One Wish In Manhattan (A Christmas Story) (4 page)

‘
I
s
Dean meeting you at the airport?’ Rita asked, shaking a Fisherman’s Friend into her hand before popping it into her mouth.

‘I don’t know yet,’ Hayley said, pushing the cases a few more inches in the queue for check-in.

‘What? You’ve not arranged it?’ Rita’s voice was shrill. ‘You’re going to be arriving at night. You have to have someone waiting for you.’

‘I just didn’t want to bother him straight away when we can easily get a cab.’

They were going to be staying with Dean. His large, expensive, beautifully decorated bachelor pad was going to be their home for the holidays. Without this offer there would be no way this trip would be affordable. But the truth was, as soon as Hayley started asking more of her brother he would give it and then some. Dean was generous to a fault and the whole trip would be taken completely out of her hands. She didn’t want that. This was her and Angel’s adventure, even if it had to take place on a shoestring budget.

‘A
cab
.’ Rita said the word like it would be driven by the leader of a terrorist organisation.

‘Yes, Mum. And it will be fine. It will be just like the one we used to get here, only smaller and yellow, probably driven by someone who talks more Brooklyn than Billericay.’

‘But why would you do that?’ Rita continued.

This was why she’d wanted to leave her mother back in Wiltshire. A pleasant goodbye at the broken gate, air kisses and hugs neither of them really meant, then away. Liberty. That sounded mean. Hayley swallowed and offered her mother a smile, deciding to change tack

‘Angel, do you have any more George Washington facts you’d like to share from your special dictionary?’

‘He was born in Virginia and he didn’t have any children,’ Angel said, thumbing the pages.

‘I expect Dean has company cars at his disposal. He needn’t have come in person.’ Rita unzipped her patchwork leather handbag. ‘I’ll give him a call.’

‘No!’

Hayley surprised herself with the volume of her voice. She put her lips back together and tried to subconsciously tell her body not to let the colour red she felt hit her cheeks. The couple in front of them did a surreptitious glance backwards. There was only one thing for it.

‘Sorry.’ She let out a breath. ‘Sorry, Mum, I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just we’re running a bit late and flying is so stressful.’

Rita screwed up her nose. ‘I don’t know what’s stressful about sitting doing nothing but watch television for eight hours.’

The sentence
well you should know
was at Hayley’s lips but she pressed them shut and said nothing. After all, her mother thought this was just a Christmas trip, a few weeks in the Big Apple and then home again. Rita knew nothing of the mission or Hayley’s crazy dream, the itch that New York could be an opportunity not just a vacation. Unless her mother had been reading her ten year diary. She shuddered. If that ever happened she’d be booking a one-way ticket around the world and never coming back. She was starting to regret not bringing it with her. She only hoped the cheap, ugly toys would do their job and keep it from being found. There would be no stopping the flipping of pages if Rita discovered it. There was no such thing as privacy where her mother was concerned. Your business was her business but only because she wanted to have an opinion on it, not because she actually cared.

Angel piped up. ‘Actually the flight time is seven and a half hours and one of the films is Alvin and the Chipmunks.’

‘Great,’ Hayley said. ‘Annoying, singing rodents. That should pass the time and soothe the stress right out of everybody.’

‘Anyone would think you’re not looking forward to this holiday,’ Rita said.

She was obviously making too much out of this and her mother’s relentless questioning wasn’t helping. She had to make it out of the country without a whiff of anything other than Happy Holidays plans.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’m looking forward to it. It’s snowing there, isn’t it, Angel?’ Hayley grinned at her daughter.

‘Yes, minus four degrees and set to get so cold you could throw a pan of boiling water in the air and watch it turn to snow before your eyes.’

‘I’m not sure throwing pans of hot water around is something to be encouraged,’ Rita said seriously, directing her gaze at Hayley.

‘It’s all over the TV,’ Angel said.

‘So is that awful woman who sings about snakes and that’s definitely not a good thing.’

Hayley furrowed her brow at her mother. ‘Do you mean Nicki Minaj?’ She shuddered again. ‘Because I hate to tell you this but she’s not actually singing about snakes.’

