Page 23 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

The word ‘wedding’ sent a literal shiver down my spine. Because the last time I’d written a speech for a wedding it had caused my whole life to collapse. I was reluctant to proactively relive the biggest mistake I’d ever made. But, shit, I did need to line up some work for the coming months. And, while writing a best man’s speech wasn’t exactly something that would enhance my portfolio, having a cute stranger across the Atlantic to converse with via email in the new year would at least give me something to look forward to.

‘Okay, let me give you my email address and you can send me the details.’ He passed me a napkin and a pen – having writing implements to hand was very much a green flag in my book – and I scribbled my email address on it before handing it over. ‘Once I’m back in the UK, I can drop you a line with my rates and availability and we can get cracking in the new year.’

His face turned into the grimace emoji as he folded the napkin I’d handed him into a neat triangle. ‘Erm, that’s the thing…’

‘What’s the thing?’

‘The wedding… it’s in four days.’

WTF.

‘They’re getting married next week?’

‘Christmas Eve Eve, yeah. It’s his fiancée’s favourite day of the year.’

‘Crikey. Well, I’d love to help you, but I’ve got another client’s speech to write while I’m here, plus some other plans.’

Even if I don’t know what they are.

Poor Ethan looked a little crestfallen, so I added a disclaimer to soften the blow.

‘Also, the main thing about writing this kind of personal speech is that I’d need to know stuff about you and your brother to make it work. And, apart from that mistaken identity situation with your boss who definitely wasn’t your secret girlfriend—’

‘Ex-girlfriend,’ he clarified, turning the folded triangle over and over between his dexterous fingers.

‘Noted – and your love of pink noise, indie sleaze, and your ability to rip books in half, I know nothing about you. I mean, either of you.’

‘Once again, it was a weedy li’l novella. But, sure, that all makes sense. I knew this was a stupid idea. But, uh, one more stupid idea if you wouldn’t mind humouring me?’

‘I’m all ears.’ I flapped the tops of my actual ears, as if he didn’t already think I was enough of an oddball.

‘How about we meet here tomorrow morning – just for a couple of hours? I can think about some stories tonight and chat through what I want to cover, and you can write me a speech structure or outline, or however it works, so you can tell me what kind of thing should go where and I can just fill in the blanks. So, like, two hours of your time? For, I dunno, two hundred bucks? Three hundred?’

I turned the logistics over in my mind while I took a final sip of coffee. Mum and Anneka would probably still be asleep at this time tomorrow, anyway. And I couldn’t deny that the extra funds would come in handy to cover whatever random expenses I was likely to incur over the next few days. I placed my cup down and rested my chin on my interlocked fingers.

‘Okay. Two hours. One hundred dollars would be plenty. Plus a coffee. Or two.’

‘Oh my God, amazing, amazing. This is going to change everything; I can just feel it. Hang on…’ He leaned over to the counter and grabbed a sticker, which featured one of his illustrations, and wrote his number on it before passing it to me. ‘Drop me a line if there are any issues, but otherwise I’ll see you in here at, say, nine a.m. tomorrow morning?’

‘Deal.’ I extended my right hand and he shook it once to seal the agreement, before exiting the shop with a renewed bounce in his step.

I peeled off the backing of the sticker and affixed it onto the lid of my laptop alongside all the others, glancing at the Instagram username next to the illustration as I did so. My mouth dropped open as I clocked the username: @CarmichaelCartoons.

No fucking way.

I opened Instagram on my phone and typed in the letters to confirm what I already knew: Ethan Carmichael was a hugely successful cartoonist – his cartoons must be yet another so-called side hustle for him alongside his graphic design and illustration work – whose funny creations sometimes featured in the legendary New Yorker magazine, including my beloved caption contest. He even had a frickin’ verified tick.

And, along with ten thousand or so other fans of his work, I was already following him. I was about to scroll through his profile grid, which appeared to exclusively consist of his black-and-white cartoons, when Cory came to take away the dirty cups, making me re-focus on the matter in hand: getting back to the hotel to figure out what on earth we were ‘running late’ for.

‘Can I get you anything else… Flora, is it?’

‘Yeah, and no thanks – I’ve gotta head off. But looks like I’ll be back tomorrow if you work Saturdays?’

‘Sure do. With our buddy Ethan?’

‘Yeah, I’m helping him out with something.’

‘Good to hear: it’s about time he accepted a favour from someone instead of doling them out like candy.’