One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) Page 8

  She stopped walking the second she saw him. She widened her eyes, getting them used to the half-light in the hall, making sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. It was Dean’s boss, the hot Mr Meanie, struggling to open the fire exit door at the end of the corridor. What was he doing? Was he a smoker in need of a nicotine hit? It seemed desperate if that was the case. He was pushing and pulling like his life was at stake.

  She knew what she should do. She should disappear into the ladies’ toilets and pretend she hadn’t seen. Whatever he was doing was none of her business and she shouldn’t be standing there appreciating the fine cut of his trousers as he leaned against the metalwork. She subconsciously took a step towards the ladies bathroom. And that’s when he turned around.

  She could see his top button was undone and half the bottom of his shirt was untucked from his trousers. His hair was wet and, even from this far away, she noted his unsettled breathing.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  He spoke first. ‘I, er, can’t seem to get the door open.’

  He looked awkward, one hand on the handle of the door, the other drooping at his side. She wasn’t sure what to do, but now he’d addressed her she couldn’t just leave.

  ‘Do you need to get it open?’ she asked, wondering what a billionaire was doing trying to break out of the back entrance.

  He nodded. ‘Oh yes. I really do.’

  ‘Why? Is there a fire?’ She took a tentative step closer.

  ‘More of a firefight, if I’m honest.’ He pushed at the door again. His breathing was ragged and he looked unsettled. ‘It’s necessary to take evasive action.’

  Hayley took another few steps towards him. ‘And you can’t use the entrance you came in by?’

  He stopped manhandling the door then and turned to face her. He furrowed his brow. ‘You’re English.’

  ‘Yes. And you’re so obviously on the run. Who is it? The mafia? The Triads?’

  He smiled then and the beginnings of a laugh fell from his lips. He shook his head at her. ‘If only it were that simple. I’m actually off to change into Spandex and save the city like Superman.’

  Thinking about him in Spandex did worrying things to her insides. She swallowed, watching him look her up and down. From her boots that had seen better days, to her jeans she’d been wearing for the last three seasons, then to the green-coloured long-sleeved top that had definitely shrunk in the last wash. She was as far from Galliano as it was possible to be.

  ‘Ever needed to sneak out on an unsuitable date?’ Oliver asked her.

  Her mind went to Greg. Over-tanned, teeth over-whitened, breath over-garlicked. She could relate to many occasions she’d wanted to slip out of his sight. But this was not what she’d been expecting. He was about to abandon a woman at a restaurant. That did not sit well with her.

  ‘You’re sneaking out on a date?’ she clarified.

  ‘Well, kind of, not exactly a pre-planned engagement but …’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell her you’re leaving.’ Her hackles were rising fast.

  ‘I’ve settled the bill.’

  ‘Wow, that’s heroic. Very Superman.’

  ‘It isn’t like you think,’ Oliver said, pulling in another ragged breath.

  ‘No?’ It seemed exactly like she thought.

  ‘She’s not a date in the normal sense.’

  She raised her eyebrow and took a half step backwards. ‘I think I’m going to just back out of here, pretend you haven’t insulted the whole female population and let you get on with the great escape.’ He might have eyes the colour of cashews but this behaviour wasn’t acceptable in her world.

  ‘Please …’

  It sounded like a desperate plea. She stood still.

  ‘Listen, this is the first time I’ve done this. She’s just …’ He let out a breath and paused for a second. ‘Anything I say is going to sound insulting to you, so please, just help me open the door, I can go and you can forget we ever met.’

  He really did sound agitated and keen to make a rapid exit. Hayley wondered what his date had done to make him want to flee so badly.

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  He held up his hand. ‘On everything I have.’

  She stepped forward and leant against the door, pushing down on the steel bar with all of her force.

  ‘I do have to say that my male pride is going to be significantly injured if you open that door.’

  ‘I’ll feel I’ve let down the women of Britain if I don’t.’ She shoved at it. ‘I’ve decided the woman in the red dress is going to be a lot better off without you.’