‘Did you know snakes don’t have eyelids,’ Angel asked, hugging her dictionary to her chest.

‘How did a conversation about snow turn into this?’ Hayley looked desperately at the rows of people ahead of her. ‘And why won’t this bloody queue move?’

‘If you’re getting anxious here, you wait until you see the queues for taxis at JFK,’ Rita said.

Hayley spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I
have
been to New York before.’

Rita shot her a look. ‘How could I forget?’

Hayley swallowed and moved her eyes to Angel who was regarding them both, sensing the atmosphere but not knowing the cause.

‘You’re right,’ Hayley said quickly. ‘But we’re British. We’re experts at queuing and waiting our turn. If all else fails I’ll act all foppish and bumbling like Hugh Grant and wait for someone to take pity on us.’

Angel let out a tinkle of a laugh while Rita just continued to look sour. Only Hayley knew the puckered lips were all for her and nothing to do with the Fisherman’s Friend.

‘
M
um
, we’re going to have to go through security because we have a gate allocated already.’

Hayley watched Rita fuss around Angel. The hair was being pressed into place, the red coat – still a bone of contention for her mother – was being fastened up tight, her cheeks cupped, kind words being expressed.

‘Now,’ Rita started. ‘Remember to look both ways very carefully when you cross the road because they drive on the right.’

‘Yes, Nanny,’ Angel said with sincerity.

‘And don’t have a hot dog from one of those street vendors on the corner of everywhere. There’s a reason they don’t have a shop.’

‘Yes, Nanny.’

Hayley immediately craved the biggest hot dog they could find from the grungiest looking guy the second they got there. ‘We have to go.’

‘All right!’ Rita barked. ‘Can’t I have five minutes to say goodbye to my granddaughter?’

And your daughter
. Hayley chewed her lip and tried to dismiss the words that bit. It was good Rita cared so much about Angel. She checked her watch again.

‘I hope your hospital appointment goes OK, Nanny,’ Angel said. Rita would be fine. A neighbour was going with her to the hospital and she had a year’s supply of after dinner mints and an arctic roll.

‘Freda and I will have a pensioner’s lunch at the coffee shop there.’ She put her hands on Angel’s shoulders. ‘Don’t forget to give your Uncle Dean a kiss from me and tell him how much I miss him.’

The golden child
. The one she put up on a pedestal as high as the Chrysler Building. Hayley cleared her throat, hoping to dislodge the bad feeling.

‘I hope you have a lovely Christmas, Nanny. I’ll call you,’ Angel said, smiling at her grandmother.

‘Oh don’t you worry about me, Angel. I’ll have one of those meals for widows and single people from Marks and Spencer.’

Hayley closed her eyes. If she mentioned getting out the electric fan heater or watching
Pollyanna
she was seriously going to lose it.

‘Right then, off we go,’ Hayley said, pulling Angel towards her by the fabric hook on the back of her rucksack.

‘Bye, Nanny,’ Angel chirped.

Hayley felt her mother’s eyes on her but didn’t know what to do. Hugging always felt so awkward and air-kissing was even worse. Guilt was now winning out over everything else.

‘Bye, Mum. Happy Holidays as they say in New York.’ Hayley stepped forward, ready to embrace her mother with everything she had. Instead she impacted on Rita’s foot.

The noise that came from her mother’s mouth was akin to a cat having its tail trodden on. A yelp and a stagger had Angel rushing to her grandmother’s side.

‘Sorry,’ Hayley breathed. ‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘Are you all right, Nanny?’ Angel asked, concern etched on her features.

‘Yes …’ Rita let out a jagged breath. ‘Nothing the chiropodist can’t fix I don’t expect.’

Hayley didn’t dare move her feet a second time. ‘Well, if you’re sure you can make it back to wait for the taxi driver then we’ll head off.’ They really couldn’t wait any longer. And the emotion just wasn’t coming.

‘Bye, Nanny,’ Angel said again.

Hayley put her arm around her daughter and, drawing her close, she simply waved a hand.

‘
G
ood morning
, Mr Drummond.’

