Page 38 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

Ethan shook himself out of whatever he was ruminating over, producing a crinkly-eyed smile. ‘Yes, thanks.’

Please seat us indoors, please seat us in indoors…

Even with the presence of patio heaters, I could already imagine the cold air leaking through the flapping plastic ‘walls’ of the outdoor seating area nipping at my ankles. Thankfully, my silent pleas were answered.

As soon as we stepped through the doorway, the room felt eerily familiar. I clocked ten or so dark wood bistro tables filling the narrow space, with a few more at the far end in a raised seating area. Along with a small row of stools at the bar and a window seat for one, the place only sat about twenty-five diners. No wonder there was always a queue. The walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of wine, with blackboards listing that day’s specials and sommelier-recommended beverages. The gold-leafed panelled ceiling added an air of decadence to what might otherwise be considered a relatively rustic room.

The place was noisier than I preferred, rammed full of trendy-looking New Yorkers – there didn’t appear to be a single tourist among them. I felt like I was bringing the vibe of the place down with my giant rucksack, which barely fitted under the tiny table we were taken to. The additional presence of Ethan’s backpack, along with my shopping bag from the stationery store, forced mine and Ethan’s knees to jut out awkwardly – and rest against each other – to accommodate it all. Neither of us acknowledged the physical contact.

‘The food here’s really good; feel free to order anything. On me.’

My near-empty stomach quivered, pleadingly, but I was conscious that Ethan’s generosity was now at risk of doubling the fee he’d agreed to pay me for my help. My doubt was cemented when I glanced at the menu and saw the prices. Over twenty dollars for a croque monsieur? Wasn’t that basically cheese on toast? I looked at the pastry section – a croissant alone was ten bucks. I swallowed, and adjusted one of my dungaree straps that had slipped off my shoulder, feeling suddenly out of place in what I was fast realising was a pretty fancy French restaurant.

French.

I instantly understood what being in here reminded me of: that time in Paris, with Will.

Will and I had never done many long-haul trips – our dream winter honeymoon to New York would have been the furthest we’d ever flown together – but Eurostar holidays and EasyJet flights to the French capital and other continental European cities would forever be associated with our many years together. Brushing up on the basics of the relevant language on Duolingo was my pre-city break ritual, and I’d always enjoyed being our collective spokesperson in hotels and restaurants – practically the only times I didn’t rely on Will to take the lead. Will had had a shit ton of organisational qualities when it came to travel logistics, but linguistic talent hadn’t been one of them.

On the last night of our Paris trip two years ago, we’d gone to a cosy bistro that had featured almost this exact décor. We’d eaten steak frites washed down with red wine from a carafe. And, as we tucked into our shared crêpe Suzette for dessert, we’d agreed to get married. There’d been no down-on-one-knee proposal – or a ring, for that matter. Just a mutual decision that – with Will having recently been promoted, into the same department as me, as luck would have it – the timing was right and we should start planning a June wedding for eighteen months’ time. The agreement to get married had been characteristically low-key, in line with the rest of our relationship, which had never relied on grand gestures or romantic declarations. Being with each other had always felt easy, and making that ease legally binding had made sense. I’d gone to bed that night feeling safe and certain.

In the last six months, however, I’d felt neither of these things. And here, in this West Village restaurant, the absence of those feelings – and their terrifying opposites – descended on me all at once. I began to feel both hot and cold while I tried to regulate my breathing, knowing that all the colour must be draining from my face as my body diverted blood away from my brain to other vital organs as the panic set in. My ears started screeching as the food arrived for the table next to us. I glanced at their plates, trying to find something – anything – to focus on and ground myself as the ringing inside my head got louder and my breath got shallower. A terrible mistake, as it happened: both plates contained wobbling mounds of scrambled eggs. It was the final trigger I absolutely didn’t need, and the intensity of my jagged breaths increased to the point of visibility.

Breathe, just breathe, you total idiot.

‘Shit, Flora, are you okay?’

I’m dying.

I attempted a smile but it just resulted in a wheeze.

Ethan fixed his eyes on mine. ‘Panic attack?’

I managed a single nod. Ethan reached under the table and produced the paper bag from the stationery store. He tipped its contents onto the table and bunched up the bag’s opening, passing it to me.

He didn’t tell me what to do, knowing it was information I didn’t require. I put the bag to my mouth and took deep breaths, the inflation and deflation of the bag gradually settling down into a regular rhythm.

Everyone in the restaurant was now looking at me, and I could feel my eyes becoming wet with shame.

Don’t blink.

‘Fresh air?’ Ethan asked, already rising from his seat.

I managed two nods this time, prompting Ethan to help me out of my own chair, the paper bag still attached to my mouth.

‘Can you put our bags somewhere safe?’ he asked the server, although the member of staff was already raising his hand in understanding and putting them behind the bar.

We walked outside, the occupants of the freshly sprouted queue becoming immediately mute as my paper bag accessory made it clear what was going on. We walked a few metres away from the entrance, and sat down on the edge of the pavement.

I took a final breath via the medium of the bag before resting it in my lap and finally allowing myself to blink. Two huge tears landed on the paper bag simultaneously.

‘Oh God, I’m so embarrassed. I’m so sorry,’ I said, a couple more tears leaking out, these ones making a much slower gravitational descent.

‘No way, I’m the one who’s sorry. This whole speechwriting idea was so stupid; I feel like a total asshole forcing you to work when you’re meant to be here on vacation.’

I took in a controlled and delicious lungful of cold air before looking at him and replying. ‘It wasn’t a stupid idea; it was a perfectly logical one. I mean, you bumped into a speechwriter the very week you needed help with a speech. It would have been weirder if you hadn’t asked for my help.’

‘You promise you’re not just saying that?’