were so comfortable and I had a great vantage point for looking onto the High Street.
However, it was inside that really caught my interest. While I waited for my lunch companion to turn up, I sat round in my chair and gazed at the other diners. They were all so different; some were young, some were old, some were alone and others were with a partner or friend. Coffee shops really were the best places to people-watch. I scanned the room, looking at each person for no more than a few seconds. It fascinated me to think that there were so many stories in one room. For the next five minutes, I amused myself by making up little backstories for some of my fellow diners. One lady who looked like a librarian was confiding in her friend about a torrid affair she was having to escape her boring marriage, a smart, business-like woman wanted to tell her impossibly hunky best friend she had feelings for him and two mothers with buggies were thinking about each other’s husbands…
Just as I wondered whether to make an old man sitting in the corner someone who’d been stood up for a blind date or a widower who came to his wife’s favourite coffee place every day, in she walked. She looked as splendid as ever, wearing a crisp white blouse and fitted black trousers. Her silver hair was neatly styled and the trademark sparkle in her eyes burned brightly. All the diners stopped to look at her; Ivy St Clair knew how to make an entrance.
I waved so she could see me, and a smile illuminated her beautiful face when she did. She walked over to my table and took a seat opposite me.
‘Why hello there sugar! Nice to see you again, you look divine if I may say so.’ Her Deep South accent was a joy to hear and such a contrast to the Mancunian brogue I was used to hearing.
‘Thanks Ivy, so do you,’ I replied with a smile. ‘And thanks for agreeing to meet me today; the weather’s not the best is it?’
I gestured to the drab, grey morning we’d been greeted with. Dark clouds were gathering overhead and it looked like the heavens would open any minute.
‘No but that’s good ol’ England for you, huh? Still, back in New Orleans there were hurricanes like you’ve never seen before, so this is an improvement!’
‘Do you want a drink and something to eat?’ I asked.
‘No thank you honey, I just ate breakfast.’ Ivy patted her stomach and unwound the teal scarf from round her neck. ‘Got to watch the ol’ figure as well, especially at my age.’
I chuckled. Ivy couldn’t be any more than seventy and looked fantastic for her age; she definitely didn’t need to watch her weight.
‘Shall we just start the interview then?’ I rummaged in my bag for my tape recorder and accidentally pulled Mr Writer’s latest letter out. Flustered, I stuffed it back in as quickly as I could. Not quickly enough, however, judging by the smile forming on Ivy’s lips.
‘Something important?’ she asked with a knowing look.
‘G-gas bill.’ I stumbled over my words but still retained some hope I’d sounded convincing. I felt bad lying to her but the Mr Writer affair was something to be dealt with another time.
‘Honey, if it’s one thing I’ve learned from my seventy-two years on this earth, it’s that you never keep gas bills in your handbag. That letter either has something really good or really bad written on it. Judging by the way you’re smilin’ right now, I’ll go with really good.’
I blushed and tried to force my smile down but it wouldn’t leave. There was no doubt where my head was this morning: Cloud Nine.
‘Tell you what; I’ll let you read the letter after the interview’s done, OK?’
‘Child, you got yourself a deal.’
***
‘So was the jazz scene always big in New Orleans?’
‘Oh sure it was! I remember when I was a little girl, my daddy would always play Ella Fitzgerald records around the house. I fell in love with the sound right away and it was my dream to sing like her. When I was old enough, I started visiting the jazz clubs on Bourbon Street and when I was eighteen, I saw her perform live. She just… she captivated the room with her voice and I knew instantly that jazz singing was what I was meant to do. It all came together in that moment as I listened to her sing; I knew I was in the right place at exactly the right time.’
Her deep brown eyes misted over as she spoke and her voice was rich with emotion. Jazz music flowed through Ivy’s veins; it was a part of her, rooted in her very soul.
‘You said you met Leo at one of the jazz clubs you sang at. Which one was it?’
A smile that hovered between happy and sad spread across Ivy’s face, bringing the trademark lines to the corners of her eyes.
‘Why yes I did; it was at The Black Cat Jazz Club on Bourbon Street. I was singing Dream a Little Dream of Me and I saw him sitting in the corner of the room. Our eyes met and it was like the world stopped. I kinda knew then that nothing would ever be the same again and it wasn’t. He approached me after the show and asked if he could take me out sometime. In those days, if you were a gentleman, you asked permission from the girl’s father to take her out and that’s exactly what Leo did. My daddy said no, what with Leo being British and all, but I snuck out to meet him all the same.’ Her eyes misted over and I could see the memories play out across her face. I could tell that even now, fifty years on, she still had a powerful connection to Mr Leo Browning. ‘For our first date, we went to City Park with a picnic and just sat all night, talking and looking at the stars. We spent three amazing months together before he had to go back home. He’d come over with his aunt, uncle and cousins; his father was dying back in England, you see. When his vacation ended, he had to come back home to take over the family accountancy business. My family didn’t approve but that didn’t matter to us. Being parted from him broke my heart and I don’t think it’s ever really healed.’
My own heart felt like it was being pulverised in my chest. I’d never heard such a sad story before. I’d thought my own tale of lost love was sad but Ivy’s was on a whole other level. I hadn’t gotten to know Mr Writer as a person; he’d always been this character on paper, made partly from the grand gestures he wrote about and partly from my expectations of him. I didn’t know him like Ivy had known Leo.
‘Couldn’t you have come to England with him?’ I ventured. ‘You two could’ve built a new life here together and lived happily ever after.’
The thought of happy-ever-afters tugged at my heartstrings. A sad smile came to my face as I realised our lack of fairy tale endings was what bound us together. We both had unfinished stories: me with Mr Writer and Ivy with Leo.
She let out a wry laugh. ‘My family absolutely hated Leo; they wouldn’t have him over the front door, much less let me run away to England with him! They said he wasn’t like us because his family were rich and their values were different from ours. They didn’t want me being corrupted by his world or made a fool of because I didn’t belong.’
‘That’s awful,’ I replied. ‘Did they even get to know him?’
‘Goodness me, no! He was different and that was enough for them. If they’d gotten to know him, they’d have realised that for all his money and wealth, Leo was the most kind-hearted soul in the world. He had time for everyone and had a million ways to make you smile.’
I shifted round in my seat to make myself more comfortable. I’d expected a great love story,
