One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) Page 7

  Oliver toyed with his food and finally lay down his chopsticks in defeat. He just wasn’t hungry and he sensed what was coming. Tony ended the call and picked up his beer bottle, downing the contents.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ Tony announced.

  ‘Trouble at the restaurant.’

  ‘Another one of Ivano’s diva moments. He’s walked out. Momma needs help in the kitchen.’

  ‘You’re going to cook? You hate cooking,’ Oliver reminded him.

  ‘Sshh, you’re ruining my rep. All Italians love to cook.’ He took his wallet from his trouser pocket and began pulling out bills.

  Oliver waved him away. ‘Forget about it.’

  ‘Don’t pull the billionaire card again, you did that the other night and I know how much I drank.’

  Oliver smiled. ‘I can’t take it with me, can I? Go on, get out of here. Go and whip up some pasta with Momma.’

  Tony paused. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Go on.’ Oliver looked sceptical.

  ‘Woman at my six o’clock all on her own.’ Tony nudged his head, indicating a booth behind him. ‘She might be in need of some wish fulfilment.’

  Oliver tilted in his seat to get a look. Long chestnut hair almost to her waist and a red dress that showed off every curve. He had to admit he liked what he saw. But unlike last night, he was conflicted. The trip to the hospital had affected him. He didn’t know if he had it in him tonight.

  ‘Call me with the details tomorrow,’ Tony said, grinning.

  ‘I’ll see you,’ Oliver said, waving a hand. He watched his friend depart then blew out a breath before beckoning the waiter to him.

  ‘Yes, Mr Drummond.’

  ‘Would you please send a glass of your best champagne to the lady at that table over there?’

  ‘The lady in the red dress?’ the waiter queried.

  Oliver nodded. ‘She is dining alone, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, sir, she is.’

  ‘Fine. When you take over the drink, ask her if she’d like to join me for dessert.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the waiter said, backing away from the table.

  ‘Oooo can we sit near the lobsters? Did you know lobsters can live for up to seventy years?’

  The young girl’s voice was British and far too knowledgeable for the age she sounded. Oliver turned his head and watched the girl, a tall man in his mid-thirties and a brown-haired woman enter the restaurant and head towards a vacant table to his left.

  ‘If any survive more than seventy days in this restaurant I’d be surprised,’ the woman of the party answered. He watched her brush the snow from her coat then remove it, laying it over her arm as the man pulled out seats for them.

  Family. Looking forward to Christmas. All the things he couldn’t cope with. Except the child. He didn’t have any experience of that. Wouldn’t. Living with your head in a noose made you discount certain agendas.

  He turned his attention back to the waiter and the woman in the red dress just across the walkway from him. The glass of champagne was being offered but the woman was waving it away. This didn’t look good. And despite his uncertainty, he didn’t want to be rejected. He hoped the waiter would direct the woman’s attention his way so he had a chance to work his magic.

  Right on cue, the waiter stepped back, indicating Oliver. This was his chance.

  ‘No one’s allowed to eat this one!’

  It was the child’s voice again and despite the woman looking his way, he was drawn to turn his head to see what she was doing. She was kneeling up on her seat, her fingers at the glass of the tank that housed the live menu.

  ‘Do not give it a name.’ That sentence came from the mother and it provoked his lips into a smile.

  ‘I’m going to call him Lyndon. After Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth president of the United States.’

  Oliver smirked. This kid sure knew her presidents.

  ‘Fine. I’ll have anything off the menu that hasn’t been christened,’ the woman said.

  ‘Mr Drummond.’

  He snapped his head back as the waiter addressed him from his left.

  ‘The lady doesn’t drink champagne,’ he began. ‘But she said if you would like to join her for dessert you’d be very welcome.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Oliver said, leaning a little to get a better view of the woman in red. She was definitely worthy of his time and moving seats would get him away from the audible intelligence of a child who looked no more than ten.

  He cleared his throat, dropping his napkin to the table and picking up his beer. He needed to get away from the happy family with the knowledgeable child, no matter how amusing she was. Mom and Dad could have been poster models for the American Way. Any minute there would be laughter and cosy hand-holding.

