Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Cheers.’ I grin.
Making sure to keep my ‘little finger out’ (as instructed by Rose), I loop my finger through the handle of my gold-rimmed teacup and raise it aloft.
‘Cheers,’ beam Rose and Hilary, doing the same.
There’s a delicate chink of finest bone china as the three teacups come together, and I feel a burst of happiness.
God, I love England! What a civilised way to do business.
It’s the next day and I’m in London, at the Savoy, having afternoon tea with Rose and Hilary.
It’s our last day of the tour. We arrived here this lunchtime and a lot of people have left already in a flurry of address-swapping and cheek-kissing (Rupinda wouldn’t go before making everyone sign up for her painting retreat in Provence next year) and gone to catch various flights and trains home.
Maeve and I said our goodbyes first thing this morning.
She was catching a flight from Manchester back to Ireland, and promised to call me next week after her first meeting with Shannon.
She was nervous but excited, and there was a quiet confidence about her that was never there before.
Ever since that phone call from her brother, the transformation has been incredible.
The person who left today was so different from the anxious mouse I met only a week ago, and as I hugged her goodbye I got quite choked up.
When I came on this trip I would never have thought I’d make such wonderful friends, especially not ones old enough to draw their pension.
But then I’ve had a lot of unexpected things happen to me this week.
One of them being the reason I’m sitting here right now in this fancy hotel, on this plush velvet sofa, sipping Earl Grey and nibbling the tiniest triangle of crust-less cucumber sandwich that you’ve ever seen.
I gobble it up in one mouthful. I’ve got that giddy, nervous exhilaration that makes me want to eat, even though I’m not hungry.
I reach for another cucumber triangle. Saying that, these are rather delicious.
Things have been happening so fast I’m still trying to take it all in. When Hilary and Rose asked to speak to me yesterday I had no idea what it was about.
But Rose, being Rose, came straight to the point: ‘Have you thought of buying your bookshop?’ she asked, without even an introduction.
Coming from a woman wearing ten years of my salary in diamonds, I couldn’t help but smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve got enough in my savings account,’ I quipped ruefully.
To which Rose and Hilary laughed heartily, and Hilary cried, ‘Oh, I do love the New Yorkers’ sense of humour,’ while Rose added, ‘No, you silly girl. Don’t you know the first thing about business?
You don’t pay for anything yourself. You get someone else to pay for it.
’ I must have looked confused because she went on to explain, ‘Investors, darling! What you need are investors!’
‘Great, but where exactly do I find some of these investors?’ I asked.
And – now this is the best bit – Rose replied, as if it was obvious, ‘Why, you’re looking right at her!’
‘Would you care for a fresh pot of tea?’
I hear a voice in my ear and look up to see our young Italian waiter hovering over us with the kind of attentiveness that makes women of a certain age giggle and swoon.
Hilary wafts him away with a flick of her ballpoint pen. ‘No, thank you,’ she instructs. Having attempted to flirt with him earlier and discovered he was engaged, she promptly branded him a tease. ‘Just the bill, please.’
Hilary is here in her capacity as a lawyer. She might have retired from partnership at a top London law firm, but she’s still got her licence to practise law, and she’s going to draw up the legal papers.
Oh, didn’t I mention it? Silly me, I’m so excited about everything I can barely think straight. So, OK, I’m going to do a Rose and just come out and say it . . .
I. Emily Albright. Am the new owner of McKenzie’s.
Yup. Really! Can you believe it?
No, neither can I, but it’s for real. After talking to Rose and Hilary and discovering that, no, this wasn’t a practical joke, and, yes, Rose was totally serious, I called up Mr McKenzie late last night and, with trembling hands and a voice that was a high-pitched squeak, we talked about me buying the bookstore and agreed on a price for the lease and all the stock.
He was delighted. ‘Now I know it will be in good hands,’ was how he put it, and I was so over the moon I can’t remember what I said apart from a few hundred breathless thank-yous and a lot about it being a dream come true.
Rose, obviously, is my investor. We’re going into business together. Day to day, nothing much will change. I’ll continue running the store, with a few extra responsibilities, of course, and Rose will be my silent partner.
‘Isn’t this just marvellous!’
Rattling her diamonds as if they’re castanets, Rose leans back in her chair and claps her hands with joy. ‘I’m so thrilled to be getting my teeth into something new. Makes a change from men, hey?’
OK, I admit, perhaps not so silent.
