Fairytale of New York. Miranda Dickinson
fearful of what it might be. It seemed an eternity before he slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. He studied me like he couldn’t believe I could hurt him so much. My pulse quickened, scared I could have blown our friendship for the sake of a few cheap shots. The store was silent except for the slow, rhythmic tick of the clock behind the counter. The world outside seemed to be holding its breath. Watching. Waiting.
Finally, Ed sighed and came close. His hug was warm and forgiving, the scent of his woody cologne mingling with the fresh cotton of his shirt, soft against my cheek. Relief washed over me as I held him tight. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie…’ he breathed, stroking my head. ‘I didn’t mean it either. It’s OK, it’s OK now…’
Then my tears came, gently at first but rapidly increasing in intensity, until soon I was sobbing hard against Ed’s shoulder. For a long time the only sounds were my tears and the insistent beat of his heart. Then he spoke in a soft whisper right by my ear.
‘It’s time you started to live a little, OK? That’s all I’m saying. You have people who care about you and this amazing city to play in. You can trust us with anything, you know?’
Slowly, my tears began to ebb. I pulled my head up and we locked gazes.
‘You just have to trust me on this, Ed. I know you care about me and I know I can tell you anything. It’s just that the reason I came to New York is something I’m still trying to work out. I can’t tell you about it yet. But I promise you, as soon as I’m ready, you’ll be the first to know. Is that OK?’
Ed shook his head, the faintest glimmer of a smile appearing. ‘You are very lucky to have me as a friend. I’ll hold you to that promise, you know, Duncan.’
I smiled back, relieved to be moving away from the subject I dreaded more than anything. ‘Absolutely.’
Nobody ever tells you when you’re little how hard life can be when you grow up. They don’t explain that friendships stop being simple, choices stop being easy and the joys of childhood stop altogether. They just ask you what you want to be when you’re older. Whatever the minefield of life could hold in store for you, it seems the answer to this single question is all you need to be armed with. Which is all very well if you happen to have picked something sensible for your future career—like being a doctor or a brain surgeon—but not if, like me, you say you’d like to be Tinkerbell. They smile and pat you on the head…but you guess from this reaction that they will be relating your career aspiration at their grown-ups’ dinner parties for years to come. And the world of the Grown-Up becomes an irresistibly romantic utopia: one that you would do anything to visit. Well, almost anything.
Now that I have reached that illustrious pinnacle, I often find myself wanting so badly to be five years old again. Choices were simpler (orange or blackcurrant squash?) and I knew what I wanted (always blackcurrant). I remember thinking that being a lollipop lady like Mrs Pearson, our next-door neighbour, was really cool (if you couldn’t achieve your fairy ambitions, that is). In fact, I spent a whole summer when I was five making my brother pretend to be a car so I could step out in front of him with my homemade paper-plate-and-stick lollipop. When you’re a kid, your whole ethos about what makes a good friend can be turned upside down by the offer of a Fruit Salad chew from a 10p mix. Friendships were simple—I’ll be your friend if today you’re not speaking to her, but not if you’re her friend tomorrow. Come to think of it, though, that’s not altogether unlike the way some so-called grown-ups behave right now. Maybe there are a lot of people who are really just big kids in suits. Especially in a city like New York.
As I was soon to discover.
At twelve thirty I left the shop and hailed a yellow taxicab to travel to the offices of the New York Times. My morning had been incredibly hard. Coming so close to revealing my past to Ed had unnerved me, but sitting in the back of the cab now, I couldn’t shake the niggling doubt that I might not get another chance. I shifted my position, still feeling uncomfortable.
‘You OK, lady?’ asked the smiling oriental taxi driver, looking at me in his rear-view mirror. I managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’
This is not always a wise question to ask in New York. You are usually treated to a delightful combination of complaints and strongly worded opinions about anything and everything from the price of rents and the state of the US domestic situation to the possible parentage of the driver in front. Usually, I don’t ask. But my mind was attempting to process too many thoughts and needed distracting for a while.
Thankfully today, Ken, my friendly driver, only wanted to talk about his new baby girl. He reached behind the sunshield, pulled out a photo and passed it over his shoulder to me. A smiley lady was pictured holding a tiny, equally smiley baby.
‘What’s her name?’ I asked.
Ken smiled. ‘Sunshine. Sunshine Wang. We call her Sunny for short. She’ll be five weeks tomorrow. My wife is so proud. She always wanted to be a mother. You know she left a good job on Wall Street to look after Sunny? I’m working double shifts so she can be a stay-home mom.’
‘That must be difficult for you,’ I sympathised, handing the precious photo back.
‘Nah, it’s OK, lady.’ he replied, taking it from me and carefully replacing it. ‘I just spend every day showing New York my little blessing girl.’
I smiled and sank back into the cab seat to watch New York pass by. Buildings, people and traffic merged into a colourfilled blur as I let my aching mind drift a little in the soothing anonymity of the yellow taxi carrying me through the city I love. I was tired; wearier than I had felt in a long time. But there was something else, too: something new. Deep inside me I sensed a change, subtler than the switch from late summer to early autumn, heralding a new season of sorts. The dream last night had brought so many well-concealed memories bubbling back up to the surface and a large part of me felt completely ill-equipped to deal with them. Just as I was six years ago…Only this time, there seemed to be even more at stake.
Hiding a secret takes more than simply not revealing it to others. It involves every part of you: conscious thoughts, physical actions, untold emotions; and still, even when each is covered and supposedly well-guarded, your work isn’t done. In every situation you enter, the ever-present mental checklist remains: conversation topics you should avoid, light-hearted comments that might give more away than you plan, and, most of all, people you shouldn’t get too close to, for fear of the secret slipping out.
Whilst I hated to admit it, Ed had absolutely hit the nail on the head earlier:
It’s like there’s a whole side of you we know nothing about.
There was a good reason why I guarded my secret: I had no intention of letting anyone get close enough to me to find out why I came to America and why I eventually sought sanctuary surrounded by Mr K’s peaceful blooms. Only one other person in New York knew what I hid: Celia. And even she didn’t know it all.
The cab made a sharp right turn, as if to mirror my train of thought. But it’s been six years, my conscience ventured shyly, well aware of the magnitude of this suggestion. Perhaps the dream last night meant it was time to let go of the past? I caught my breath as the bold assertion glimmered before my eyes like the sunlight glinting along the roof of a taxi speeding alongside mine. How long should you hold on to something like this? What would be the worst that could happen if someone else knew? Were Ed and Marnie likely to allow the revelation of my past to affect how they saw me now? My heart rate began to increase and heat began claiming my face as a dim image of the possible scenario played out like a flicker-book film in my mind.
As the cab slowed to approach the home of the New York Times, I quickly bundled the debate to the darkest recesses of my mind and forced my thoughts to snap back to the present as I rummaged in my handbag for my purse.
Celia was waiting by the building’s grand entrance. I could see her checking her watch irritably and looking accusingly up the street as my cab pulled up. Once out on the sidewalk, I turned to Ken and handed him a few more notes than he’d asked for. On seeing his puzzled