Miranda Dickinson - I’ll Take New York

The column was a wry take on the Mayor of New York’s recent speech at a fundraiser in which he mistakenly referred to Donald Trump as ‘Sir Donald’. A furore had broken out, Manhattan’s journalists having a field day at his expense while political opponents claimed this as evidence of the Mayor’s unsuitability for the job. Celia, in her inimitable fashion, was musing on the Mayor’s secret plan to ‘Olde-Englandise’ New York:

One has to wonder what’s next? Will suits of armour be seen on Wall Street? Will corsets be compulsory at New York Fashion Week? Before we know it, our esteemed Mayor will have the whole of Manhattan as a giant, Disney-esque theme pub. My advice? Be sure to sign up for those jousting lessons now, before the rush begins …

‘I think I actually love her,’ Russ laughed.

‘Well, hands off. My brother’s already claimed her.’

‘Shame.’ Russ studied Bea. ‘You look better today.’

‘Thanks. I feel better.’

‘Did you and Otis talk?’

Bea ignored her irritation. ‘ No . We have nothing else to talk about. I’ve been thinking: Celia’s book launch could be the first of many evening events Hudson River Books could host. I thought we could collaborate with the Comedy Cavern and do an open-mic style event nearer the summer, if you’re up for it?’

‘Well look at you, Ms Businesswoman of the Year! It’s all good, Bea.’

‘Thank you.’ Pleased with herself, Bea looked around the bookstore. It was coming together at last.

‘When is Ms Reighton arriving to look around?’

‘About ten. But Stewart said to expect her any time between now and two p.m.’ Bea smiled. ‘Time-keeping isn’t her forte, apparently.’

Russ looked hurriedly around the shop. ‘Heck, I need to tidy this place for when she arrives. We can’t have a New York Times star columnist seeing the bookstore like this.’

‘Like what? It looks great.’

Russ stared at Bea. ‘So you say. But we’re talking New York royalty here. I’m not settling for anything less than perfect.’

Bea giggled as her friend set about cleaning the already clean shop. She was used to Russ panicking but today he was doing it at an entirely new level. Bea understood his nerves: she too was a little daunted by the task. It was a coup to host Celia’s event, but, knowing her reputation and respect within the literary community of the city, the prospect of famous authors, socialites and powerful journalists eating canapés and drinking wine at Hudson River Books was slightly terrifying. She was excited though: if the bookstore could pull this off, anything was possible.

As predicted, Celia breezed into Hudson River Books just after one o’clock, by which time Russ was more tightly wound up than a spring. Not wanting to risk her colleague exploding in Celia’s presence, Bea despatched him to the local coffee shop to fetch drinks. At least this way she could guarantee ten Russ-free minutes to talk about the important things with Celia.

‘I love this place!’ Celia said, walking around the bookstore and inspecting the bare-brick walls, comfortable leather chairs and informally arranged bookshelves. ‘It’s so inviting, so warm and welcoming. Every bookstore should be like this.’

Bea had overheard similar conversations between customers over the last couple of years but it was wonderful to hear it said directly to her. It was what she and Russ had worked so hard for: to create a store that people wanted to linger in. Cosy beanbags, cushions and chairs were arranged throughout for customers to sit and enjoy their books; special genre-themed zones changed regularly so there was always something new to discover; quotes from Books of the Month were chalked up on thought-bubble-shaped blackboards around the store; and they had even devised a ‘Take A Chance on Me’ book service, where a pile of titles wrapped in brown paper with labels hinting at the stories within invited readers to discover an author they might not have read before.

As Celia continued to enthuse about the fixtures, fittings and ambience of the bookstore, Bea beamed with pride. She remembered making her Grandma Dot laugh when, as a little girl, she had earnestly asked if the local bookshop in her home town might let her live there if she asked nicely enough. She had even devised a back-up plan if the bookshop declined her idea: the local library’s children’s section had very comfortable patchwork beanbags that could easily make a bed. As long as books surrounded Bea all the time, she wasn’t fussy about where she lived. Now she was living out her childhood ambition – almost. Hudson River Books was definitely the kind of book-filled space that she would happily spend every hour of her life in.

Aware of the brief amount of time she had before her colleague’s return, Bea sat on the large black leather sofa in the corner that would soon house Russ’ coffee bar and invited Celia to join her.

‘I’ve been thinking about the book launch,’ she said, pulling out her notebook and scanning the list of suggestions with the shaking tip of her pen. ‘I’d love it if you would do a reading for us. I thought, with your permission, we could reproduce some quotes from your book and hang them around the walls. We have some bespoke frames that we use for seasonal promotions and Russ is a graphic design whizz.’

‘I like it. Go on.’

Encouraged, Bea shared more items from her list. The French bistro opposite the bookstore had agreed to serve mini versions of its popular dishes as canapés and provide as much wine as the guests could drink, while the small stationery store further down 8th Avenue had offered to hand-print invitations for the event and supply matching goody bags for all attending.

Celia listened to Bea, nodding enthusiastically. ‘You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you? I must say, I’m impressed. Stewart told me how much this event means to you. Talking of which, how are you? Has that awful man tried to contact you?’

Slightly taken aback at the speed with which Celia had changed the subject, Bea took a few moments to reply. ‘I – um – I’m fine and no, thankfully, Otis hasn’t been in touch. But then I did tell him we were over, so it’s little wonder he’s left me alone.’

Celia folded her hands in her lap and fixed Bea with a look that made her a little nervous. ‘You know what you need? A night out. Great company, good wine – get away from all thoughts of relationships and enjoy yourself.’

Bea had to admit that sounded good. Lately all she had done was dodge thoughts about Otis and her failed love life. ‘I’d like that.’

Celia’s smile illuminated the store. ‘Excellent! My good friend is having a party in the Upper West Side, Friday night. It’ll be full of interesting people and I hear the private venue is to die for. Say you’ll come.’

Bea laughed at the unexpected invitation. What else would she be doing on a Friday night, anyway? ‘OK. I’d love to.’

That evening, Bea sat alone in her cosy apartment in the Boerum Hill neighbourhood of Brooklyn. To the casual observer, the only differences between her business and her home were a few more chairs, a kitchen sink and a bedroom; the rest of the space being devoted to books. Russ jokingly referred to Bea’s apartment as a ‘flat-share’ arrangement: ‘It’s nice of the books to let you stay. Do they charge you reasonable rent?’

Bea smiled now as she sipped a large mug of hot chocolate and ran her fingers along the spines of her books. Since ending her relationship with Otis she found she was enjoying being alone. The days following the awful family dinner had given her time to reflect on her recent life and what she had seen hadn’t been pretty. She realised she had become so focused on tackling potential problems Otis could cause that she had been neglecting her own life. She had been a fire-fighter rather than the trailblazer she wanted to be. That was going to change.