I’ll Take New York

‘It doesn’t matter anyway: we made a pact.’

‘Who did?’

‘Me and the barman. We’re swearing off relationships for good.’

Imelda groaned. ‘Bea …’

‘No, it made me feel better, Immi. I’ve wasted too much of my life chasing something that hasn’t happened. My life is worth more than that. It was good to find someone else in this city who sees it like I do.’

‘Trust you to find a cute guy who doesn’t want to date you,’ Imelda laughed. ‘Hey, I’m not making fun of you. If it makes you happy, go for it.’

‘I think it will make me happy.’

‘Good, then. Now, do you have time for coffee before Russ sends out a search party?’

Russ had practically bundled Bea out of the bookstore that morning, seeing how distracted she was by the events of the night before.

‘You’re no use this morning. Go for a walk or something.’

Bea had instinctively headed for Beads & Beans, the quirky craft and coffee shop owned by the third Musketeer to her and Russ. Imelda Coulson had been Bea’s firm friend for almost five years and was as unconventional as her business suggested.

Imelda’s store was a riot of colour, filled with every craft item imaginable. Rainbow skeins of embroidery silks and wool were packed next to roll after roll of beautiful ribbons and trims. Almost an entire wall was filled with tiny wooden drawers containing buttons, charms, quill papers, sequins and fastenings, each drawer front bearing a hand-painted sign. Next to the haberdashery supplies were thick bolts of brightly patterned fabrics – shimmering satins, cool cottons and thick, luxurious velvets. In the centre, tables and chairs were set out, each one painted in a different pastel shade and customers congregated here, indulging in crafts while enjoying coffee and cakes on hand-painted crockery.

Bea loved it here: the strong sense of creativity and fun mirrored the boundless positivity of the store’s proprietor. It was impossible not to smile when you were surrounded by so much colour and possibility. She had first met Imelda at a mutual friend’s Christmas party and they quickly struck up a friendship, Bea drawn to Imelda’s fiercely optimistic stance on everything. They had talked about owning their own businesses one day and Bea never doubted that Imelda would succeed in her ambition. Then, around the time Russ and Bea were looking for properties to set up their bookstore, Imelda’s wish had unexpectedly come to pass.

Suddenly made redundant from her job at a Wall Street bank, she had seen it as a sign to move her life forward and had opened the business she had long dreamed of, uniting her two loves of great coffee and crafts. Only in Brooklyn could this unlikely pairing have worked. Surrounded by unusual, artisanal shops and kitsch cafés, it was a perfect fit. Imelda hosted children’s parties at weekends and various groups of craft enthusiasts and local people interested in learning new skills during the week. Everybody else came in for coffee and the unique experience of sitting in a place alive with activity and fun.

‘So how long were you and the barman talking for?’

Bea shrugged. ‘An hour, maybe? I wasn’t exactly watching the time.’

Imelda peered over the rim of her oversized coffee cup. ‘Unusual to have a conversation that lasts a whole hour which doesn’t mean anything, don’t you think? Especially if you’re still thinking about it this morning. Just what did you talk about?’

Bea couldn’t hide her smile at the memory. ‘Everything and nothing. How much we loved New York, how embarrassing it was to be single at an engagement party filled with happy couples and …’ She trailed off as the pinky shake pact came to mind.

‘And what?’

‘And then he suggested The Pact. And it was the most perfect idea I’d heard in ages. So I agreed.’

Imelda’s expression didn’t flicker, leaving Bea in no doubt of her opinion. ‘So now you need to hope that your pact-buddy will be tending the bar at the next party you go to.’

Bea had to admit that it would be good to talk to the barman again. Their conversation about the benefits of singledom had been a lot of fun. ‘As if that’s likely to happen. Apart from in your head.’

Imelda grinned. ‘Hey, my head is a nice place to be, believe me. I’m just saying, honey, it’s possible that last night was an opportunity you were meant to take. And in my experience, if life wants you to take a certain road, you’ll end up coming back to it time and time again. My great-aunt Lavinia always says life is like the baggage carousel at the airport: if you don’t collect your case first time around it will keep passing you until you do.’

Bea wasn’t sure if Jake could be compared with a suitcase – or if Imelda’s batty great-aunt’s philosophy carried any grain of truth – but it made her smile nevertheless.

‘Excuse me, do you have air-drying clay?’ A customer peered over the counter.

‘We do,’ Imelda replied, casting a wink in Bea’s direction as she headed into the store to find it.

On her own again, Bea considered what her friend had suggested. Meeting Jake had been a fluke.

Hadn’t it?

The thought was still playing on her mind that evening when Bea finally arrived home from the bookstore. Feeling better after talking with Imelda, she had returned to Hudson River Books and thrown herself into work, much to Russ’ relief.