It wasn’t a good morning. He felt like shit. Christa had turned out to be the most insatiable woman he had bedded in over a month. His mouth was dry not only from the champagne but also from the humidity of the hotel room heating she insisted on turning up to simulate the temperature of a rainforest. That had been just one of the fantasies she’d wanted to act out. Some of the others involved food from the room service menu he never wanted to see again.

He forced a smile at the blonde receptionist and noticed for the first time that she wore glasses. Did he know her name? Had they dated? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that last question.

‘Good morning,’ he responded, heading for the bank of lifts.

As he waited for one to arrive he looked through the glass doors to the street outside. The snow had stopped overnight and only a fine dusting remained. It was business as usual on the street, taxis, bike couriers, shoppers, workers, guys on roller-skates like they were auditioning for
Starlight Express
. Icicles hung from the building signs, there was a glaze of frost on fire hydrants and lampposts and the corners of billboards were streaked with a sprinkling of white.

The bell chimed and the silver metal doors slid open. He stepped inside and hit the button for the eightieth floor. It struck him then, as the elevator began to rise, that he had no idea what was in his schedule for the day. How had that happened? Maybe Clara was right. Had he dropped the ball lately? He checked his watch. It was a little after nine. He hoped there was nothing for at least an hour or he might have to send out for mouthwash.

The elevator finally came to a stop and when the doors opened there was Clara. She was wearing maroon, another statement necklace at her throat, but the expression on her face was one of concern.

‘Good morning, Clara,’ he stated hesitantly.

‘We have a problem,’ his PA said without prelude.

‘Have you called Mackenzie?’ he asked, beginning to walk along the corridor towards his office.

‘It isn’t a legal problem,’ Clara said. ‘It’s—’

He interrupted her. ‘I didn’t have a nine o’ clock appointment, did I?’ He powered on past the other offices towards his room at the very end of the walkway.

‘No, but, Oliver wait, listen to me before you go in there,’ Clara rasped as she broke into a jog, chasing him.

He put his hand on the door but stopped, turning to look at his assistant. Her face was the colour of an overripe strawberry and there were beads of perspiration above the beads of the necklace.

‘Your mother is in there,’ Clara whispered, pointing at the office door.

He creased up his face in the hope his ears were as dry and deficient as his throat. ‘Sorry, Clara, could you say that again?’

‘Your mother is in your office,’ she repeated.

It was his turn to perspire. He could feel the collar of his shirt getting a little tight, his body reacting to the statement in the way it always did where his mother was concerned lately. He wanted to run, or at least turn on his heel and head back down the corridor to the bank of elevators. He could call Tony. They could head out to play golf. Blast away his hangover and his worries on the fairway, spend a couple of hours in the nineteenth hole. He blinked, coming back into reality.

‘What do we do?’ The words were out of his mouth before he thought about how infantile he sounded.

‘What do
we
do? Oliver, I told you this would happen if you kept ignoring her calls.’

Clara was gesticulating at him, her hands flying about to get her point across like a desperate shadow puppet act. And she was right of course. She had warned him several times that if he didn’t call his mother back she would turn up at his penthouse or here. And there wasn’t a lot he could do about it. He might control the company but she was also a member of the board. This was as much her building as it was his. But he knew already her visit wasn’t about the business. No, this was definitely personal.

He inhaled a long breath and put his hand to the tie at his throat, straightening it, ensuring it gave away nothing about the night before. Straight away the twinging in his chest began. He almost welcomed it. If the Grim Reaper took him now he wouldn’t have to deal with this conversation. He closed his eyes, holding his form steady.

‘Make us some coffee, Clara. I’ve got this.’

And then he just stood, his hand on the door, listening to Clara’s dull footsteps on the carpet as she powered off to arrange the drinks. He was making far too much of this. It was his mother. He loved his mother, very much. He pushed the handle down and opened the door.

Stepping into the room, he watched her stand from the seat opposite his desk. He took in the black patent court shoes, the bright orange designer shift dress, the matching wool jacket over it, and her perfectly coiffured blonde hair. Nothing out of place. Cynthia Drummond was fifty-five but still looked mid-forties.

