Chapter 2
TWO
I’m claustrophobic. The sidewalk is becoming busier, noisier, louder.
I sidestep the weaving commuters and dart back behind the newspaper vending machine for some much-needed space.
I love male company, don’t get me wrong, I’m just not willing to get my heart broken again.
So, I’m not in the market for a romantic relationship.
I’ve more sense! Mom is still jabbering in my ear about Alice’s bloody veins (pardon the pun!).
Shivering, I eye the mechanical reindeers with blazing noses pulling sleighs behind the window next door to my building.
People are huddled in oversized winter jackets against the harsh December conditions.
Red-cheeked dog owners walk their pets before breakfast, the canines wearing reflective Christmas coats and booties as they bark and bounce.
‘Don’t you hate how Christmas injects blind panic into the already frantic pace of Manhattan?’ I try to interrupt my mom. Although I truly love this city, it’s never quite felt like home to me.
But nowhere ever has.
My story is rather unusual. I was born three weeks early, out at sea, and sometimes think I’m more like a dolphin than a New Yorker as a result.
I’m timid, intelligent, agile and happy in my own company, exactly like my marine buddies.
But I would like to be more assertive. And I am working on myself.
That mound of self-help books on my bedside locker will attest to it.
I want to stand up for myself. I want to be tougher.
A go-getter like my co-worker Eliza, who was deservedly promoted to feature writer three years ago.
More self-confident like Jill, my best friend, who is a hugely successful influencer.
These are women I aspire to be like. What I’d really love is for women to look up to me one day like I look up to them.
Speaking of Jill, I miss her dreadfully and worry so much about her.
It may appear that she’s living the dream online, but real life is kicking her hard right now. Her pain is breaking my heart.
‘I do hate it. As you know, honey, after fourteen years with your cheating father and all that time at sea and moving bases, I crave stillness and tranquillity,’ she laments.
‘Mom, when are you going to let it go and move on?’ My tone is light, but my question is leading as my breath comes out in wisps, clouding around me like an evaporating fog. For a change, Mom is slow to answer.
‘Um, putting you on speaker, honey, I’ve hot gingerbread men screaming to come out of the oven.
I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one of them stood up and ran downtown.
Hang on a tick?’ Her voice becomes quieter as she backs away from the speaker.
I can picture her, towards the end of her L-shaped kitchen where the copper pots and pans sway, hanging low.
In the same spot I spent years sitting up at the island, tasting her baked goods.
‘No! I have to go,’ I say, glancing at the time on the phone in my hand.
‘One second, honey . . .’ Mom ignores my protests as I see Frederick Macken and Andy Grey, the two owners of Acquired Finance, the business and quarterly magazine that takes up six floors of my building.
Amanda started dating Frederick when I was an intern and my friend Ben is one of Frederick’s assistants.
Unusually, Frederick smiles and waves over at me, I wave back, cautiously.
I didn’t know he even knew I existed. He’s passed me in the building so many times but has never actually acknowledged me before.
Strange, I think. Both men are immaculate in their matching ankle-length beige trench coats, shiny patent shoes, black leather gloves and slim tan briefcases.
They step into the same section of the revolving door of the building, deep in conversation.
‘Mom? Hellooooo? I really have to go.’ Carefully I walk out from behind the news stand, move towards my office.
‘At this rate I’m half sixty-year-old woman, half menopausal melted chocolate.’ Mom’s back and my mouth waters for some of her famous Christmas cookies that explode on the tongue with hazelnut, cinnamon, almond and tangy ginger. My mom does Christmas baking like no other.
‘I’ll come by Sweet Spoon Bakery later so save me some.
I have to go. As enthralled as I am about Alice’s veins, I only called to tell you some news.
’ Wiggling my fingers for circulation, I grip my lookbook tighter to my chest. I’m hoping this is the tool that finally bags me the promotion.
It’s a glossy light pink A4 portfolio folder, tied with long, thin, white silk ribbons.
Inside are wedding locations with feature articles that I have painstakingly researched and written up freelance in the hope of impressing Amanda enough.
Ten smaller perfect venues with ten beautifully written accompanying articles, where couples can pledge their ‘I do’s without breaking the bank.
In my lookbook, I’ve written about how a wedding doesn’t have to cost a fortune to be perfect.
It’s something I feel exceptionally passionate about.
I’ve read so many stories about the financial pressures of weddings and the aftermath.
So, I’ve trudged through every subway stop, up and down stairwells the length and breadth of the city, at weekends to source these venues.
Granted, I may not be the fireball, killer-ambitious type of stiletto-wearing career woman, but I know I have talent.
I know I want to write about love, even if I don’t want to live it.
I know I want to move on into a more creative role and, most of all, I know I have to make more money to afford a new place to live.
‘Guess what?’ Moving up-down-up-down on my toes to keep warm.
My breath still visible in the freezing December morning air.
New York is wide awake now, honking and revving up around me.
The volume of the city is increasing and I retreat further under the awning of the building, until my back is pressed flat against the cold brick wall.
‘Amanda called my cell last night, told me to bring my lookbook into a breakfast meeting. I think this is my big break!’ A garbage truck honks repeatedly, Christmas music jingling from within.
Then, it belches black smoke fumes and makes me cough.
I fish my security pass from the inside pocket of my wool coat as the smoke from the truck swirls between the Manhattan skyscrapers.
‘Promotion? That’s wonderful. Oh, good luck, honey! You can do this; you’re a super writer. God bless.’
I can picture her making the sign of the cross, dipping her index finger into the small holy water fountain by the double-doored red fridge.
‘We’re very creative you and me, it’s in our Italian genes . . . and I suppose your Irish ones. Call me after.’ She rings off with kissing sounds, and I pull my earbuds out with a dropped jaw.
How bizarre, I think, rolling the wire around my thumb.
My mother never mentions my Irish roots.
In fact, she tries to avoid all talk of my dad.
Although I do see him a few times a year when he comes to New York, we aren’t close, and I never discuss him with her.
Growing up, my dad was a very conservative man of Irish decent – strict, hard-working but distant and extremely disciplined.
Mom, by comparison, was his polar opposite, – a creative of Italian descent.
She was outgoing, caring, flamboyant but needy.
We lived on naval bases around the United States, travelling the world with dad’s job.
However, it was a time of constant anxiety and stress.
My parents argued about everything. I spent my childhood under the covers with my head in a book, blocking out their arguments when they thought I was sound asleep.
I lived a life of constant tension, resulting, no doubt, in my introverted personality.
I like to keep the peace. To avoid all confrontation.
It still irks me that I let Cooper treat me that way and didn’t tell him what I really thought of him.
I just skulked away and let him off the hook.
But today I’m not a dolphin. I’m about to become a magazine feature writer.
I will speak up for myself. I deserve this.
With a sharp nod of my head, I shove my earbuds into my inside coat pocket.
Then, I place my palm on the glass of the revolving door and, although I’m sick with apprehension, I stride in purposefully.