It was almost seven p.m. when she turned her key in the front door of her apartment, swinging the paper bag of Chinese food onto the breakfast bar before taking off her coat. The thought of what had happened last night and the possibility that it might be the start of a new chapter of her life intrigued her. Not that she thought for a minute that Jake had anything to do with her future. But the very fact that she had met somebody engaging and different when only days before she had been at her lowest ebb was enough to give her hope. Relationships might be a thing of the past for her, but at least New York had proved it still had the ability to surprise her. Perhaps if the luggage carousel of life was turning in her favour, a new friend might be on the way …

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jake’s new office, McKevitt Buildings, Broadway

Jake studied the long list of possible PA candidates in his notebook, acutely aware of how long this day was going to be. In the week following Rosie and Ed’s engagement party he had been making a determined effort to focus on practical matters, with an impressive rate of success. All around him, plastic-wrapped office furniture, still-boxed computers and a rather impressive counselling couch were testament to his recent activities. He had already confirmed details of the final design with his interior decorator and the team of painters would begin work in two days, leaving him this window of time to recruit new staff for the practice.

But there was where the problem lay: the search for a suitable replacement for Pam was proving tricky. The recruitment consultant Jake had contracted from a prestigious Manhattan personnel agency had assured him that all the shortlisted candidates were amply qualified. According to the CVs laid out on his new desk, the excellent SAT scores, Ivy League degrees and proven aptitude for clinical administration promised great things. But so far this morning, Jake had been faced with a seemingly never-ending stream of humourless, ambitious airheads bearing no resemblance to the ideal-on-paper candidates whatsoever.

‘My inspiration is Kim Kardashian,’ one candidate had earnestly informed him, ‘because of her business acumen.’ She had emphasised the words as if to add gravitas to her argument. Jake, his smile as steady as he could keep it, had nodded knowingly as he carefully drew a definite line through her name.

Another woman had blatantly misread the job description before applying for the post and was most surprised to learn that a psychiatrist did a vastly different job to a psychic. Yet another laughed when Jake asked whether she enjoyed the challenge of office administration, answering: ‘Are you nuts? It’s like dying slowly on your feet. I just need a job until my agent finds me the right movie …’

How was it possible for so many supposedly well-educated young women to be so devoid of personality, common sense or intellect? Jake strongly suspected the recruiter’s mention that the prospective client was a newly single young doctor with expensive Manhattan offices might have had more to do with the interviewees’ enthusiasm to apply for the job than their natural aptitude.

‘Why do you want to work at this practice?’ he asked the latest candidate, a softly spoken twenty-something who had listed Friedrich Nietzsche as one of her major life influences on her résumé but, when pressed, couldn’t recall any of his theories.

‘I think working for you could meet my career aspirations.’

‘Which are …?’

‘To progress my career in an interesting and challenging environment.’

Jake suppressed a sigh. ‘Listen, Madison, forget the accepted interview responses and just talk to me. I want to know about you as a person: what interests do you have? What beliefs do you live by? What makes Madison Montgomery who she is?’

Madison blinked. ‘Working here?’

Switching into analyst mode, Jake leaned towards her and softened his voice. ‘Apart from that. I’m curious as to why you applied for this position. What excites you about working in a psychiatry practice? Do you have an interest in the field? I notice in your résumé that you mention several philosophers as key influences on your life ’

Madison was having a hard time disguising the growing panic in her eyes. After a few excruciatingly long moments of silence, she sighed. ‘I just need a job, OK? I can organise an office and your diary. I can field calls, prioritise tasks and act as a point of first contact between you and your patients – sorry, clients. But beyond that, I don’t care whether you are a doctor of psychiatry or a CEO of a Dow Jones listed company.’

And there it is, Jake congratulated himself for seeing this coming the moment Madison entered the room. ‘Great. Thank you for your honesty. I’ll be in touch.’ He watched her leave the room without so much as a parting thank you and sank back into his brand new office chair. Maybe the recruiter he had chosen was wrong for the task. He knew there were bright, intelligent candidates in New York. So how come none of them wanted to work for him?

The list of names was nearing the halfway mark now. That was something. He checked his watch and stood, wandering over to the window overlooking Broadway where a flurry of yellow cabs was backed up in early afternoon traffic. The Lincoln Center was draped in huge banners advertising the New York Ballet’s upcoming season. A lone dancer appeared to be jumping across the grey concrete expanse of the building and the undulating ripples in the banner’s length gave the impression that she was flying. It was an intensely positive image that Jake instantly liked, as if the dancer represented the creative, driven spirit of the city thriving in its hard landscape. He smiled. There was a good reason he had chosen to return to New York. It would be tough, but he was tough. Growing up here had woven stubborn drive into his DNA and that counted for a lot. It would get him through his divorce; spur him on to find success in his new practice; and then, who knew?

Three hours later, any vestige of enthusiasm Jake had for appointing a new PA had evaporated like the steam rising from Broadway drains in the early evening air. Nothing – not even someone he could train to love the job. He’d had three offers of telephone numbers, a crash course in how not to write a résumé and several hours’ experience of identical stock answers, but nobody had even come close. In frustration he had dismissed the final eight candidates, who vacated the premises with little more than resigned disinterest. Were his standards too high? He half-wondered if the problems stemmed from a subconscious need to sabotage his new business before it had begun. Without a decent PA, how could he hope to offer the level of service his San Franciscan clients had enjoyed? Tired and irritated, he dismissed the thought. If he was going to end the day without his first employee it wasn’t for lack of trying.

