Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson

the workroom door swung open and Ed entered, battered brown leather jacket slung over one arm.

      ‘So long, sad single people,’ he breezed over his shoulder as he strode through the store.

      Marnie and I exchanged glances.

      ‘Where are you going?’ asked Marnie.

      ‘I have a date. A hot one.’

      ‘But it’s a Tuesday night. Who goes out for a date on a Tuesday night?’

      ‘I do,’ Ed replied, supremely pleased with himself. ‘I admit, a Tuesday date is a first for me in quite some time, but—to quote the lovely young thing in whose delicious company I will be spending this unusual night—“I just can’t wait till Friday.” So who am I to keep the lady waiting, eh?’

      I winked at Marnie. ‘She’s due in court on Friday for a heinous crime.’

      Marnie’s eyes lit up. ‘Or her parole officer visits on a Friday.’

      ‘Or maybe she’s fleeing the country on Friday after a bank heist she’s doing on the Thursday…’

      ‘…Which she’s planning on Wednesday…’

      ‘…So it has to be Tuesday night!’

      Ed stared at the pair of us, shaking his head slowly. ‘Well, thank you for your support, ladies.’

      ‘Aw, Ed, ignore us and just go and have a lovely time.’

      ‘Thanks, Rosie.’

      ‘…with the crazy jailbird master criminal!’ Marnie squeaked, sending us both into hysterical giggles once again.

      Ed groaned and opened the door. ‘Fine. Laugh all you want, but I will be loved up and happy tonight,’ he turned in the doorway to deliver his parting shot, ‘unlike you guys.’

       Ouch.

      I had to laugh. Ed claimed not to be seeking relationships, preferring the delights of general non-commitment dating instead.

      ‘I’m young, I’m in no rush to meet The One—whatever that means—or settle down, or have kids. I just like to date. So sue me.’

      Meeting people was something Ed was incredibly adept at. His cousin’s lawyer a few weeks back was nothing compared to some of his dates. It was almost as if everywhere he went he would fall across eligible women: ‘I was out last week and I stopped for a paper and right next to the newsstand was this woman…I swear, I was just walking down Amsterdam Avenue when this beautiful girl stops me and asks me for a date…I took my dry-cleaning to Mrs Ling’s and got chatting to this babe…’ I never met any of the ladies in question (or should that be ‘questionable ladies’?), but that was probably because most of Ed’s dates lasted only a few weeks, so far too short a time to introduce them to the Kowalski’s family.

      Next morning, the Ed who walked into the store was very different from the Ed who had walked out of it the night before.

      ‘So, how did the date with Tuesday girl go?’ I asked eventually, after Ed’s uncommon, unshaven and decidedly dishevelled silence had reigned supreme for nearly half an hour.

      Ed stripped the leaves from a long-stemmed red rose in one swift motion, adding it to the bouquet forming in his left hand. ‘Fine.’

      ‘Right…’

      I surveyed him carefully as he moved along the flower buckets, choosing, sizing and stripping leaves off the selected blooms as he went. Turning the untied bunch in his hand to check the arrangement, he then dropped his head and slunk back to the counter. ‘Oh, who am I kidding? It was a disaster.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘There’s no need to look so smug about it.’

      ‘I’m not. Honestly.’

      ‘I mean at least I date, right? Not like you.’

      I let that one go. ‘Absolutely. So what about last night?’

      He grabbed a length of raffia from behind the counter and wound it irritably around the gathered stems. ‘Hmm. Well, it wasn’t a total disaster, I guess. Sarah was perfectly nice and decent, attractive, good company, you know? But…’

      ‘But what?’

      He tied off the bouquet, picked up a pair of scissors, moved to the bin on the other side of the counter and trimmed the stems with one cut. ‘I dunno, Rosie. I just didn’t feel it was worth pursuing. Crazy, huh?’

      ‘No—no, I don’t think it is.’

      ‘Well, I think it is. What’s wrong with me? I date all the time, a whole selection of perfectly acceptable women. But none of them, you know, fits.’

      ‘Fits what? Your ideal? Your lifestyle? Your apartment?’

      ‘Hilarious. You missed your calling when you chose to be a florist. There’s a stand-up mic somewhere with your name on it. No, I mean they don’t fit me.’

      ‘Ah, right. Well, I think you’ll find that’s the point of dating.’

      ‘Which of course you’d know so much about,’ Ed added, quick as a flash. I kicked myself for not seeing that one coming.

      ‘The difference is that I don’t feel I need another person to make me feel complete,’ I shot back.

      ‘Do you really believe that, Rosie?’ He threw the bouquet to me and I caught it as he passed and disappeared into the workroom, shaking his head. His last comment hung accusingly in the air above my head—a question I wasn’t willing to answer.

      Not yet.

      Celia met me on Wednesday night at Bistro Découverte at the edge of Riverside Park, not far from her apartment. It’s one of my favourite places. In the summer, it’s a great place to eat al fresco, your table lit by the rows of tiny white lights across the front deck and the sounds of Café de Paris music drifting lazily in the air. Celia and I come here often. It’s quieter than the other bistros in the area, and many tourists don’t even know it exists. The usual clientele consists of writers, artists and the occasional journalist or celebrity actor, and the hum of conversation is low, welcoming and homely. Tonight, however, the hint of autumn chill drove us indoors. As we began to eat our main course, sharp splats of rain peppered the window and the little lights outside were tossing about in the breeze.

      Celia shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s nearing fall already,’ she moaned. ‘Where has summer gone? Before we know it, it’ll be Thanksgiving, then Christmas. Did I tell you I got a call from Jerry today?’

      The question was so deftly inserted into her conversation that I almost missed it. ‘Jerry? He called you?’

      Celia gave a fatalistic shrug and took a mouthful of winepoached salmon. ‘Eleven months he’s been gone and then today I get a call.’

      Celia and Jerry have been partners for well over fourteen years and were, it seemed, blissfully unaffected by each other for all of that time. She went on her assignments, he went on his business trips. They spent three weeks together every summer at their beach house in Martha’s Vineyard, and New Year with his family in Wisconsin. They were a typical highachieving New York couple. Until eleven months ago. Jerry announced he was ‘off to find himself’, packed a suitcase and disappeared. His company didn’t know where he was. His friends didn’t know where he was. Even his mother didn’t know where he was: which was incredibly worrying, as Jerry’s mother is the domestic equivalent of the FBI. Her powers of investigation are unsurpassed and could prove invaluable to the State one day, should it ever need to know exactly, in minute detail, about an individual (eating habits, connections, rumours, bowel movements and so on). I’m convinced she has a vast, underground network of spies, who regularly feed back to her at apparently innocent locations. Come to think of it, she hosts an awful lot of