need some down time, girl,’ he told me, in no uncertain terms. ‘Marnie and I are more than capable of running the store without you for one whole day. You say you love this city so much? Well, give yourself the time to enjoy it. If you don’t, you’ll never survive here.’ As ever, he was right. So I set aside my Saturdays for seeing Celia and other friends, while Sundays were designated for reading, researching new styles and ideas and generally just spending time exploring my wonderful city, mostly under the wise (if slightly food-obsessed) guidance of Ed.
Talking of food, on my way to Celia’s I always make a oneblock detour south to visit M&H Bakers, my neighbourhood bakery, to pick up some warm pastries, bagels or muffins for our chats. I love the New York combination of good food and good conversation. I’m not sure why, but somehow it’s a whole lot easier to solve life’s problems when you’re in the middle of demolishing a warm bagel smothered in cream cheese with smoked salmon, or a slice of blueberry pie. Even Ed, who vociferously dislikes the Upper West Side, is impressed by this place.
Frank, the small round guy behind the bakery counter, shouted out as I walked in, ‘Good mornin’ to ya, Ms Duncan!’
‘Hi, Frank. How are you today?’
He waved his hand from side to side. ‘Oh, so-so. You know.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I replied with a nod. No matter how brightly the sun is shining, how many customers he has or generally how good his life is, Frank will always find something to despair over. In that sense, he is every inch a New Yorker. ‘So,’ I asked with a smile, ‘what’s the special today, then? Anything good?’
Frank placed a hand across his heart and feigned offence. ‘Do I have anything good? Do I have anything good? I am shocked you gotta ask me! OK, lady, how’s this…’ He reached behind him and lifted a basket onto the counter. ‘Check these babies out.’ I surveyed the basket full of large, golden brown bagels. The smell was amazing—like warm spiced apple pie.
‘Wow. Apple, sugar and cinnamon, right? I’ll take six, please.’
Frank let out a whoop and clapped his hands. ‘She got it!’ He spun round and called loudly into the back of the store. ‘Hey, Luigi, she got it right again!’
A short, incredibly hairy arm appeared round the door that led to the kitchen, and waved. A thick breathy Italian-American voice called back, ‘Dat’s great, Frankie!’
Frank turned back and filled a brown paper bag with bagels. ‘You’re too good, Rosie,’ he smiled, shaking his head. ‘Too good. But we’ll get you one day soon.’
In all the years I’ve come to this place, I’ve never actually seen Luigi. Well, only the incredibly hairy arm and the disembodied voice. Why is he always out back? What if they have to keep him there? What if the sight of all of him is simply too traumatic for the average bakery customer? I have this theory about Luigi. Picture the scene: a young couple in Italy go to see the priest in their small village, late at night. In the priest’s small, dimly lit kitchen they present their one and only child to him. Horror paints the priest’s face and he has to look away. Even in the meagre candlelight the child is hideous. The mother sobs and turns to her husband. In desperation, the father begs the priest: is there anything, anything, you can do for our son? His life will be miserable—people will judge him by his appearance, not what he can do…The old priest’s face is filled with compassion for the plight of this child. He thinks for a while. There is one thing, he replies. If we can teach him a trade—one that brings pleasure to others—he may have a chance of respect…The parents place their son in the care of the local monastery, and he learns to be a pastry chef…Many years later, after the young man finishes his apprenticeship, he emigrates to America to seek his fortune and finds work—here—at M&H Bakers, and the wise old priest’s plan appears to have been successful. But prejudice runs deep—even in the Land of the Free—and while his delectable creations bring undeniable pleasure to Upper West Side residents, his physical appearance leaves him condemned to always, always stay out back…
‘Your imagination is crazy,’ laughed Celia, emerging from the kitchen as I recounted my theory, ‘but your taste in pastries is impeccable!’
I gave a little bow. ‘Well, thank you.’
Celia sat down. ‘So tell me. What happened to you yesterday? You looked white as a ghost when I saw you.’
I winced as still-fresh images took centre stage in my mind. ‘Um, I had a bit of a difficult conversation.’
Celia frowned. ‘Oh?’
‘With Ed.’
‘Oh…why difficult?’
‘We had an argument about—’ I stopped and checked what I was saying. ‘You know, it was so petty I can’t even remember what it was about.’ I looked at Celia, hoping she wouldn’t press me. Luckily for me, she was far too concerned with details of what happened next. ‘Anyway, it got ugly, I apologised, we made up, and then…um…’
Celia leaned forward, coffee mug almost spilling with anticipation. ‘And then…?’
‘…Then I nearly ended up telling him everything. About why I came to America. About what happened.’
Celia gasped, her face a picture of surprise. ‘But you didn’t?’
I shook my head. ‘I couldn’t. What’s worse was it made me look like I don’t trust him enough.’
Celia let out a cry. ‘Oh, sweetheart, it doesn’t look that way at all.’
‘You don’t think?’
‘Not one bit. But I take it you’re not sure you made the right decision?’ She was right. I wasn’t. Celia reached across the table and clamped a hand over mine. ‘You are perfectly at liberty to tell anyone whatever you choose to—or not. Nobody has the right to demand that kind of information from you, honey, you understand?’
I nodded. ‘Ed said I’m scared to let people close. And he’s right, I am.’ I took a long sip of coffee and looked out to the street below. ‘I don’t know, maybe I should open up more. Maybe it’s time. There’s just this feeling I have that I’m not ready yet. But then, do you ever reach a point where you know you’re ready, or does it just happen?’
Celia straightened up and smiled, squeezing my hand. ‘From my experience, you’ll discover you’re ready when you’re in the middle of telling someone.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ I replied, taking another sip of coffee. ‘I’m just not sure if I missed my cue there, you know?’
‘Rosie, you’ll do this in your own time, believe me. I mean, look at when you told me: we’d barely known each other longer than a couple of weeks and out it came, right in the middle of my kitchen, when I was making chicken soup for Jerry.’
I had to smile. My impromptu revelation to Celia had surprised me even more than it had her. ‘How New York was I with that? It was almost worthy of its own series on HBO.’
Celia grinned. ‘As I recall, our outfits were nowhere near as fabulous enough for that!’
I cast my gaze around the rich creams and dark blues of Celia’s living room, noting the antique painting of a jar of lilies, which we often joke about, seeing