‘Mom,’ he greeted, striding across the floor towards her, arms open.

He embraced her fully, letting her hug his body to hers like she always did. He drew away first.

‘This is a surprise. You should have told me you were coming. I would have been more organised,’ Oliver said, moving behind his desk and sitting down. He picked up his pen and rubbed his thumb over the barrel.

‘Nonsense, Oliver, you would have found a reason not to be here,’ Cynthia said, sitting back down and picking her Gucci handbag up off the floor. She placed it on her lap.

He let out a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have done that.’ The words came out a little too quickly.

‘You’ve been avoiding my calls,’ Cynthia carried on.

The second she said the sentence all he could see were the pile of yellow notes Clara had been sticking to his desk for the past couple of weeks. He swallowed. ‘It’s been very full on here and …’

Cynthia cut him off. ‘I know what this is about, Oliver. It’s what it’s always about.’

It didn’t sound like she required him to give an answer. He sat still, his thumb working overtime on the pen until it started to hurt.

‘It’s December isn’t it. You’re always like this in December,’ Cynthia said. It didn’t sound like she wanted to be interrupted.

He put the pen down on the desk and picked up his baseball stress ball, squeezing it in his palm. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘One word.’ She paused for a breath before continuing. ‘Christmas.’

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise up like she’d said something really offensive. Why did he have such a problem with the word? How could nine letters make him want to crawl under his desk and not come out until it was all over?

‘I need to know if you’re coming home.’

His mother’s voice started to fracture just a little and it got to him. He squeezed the stress ball harder.

‘I thought you could spend some time at the house. Sophia and Pablo miss you.’ She stopped for a moment, as if to recollect. ‘And so do I.’

He squeezed the ball until it disappeared into his palm completely. Christmas wasn’t the same without his father and brother. The family home in Westchester wasn’t the same. It was cold, empty, bereft, despite his mother’s attempts to make it into some sort of stately show home. There were new drapes every second month, urns of flowers everywhere, any frill and frippery to fill the gaps. And he definitely wasn’t being blackmailed by her use of the housekeeper who had been around since he was a teen and her ten-year-old son who played a mean game of hockey.

‘Mom, it’s always difficult around Christmas, you know that.’ He put the ball down and laid the flats of his palms on the desk. ‘I’m in the middle of a hard negotiation right now that’s going to go right down to the wire.’

‘I know all about the Regis Software merger, I
am
a member of the board.’ She let out a sigh. ‘I’m not asking you to take the next two weeks off work, Oliver. I’m asking for one day, maybe a couple of nights.’ Cynthia unfastened her bag and removed a handkerchief. ‘Bring Tony if you have to.’

‘Tony’s going to Italy,’ he responded.

‘With his family?’

‘I guess.’

‘Because family’s important.’

‘Mom, don’t get upset,’ he said as she dabbed at her eyes.

‘You’re giving me no other option.’ She sniffed. ‘Since your father passed …’

‘Stop.’

It was one short word but he’d said it with enough power to call a halt to anything.

Oliver sprung from his chair. He headed towards the full-length windows, leaning one arm against the pane of glass, looking at the buildings surrounding the Drummond offices. The pain in his chest was making itself known again as he tried to concentrate on the metal and steel in his sightline. The Chrysler Building. Art Deco like the Empire State but completely unique with its ornate arches leading to the spire at its pinnacle. Spikes of industry, sharp shards of ironwork – the ache in his torso stabbed harder.

His mom had no idea how he felt. None whatsoever. It wasn’t just the memories, it was his future, or rather his lack of it. She may be living without a husband and her eldest son, but he was living with a ticking time bomb. He didn’t want to be her crutch. She had to get used to loneliness because it was going to happen to her again. And this time there would be no one left. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, blocking out the wintery cityscape.

‘Oliver, if we don’t ever speak about your father and your brother it will be like they didn’t even exist.’

He could hear her tears now but he couldn’t turn around and face her. He couldn’t have this conversation. He leaned his weight heavily against the window, letting it hold him up, bear his strain for just a moment. He kept his eyes closed and all his deepest memories, vivid pictures from the past, rushed his brain at once.