  He swigged at the liquid in his bottle, deliberately setting his eyes on his playmate across the room. She was looking back at him, assertiveness coming out of every pore, but her eyes said something else as well. The look written there was telling Oliver she was open, ready for adventure, excitement. She was flattered by his attention but she wasn’t a pushover. This was going to be much more sophisticated than impersonating jungle animals.

  He stood then, his eyes still on her. He addressed the waiter. ‘I’ll have the lychee ice cream.’

  * * *

  ‘I’m going to have smoked chicken with wild rice noodles and some pan-fried pork buns,’ Angel ordered. She slapped her menu back down on the peach-coloured tablecloth.

  Hayley smiled and rolled her eyes. The appetite her daughter had definitely inherited from her.

  ‘Sounds good to me. Hay?’ Dean asked, looking to her now.

  ‘I daren’t have lobster,’ she responded, earning a wrinkle of the nose from Angel. ‘I’ll have the three chilli chicken.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ Dean exclaimed, putting his hand to the side of his head and turning in to the table. ‘Shoot! I mean shoot, sorry, Angel.’

  ‘What’s the matter? Is the chilli chicken not good?’ Hayley asked.

  ‘No, it’s my boss. He’s sitting just over there,’ Dean said. He hitched his head back. ‘But don’t look.’

  It was pointless following the statement up with a don’t look. It made her want to look all the more. Hayley was seeking out some mid-fifties ogre of a businessman, all Rolex watches, port-filled belly, cigars on the table. She didn’t see anyone like that. In fact she wasn’t even sure who Dean was referring to.

  ‘I don’t see anyone,’ she said, still staring. ‘Where?’

  ‘Stop looking. I don’t want to have to speak to him,’ Dean responded.

  ‘Oh, Uncle Dean, is he really mean?’ Angel asked, leaning her elbow on the table and looking enthralled.

  ‘I don’t understand. I thought you loved your boss. I thought you went to dinner at his house and … didn’t you go away for a weekend with his family in the spring?’

  Dean shook his head. ‘This isn’t Peter Lamont. I love Peter. Peter’s the head of development. This is the boss. Oliver Drummond,’ he stage-whispered. ‘The CEO of Drummond Global.’

  That had her attention. Hayley looked again, trying her best not to appear too obvious.

  ‘Table at the back, with the woman in the red dress,’ Dean said.

  And then she saw him, just a couple of tables to their right. Leaning back in his chair, white shirt, no tie, grey trousers, a confident smile on his face as he chatted to his dining companion. He wasn’t at all what she would imagine the head of a huge worldwide business to look like, not that she knew any others. He was young, maybe a little older than her, and he was hot! Definitely more billboard than ogre. His hair was short and tawny in colour, cut simply. He had a strong nose, an even stronger jawline, and his hazel eyes she seemed unable to look away from. This guy had charismatic written all over him. No wonder he was an industry leader.

  ‘He’s such a jerk,’ Dean stated.

  ‘Why?’ Hayley asked, watching as Oliver talked to his date. He had the kind o
f mouth models would kill for. Full lips but totally masculine, the sort you could look at for a long time and just imagine roving all over you. She swallowed.

  ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t know where to start,’ Dean said.

  Hayley snapped her eyes away, the spell broken.

  She was still trying not to think about persistent Greg and her handful of other failed dates since Angel had been born. It didn’t stop her looking back though. She wet her lips. ‘Is that his girlfriend?’

  Dean was forced to turn his attention in his boss’s direction. He snorted. ‘That will be someone he picked up tonight. There’s a rumour he pays them. I guess that’s one way to get rid of your billions.’

  ‘He has billions?!’ Angel’s voice came out a little too loud and her eyes went out on stalks.

  Dean continued. ‘His father was such a great man, an inspiration to the whole consumer electronics and computer software industry.’

  ‘Did he have billions too?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Uh-huh. He took the company into the global arena, from just a small firm with big ideas to a huge company with no limits.’

