Page 17 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

‘Oh! Yes please, if that’s okay. I’m staying in room 316 – we arrived late last night – and I wondered if we could get some extra towels and blankets?’

I needed as much softness as possible if that bath was to become my bed for the next few nights.

She glanced down at her computer screen without saying anything and tapped her keyboard at an impressively speedy rate.

Let me guess: ‘computer says no’?

‘Absolutely, Ms Bell, I’ve left a note for housekeeping. Can I help you with anything else?’

I smiled at her formal familiarity, remembering how much I liked my surname – perhaps the only upside of my engagement to Will imploding at the eleventh hour was that I no longer had to pretend to be chill about taking his surname: Grewcock.

‘Umm, would you recommend anywhere nearby for coffee?’

‘Sure, our sister restaurant is right next door and serves coffee and food all day.’ She looked around furtively before leaning in closer and saying in a much quieter voice, ‘But for the good stuff, head to Corner Brew, a block over on West 8th.’

I laughed, feeling unexpectedly at ease. ‘Thanks, I definitely need the good stuff. Oh, and where can I find the Washington Square Arch?’

The receptionist’s forehead creased in confusion. ‘Ms Bell, it’s… right there.’

She gestured towards the wooden revolving door and, lo and behold, the white arch glowed brightly in the near distance. I thanked the receptionist, wrapped my scarf around the lower half of my face and stepped out into the crisp December morning.

Despite the early-ish hour, Washington Square Park was surprisingly bustling with tourists, couriers on bikes using the park as a Friday morning cut-through, smartly dressed workers on their way to their respective offices and early-bird skaters practising their moves around the grand fountain; the textured rumblings of their wheels against the various concrete ridges sounded – felt – surprisingly soothing. I heard a squeakier set of wheels and turned to identify the source. It was a guy about Mum’s age, pushing a full-size upright piano along a paved path. He stopped at a spot directly in line with the arch and stretched, unfolded a portable stool that had been balancing on top of his instrument, sat down at the piano and, wearing fingerless gloves, began to play.

I perched on the edge on the nearest bench, taking in the melodic sounds and accompanying sights, allowing my face to drink in the sunlight that had managed to peek through the clouds in an apparent act of defiance against the bitter cold. A man with a newspaper tucked under his arm tossed a few coins onto the pianist’s jacket, which he’d laid out next to his instrument. I made a mental note to do the same once I’d got my hands on some currency – hopefully my debit card would get me through any purchases until then. An older couple wearing puffa jackets and backpacks – perhaps in the city on holiday – set down their coffees and began to swing-dance to the music, their footwork deft, their smiles wide.

Overseeing the scene was the beautiful Washington Square Arch – much cleaner and grander than I’d imagined it to be – complete with an elegant Christmas tree framed perfectly by the structure’s curved void. The gridded streets of Manhattan stretched north from the arch’s mouth, the honks and hisses of the city only just audible through the pianist’s tune.

I couldn’t deny it – the entire situation looked like the opening shot of a Nora Ephron movie. Mum and Anneka might have unleashed this trip on me out of nowhere, but perhaps they’d known that it was the only way to get me here? Regardless of whether they’d plotted their ploy to perfection, or had simply fallen on their feet as usual, I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with New York’s winter air, exhaling slowly. It was the longest, deepest breath I’d taken in months.

It didn’t take me long to find the coffee shop the hotel receptionist had recommended thanks to the satisfyingly logical numbered street system. Corner Brew looked warm and welcoming from the outside, its position at the bottom of a red-bricked tenement building making it closely resemble Central Perk in Friends.

I pushed open the dark green door and was immediately enveloped in wooden panelling that clung to every vertical surface, with the exception of one bare-bricked wall. The ceiling’s geometrically sculpted surface meant the light from the many globe-like pendants bounced around the room softly. Books, plants and other apothecarial-looking items lined the in-built shelves behind the counter, with warm downlights making every timber surface glow like amber. Combined with the heady scent of freshly ground coffee, the place was pure sensory heaven.

I joined the short queue and surveyed the range of baked goods displayed in a gleaming, inset glass cabinet. My stomach growled in anticipation of being filled – aeroplane food had always made me gag because of the risk of egg, my food nemesis.

‘Hey, what can I get you?’ the barista asked.

‘Hi, can I get a large oat latte and… an almond croissant, please?’

It was hard not to press my face to the polished wood counter and take a sniff after I’d ordered.

‘Oat milk comes as standard. To go?’

I looked around the room: a table next to the window had just become free. I knew it was my temporary destiny.

‘No, I’ll have it… in, please. As in, not to go, to… stay?’

Oh Flora, really?

‘Haha, got it. A large latte and almond croissant “to stay”. I might just have to add that option to our menu. That’ll be ten fifty.’

I tapped my debit card on the contactless reader, silently praying it’d work. It did, although goodness knows how much my bank would charge me for the privilege of the international transaction.

‘Thanks, go grab a seat and I’ll bring it over.’

I smiled at the barista’s kindness and settled into my fated spot. I faced towards the beautiful interior, my back against bare bricks, while the sunlight streaming through the window warmed the right side of my face.

The place was pretty full, with only a couple of free tables that would no doubt soon become occupied given the steady stream of customers. Some appeared to be Friday morning regulars, their orders appearing as if by magic without them having uttered a word. But there were plenty of tourists, too, their backpacks and surprise at the oat milk revelation giving them away. Despite the hubbub, nothing felt rushed.