Miranda Dickinson - I’ll Take New York

Easier for you, Jess. Not for me …

He hated the lightness of her attitude, the way she smiled after every flippant comment, regardless of the pain each one inflicted. He should be glad she wanted to leave him. He should be celebrating …

And yet, even as he had watched her stride away along Mission Street and out of his life forever, his heart still ached for her. He told himself this was inevitable: after all, only six weeks beforehand he’d thought he had the happiest marriage in the world. I’m still in shock , he decided. It hasn’t sunk in yet …

But now, as the lights of San Francisco Bay fell away from view through the aircraft windows, it suddenly felt very real. He was leaving the life he had so carefully built over seven years behind him, with no guarantee he could successfully rebuild it on the other side of America.

I won’t be alone , he had assured Pam as they stood by the departure gate. But now, twenty thousand feet and rising above the Californian coast, Jake Steinmann felt more alone than he ever had before.

Bea looked up at the oversized clock above the counter. Five more minutes and then she was leaving.

She had known it was Otis calling last night even before the answer machine clicked into action, but she had no intention of picking up. His voice sounded pathetic and insincere as it entered her apartment where she was hiding after the debacle at Stromoli’s:

‘ Bea – it’s me. I am so sorry. Give me a chance to explain, please? I know I screwed up. You have every right to walk away. But don’t do it until I’ve had a chance to explain. Give me an hour tomorrow and I’ll make it up to you, I swear. I can come to the bookstore. We’ll talk. And you’ll see why I couldn’t be there tonight. I’ll call your family and explain, too. I feel awful, Bea, you have to believe me … Hell, please pick up the phone? I know you’re there …’

Changed into her faded PJs and huddled up in her favourite chair – the dress she’d expected to be proposed to in screwed into a ball beside her bed – Bea had stared at the answer machine. ‘Go away,’ she told the grey box with its blinking red light.

‘Just meet with me tomorrow? I won’t stop calling until you say yes …’

‘Leave me alone!’

‘ I’m not kidding, Bea. If I have to sit outside your apartment night and day I’ll do it …’

Tired and bruised from the mortifying family dinner, Bea couldn’t bear the thought of Otis turning up in the early hours. As sleep was unlikely anyway, contending with a belligerent boyfriend would definitely ensure she was good for nothing in the morning. Admitting defeat with grudging disappointment, she had answered the phone.

‘Fine. I’ll meet with you tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Bea – it’s so good to hear your voice …’

Oh no, Otis, your wounded puppy routine won’t work this time … ‘I’ll be leaving at five p.m. Be there before then or we have no deal.’

She should have said no last night. But Bea wanted answers – and she wanted to see his face when she challenged him. Now, facing another Otis Greene no-show, she knew it: she had clearly been wrong to trust him. He had let her down. Again .

‘Maybe you should wait a few more minutes?’

Bea turned to her business partner and best friend. His eyes were earnest behind the wide-rimmed hipster glasses he wore. ‘ Maybe he should have been here twenty minutes ago. I’ve waited long enough, I think.’

Russ wrinkled his nose. ‘Ten more minutes.’

‘Five.’

‘OK, five. But he’ll be here, Bea. I know he will. Just be patient, Bea …’ He sniggered at his own joke, his laughter fading when he saw Bea’s expression. ‘Sorry.’

After three years of running a business together, you would think that Russ O’Docherty would have grown tired of his ‘be-slash-Bea’ jokes. But unfortunately her business partner (and unofficial partner-in-crime since she’d arrived in New York to study at Columbia University) was writing comedy scripts and performing stand-up in his spare time, with Bea (and her increasingly complicated life) a seemingly constant inspiration for his material.

Bea took a deep breath, the comforting scent of paper, print ink and furniture polish filling her lungs. For her it was the most delicious smell in the world: the tantalising aroma of a bookshop. For as long as she could remember, Bea had dreamed of one day owning her own bookstore. She had loved books all her life. Real books, not electronic ones. Books you could carry in your bag and read on the subway. Books you could pretend to read in neighbourhood coffee shops while people-watching. Books you could snuggle up with and lose yourself in. Books you could fill your apartment with – packed onto shelves, propping up tables and piled up reassuringly by the side of your bed. If she left home without a book, Bea felt naked, bereft. But then, working in a bookshop meant there were always new friends to make and take home.

Friends who never let her down. Friends she could trust.

Her heart contracted again and she wished hard that she didn’t care whether Otis turned up or not. But she loved him: she had loved him for five years and even though she was angrier with him today than she had ever been before, she knew the moment he swept into the bookstore his handsome face would tempt her to forgive him. Again . He knew how to get under her skin and it was this ability alone that had saved their relationship many times before. Bea couldn’t deny their chemistry – and when he arrived today she would have to fight hard to resist it again. If he ever turned up, that was.

‘I just – I’m sick of this, Russ.’

Russ slung his arm around her shoulder. ‘I know. What you need is a distraction from staring at that clock. I’ve been thinking about maybe introducing a coffee corner by the window – what d’ya think? I mean, what could be a better combination, hmm? Books and coffee: like mac and cheese, Cagney and Lacey, New York and angst. Come on, admit it, that made you smile …’

Bea shook her head. Russ knew her better than anyone and even his lame jokes had the power to break through her dark mood. ‘I like the idea. If you think we can afford it?’

‘I’ve looked over the accounts and I think it’s possible, yes.’

Hudson River Books had been a dream Bea had shared with Russ from their earliest conversations at university. It became their favourite daydream in long English Lit classes, discussions about what it would look like and debates over which authors they would stock going on late into the night; continuing in study periods and lunch breaks spread out on the lawns surrounding the campus buildings. Much of what customers saw today in the little redbrick shop on 8th Avenue had been planned years before on diner napkins, on the back of lecture notes and in countless notebooks covered in their dreams over the years. Russ often said he thought the atmosphere that many of their customers remarked upon was because it had been their passion during the early years of their friendship.

Bea felt her heart sinking as she consulted the clock again. Despite her anger, she had so wanted Otis to come through this time. Just once, to stay true to his word. For her . Accepting the inevitable, she picked up her bag and coat. ‘That’s long enough. I’ll see you later, OK?’

Russ dropped the stack of new books he was cataloguing and hurried around the maple wood counter to block her escape. ‘Wait. Just a few more minutes? I know there’s a good reason Otis is late.’