Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson
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not just me, it’s Marnie too. Actually, mainly Marnie, to be honest. She worries about you.’
Knowing that my staff were discussing my personal life was more than a little disconcerting. It wasn’t that I minded them caring for me—that’s something that I’d always found about my team and it was great to know we all looked out for one another. It was more that I didn’t want to discuss my love life with anyone, especially not my past in London or Boston. Believe me, I had my reasons.
‘Well, she shouldn’t worry. I’m fine. Besides, between the two of you I think we have the eligible contingent of Manhattan pretty much covered, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Good point. So, ask me about my love life then, seeing as you don’t have time for one.’ Ed has this amazing capacity for making you smile when you really should be hitting him hard. It is completely disarming but devastatingly effective.
‘Fine. Who’s the lucky lady tonight, pray tell?’
Ed looked like the cat that got the cream, sapphire blue eyes twinkling. ‘Lawyer.’
‘Oh, nice.’
‘Yep, she is.’
‘Name?’
‘Mona. I think she’s Italian.’
‘Let me guess: second name Lisa, can’t really tell what she’s thinking, bit of an oil painting?’
Ed was unmoved by my humour. ‘Maybe you should call 911, Rosie. My sides are in the process of splitting. No, she’s representing my cousin Klaus.’
‘What’s he up for?’
Ed rested his sandwich on the counter and wiped his hands with a paper napkin. ‘How come you instantly assume my family are all crooks?’
I looked sheepish. ‘Sorry.’ It was nice to be in control of the conversation at last.
‘Hmm. Well, don’t do it again, Duncan. No, he’s being sued by a former patient who claims Klaus hypnotised him during one session, causing him to make a series of disastrous business decisions, which led to the collapse of his company.’
‘Is your cousin a hypnotherapist?’
‘No—that’s the crazy thing. He’s a psychiatrist. All my family are psychiatrists, for pity’s sake, apart from me.’
‘Is this client likely to win?’
‘No way. The guy’s clearly a nut, but hey, this is New York: sneeze in the wrong place and someone’s going to sue your ass from here to eternity. Mona reckons the judge will take one look at him and throw the case out. But, while we’re waiting for that to happen, I owe it to my cousin to ensure that his lovely lawyer is as fully briefed as possible.’
‘Knowing you, it’s probably more a lack of briefs you’re interested in?’
‘Hey, so she just couldn’t resist me. What can I tell ya?’
‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ I laughed, taking our mugs to Old F for a refill.
‘See, Rosie? Look at all the fun you’re missing out on.’
‘Lawyers aren’t my type and I don’t know any psychiatrists.’
‘Then try a policeman, or a photographer—or a taxi driver, even. Heck, anyone would be worth a shot, if only to get you “out there” again! How about we get Marnie to recommend one of her exes?’
Bringing the filled mugs back, I gave one to Ed and sat down. ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much. Somehow I don’t think any of them will be my type. Now drop it and eat that cow in bread you’ve got there.’
‘Don’t try diversionary tactics. You know they won’t work on me. Just be prepared for us to keep bugging you about it, OK?’
I ignored a sinking feeling and attempted a breezy smile. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Ed agreed, resuming his one-man onslaught on the mountain of meat.
I watched him for a while. Ed is one of those people you instantly like. I love his quick wit and cheekiness, despite being on the receiving end of it more often than I’d like. Ed can deliver a one-liner faster than a speeding bullet and that always makes me smile. Maybe it’s this mischievous quality in him that the good ladies of Manhattan find so irresistible. I have to admit, when Steinmann puts his mind to something, it’s difficult to say no to him. Mind you, if I believe Ed and Marnie’s theory about me, I seem to have this problem with everybody on account of my Malaise Anglais, so perhaps that doesn’t count. Even when he’s tired or hungover, the charm is never far away; in fact, it is often particularly endearing when he’s looking more dishevelled than usual.
Ed’s style is what he calls ‘relaxed’, but what my mum would term ‘scruffy’. His dark brown hair never really looks tamed no matter what he does with it, but this suits his style down to the ground. He does make an effort occasionally and never looks unprofessionally untidy, but most of the time he has the kind of appearance that makes guys want to hang out with him and women want to take care of him. Today he was wearing a slightly crumpled charcoal shirt over a white T-shirt with faded black jeans. When I asked him why he’d chosen this sombre colour scheme, he remarked that he thought it would be good for counteracting the Marnie Effect, a phenomenon unique to Kowalski’s: my young assistant looks as if she has been bombarded by a spectrum of colours—from her hair (this week, vivid orange), to her clashing T-shirt, skirt, tights and bright yellow Doc Marten boots. As for me, I like to think I’m a foil to both of them. I like to look smart for work, although comfort is a major consideration. One thing Marnie and I have in common is our love of vintage clothes—and in New York we’re blessed with countless boutiques selling retro clothing and one-off pieces. Living in New York I’ve noticed my style has become more relaxed—much like I have.
Since the day I first met Ed, we’ve been really close. And even though to the casual observer it can appear that we mock each other constantly, I do actually care what he thinks of me. While events in my life have made me much more wary of letting people close, having Ed and Marnie there to worry about me is strangely comforting. We’re an odd concoction of personalities, backgrounds and dress styles, but it seems to work. Welcome to Kowalski’s—where the staff are as varied as the flowers!
At four thirty, I packed Celia’s arrangements into the delivery van and headed off to Café Bijou. Marnie and Ed had agreed to man the store for the rest of the day so that I could go, after it became clear that Celia was fast losing the plot. Her anxiety attacks had begun at two o’clock with a frantic phone call, and I found myself promising faithfully that I’d meet her at the venue at five fifteen. Marnie and Ed’s expressions said it all and, once I got into my van, I noticed Ed had drawn up a doctor’s prescription and stapled it to the order sheet.
PRESCRIPTION FOR MS ROSIE DUNCAN FOR THE TREATMENT
OF CONFIRMED CONDITION MALAISE ANGLAIS. THE FOLLOWING SENTENCE TO BE ADMINISTERED LIBERALLY AND ORALLY BY THE PATIENT, WHENEVER NECESSARY: ‘NO, I COULDN’T POSSIBLY. SORRY.’
When I arrived at the restaurant, Celia was already there, clipboard in hand, nervous energy in full flow. I immediately felt sorry for the poor maître d’, who was in danger of being totally overwhelmed by her tirade of questions. When he saw me, his face brightened and he rushed over, leaving a frustrated Celia standing mid-sentence, fuming gently.
‘Oh, Madame, permit me to ‘elp you wiz zese flowers. I will take zem to ze room pour vous,’ he gushed.
‘Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.’
I approached Celia as he fled.
‘That man is so exasperating!’ she exclaimed, tossing her clipboard onto the polished bar. ‘I have so much to organise and it’s five twenty already. Does Claude have any idea of just how much is left to do?’