  ‘And, let me guess, junior is mucking it all up,’ Hayley said. Perhaps junior had different priorities too.

  Dean shook his head. ‘No, he’s good at what he does. He flatters and uses his father’s old-school network to the company’s advantage, but, in my book, if you can’t remember the names of the people you employ, can’t spare a good morning or a smile now and then …’ Dean stopped, focussing his attention on Angel. ‘Listen to me. Going on about work when we have Chinese food to order.’

  ‘Shall we call the waiter?’ Hayley suggested, finally turning her attention away from Oliver.

  She couldn’t remember what she’d intended to order because, for some reason, food was the last thing on her mind right now. Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 35 – eye candy at Chinese restaurants.

  10

  Asian Dawn, South William Street, New York

  Oliver watched her lick the ice cream from her spoon with all the experience of a Brooklyn hooker. Maybe that’s what she was. Did it matter? That’s what the rumour mill thought anyway. He put down his own spoon. She smiled then and, ravishing the stainless steel one more time, she placed it into her bowl.

  ‘So, are we staying for coffee? Or are you going to take me somewhere a little more intimate?’ his companion asked.

  She was possibly the most forward woman he’d ever propositioned. Any soupçon of inner vulnerability had completely disappeared between their eyes meeting and her sucking the silverware like a porn star. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He wasn’t sure he wanted this now it was being laid out for him. It was all too easy. Too brazen. He swallowed. What was his problem? Easier was better, wasn’t it? Nothing difficult, just sex, a quick fix, no flying off in helicopters or trips to Vegas.

  A skipped beat of his heart alerted him to the fact the woman – what was her name again? – was waiting for an answer. He’d lost all concentration, his tongue was parched and his glass was empty.

  She leant forward, making sure her ample breasts met the table and rose up in the confines of her dress. ‘Shall I call us a cab?’

  It didn’t really sound like a question. An internal punch to his heart had him squirming in his chair. He could feel his breath catching in his throat, adrenaline flooding his every sense. He could feel the blood flowing fast and hard through his entire body, his fingers were growing tight, his vision clouding.

  He put his hand on the table to steady himself as he stood. ‘Please excuse me, for one minute.’

  Without saying anything else, he headed in the direction of the restrooms.

  * * *

  ‘Did you know that the word noodle actually comes from the German word nudel? That’s n-u-d-e-l.’

  Hayley was watching Angel trying to use her chopsticks. Most of the noodles – or nudels – were falling off the two prongs as soon as she’d got them anywhere near on.

  ‘Do you want a fork?’ she asked as Angel grabbed the strands between her lips and sucked.

  Angel shook her head and sucked harder. Maternal pride coated Hayley’s insides as she watched.

  ‘She gets her brains from me, you know,’ Dean said, nudging Hayley’s elbow and smiling.

  ‘Are you calling me stupid?’ Hayley said in mock crossness.

  ‘I wouldn’t dare. Not when you’re holding chopsticks and a fork.’ Dean eyed the leftovers on her plate. ‘If you don’t eat that chicken, you know I’m going to have to.’

  Hayley put her cutlery down and pushed the plate towards him.

  ‘I didn’t mean … take it back,’ Dean said, his fingers shifting the china across the cloth.

  She shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. I’ve had enough.’ She just wanted to get back to Dean’s apartment now, put her head on the pillow and let the exhaustion sweep over her. Tomorrow she would face what she’d come here to do. Tomorrow, after two months of virtual searching for Angel’s father, she was going to begin the physical search. Starting with one of the galleries he’d mentioned exhibiting at all those years ago. Thank God for the ten-year diary containing all the information she’d needed to make a start. She’d remembered the name of the hotel too. It didn’t begin with ‘t’. It was the Shelton. She’d phoned them twice, both times getting the client confidentiality spiel. Bribing the receptionist hadn’t worked either. She also suspected they probably didn’t keep records of guests for ten years. She just had to hope turning up at the galleries was going to get her more results than the phone calls and emails.

