his attention back to the neatly written to-do list. This was what he should focus on, something removed from his marriage situation.
Make this a success, he wrote in bold, confident letters, and the rest will follow.
Alongside the list of engagement party tasks, Jake had written an extensive list that would take even longer to complete. When he moved from San Francisco he had left more than his marital home behind. Along with his friends and lifestyle he had also left his business – a thriving psychotherapy practice that he had built from scratch. Even now, he regretted having to leave his hard work on the other side of the US. Still, at least the money from its sale would go a long way to seeing him established in New York. And, as Ed had joked, there were fewer places in the world more in need of mass therapy than Manhattan.
‘It’ll be a goldmine,’ he’d assured Jake. ‘They’ll be lining up outside to dump their neuroses on you.’
Jake hoped Ed was right. Certainly their father and eldest brother Daniel had profited handsomely from dealing with the minds of the Big Apple, so there was no reason to suppose he wouldn’t do the same.
If only it were that easy. Finding the right premises was a challenge. Too close to the centre of New York and he could be lost in the city blur; too far away and he would just be lost. He needed to be where people needed him and were willing to pay for his services, so affluent areas were preferable. But affluent areas spelled expensive rents and to place his fledgling business in the wrong area would prove costly indeed.
Deep down, Jake hated that money was always the bottom line. When he graduated from medical school he had entertained lofty aspirations to treat everyone, regardless of income. And, for a couple of years, he had worked in volunteer practices, offering psychological assistance to the police and community outreaches in addition to his junior partner position at a local psychotherapy unit. He had almost burned himself out in the process, but had felt a deep sense of pride to be doing the right thing.
Then, he met Jessica. And everything changed. Her father was a powerful businessman in the city and only too happy to send wealthy colleagues Jake’s way. With the profits from his new clientele, Jake was soon able to set up his own practice, moving wholesale to San Francisco a year later when Jessica was offered a position at a West Coast interior design agency. Since then, Jake’s business had focused solely on private clients – and he had become comfortable with the safety and security it afforded him.
Maybe he had become too comfortable with everything. Maybe that was why Jessica left …
He shook the thought away. He hadn’t changed: she had. He needed to focus on rebuilding his business. Premises and good staff, definitely a great PA, maybe a practice partner in time – all of these things he had control over and could ensure he made a success of.
He spent the afternoon calling recruiters and realtors, his list getting longer as appointments to view premises and meet potential staff built up. Back in his apartment and pleased with a productive day’s work, Jake closed his notebook and stretched his aching arms above his head as the light began to fade over the Williamsburg skyline. He poured a glass of bourbon and relaxed back in his favourite leather chair – one of the few pieces of furniture he had brought from his previous home. The apartment grew dark as streetlights flared into life, casting an eerie orange glow around the bare walls. A single shaft of white light from a neighbouring building’s security lamp illuminated the table by the window – and the dreaded brown envelope confirming the end of his marriage. Taking a long sip of bourbon, Jake let pain wash over him as he closed his eyes.
Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn
‘Celia Reighton is a legend!’ Russ stroked the journalist’s latest column in the New York Times, which was spread across the counter in Hudson River Books.
The column was a wry take on the Mayor of New York’s recent speech at a fundraiser in which he mistakenly referred to Donald Trump as ‘Sir Donald’. A furore had broken out, Manhattan’s journalists having a field day at his expense while political opponents claimed this as evidence of the Mayor’s unsuitability for the job. Celia, in her inimitable fashion, was musing on the Mayor’s secret plan to ‘Olde-Englandise’ New York:
One has to wonder what’s next? Will suits of armour be seen on Wall Street? Will corsets be compulsory at New York Fashion Week? Before we know it, our esteemed Mayor will have the whole of Manhattan as a giant, Disney-esque theme pub. My advice? Be sure to sign up for those jousting lessons now, before the rush begins …
‘I think I actually love her,’ Russ laughed.
‘Well, hands off. My brother’s already claimed her.’
‘Shame.’ Russ studied Bea. ‘You look better today.’
‘Thanks. I feel better.’
‘Did you and Otis talk?’
Bea ignored her irritation. ‘No. We have nothing else to talk about. I’ve been thinking: Celia’s book launch could be the first of many evening events Hudson River Books could host. I thought we could collaborate with the Comedy Cavern and do an open-mic style event nearer the summer, if you’re up for it?’
‘Well look at you, Ms Businesswoman of the Year! It’s all good, Bea.’
‘Thank you.’ Pleased with herself, Bea looked around the bookstore. It was coming together at last.
‘When is Ms Reighton arriving to look around?’
‘About ten. But Stewart said to expect her any time between now and two p.m.’ Bea smiled. ‘Time-keeping isn’t her forte, apparently.’
Russ looked hurriedly around the shop. ‘Heck, I need to tidy this place for when she arrives. We can’t have a New York Times star columnist seeing the bookstore like this.’
‘Like what? It looks great.’
Russ stared at Bea. ‘So you say. But we’re talking New York royalty here. I’m not settling for anything less than perfect.’
Bea giggled as her friend set about cleaning the already clean shop. She was used to Russ panicking but today he was doing it at an entirely new level. Bea understood his nerves: she too was a little daunted by the task. It was a coup to host Celia’s event, but, knowing her reputation and respect within the literary community of the city, the prospect of famous authors, socialites and powerful journalists eating canapés and drinking wine at Hudson River Books was slightly terrifying. She was excited though: if the bookstore could pull this off, anything was possible.
As predicted, Celia breezed into Hudson River Books just after one o’clock, by which time Russ was more tightly wound up than a spring. Not wanting to risk her colleague exploding in Celia’s presence, Bea despatched him to the local coffee shop to fetch drinks. At least this way she could guarantee ten Russ-free minutes to talk about the important things with Celia.
‘I love this place!’ Celia said, walking around the bookstore and inspecting the bare-brick walls, comfortable leather chairs and informally arranged bookshelves. ‘It’s so inviting, so warm and welcoming. Every bookstore