  ‘Whoa, that hurts.’

  Hayley pushed, pressed and shunted, all at the same time and the door whooshed open, taking her with it. Her feet hit the snow-covered concrete of the alleyway outside but she held onto the door, steadying herself. The snow was falling thick and fast and the night was as black as tar, its air ice-cold.

  ‘Well, it’s open.’ She looked back at him, standing just inside the doorway, his eyes still on her.

  ‘And I feel like the biggest dick,’ he replied.

  There was no humour in his tone and when she met those nut-coloured eyes she realised just how jaded he looked. There was exhaustion written over every part of him, the tense shoulders, the tight jaw, his hands clenching into fists. Maybe Mr Meanie had a lot more on his mind than being civil to his workforce. Maybe he did have a good reason for running.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said sincerely, stepping out and joining her on the snow.

  She waved her arm out. ‘So, there you go, wide open alleyway. You’d better get a move on, save the city.’

  ‘I guess I should.’

  Snowflakes were circling down, catching in his hair and landing on the shoulders of his shirt, seeping through the expensive material. The mighty fine bone structure could be admired now he was so close. A Jason Stathamesque layer of light brown covered his jaw, those full lips pink with cold, his chin firm.

  He shivered. ‘So, what do I call the English rose who rescued me tonight?’

  He sounded more confident now, his eyes bright, standing a little straighter.

  She smiled. ‘Given that you’re still acting like you’re on the run, I don’t think I can share such personal information.’

  ‘That’s very wise. But if you won’t tell me your name I’ll just have to call you Bridget Jones.’

  ‘Is that really the best you have? How about Emmeline Pankhurst, the leader of the Suffragette movement or Margaret Thatcher, one of Britain’s greatest Prime Ministers?’ Now she sounded a little like Angel.

  ‘What would you like me to call you?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘I thought you promised I’d never have to see you again.’

  ‘Fingers were crossed behind my back.’

  She couldn’t help but smile. ‘Sneaky. Just the sort of behaviour I’d expect from someone abandoning their date.’

  ‘There are extenuating circumstances, I promise.’

  Hayley thought for a moment then spoke. ‘Seeing as you say you’re Superman, you can call me Lois.’ She nodded. ‘I’ve always had a bit of a thing for Clark Kent.’ Wow, where had that come from? Was she flirting?

  ‘Lois,’ Oliver said. ‘Yeah, that works.’

  A shiver ran over her, the velvet notes of his voice making her insides rumble. She held out her hand to him. ‘I would say it was nice to meet you, Clark.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  She swallowed as he took a step closer to her. He was completely gorgeous. But he was ditching a date, running out of a back exit and leaving without saying a word.

  ‘It was nice to meet you, Lois,’ he said, taking her hand in his.

  Hayley broke the connection. ‘Well, goodnight. I’ll leave the business card I just pilfered from your pocket for your date.’

  She watched the horror coat his features and he reached a hand down to pat the pocket of his trousers. And then he smiled, obviously realising she was p
laying him.

  ‘You’re good,’ he responded.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She waved a hand. ‘Goodbye, Clark.’

  She turned and faced the door to head back into the restaurant building. Hearing his footfalls in the snow, she glanced back, watching him jog away from her, moving through the snow and kicking up puffs of white dust as he disappeared into the dark.

  Hayley shook her head. New York City. In Gotham with Superman. This place was all kinds of crazy. She closed her eyes and breathed in the night, internally cursing herself for flirting with him. It would come back to bite her. Her karma would be jet lag hitting hard in the middle of the night. She opened her eyes, directing her vision up the dark, dank-looking alley leading to the main street. Perhaps Oliver Drummond’s karma for abandoning a date would be freezing to death on the jog home without a coat.

