin at me.
“Suitably chastened, m’lady,” he smiled as we rose to return to the store. But in the doorway he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me to him, adding, “However, this topic won’t go away Rosie Duncan. It’s definitely one To Be Continued.”
* * * *