This was getting him nowhere. He decided he would call it a day and go and find somewhere to eat, his empty stomach not helping his mood at all today. He screwed up the unsuccessful candidate list, tossed it in the wire waste paper basket and prepared to leave.

‘Am I late?’

Jake turned to see a smartly dressed black woman standing in the doorway. She made direct eye contact with him as she waited for his reply. That was a first today …

‘Uh – no … Please come in.’

‘The agency gave me the wrong address,’ she stated, offering her hand. ‘Desiree Jackson.’

‘I’m Jake Steinmann. Dr Jake Steinmann.’

‘Good to meet you. Finally. I swear the personnel agency is staffed by high school kids.’ She pulled a chair from the line that Jake had set around the wall of the reception area and settled opposite Jake, who sat quickly in the leather chair behind the desk. ‘I doubt very much you have my résumé, if their sense of direction indicates anything.’ She opened a leather document case and handed him a couple of neatly stapled pages. ‘Here.’

Jake accepted it, his mind whirring. She had taken a chair from the line. Without waiting to be asked to sit It was a small detail, but it showed initiative. And, having been denied anything to be impressed by all day, Jake was taken aback by this. He skimmed over the details on her résumé, but there was something about the confident woman’s attitude that made him like her immensely from the outset.

‘You’ll see from my employment history that I had a break of two years to raise my son,’ Desiree continued. ‘During that time I raised him alone, working nights preparing accounts and paperwork for friends. For the last year I have worked at a law firm on the Lower East Side.’

‘And your reason for leaving?’ Jake asked, trying to regain the initiative in this conversation.

Desiree nodded at her résumé. ‘It’s all there. They’re downsizing. Which, translated, means they’re letting me go.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be. I walked out and I won’t be looking back.’

I really like you, Jake thought, his spirits beginning to lift. ‘I see. What attracted you to this position?’ Please don’t say ‘because it’s a job’ …

‘The mind is fascinating. What makes people act the way they do; why they make the choices they make. I know a little about psychology. Mostly serial killers.’ She smiled when she saw Jake’s surprise. ‘I like real-life police cases. My kid thinks I’m crazy. But I want to know what turns a regular person into a killer.’

Jake coughed to disguise his laugh. ‘Well, I have to tell you we do very little work with psychopaths here. Most of my clients will be dealing with wrong attitudes and learned behaviours, perhaps stemming from trauma in early childhood. The FBI rarely asks for my assistance.’

Desiree shrugged. ‘It’s all from the same place, isn’t it? The mind.’

If you don’t want this job I will beg you to take it …

‘I guess it is. Did the agency brief you on the required duties of the job?’

‘They mentioned you were a young, single doctor,’ she answered, grinning at Jake’s groan. ‘Beyond that, I kinda figured out what you’d need.’

Jake could believe that. Desiree Jackson was a breath of fresh air, her chutzpah and no-nonsense attitude exactly what Jake was looking for. It was as if Pam had sent her especially for this new role and Jake would be crazy if he didn’t appoint her immediately.

‘Then I only have one more question: when can you start?’

Desiree smiled broadly. ‘Right now, if you want.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn

The day of Celia’s book launch arrived, sending Bea and Russ into a frenzy of activity. While Bea had laid much of the groundwork for the evening already, there was a list of things yet to be sorted that had grown rather than shrunk all week. Finally, with less than an hour until the event, Bea emerged from her makeshift dressing room in the bookstore office, smoothing down the skirt of her new aubergine velvet dress.

‘Will I do?’ she asked Russ.

Russ did a Muppet-style double take and dropped the pile of books he was carrying. ‘Wow.’

Suddenly self-conscious, Bea put her hand to her hair where a vintage slide was uncomfortably placed. ‘Stop it.’

Russ chuckled as he bent down to collect the books. ‘You look good. Stop worrying.’

‘I’m not worrying, I just wanted look the part.’

‘Well, you do.’

‘Are you getting changed?’

Russ looked down at his faded red and white striped T-shirt, skinny jeans and red Converse trainers. ‘I am changed.’

‘Russ!’ Frustration rising, Bea glared at him. ‘This is one of the most important events we’ve ever hosted. We need to make a good impression …’

Knowing argument was futile, Russ dropped the pile of books on the counter and headed towards the office. ‘OK, I get it! If you can’t handle my über-cool look, I’ll change it. But it’s your issue, remember, not mine.’

Bea ignored his parting shot and set about arranging Celia’s books on the table she had decorated for the book signing. She and Russ had been dancing on the edge of an argument all day, neither one finding the pressure particularly easy to handle. At times like these, they both knew it was best to discount anything the other said and certainly never take any of it to heart. From final exams at Columbia University to establishing Hudson River Books, this approach had paid dividends over the years. Today was no different, Bea reminded herself, tempted as she was to hit back at her best friend.

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