  11

  Oliver Drummond’s Penthouse, Downtown Manhattan

  Even after a shower, Oliver still couldn’t get warm. Dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved Knicks top, he entered the lounge room of his penthouse, heading for the Scotch. This was his bolthole. A luxury bachelor pad with one of the best views in the city. It had every convenience on the market. Wide screen, surround sound, HD, MP3 and Dolby. Even the washing machine could play music. He had to have something to make that chore bearable. From the expensive wool carpet in the bedroom and the solid oak floor in the rest of the apartment, to the mood control spotlights in the ceiling, it was the crème de la crème of city living.

  He took a drink. Bailing from the restaurant had been stupid and he’d left his suit jacket at the damn table. He didn’t think there was anything vital in any of the pockets – he had his wallet and phone – but he couldn’t be sure. He’d called Asian Dawn but he’d got the engaged tone on each occasion. At the end of the day, he had other suits. Maybe it wasn’t worth the aggro. His biggest worry was it containing contact details the woman in the red dress could use to get hold of him.

  He poured himself a tumbler of the amber liquid, his hands shaking. When the glass was half full he quickly swigged back a mouthful. The burn hit the back of his throat and he relaxed a little, leaning against the solid oak sideboard.

  Cradling the glass against his chest he turned to look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the view of Central Park. He could see everything from here. The lights from the iron lamp posts, the pond, the bridge over it, that vast patch of green – now heavily speckled with white – appearing like an oasis in a grey desert.

  He had been stupid to go out with Tony tonight. He’d gone out looking for something – anything – as some sort of punishment by proxy for Clara and his mother. It served him right for ending up at a table with someone keener than a teenager in an Apple store.

  Oliver walked over to the windows and stood close, watching the constant stream of snowflakes drifting past the glass. A thickening stack was piling up on his balcony. Like the big fat layer of misery he was living in.

  He hated the fact that everything in his life was pre-ordained. It was his lot, because of who he was, just like with the company. That wasn’t his dream, it was his father’s and Ben’s. And now it was his burden to bear whether he wanted it or not. Along with the short life expectancy he probably wasn’t helping with the Scotch. Perhaps Tony was right, drowning himself in bourbon would be a relatively painless way to go.

  He closed his eyes remembering his dream, the one so different to Richard and Ben’s. Football. He’d been nothing short of the best, destined for a career with one of the big teams. It had felt so good being able to strike out on his own, a job path all set, a future secured that didn’t involve the family business. And then it had just been ripped away from him, snatched right out of his hands, his trail turning back towards Drummond Global after all. He hadn’t wanted it. He’d wanted something of his own, not just a legacy to fulfil. And that was where the Globe came in. By creating something that was going to revolutionise the tablet market he was finally going to get his moment. It wasn’t winning the Super Bowl for his team but it was the closest he was going to get.

  Oliver slugged back some more whisky and watched the lights reflecting from the other buildings’ windows. It was time for change. It was time he took full ownership of his role. There was no shirking it so he may as well make the most of it. His mother and Clara had both clawed their way into his psyche today but only because he had let them. Why should he feel so freaking guilty about not wanting to go home for Christmas? Why was he letting himself get cornered into situations? He couldn’t do the church and the carols and the celebrating Jesus’ birth because it meant nothing to him now. What had God ever done for his family except wipe half of them out?

  Tomorrow he was going to go into the office and make everybody remember who the boss of Drummond Global really was. And he was going to prove to himself that that boss didn’t wear a designer dress suit or a statement necklace.

  * * *

  Dean Walker’s Apartment, Downtown Manhattan

  Angel had fallen asleep in the back of the car as soon as it had set off from the Chinese restaurant. Now, laying in a pinker than pink bed in one of the spare bedrooms of Dean’s apartment, she was barely awake as Hayley brushed her hair.

  ‘Do we have to do my hair?’ The words were hardly audible through a giant yawn.

  ‘If we don’t do it now it will be in knots in the morning and you’ll moan and groan and I’ll get cross … it’s just easier if we do it now.’ Hayley ran the brush through her daughter’s brown hair. ‘You can close your eyes.’

