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?’
I smiled and gave her a hug. ‘Now sit down, Celia. Take a deep breath. Count to two thousand…’
Celia looked up at me like a chastened child. ‘You sound like my mother,’ she said miserably.
‘Things are going to be just great,’ I reassured her, sounding quite a lot like mine. ‘You have plenty of time. Take a moment to come and see the arrangements. The roses smell beautiful and we’ve added some lavender to calm any nerves that might be fraying.’
Celia’s furrowed brow smoothed out as she followed me into the main restaurant area, where Claude was taking his frustration out on one of his staff.
‘Wouldya look at da state of da napkins, Joey?’ he shouted, his French accent sounding decidedly more like the Godfather now. I suppressed a giggle as he spun round and quickly rediscovered his Gallic roots. ‘Ah, Madame Reighton, I trust za room is satisfactory pour vous?’
Celia took a deep breath. ‘C’est trés bon, Claude, merci.’
Claude smiled briefly and hurried off into the kitchen. I squeezed Celia’s arm. ‘Well done.’ For the first time since I’d arrived I witnessed the slightest glimpse of a smile appearing on her flushed face.
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Rosie!’
Café Bijou was very new indeed—you could still smell faint traces of fresh paint in the entrance lobby. But it was comfortable and welcoming, approached from the sidewalk via some impressive stone steps that rose elegantly from the tree-lined street. The interior was warm and understated, decked out in dark wood tables and chairs with aubergine velvet seats, subdued lighting, and walls painted in shades of brown, caramel and cream. Each table was covered in crisp white linen, and polished oak floorboards creaked satisfyingly beneath my feet. Though I say it myself, the floral arrangements worked incredibly well in this setting—cream and palest pink rosebuds, offset by dark green foliage and small bunches of dried lavender, packed tightly into dark wicker baskets and finished with generous amounts of pale yellow-gold raffia, which trailed out onto the tablecloths.
When all the tables were finished and place cards had been distributed, Celia stood back to view the scene. She let out a sigh. ‘You were right, Rosie,’ she said, flinging a relieved arm round my shoulders. ‘Everything is just fine.’
Now I know that, to many people, Celia appears completely impossible. She even tested my mum’s famously steady countenance when they first met. But I’ve known her long enough to realise that beneath the crazy exterior beats a heart of pure gold. Celia is very New York—she isn’t happy unless there’s some aspect of the world she’s putting to rights. The rents are astronomical, restaurant and hotel prices are ridiculous and have you seen the state of the parks these days? Not to mention the fact that New York simply has not been the same since Giuliani finished as mayor (even though she moaned constantly about him while he was in office…). Her column is much loved by New Yorkers for its wry perspective on city life. She writes like they talk—a mixture of intellect, snobbery and good, old-fashioned complaint, seasoned with inimitable humour and completed with sly observation. It’s largely due to Celia that I have grown to understand and love the idiosyncrasies of this city, its unique take on life.
Let me tell you how we met: Celia befriended me at a party I went to, not long after I decided to move from Boston to New York. She was in town visiting her recently relocated mother, and a mutual friend suggested she come along to the event as a celebrity guest. Most of the guests at the party were Harvard graduates who met up once a year for an informal reunion. My friend Ben was one of these illustrious alumni. I met him at university and shared a house with him and five others in the not-so-posh bit of York. After graduation he decided to complete a Master’s degree at Harvard and subsequently stayed in Boston to work. I lodged with him there for nearly six months until I left for New York. He introduced me to Celia and we liked each other straight away. She invited me to stay with her and her partner