His father, Richard, tall, thickset, with a sweep of dark hair that had always taken some taming. Eyes that had constantly twinkled, in fun, or shining with a new idea or a triumph to share with the family. Heavy jowls that vibrated when he talked, and that smooth, commanding voice that had issued instructions to his employees as brilliantly as it had given praise and encouragement to his children. Richard had been comfortable in any role. Dressing up as one of Santa’s elves for charity, speaking at the funerals of their friends and family or negotiating million pound software contracts. He had been much loved and much admired.

Just like Ben. Oliver’s big brother. The tall, strong, dark-haired boy he’d grown up with and had looked up to. Ben wasn’t just the image of Richard, he had replicated their father’s professionalism and poise perfectly. He’d inherited that instinct and ability to adapt to any situation he found himself in. Or, sometimes, situations he’d found Oliver in. One time involved trespass and the police when their parents were out of town. Ben had cooled the police officer down as effectively as throwing a cold bucket of water over him. Nothing had fazed him.

They’d lost Richard just last year, right before Christmas, and Ben had died five years before that, just three days before his thirtieth birthday. Just like their paternal grandfather. And that was the Drummond curse, a genetic fault. Richard had made it to sixty-five. And that made him the exception. The lucky one. Which meant, to Oliver, that his days were numbered. He turned thirty in just a few months.

‘Come home for Christmas, Oliver. We’ll have turkey and I’ll arrange a tree.’

Now he’d let these memories in there was no stopping them. All he could see, cluttering up his mind, were images of his father, his brother and him from their last Christmas together. They’d had far too much turkey dinner then had wrapped up in four layers of clothing to descend upon the neighbourhood, throwing snowballs, sledging, and making snowmen with the kids. Not an agenda or an iPad in sight. Laughter, red cheeks, hot breath in the air and running until their toes went numb.

He couldn’t lose it here. He couldn’t let her know how it affected him. He was the one who had held the business together while the rest of the world gave in to their grief. And that’s why he was an emotionless stalwart. Because caring was pointless and would only do more damage in the end.

‘I can’t,’ he stated coolly.

‘Oliver …’ Cynthia started to counter.

He turned then, facing her but not looking at her. ‘I really can’t, Mom. I’ll be working.’ He knew his voice was cold but that was what this situation required him to be. He clenched the muscles in his jaw.

‘On Christmas Day? Really?’

‘The business doesn’t ever switch off.’ He held his stance.

‘The offices have never opened on Christmas Day since your grandfather founded the business.’

‘And he dropped dead two weeks later.’

‘Oliver!’

The exclamation was shrill, the same tone she’d used on him when he was a kid getting into things he shouldn’t. He should apologise. His words were uncalled for. It was a low blow when she was already emotional. His mother was getting to her feet but he wasn’t going to stop her. This needed tough love. He had to be cruel to be kind

‘If you won’t spend Christmas Day with me then you leave me with no other choice,’ Cynthia said, slipping the handbag over her shoulder then rolling the tissue inside the sleeve of her jacket.

This didn’t sound like a better option. This sounded like she was about to launch a grenade his way. He met her gaze then and waited for her next words.

‘It’s the Christmas fundraiser for the McArthur Foundation coming up. As well as organising the whole event and sweet-talking the local dignitaries for donations, they’ve also asked me to speak this year.’ Cynthia took two steps towards the door. ‘Thank you for nominating yourself in my place. I’ll email you the details.’

She couldn’t do that to him. She wouldn’t.

‘Mom, I can’t,’ he said. He dug his hands down into the pockets of his trousers to hide the tremor.

A chill settled on his skin as what she’d said started to sink in. Talking in public was what he did. But about technology. About the company’s work, implementation and progress, lines of strategy. Not about anything personal. The McArthur Foundation fundraiser was a sparkling, twinkling, barrel of Christmas affair. There would be tables of notable Manhattan businessmen and women, probably the mayor and the police commissioner, but much worse than that, families of people affected by the cause the money was being raised for.