  She watched Angel’s eyes shut and her shoulders relax.

  ‘So, did you enjoy the Chinese food?’ Hayley asked.

  ‘Can we go there again?’ Angel asked, lips barely moving apart.

  ‘I guess so. But we’re in New York now. There are thousands of other restaurants we can try.’ She smiled. ‘Reasons Christmas is better in New York number 9 – much more than Pizza Hut, McDonald’s and Nandos.’

  She ran the brush through Angel’s hair again. In this moment, when it was late, when her stomach was full and her brother was in the kitchen making hot chocolate, what she was here to do really hit her. She was going to make her daughter’s wish come true. She was going to scour New York until she found Michel. The nights of fruitless searching on the internet were not going to eat away at her resolve. He was out there, somewhere, and Angel wanted to know him. It was up to her to fill that void and she was determined to do it by Christmas.

  She stroked the brush down Angel’s hair again, the bristles jerking slightly as she hit a knot.

  ‘Is it still snowing?’ Angel asked.

  Hayley stopped brushing and reached one hand towards the window. She stretched and parted the curtains. Chunky white blobs were flying past the glass, changing direction with the wind. Her eyes were drawn across the street, to a window opposite with the lights on and the blinds open. A couple were in their living area, standing by a table. A decorated Christmas tree, white lights blinking, illuminated the space. Hayley watched as the man passed the woman a wine glass. He moved his lips, saying something, and the woman threw her head back, laughing like he’d told her the funniest joke in the world. It was an almost magical connection. One she had no concept of. She closed the curtain, shutting out the scene and the winter night, and went back to brushing Angel’s hair.

  ‘It’s still snowing,’ she informed her.

  ‘Good,’ Angel yawned again. ‘I didn’t want to wake up and for it all to be gone before I’ve had a chance to make a snowman.’

  ‘I think,’ Hayley started. ‘That we should make a snow character.’

  Angel eased her eyes open. ‘Like what?

  Straight away her brain told her Superman. She shook her head, dislodging the notion. He was not a character to bring to mind. And Superman’s eyes were blue not pistachio speckled with chocolate flakes. She swallowed before replying. ‘Like Bart Simpson.’

  Angel’s eyes opened wider. ‘How about a s
now president.’

  ‘Good luck with Abe Lincoln’s hat.’

  Angel smiled. ‘Oh, Mum, you’re so funny.’

  ‘Now I really know you’re tired.’

  Angel let out a sigh and Hayley put the brush down on the bed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Hayley asked.

  ‘You know how I’m not sure I believe in Father Christmas anymore.’

  ‘Yes, and you know I told you if you don’t believe you won’t get any presents.’

  ‘Yes, well, what if something I asked for can’t be bought … or made?’

  Hayley stilled, wishing she still had the brush in her hands. This was the conversation she’d been waiting for since October. The very first time she had heard Angel’s night-time request for someone to magically bring her father to her had been on the last night of half term. And it had made her cry because Angel had never asked her outright about him.

  ‘Well,’ Hayley began, ‘if it’s something that can’t be bought or something that can’t be made by the toymaker then you have to believe in something else.’

  ‘What?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Wishes.’ Hayley swallowed. ‘You have to believe that wishes can come true.’

  Angel screwed up her nose. ‘But that’s like believing in magic.’ She tutted. ‘Although Dynamo is a very good magician, I do know it’s not real.’

  ‘Wishes aren’t like magic. Wishes, well, they’re a bit like dreams. And dreams aren’t magic. They’re something you long for, something you can work towards.’

  Angel was staring at her like she was a lunatic.

  ‘So, say my dream was to win the National Lottery. I wouldn’t have a chance of achieving that dream unless I bought a ticket. And if I bought a ticket every week for the rest of my life I’d …’

  ‘Still die poor?’ Angel offered.

  Sometimes Angel was too clever for her own good. ‘Perhaps the lottery wasn’t a very good example. Let’s say my dream is to marry Prince Harry.’