‘Um, putting you on speaker, honey, I’ve hot gingerbread men screaming to come out of the oven. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one of them stood up and ran downtown. Hang on a tick?’ Her voice becomes quieter as she backs away from the speaker. I can picture her, towards the end of her L-shaped kitchen where the copper pots and pans sway, hanging low. In the same spot I spent years sitting up at the island, tasting her baked goods.
‘No! I have to go,’ I say, glancing at the time on the phone in my hand.
‘One second, honey .?.?.’ Mom ignores my protests as I see Frederick Macken and Andy Grey, the two owners of Acquired Finance, the business and quarterly magazine that takes up six floors of my building. Amanda started dating Frederick when I was an intern and my friend Ben is one of Frederick’sassistants. Unusually, Frederick smiles and waves over at me, I wave back, cautiously. I didn’t know he even knew I existed. He’s passed me in the building so many times but has never actually acknowledged me before. Strange, I think. Both men are immaculate in their matching ankle-length beige trench coats, shiny patent shoes, black leather gloves and slim tan briefcases. They step into the same section of the revolving door of the building, deep in conversation.
‘Mom? Hellooooo? I really have to go.’ Carefully I walk out from behind the news stand, move towards my office.
‘At this rate I’m half sixty-year-old woman, half menopausal melted chocolate.’ Mom’s back and my mouth waters for some of her famous Christmas cookies that explode on the tongue with hazelnut, cinnamon, almond and tangy ginger. My mom does Christmas baking like no other.
‘I’ll come by Sweet Spoon Bakery later so save me some. I have to go. As enthralled as I am about Alice’s veins, I only called to tell you some news.’ Wiggling my fingers for circulation, I grip my lookbook tighter to my chest. I’m hoping this is the tool that finally bags me the promotion. It’s a glossy light pink A4 portfolio folder, tied with long, thin, white silk ribbons. Inside are wedding locations with feature articles that I have painstakingly researched and written up freelance in the hope of impressing Amanda enough. Ten smaller perfect venues with ten beautifully written accompanying articles, where couples can pledge their ‘I do’s without breaking the bank. In my lookbook, I’ve written about how a wedding doesn’t have to cost a fortune to be perfect. It’s something I feel exceptionally passionate about. I’ve read so many stories about the financial pressures of weddings and the aftermath. So, I’ve trudged through every subway stop, up and down stairwells the length and breadth of the city, at weekends to source these venues. Granted, I may not be the fireball, killer-ambitious type ofstiletto-wearing career woman, but I know I have talent. I know I want to write about love, even if I don’t want to live it. I know I want to move on into a more creative role and, most of all, I know I have to make more money to afford a new place to live.
‘Guess what?’ Moving up-down-up-down on my toes to keep warm. My breath still visible in the freezing December morning air. New York is wide awake now, honking and revving up around me. The volume of the city is increasing and I retreat further under the awning of the building, until my back is pressed flat against the cold brick wall. ‘Amanda called my cell last night, told me to bring my lookbook into a breakfast meeting. I think this is my big break!’ A garbage truck honks repeatedly, Christmas music jingling from within. Then, it belches black smoke fumes and makes me cough. I fish my security pass from the inside pocket of my wool coat as the smoke from the truck swirls between the Manhattan skyscrapers.
‘Promotion? That’s wonderful. Oh, good luck, honey! You can do this; you’re a super writer. God bless.’
I can picture her making the sign of the cross, dipping her index finger into the small holy water fountain by the double-doored red fridge.
‘We’re very creative you and me, it’s in our Italian genes .?.?. and I suppose your Irish ones. Call me after.’ She rings off with kissing sounds, and I pull my earbuds out with a dropped jaw.
