I’ll Take New York. Miranda Dickinson

Jessica and her lawyer, Jake’s father, Ed, his own lawyer Chuck – even the lady who sold him coffee at his new neighbourhood coffee place had somehow learned that he was going through a divorce. What right did any of them have to advise him, however well meaning they were? ‘Of course I’ll answer the damn letter.’

      Ed held up his hands. ‘Hey, it’s your call. Just don’t leave it too long.’

      In the cab heading back to Williamsburg, Jake was still fuming. He knew Ed was right, but the truth of it was that he didn’t want to start the process that would inevitably lead to the end of his marriage. Jessica might have made herself undeniably clear when she walked out on him, but while they were still legally bound to one another there remained the possibility that – just maybe – there was a chance they might be reconciled. Jake hated the stubborn hope within him and wished that he didn’t still yearn for Jess to reconsider her decision. But, he reasoned, you didn’t spend almost ten years of your life loving someone only to let go of them so easily, did you?

      He stared out at the grey Manhattan afternoon; the vivid yellow of New York cabs on either side of him appearing like splashes of sunlight against the leaden palette of the passing city. I’ll sign the papers soon, he decided. But I’m not ready yet.

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       Hudson River Books, 8th Avenue, Brooklyn

      If it was possible to have a coronary induced by new culinary machinery then Russ O’Docherty was going to need a paramedic. Bea watched her colleague unwinding bubble-wrap from the bookstore’s new espresso machine with the kind of breathless reverence normally reserved for priceless works of art, expensive gifts and beautiful women.

      ‘She … is … stunning …’

      ‘How do you know it’s female?’

      ‘Are you kidding me? Look at her curves, the shine on her chrome, the delicate curve of her milk arm …’

      Bea shuddered. ‘That’s just creepy now. It’s a machine, Russ, not Marilyn Monroe.’

      Russ clicked his fingers and stared at Bea as though she had just shared the meaning of life with him. ‘That’s perfect! We’ll call her Marilyn.’

      ‘We will?’

      ‘Sure! Men will want to worship at her feet, women will want to hang out with her and bask in her beauty.’

      ‘O-K … Well, when you’re done worshipping her, perhaps you can help me clear the corner where her shrine will be? The carpenter will be here in an hour.’

      Reluctantly, Russ left the gleaming object of his affections to begin packing boxes of books as Bea dismantled a shelving unit that was making way for the new coffee bar. He shook his head as they worked, casting wry glances at Bea. And, while it pained her to admit it, Bea loved him for it. This was the way things had always been between them since the day they first met in a mutual friend’s dorm at Columbia. They had gone under the auspices of studying for a group project, but somebody had found a bottle of vodka and the gathering had quickly descended into hook-ups and hilarity. Attempting to avoid the advances of a particularly persistent English Lit major, Bea had headed for Russ, who looked like the only other person in the room who was as uncomfortable as she felt. Acting quickly upon seeing her predicament, Russ pulled her to him for a hugely theatrical stage kiss, sending her disappointed would-be suitor sulking away. When Bea recovered from the shock of his sudden embrace they struck up a conversation, and Bea discovered a kindred spirit with a wicked sense of humour whom she quickly felt an affinity with.

      They had once tried to recreate the fake kiss for real, not long after their graduation when, both despondent after recent break-ups, they ended up drowning their sorrows in beer and cheap takeaway pizza at Bea’s apartment. It was a spontaneous moment that very nearly progressed further than either of them was prepared for, but before clothes were removed, Russ had pulled away. Bea had understood completely – the sudden awkwardness of their kiss sobering her – and they had never spoken of it since. Russ relied on Bea to be his closest friend and Bea felt the same. Their relationship represented the nearest thing to a successful partnership that either of them had experienced and therefore was not something they were willing to risk.

      ‘Look at this,’ Bea said, keen to take her mind off the sudden recollection of their historic drunken clinch. She held up a slightly faded hardback, its cover protected with the kind of plastic sleeve usually seen in libraries.

      Her colleague’s expression instantly softened. ‘Oh, hello old friend! I didn’t realise Sid was still with us.’

      Bea gave the cover an affectionate pat. ‘I think HRB would collapse if Sid ever left.’

      Motorcycling For Life by Sid ‘Wolfman’ Wolkevic was the very first book Bea had unpacked as she and Russ had prepared to open their store, just over three years ago. At the time it had been the cause of their first argument in Hudson River Books, as neither of them would admit to ordering the book from the distributor. Since then, the book had periodically appeared on different shelves around the bookstore and, consequently, had become something of a phenomenon.

      ‘We should put him somewhere prominent,’ Russ suggested. ‘Or make him a one-off sale item. See if we can re-home him at last.’

      Bea stared at her friend. ‘Or maybe we could just hide him on a new shelf and see if he finds his way to another one?’

      ‘You don’t want to let Sid leave, do you?’ Russ grinned, knowing he was right.

      Bea hugged the book. There was no use denying the fact. ‘He’s like one of the family now. I’m not sure how I’d feel if someone tried to buy him.’

      ‘So take him home.’

      ‘But he lives here.’ Bea knew she was being sentimental, but Motorcycling for Life had become as much a part of the fixtures of Hudson River Books as the exposed brick walls, worn American oak floorboards or brushed steel lamps that hung from the high ceiling. Knowing that there was one book in their stock that never changed was oddly comforting, as if demonstrating to Bea that the hope and ambition with which she and Russ had founded the bookstore was unchanged too.

      ‘It’s one of the countless things I love about you,’ Russ replied. ‘Fine, you find Sid a new hiding place and I won’t look. That way his legacy will be preserved.’

      ‘Thank you.’ She checked her watch. ‘How do you feel about us closing a little early this evening? Once the carpenter has built the bar the bookstore will probably be full of sawdust anyway.’

      Russ put the pile of books he was sorting into a box and folded his arms. ‘Did you hear that?’

      ‘Hear what?’

      ‘I swear the tectonic plates beneath us shifted.’

      ‘Come on, it’s not that unusual for us to close early.’

      ‘Hello? This is so unusual the Discovery Channel is commissioning a show on it. May I ask why?’

      Bea groaned. ‘Celia and Stewart have invited me to a party this evening, that’s all. Is that a problem?’

      Russ shook his head, but was still looking at her as if she had just grown another nose. ‘No problem at all. I have a gig later anyway. I could use the time to work on my material. I was kinda hoping you’d come. You’ve been to every other one. You’re my one-woman receptive crowd, after all.’

      Bea instantly felt like the worst friend in the world. Since Russ had embarked on his part-time onslaught on the local comedy club circuit, he had encountered more than one hostile crowd and, even though Bea was pretty sure she could recite his entire routine in her sleep, she had made a point of going to his stand-up gigs as often as she could. ‘I’m sorry, Russ, I didn’t know.