We say our goodbyes on the pavement (not sidewalk – see, just as I’m about to fly back to New York I’m finally getting into the lingo) outside the Savoy.
‘I’ll be drawing up the papers first thing and I’ll have them Fedexed to you next week,’ Hilary is saying, giving me a firm handshake.
‘Great, thanks.’ I smile, pumping vigorously. ‘Thanks for everything.’
‘My pleasure.’ She nods.
‘Well, no need for us to be saying goodbye, is there?’ chimes in Rose, bustling up to me in full-length fur and a matching muff.
I turn to her. I’m feeling a bit light-headed and I can feel my eyes prickling.
‘No, I guess not,’ I sniff, ‘partner,’ I add, attempting a Texan accent.
Rose cackles delightedly and plants two lipstick kisses on my cheeks. ‘So when’s your flight back to the Big Apple? Ce soir?’
I smile. ‘Yeah, I thought I’d do some sightseeing.’
‘Oh, to be an American girl in London for the first time . . .’ Rose closes her eyes as if to swoon. ‘I remember my first trip to Paris in my youth. Strange cities are always ripe for adventures.’ She opens one eye and raises an eyebrow.
‘Um . . . well, I think I’ve had plenty of those.’ I laugh nervously.
Rose gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe a word of it. ‘Well, cheerio, darling,’ she says briskly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough.’
‘Nonsense. I should be the one thanking you, Emily.’
‘Me?’ I look at her in confusion.
‘For showing me the importance of true friendship,’ she says soberly.
‘For making me realise that I don’t need a chap to make me feel important, to give me self-esteem.
’ Lowering her head, she squeezes my hand tightly.
‘For the first time, in a long, long time, I don’t feel invisible any more, Emily. ’
‘You were never invisible,’ I reply and, smiling, I squeeze her hand back.
Our eyes meet and for a moment we remain like that until we’re interrupted by Hilary, asking, ‘Do you want to share a cab? I’m heading up to Euston station . . .’
‘A cab?’ repeats Rose in astonishment, turning to face her. ‘Why, don’t be such a silly goose, you can ride with me in the Bentley.’
As she’s speaking the biggest, sleekest black car glides up against the pavement and a uniformed driver gets out and opens the door. He’s wearing white gloves and a peaked hat.
‘Larry, can we give my dear friend a lift to Euston?’
‘Of course, ma’am.’
Ma’am?
Hilary and I exchange incredulous glances, before she disappears behind Rose into a luxurious cocoon of leather upholstery and Larry dutifully closes the door behind them.
The engine starts up with a purr and, as they glide away from the kerb, Rose’s diamond-encrusted hand appears from a window and gives a regal wave.
I stifle a giggle. God love Rose. You gotta hand it to her.
Finding myself left behind on the busy street, I glance at my watch.
I’ve still got hours to kill before my flight back to New York.
I booked a really late one, thinking I’d want time to do lots of sightseeing on my last day: Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, Buckingham Palace, the London Eye, the Tate and all those other art galleries they have here .
. . Except, now I’m here, the funny thing is, I don’t much feel like sightseeing.
Wheeling my suitcase behind me, I start walking.
I decided to donate quite a few of my books to the hotel in Bath before we left.
Normally I never part with a book, it’s like a part of me, but they had the most pathetic selection on their ‘reading shelves’ that I felt duty-bound.
Now they’ve got rather a nice collection of literary works, and I’ve got myself an almost empty – and much lighter – suitcase.
The pavements are thronging with tourists and January-sales shoppers, and I weave in among them, my eyes drifting absently over store windows.
I soak up all the sights and sounds and smells of this new city.
There’s a certain feeling you always get when you’re alone in a strange city for the first time.
The excitement of being totally anonymous, of not knowing what you’re going to find when you turn down a street, of having the freedom to do, for just a few hours, anything that you goddamn please (credit card permitting of course).
With this in mind I cut through a couple of side streets and take a left for no reason other than I just feel like it.
I have no clue where I’m heading, and for once, I don’t care.
Considering my appalling sense of direction, I’ve decided not to even pretend to look at the little tourist map Miss Steane gave me before she left.
She was in a hurry as always. Apparently the coach does a quick turnaround at the cleaner’s, before heading straight back to Heathrow to pick up a whole new set of passengers, so I barely got a chance to say bye and thanks as she stuffed it in my hands and disappeared off with her clipboard.