Read Online Fairytale of New York by Miranda Dickinson - Free Book Online
Authors: Miranda Dickinson
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that the Great Steinmann Dating Express was still on its non-committed tracks was strangely comforting. It confirmed that Kowalski’s was still the same: Ed was still dating, Marnie was as colourful as ever, Celia continued to fly in and out and the shop was as much as a neighbourhood hub as it had always been. It felt safe —and nobody knows the value of that feeling like I do.
Little did I know then that seemingly innocuous events just around the corner were going to change everything.
Chapter Four
There is nothing quite like returning home after a long day. Don’t get me wrong: I love my shop. But I get a kick from turning the key in the lock to reveal the welcoming sight of my apartment. It has this unique smell—wood polish, old coffee and lavender. It signifies just one thing to me: I’m home.
The first thing I do is crank Old F’s sister, Hissy (after the noise it makes and the fits it occasionally throws in the process) into action. Slightly younger than my workmate, but equally as unprepossessing, my home coffee maker gurgles happily into life and infuses the whole place with its fragrance. Then, mug in hand, I check my answer machine.
This particular late summer’s day there were three—the first two were from Mum, reminding me about my brother’s birthday and informing me that James would be in the States on business next week. It’s possible to have a conversation with Mum’s answer machine messages because she leaves gaps where you would normally say ‘Mmm’, ‘I see’, or, ‘Oh dear’ in a phone call.
‘It would be lovely if James could visit you, but he says he’ll be tied up in Washington the whole time…’
‘That’s a shame…’
‘It’s a shame, I know.’
‘Hmm…’
‘I’d like to say he’ll call you, but you know what he’s like, dear.’
‘Yes, so wrapped up in his own universe that no one else matters…’
‘He’s so wrapped up in his work commitments that he never has time to do the things he wants. Anyhow, darling, I must go…’
‘I expect this call’s expensive…’
‘It’s so expensive to call you at this time of night.’
I smiled. ‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’
‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’ The message ended. I shook my head and smiled before taking a long sip of coffee. For the tiniest second, I wished myself home with Mum in England again.
The last message was from Celia. There are normally several messages from Celia, their length, volume and coherence depending on how near a total breakdown she is at the time.
‘Rosie, it’s me. It’s six forty-five. Where are you? Call me the second you get this.’
‘OK, OK, wait one second while I get changed,’ I muttered, walking into my bedroom.
True to form, Celia wasn’t listening. No sooner had I kicked off my shoes, the phone rang.
‘All right, fine, seeing as you insist, I’ll talk to you first then,’ I sighed.
‘Rosie—thank goodness, honey. I was thinking something awful must have happened to you.’
I smiled despite myself. ‘I caught a bus to the deli and then walked home. It’s actually light this time of day in August, you know. What could possibly have happened to me?’
‘Anything, Rosie! My colleague has been working on a pieceabout how many single young women meet supposedly wonderful young men in bars after work, only to have their apartments ransacked once they’ve slept with them…’
‘Celia, listen to yourself! I’m fine. I haven’t slept with any supposedly wonderful young men today and everything in my apartment is just as I left it this morning.’
‘Well, I only worry because I care about you,’ Celia said, with more than a hint of offence in her tone.
‘I know—and I really appreciate it. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I need you to come by the office tomorrow, if you can.’
‘Why?’ I asked carefully, picturing Ed and Marnie’s stern faces.
‘I want to feature you in our “West Siders” column. So many guests who met you at the
Little did I know then that seemingly innocuous events just around the corner were going to change everything.
Chapter Four
There is nothing quite like returning home after a long day. Don’t get me wrong: I love my shop. But I get a kick from turning the key in the lock to reveal the welcoming sight of my apartment. It has this unique smell—wood polish, old coffee and lavender. It signifies just one thing to me: I’m home.
The first thing I do is crank Old F’s sister, Hissy (after the noise it makes and the fits it occasionally throws in the process) into action. Slightly younger than my workmate, but equally as unprepossessing, my home coffee maker gurgles happily into life and infuses the whole place with its fragrance. Then, mug in hand, I check my answer machine.
This particular late summer’s day there were three—the first two were from Mum, reminding me about my brother’s birthday and informing me that James would be in the States on business next week. It’s possible to have a conversation with Mum’s answer machine messages because she leaves gaps where you would normally say ‘Mmm’, ‘I see’, or, ‘Oh dear’ in a phone call.
‘It would be lovely if James could visit you, but he says he’ll be tied up in Washington the whole time…’
‘That’s a shame…’
‘It’s a shame, I know.’
‘Hmm…’
‘I’d like to say he’ll call you, but you know what he’s like, dear.’
‘Yes, so wrapped up in his own universe that no one else matters…’
‘He’s so wrapped up in his work commitments that he never has time to do the things he wants. Anyhow, darling, I must go…’
‘I expect this call’s expensive…’
‘It’s so expensive to call you at this time of night.’
I smiled. ‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’
‘Love-you-miss-you-bye!’ The message ended. I shook my head and smiled before taking a long sip of coffee. For the tiniest second, I wished myself home with Mum in England again.
The last message was from Celia. There are normally several messages from Celia, their length, volume and coherence depending on how near a total breakdown she is at the time.
‘Rosie, it’s me. It’s six forty-five. Where are you? Call me the second you get this.’
‘OK, OK, wait one second while I get changed,’ I muttered, walking into my bedroom.
True to form, Celia wasn’t listening. No sooner had I kicked off my shoes, the phone rang.
‘All right, fine, seeing as you insist, I’ll talk to you first then,’ I sighed.
‘Rosie—thank goodness, honey. I was thinking something awful must have happened to you.’
I smiled despite myself. ‘I caught a bus to the deli and then walked home. It’s actually light this time of day in August, you know. What could possibly have happened to me?’
‘Anything, Rosie! My colleague has been working on a pieceabout how many single young women meet supposedly wonderful young men in bars after work, only to have their apartments ransacked once they’ve slept with them…’
‘Celia, listen to yourself! I’m fine. I haven’t slept with any supposedly wonderful young men today and everything in my apartment is just as I left it this morning.’
‘Well, I only worry because I care about you,’ Celia said, with more than a hint of offence in her tone.
‘I know—and I really appreciate it. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I need you to come by the office tomorrow, if you can.’
‘Why?’ I asked carefully, picturing Ed and Marnie’s stern faces.
‘I want to feature you in our “West Siders” column. So many guests who met you at the
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