Fairytale of New York. Miranda Dickinson

amazing, fail-safe plan for getting out of Celia’s ‘West Siders’ column was obviously going well…I thought I’d picked the perfect moment when Ed came into work early the following morning. Marnie wasn’t due in for another hour so I figured I could talk Ed round and avoid too many disagreements. Simple—or so, I thought. I’d made him a coffee as usual and then mentioned, so casually that the comment could have carried a Gap label, what I was planning to do. I was already reconciled to the fact that I’d probably face the standard Steinmann Rant but I was certain that even he, eventually, would have to agree with my point of view.

      He didn’t, of course. This wasn’t what I wanted. Not this morning, still unnerved by the dream from last night. I dropped my head behind the battle lines and dug in for a long fight. Taking a deep breath, I began my defence.

      ‘I just don’t see why anyone would want to read about me, Ed. About Kowalski’s—yes, fine—but not about me.’

      Ed’s expression changed from incomprehension to incredulous. ‘What?’ he said, looking at me like I’d just told him the Statue of Liberty had been painted pink. ‘How do you figure that, Rosie?’

      I struggled to find a reply. ‘I…I…just think there are other, more deserving people than me, that’s all…’

      Ed shook his head. ‘Exactly how more deserving? What are you afraid of?’

      I punched my hands onto my hips, my anger rising ‘Nothing. I just—’

      But I didn’t get the chance to finish. Ed had rearmed and was sounding dangerously like Mum. ‘Rosie, you’ve made this store a success. So much so that you’ve single-handedly scored our biggest commission to date with Mimi Sutton. And don’t give me that “we can’t cope with any more big orders” crap. We don’t stop being who we are just because our arrangements are a little bigger. I’ve already told you, Marnie and I are more than happy to branch out. I think maybe it’s time, don’t you? So I don’t know why on earth you think people wouldn’t be interested to read about you…’ His voice trailed off as understanding dawned across his features. His voice was low and conspiratorial when he spoke next. ‘Ah. Yeah, I see now. I get it.’

      ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

      ‘This isn’t about you being embarrassed. Or about Kowalski’s growing too big too soon. This is about you facing the danger of having to open up, for once. You’re scared,’ he taunted, jabbing his finger at me.

      ‘I am not scared—’

      ‘Yes, Rosie, you are. You’ve read this kind of interview before: name, age and favourite colour isn’t enough for journalists these days. Maybe they’ll be content to cover the basics about you. But then again, maybe they won’t. And that’s what scares you the most.’

      ‘Ed, I can’t believe you’re making such an issue out of this—’

      ‘And I can’t believe you think I’d fall for your “I’m too humble to court fame” line. I know you too well, Rosie.’

      ‘Well, obviously you don’t know me as well as you think. Because if you did you’d understand why I don’t want to do the interview.’

      Ed’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed as he squared up to me. ‘OK, so tell me why.’

      Halfway between tears and righteous indignation, I struggled to reply. I hate it when Ed and I fight. He always knows how to get right under my skin and it’s so annoying that he’s better at the whole shebang than I am.

      ‘I…I don’t know. I just don’t want to do it. So stop bugging me and leave it now, OK?’ I looked away.

      Ed threw his hands up. ‘Ha! Exactly what I thought! You have no good reason. Except maybe one.’

      ‘Would you just leave it? And since when does my supposed reluctance to share every single detail of my life with everyone have anything to do with you?’

      ‘Because it stops you doing so much.’

      ‘Like what? Like spending my entire life on a never-ending rollercoaster of one-off dates? A million identical conversations, the only difference being the new face on the other side of the table? Oh, yeah, I’m really missing out on that one.’

      Ed let out a groan of frustration. ‘What I choose to do on my own dates is up to me, don’t you think?’

      ‘Absolutely. I just feel sorry for the girls who date you, that’s all.’

      ‘Well at least I have a ready supply of willing volunteers to be let down by me,’ he returned, looking hot under the collar. ‘I don’t hear any of them complaining.’

      ‘Maybe that’s because you never stick around long enough to find out the truth. You’re a tart, Ed Steinmann. A singledate, commitment-phobic tart!’

      ‘Well, at least I’m not hiding away pretending I’m happy,’ he shot back. ‘At least I have a life outside this store. And sure, it may not be the kind of life you’d choose, Miss Highly Principled Florist, but I get by.’

      I snorted and looked away. ‘Whatever.’

      Ed shook his head. ‘I don’t get you, Rosie. I’m sorry, I just don’t. You obviously have stuff you don’t want to share with other people—I mean, heck, who doesn’t have things hidden in their past they’d rather keep concealed? But you don’t even open up to your closest friends. Marnie and I still don’t know why you came to New York. It’s like there’s a whole side of you we know nothing about.’

      ‘You don’t need to know,’ I replied, pushing the rising fear away at the mention of the subject. ‘I am not my past. I don’t look back. So just accept me for who I am or don’t bother at all.’

      Ed crossed his arms. ‘Do the interview, Rosie.’

      ‘No. I don’t want to.’

      Ed’s stare narrowed. ‘Fine. You don’t want to tell the story? Maybe I’ll just do it for you, right now.’ He strode over to the door and flung it open. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of Manhattan, may I present, for your consideration, the great Rosie Duncan, who thrives on each and every challenge her business throws at her, but is so damn scared of sharing her heart with anyone…’

      ‘You idiot!’ I grabbed his arm and dragged him inside, slamming the door shut. Wounded, but certainly not down yet, I found a renewed impetus to fight and promptly returned fire. ‘You’re unbelievable, Ed! And this diagnosis of my life from the great Ed Steinmann, amateur psychiatrist, who feels licensed to comment on everyone else’s life but never shares his own! The man who must be so damn perfect because he’s apparently the only person in the whole world with no cares at all?’

      My last comment hung in the air like gun smoke. We stopped firing and stared at each other, our breathing quick and short, our minds whirring. But remorse was beginning to kick in.

      Ed looked away and took a long, deep breath. ‘You have no idea what my cares are, Rosie.’ Gone was the anger, replaced instead with a steady, measured defiance.

      ‘And you don’t know mine,’ I returned. My voice sounded weak and shaky.

      Tears stung my eyes. We were like two gunslingers one minute after high noon, waiting for someone to realise we’d been mortally wounded. For a moment, I was determined not to give in. Until Ed spoke.

      ‘Well. Thank you for your honesty. At last I know where I stand.’ Real fear hit me as his words sunk in. Someone had to back down. I took a step towards him, scanning his expression in the hope I might catch a flicker of redemption there.

      ‘Ed, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just…I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry…Can we be friends…please?’

      I could see the tension gripping his broad shoulders as they rose and fell quickly with his breath. Head