  Angel’s mouth hung open as the waiter walked past, a lobster on a silver platter heading for a table near the door. ‘It’s Lyndon,’ she announced, tearing up.

  ‘No,’ Hayley said quickly. ‘It can’t be. There were about twenty lobsters in that tank.’ She turned to observe the bubbling water, green weeds wobbling in the current. There were definitely fewer crustaceans than there had been. ‘Look, there he is.’

  She pointed at a lobster bearing the closest resemblance to ‘Lyndon’ – although they all looked the same to her – and hoped for the best.

  Angel shifted in her chair, getting up onto her knees to get a better look inside the water. ‘No it’s not.’

  Nothing could get past her daughter but now a crisis was looming. Hayley looked to Dean for help.

  ‘Hey, Angel, tomorrow afternoon, when I get back from work, shall we go and see Vern and Randy?’ Dean asked.

  Angel was still eyeing the remaining lobsters in the tank, seemingly scrutinising them, checking every mark, the position of the elastic bands on their pinchers. ‘I guess so,’ she said half-heartedly.

  ‘Want to see a photo?’ Dean offered. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his phone.

  ‘I think I’d like to see a photo,’ Hayley said.

  ‘Of Randy?’ Dean asked.

  ‘No, of Vernon, the guy I had to hear about from my daughter.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t have any of him on this phone,’ Dean said quickly.

  ‘You have more than one phone? When did you join Sons of Anarchy?’

  ‘This is just my phone for …’ he hesitated.

  ‘For pictures of dogs?’ Hayley offered.

  Dean ignored her comment and reached to put the phone under Angel’s nose. ‘There he is.’

  For a second Hayley thought Angel wasn’t going to move her eyes from the water tank. But as the waiter headed towards it, his hands in rubber gloves, ready to pluck another lobster from the water, she slipped back down onto her chair and turned her attention to Dean’s phone.

  ‘See how cute he is,’ Dean said, swiping to another image.

  ‘What type of dog is he?’ Angel asked, calling Greenpeace about the sea creatures all but forgotten.

  ‘He’s a Pomeranian.’

  ‘Is he fully grown?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Yes, they’re a small breed.’ Dean smiled. ‘You should see Vern with him. It’s
like a giant taking a mouse for a walk.’

  ‘So he’s tall then. Is that all I’m getting?’ Hayley said.

  ‘You’ll see him tomorrow.’

  ‘Can we take Randy for a walk tomorrow? Can we go to Central Park?’ Angel asked, leaning her head sideways and batting her eyelashes.

  Hayley stood up, placing her napkin on the table. ‘While she goes full on child actress, I’m going to go to the toilet.’

  ‘The bathroom. We’re in America now,’ Angel corrected.

  ‘Fine. I might even turn on a faucet.’

  * * *

  Oliver splashed his face with water and looked at his reflection in the mirror of the gents’ bathroom. He was pale, his hazel eyes a little bloodshot. He held out a hand, stretching it into the space, seeing what happened. It was trembling. Not an obvious shake like someone with Parkinson’s, but a visible tremor. He clenched his fist and closed his eyes. What was he doing here? After his close call at the hospital, his run-in with both his mother and Clara, he should have left with Tony and headed home.

  But going back to the penthouse alone, biding time, thinking, wondering, worrying, that wasn’t a life. That’s why he did what he did. Here, with this woman, with Christa last night. Because being with someone, being part of the intricate fabric of New York, was better than the alternative. Wondering when you were going to die and who would care if you did.

  He shook the water from his hands and smoothed the rest into his hair. Looking at his reflection again, he swallowed. He had two choices. He either rode this feeling out, went back to the table with whatever-her-name-was and enjoyed a night of carnal desire he really wasn’t in the mood for. Or he escaped out the back door. There was really only one option.

  * * *

  The cool air from the corridor lifted Hayley’s hair as she moved through the door from the restaurant. As soon as she had been to the toilet, she’d suggest skipping dessert and calling the driver. Angel had to be running on adrenaline alone right now. It was something like three o’clock in the morning in the UK.