How bizarre, I think, rolling the wire around my thumb. My mother never mentions my Irish roots. In fact, she tries to avoid all talk of my dad. Although I do see him a few times a year when he comes to New York, we aren’t close, and I never discuss him with her. Growing up, my dad was a very conservative man of Irish decent – strict, hard-working but distant and extremely disciplined. Mom, by comparison, was his polar opposite, – a creative of Italian descent. She was outgoing, caring, flamboyantbut needy. We lived on naval bases around the United States, travelling the world with dad’s job. However, it was a time of constant anxiety and stress. My parents argued about everything. I spent my childhood under the covers with my head in a book, blocking out their arguments when they thought I was sound asleep. I lived a life of constant tension, resulting, no doubt, in my introverted personality. I like to keep the peace. To avoid all confrontation. It still irks me that I let Cooper treat me that way and didn’t tell him what I really thought of him. I just skulked away and let him off the hook.
But today I’m not a dolphin. I’m about to become a magazine feature writer. I will speak up for myself. I deserve this. With a sharp nod of my head, I shove my earbuds into my inside coat pocket. Then, I place my palm on the glass of the revolving door and, although I’m sick with apprehension, I stride in purposefully.
THREE
Inside the glossy lobby, warm air con blasts. The open marble area is oozing with red poinsettia plants and a towering fake Christmas tree. Checking the time again, I walk briskly over to the Coffee Dock and order a caramel latte. As I lean on the high counter waiting, I watch the red leaves of the plants dance and sway in the manufactured breeze. I thank the barista and take a step forward when something crunches under my foot.
Looking down, I lift my olive suede ankle boot to see a silver chain. It twinkles and glistens on the white floor under the overhead spotlights. When I pick it up, I see it’s a man’s necklace, a heavy thick-link chain with a silver half-moon swaying on it. Lost property is handed into the reception desk, and I start to head over but as I make my way someone tips me from behind, I spin around.
‘Morning, Magpie, you’re early? It’s only ten past seven,’ Eliza says through a wide, open-mouthed yawn using her pet name for me.
‘It is? Ten past? No, I’m actually late.’ I eye up the queue at reception then I drop the heavy chain into my inside pocket until after my meeting. Picking up the pace, I head across the lobby for the security doors with Eliza hot on my heels. I impatiently tap my pass, and the doors swing open with a whoosh.
‘How are you late? You never start until eight thirty,’ Eliza says, sneezing softly now into her elbow as she always does with the warm air con playing havoc with her allergies.
‘I have a pre-work breakfast meeting with Amanda, she told me to bring my lookbook, you know what that hopefully means?’ I keep up the pace striding towards the row of gold elevators.
‘Promotion? To feature writer?’ Eliza is now basically jogging beside me, the ice in her smoothie rattling as she sneezes again and cusses the air con.
‘I think so.’ I stop dead in my tracks, and Eliza almost crashes into me.
‘At bloody last!’ Eliza announces brightly, happiness crossing her face. Her thick kohl wing is so long it makes her eyes look amazingly cat-like. I stop at the first elevator, calling it by jabbing the button impatiently like a demented woodpecker.
‘Good morning, gals.’ Salma Shuster stands beside us, in a wide-legged, double-breasted navy suit, tie and a white backpack. She only joined the magazine last year as an assistant in the writers’ room but she’s already made enemies. Without being asked, she re-wrote a piece Eliza did on afternoon weddings at the Tavern on the Green and sent it to Amanda, who ran it. A real no-no. Eliza was fuming.
‘You don’t have to start work until nine, Salma, we keep telling you there isn’t any overtime,’ Eliza says in her professional tone. Let’s just say Salma isn’t in her good books.
‘I have a breakfast meeting with Amanda shortly, but actually I’m early so any chance you can grab me a matcha, Maggie?’ She eyeballs me.
‘Maggie doesn’t get your matchas, Salma.’ Eliza’s voice is ice cold. ‘She doesn’t get your anything.’
Before I can say a word, Salma just shrugs with a fake smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and sashays off
‘Oh, brilliant!’ I collapse in the shoulders; I tap my foot on theground repeatedly.
‘Relax, you’re giving me anxiety.’ Eliza puts a hand on my arm.
‘Why is she meeting Amanda too? I swear to God, Eliza, if I’m passed over again, forher.?.?.’ The thought of that disappointment knocks me for six.
