Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson
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he was nice,’ I said, full of curiosity.
Marnie shrugged and played with a napkin. ‘He’s OK, I guess. We dated a little last year.’
‘Looks like he’s keen to see you again,’ I smiled, indicating the strip of paper laid lovingly on the table. ‘He’s a nice-looking guy too.’
‘Too restrained for me,’ Marnie replied coolly. I couldn’t help but think this probably could apply to most of Manhattan’s single male population when compared to Marnie’s vivid personality and appearance. She beamed cheekily. ‘Not as fine as Ed though, hey?’
Although I would never dream of admitting it to Marnie, I had to privately concede that Ed did have an alarming skill for looking great when most men would just have looked rough. Of course, I could understand how he managed to find so many women eager to go out with him; it was that legendary Steinmann twinkle that rescued him from so many otherwise tricky situations with devastating effect. Even when we have had the biggest rows at Kowalski’s, I’ve never managed to stay angry at him for long. Which is frustrating in the extreme, but then, that’s Ed: like that brown leather jacket of his—a little beaten up by life but so warm and engaging that you forgive the lack of polish immediately. I suppose all those women found themselves torn between admiring the Steinmann twinkle and wanting to take care of him. Unfortunately for them, Ed’s idea of a perfect woman seemed to be, ‘spend time with me when it’s fun and then don’t bother calling’. Not that he was ever cruel: from the little he told us of his dates it appeared that most of the ladies shared his ethos.
Halfway through our Pancetta Mac Cheese, I couldn’t wait any longer to hand Marnie the turquoise Victoria’s Vintage bag I’d been masquerading as my mythical Biba blouse. Flinging aside the vivid magenta tissue paper, Marnie let out a squeak that momentarily made the whole clientele of Ellen’s stop and look at us.
‘It’s the one I was looking at! Oh, Rosie, you shouldn’t have!’
I smiled. ‘You deserve it.’
What many people who see Marnie today don’t realise about her is that her confidence was hard-won. A painfully shy child, her formative years were spent hiding from the other kids in her New Jersey neighbourhood who had noticed early on that both she and her family were different. They taunted her for the colourful handmade clothes her artist mother lovingly dressed her in; for her smiling, bearded art teacher father, whose style remained firmly locked in the sixties; and for the orange VW camper van parked outside their home, standing out like an alien spacecraft amid the sea of sedans that lined the street. While her parents always encouraged her to assert her individuality, it took an incident at Marnie’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ school prom to change how she viewed herself.
Without a date for the night, she had joined the ranks of the singletons sitting around the periphery of the dancefloor, watching and waiting for someone to notice them. To the surprise of everyone, one of the most popular guys in her year left his date to walk over to ‘no date land’ and ask Marnie if she wanted to dance. Struggling to combat her embarrassment, Marnie shyly accepted and walked with him to the centre of the floor, all eyes following her. As she was about to take his hand, however, a cruel smile broke across her partner’s face as he flipped her skirt over her head and yelled, ‘Freak on the dancefloor!’ to the utter delight of those watching.
It was then that Marnie experienced what she describes as ‘my epiphany’. In the centre of the hall, battling the urge to run away, all the years of pent-up frustration and hurt finally found a vent and, like a multicoloured volcano, Marnie erupted. Popular Guy didn’t stand a chance as Marnie’s left fist slammed into his jaw, laying him out cold in the middle of the high school gym, encircled by sparkles from the revolving mirrorball overhead.
‘I’d rather be different than a jerk like you!’ she yelled, as the ‘no date land’ inhabitants broke into spontaneous applause. The event brought about a deep change in Marnie—not least for the rest of that evening, where boys who had never acknowledged her existence before suddenly stood in line to dance with her. From that moment to this, Marnie’s love life has always been well populated, if limited in terms of success. Nevertheless, the confident, kooky young woman who bounces into Kowalski’s every morning is a breath of fresh air and I wouldn’t be without her for the world.
If Marnie and I had entertained any ideas that Ed might finally have found a longer-term prospect in Carly, we were to be quickly proved wrong. By Monday, he had already agreed to see three other ladies and Carly’s name was never mentioned again. When Marnie pressed him for more information a week later, all she got in return was a disinterested shrug and a mumbled excuse about them ‘wanting different things’—which, translated, meant she was probably keener than he. In an odd way, knowing 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.
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