I’ll Take New York. Miranda Dickinson
‘I do … I just …’ She swallowed as the full impact hit her. ‘A married guy just gave me his card.’
Stewart pulled a face. ‘Eeww. I hope you sent him packing?’
‘Of course I did.’
‘Good. I’m afraid Celia is playing Millionaire Matchmaker for you. I’ve told her to stop, but you know what she’s like once she gets an idea in her head.’
Bea raised her eyes to the apartment’s high ceiling. ‘Fantastic. So not only am I fair game for adulterous Lotharios but I’m now your girlfriend’s pathetic pet project. I think I might just go, Stew. I don’t know anyone here and it should be a celebration for Celia’s friends.’
‘You’ve been here less than an hour. And whether you like it or not, this is what being single in Manhattan is like. Better to get used to it and learn to enjoy yourself, I reckon. Stay. Try the sashimi. It’ll change your life.’
‘Maybe later.’
Her brother shot her a look. ‘OK. But if I come back in half an hour and you’re still moping here I’m going to force-feed you gourmet food.’
‘Fine.’
Forget sashimi, Bea thought. What I need is a drink …
Private loft apartment, Upper West Side
‘So sorry to hear about Jess, man. I thought you two were made for life …’
Jake could feel the edges of his smile fraying and longed to change the subject. But this had become the sole topic of conversation with everyone he had talked to during the last hour. It was, of course, an unavoidable hazard; most of Ed’s friends had known Jake since childhood and therefore were fully appraised of every aspect of his life. And those who didn’t know every available detail were only too happy to be shocked by it tonight. Everywhere he walked in the elegant apartment, he could feel the pitying eyes of almost a hundred guests following him. How had this outcome not occurred to him when he was drawing up the guest list for this evening?
‘Shame you didn’t invite more single women,’ a well-meaning friend observed. ‘Even the waiting staff are all guys.’
Jake shrugged. ‘My bad. Anyway, I’m not looking.’
His friend’s blonde companion tittered. ‘This is Manhattan, Jake. Everybody is looking.’
‘Especially the ones who shouldn’t be,’ another friend quipped, his remark allowing the group now gathered around Jake to laugh and not feel so awkward about the situation.
Jake wished for light relief to rescue him in the same way, but none appeared. ‘They’re welcome to the search. I’m not in the game.’
The blonde’s nipped-and-tucked features fell as far as they could. ‘Don’t ever say that,’ she breathed. ‘You shouldn’t deny yourself, Jake! You’re still young and … virile …’ Her ill-disguised survey of just how young and virile Jake was left him reeling and he mumbled something unintelligible to make his escape.
This place is nuts! How had his good intentions towards Ed brought him into the minefield he now found himself in? He looked up to the apartment’s mezzanine where his brother and Rosie were looking happy and relaxed, sharing conversation with friends. At least they were enjoying tonight. This was their night, Jake reminded himself, not his. It would have to be his mantra for the rest of the party. That, and bourbon …
He remembered a client he had worked with back in his Russian Hill practice in San Francisco, who went to every social occasion convinced the rest of the guests knew his deepest, most secret thoughts.
‘They watch me, Dr Steinmann. They say pleasant things, but I can feel them scrutinising me. Like a bug.’
‘Why do you think they would want to do that, Ray?’
‘Are you kidding me? Do you know what I’m capable of thinking? They know it all, Doc. I can’t hide.’
Jake had spent months assuring Ray that small talk was a way to pass the time and socialise without asking too much of either party; that everyone had their own set of hang-ups and insecurities to deal with; and that it was impossible to see anyone’s innermost thoughts, however obvious they may seem to be. But even on their last session before Jake packed up his San Franciscan life, Jake hadn’t been entirely assured that Ray had accepted it.
Now, surrounded by familiar faces that did know Jake’s business and were making valiant attempts to guess his innermost thoughts, he felt a new affinity with his former client’s predicament.
‘Jake …’ Chef Henri was wringing his hands beside him. ‘I am so sorry, but …’
‘The bar?’
‘There is a considerable queue. Do you mind?’
Heart lifting, Jake could have kissed the apologetic chef but resisted, settling instead for slapping him amiably on the back. ‘I’m there.’
Swinging his jacket over one arm, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and strode through the guests towards the bar, which had been set up beneath the mezzanine, next to a floor-to-ceiling window looking out towards the beautiful night-time cityscape. Seeing the buildings and lights of the Upper West Side comforted Jake: while he’d loved his adopted city of San Francisco, he had always carried a secret longing for New York. His father’s favourite saying was true: Steinmanns were born with Big-Apple-shaped hearts.
‘Hey, New York,’ he smiled, pausing for a moment to take in the view. ‘Looking good.’ Taking a deep breath for the first time that evening, he turned towards the bar and jumped into the fray.
‘Scotch straight up, no ice.’
‘Manhattan – one olive.’
‘Red wine for me and a white for the lady …’
It had been years since Jake last worked a bar, but he quickly found his rhythm. It was good to find he hadn’t lost the skills he’d acquired during his last year at Yale and the distraction it gave him was priceless. Finally, he could lose himself in an activity that required no deeper thought than which bottle and glass to select. Maybe this was the ideal career for him, he mused as he worked. Psychiatry was far too introspective for his current state of mind …
The next hour flew by, Jake relishing the almost constant stream of thirsty guests vying for his attention. But as ten o’clock neared, the queue dwindled until the bar was almost empty. He helped himself to a long drink of cola, realising how thirsty his efforts had made him, and once again his eyes strayed from the bar to the night view from the huge window. There was much to do to re-establish his life in the city, but Jake knew he could make it a success here. This was his home: always had been. And that counted for a lot. Frank Sinatra had it pegged: if he could make it in the city that never sleeps, he could pretty much make it anywhere. He had spent too long feeling as if he was skulking back home, defeated. This had to stop – and tonight was as good a time as any.
‘White wine, please.’
Turning back to the bar, Jake smiled at the pretty redhead with eyes the colour of the winter sea. ‘Sure. Any preference?’
She stared at him, a weariness that didn’t seem to belong to her claiming her expression. ‘Large glass?’
He suppressed the urge to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, I meant French? Australian?’
‘Alcoholic.’ She dropped her gaze to the empty glass on the bar. ‘Please.’
Intrigued, Jake pulled a fresh glass from the box behind the makeshift bar