‘Ah, you mean historical ones…’
Celia stopped abruptly and chastised me with a mock frown. ‘You see, that’s what I was saying, sweetie. You British have so much history that you can afford to throw it away in jest. Pity the poor American here…’
Once again, the conversation shifted, as New York hurried by on the street below.
Work began on Celia’s displays the following Monday. The order from Patrick’s Flower Warehouse was due at 7 a.m. so Marnie, my assistant and Ed, my co-designer, agreed to meet me at the store at 6.45 a.m., on the strict understanding that I would shout them breakfast in return for their loyal service. Once all the boxes were safely inside we locked the store, pulled down the shutters and walked across the street to claim our reward.
There is something ultimately satisifying about walking into a coffee house first thing in the morning. You are invited in by the cosy sofas; then, once over the threshold, wonderfully evocative scents of fresh coffee and warm pastries surround you and draw you in further. Even though the world outside scurries past, inside there is a feeling of unhurried indulgence—a chance to sit a while and enjoy the moment.
Or, in our case this morning, wake up and smell the coffee.
‘So, remind us again why we’re selflessly crucifying ourselves today?’ Ed yawned, his humour much sharper than the rest of his body at this hour.
‘It’s a favour. For Celia,’ I said.
Marnie groaned into her cappuccino.
‘Ah, Celia,’ said Ed, raising an eyebrow. ‘Now tell me, would this be the same Celia who got us making forty Christmas garlands for the Times party with only one week’s notice? Or the Celia who “simply had to have daffodils” in November?’
I pretended to hide behind my mug.
‘Or the Celia who booked our biggest rival for her Valentine Ball but “let us” provide all the gift roses because we were cheaper?’ Marnie added.
‘OK, OK, guilty as charged!’ I protested.
Ed and Marnie exchanged knowing glances, and then faced me with uniform seriousness.
‘See, I have this theory about the cause of the worrying symptoms our patient here is displaying,’ Ed began.
‘Why, Dr Steinmann, what could it be?’ asked Marnie with a squeaky Southern-belle accent she could only have picked up from watching too many episodes of Days of Our Lives.
Ed consulted his paper napkin with practised flair and turned to face her. ‘The problem here is very simple, Nurse Andersson. Our patient is a classic sufferer of Malaise Anglais.’
Marnie placed a hand to her heart. ‘Oh, Doctor, are you sure?’
‘What exactly are you trying to say?’ I giggled.
‘You’re way too British, Rosie,’ Ed declared with a smile. ‘You’re missing the gene that enables you to say No…’
‘…It won’t allow you to learn from each and every mistake,’ said Marnie, clearly enjoying this assault on my character, ‘and it unfortunately manifests itself in repeated attacks.’
‘Of course, it’s the friends of the sufferer that I feel sorry for,’ continued Ed, with merciless vigour. ‘Because, you see, they are the ones who ultimately face the hard work of providing support to the patient.’
‘But, it needs to be said, there can be benefits for them too,’ I said.
‘Such as?’ asked Ed, his blue eyes sparkling.
‘Such as, the privilege of enjoying breakfasts at the patient’s expense.’
Marnie smiled and Ed reached across to squeeze my hand.
‘Absolutely. And it is a privilege. We simply mock because we care, Rosie. When are you going to understand that some people are always out for themselves?’
I let out a sigh. We must have had this conversation a thousand times, but I’m never successful in getting Marnie and Ed to see the situation from my point of view. Undaunted, I began Attempt Number 1001.
‘I know it seems like Celia’s always taking advantage, but she really is a good friend. She’s been there for me every time I’ve needed her. I just want to repay her kindness, that’s all.’
Ed’s expression softened a little and he shook his head. ‘Rosie Duncan, we love you dearly. And if it makes you happy, we’ll gladly spend the many, many hours required in order for you to repay your friend.’
‘Well, thank you,’ I said, draining the last of my latte.
‘Seriously, though, you work too much, Rosie. You need to live a little too.’ Marnie’s voice was full of concern. An alarm bell began to jangle in the back of my mind: I knew where this was going. We were approaching forbidden territory. I braced myself and, sure enough: ‘You so need a man—’ she breathed. My heart sank and I immediately cut her off.
‘I don’t, thank you. So, the schedule for today—’
Marnie wasn’t about to be put off so easily. ‘No, I mean it, Rosie! You’re such a lovely person—if you’d just let a guy get close enough to you, I’m sure you’d be happy…’
Feeling cornered, I gave a too-forced laugh and attempted to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Ah-ah, no—that is a non-negotiable subject and, I need to warn you, will result in a breach of the conditions of your contract if you choose to discuss it further.’
Ed threw his hands up in surrender. ‘OK, OK, boss, we get it. We hereby pledge to pursue it no longer.’
‘Finally, they understand!’ I looked heavenwards, hands outstretched in gratitude. I could hardly believe it—had I really averted the inevitable lecture?
Nope.
‘…Suffice to say, that Marnie and I are committed to bugging you on a regular basis about this—’ Ed was stopped mid-sentence, by Marnie, or rather by Marnie’s hand as it clamped firmly across his mouth.
‘Quiet, Steinmann, I need this job!’ she laughed.
After a brief struggle, she let him go and they both collapsed back, smirking like a pair of naughty schoolkids. Despite my recent discomfort, I had to smile at the pair of them. Ed likes to pretend he’s the serious, surrogate older brother in this terrible twosome, yet often he’s the worse culprit. They are forever swapping jokes, winding each other up or just acting like a couple of big kids—and I love them for it. It makes me feel I’m part of something positive and gives a real, beating heart to Kowalski’s. Most importantly, I know that, behind the humour, they are fiercely protective of each other—and of me.
Ed’s eyes twinkled and he flashed a wide grin at me.
‘Suitably chastened, m’lady,’ he said, giving a little bow as we got up to return to the store. But in the doorway he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me to him. ‘However, this topic won’t go away, Rosie Duncan. It’s definitely one To Be Continued.’
At the age of twelve and a half I decided I wasn’t going to be a florist.
I made this Important Life Decision whilst helping my mum to create buttonholes for a wedding at five o’clock one Saturday morning. The bride’s mother had called our home an hour before in a blind panic, after realising she hadn’t ordered enough for the groom’s family. I think this was the same day that I made my next Important