by Ali McNamara
I’m not sure if he’s mocking me.
‘No, actually, I don’t,’ I say, taking my brooch back from him and putting it carefully in its pouch.
‘Stop winding her up, J,’ Max says, coming over with his camera. ‘I used to work on the Antiques Roadshow, years ago. The experts certainly know their stuff, and if they say it’s a fake, it’s a fake.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, smiling at him.
‘So why do you think your dad has a fake Tiffany brooch then?’ he puts his camera down on the ground.
‘No idea. He’s always kept it hidden away, but I knew it was there. I found it tucked in a box in his wardrobe when I was playing hide-and-seek with my friends one day.’
Max and Jamie exchange a look.
‘When I was a child, obviously. It’s really strange, not like him at all. I’m determined to get to the bottom of it, and find out something about the brooch’s history.’
‘Go up to the top floor when you get inside,’ Max says, smiling. ‘They’ll help you out; they’re very good in there. But when you’re done, come back outside and let us know how it went. This is the most interesting thing we’ve heard today. Isn’t it, J?’
Jamie nods. ‘It is, actually. Sorry about before.’
‘It’s fine,’ I smile at them both. ‘Sure, I’ll do that. Will you still be here when I come out?’
‘Yeah, for sure. We’ve got to harass – sorry – find at least another five people with something interesting to say. And around here, that could take hours!’
I bid them farewell for now, and head inside the iconic building itself. After the hustle and bustle of Fifth Avenue, Tiffany’s manages to exude a timeless elegance about its art deco interior that immediately whisks me back to a bygone era of black and white movies and film-star sophistication. I can almost feel the spirits of Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard wandering around, pausing to browse at one of the glass display stands showcasing the latest Tiffany designs.
‘Can I help you, miss?’ a man wearing a smart suit enquires, seeing me daydreaming wistfully across the store.
I quickly recover myself. ‘I was just … You see, I have this brooch, and I wanted some information on it, and I was wondering about the best place to go to ask.’
‘Customer Services, miss, on the top floor. They’ll be able to help you out with any questions. The lift is right over there on the back wall.’
‘Thank you so much.’ I smile at him and head towards the lifts.
The lift arrives and Harold, another dapperly dressed man in a suit, who must be in his seventies with his white hair and moustache, steps forward as the door opens. ‘Going up, miss?’ he enquires.
‘Yes, please,’ I say, walking past him into the lift. ‘I’d like Customer Services.’
‘Gladly, miss,’ Harold says, pressing a button on the lift console.
I watch as the lift rises up through the floors, and as it pings to announce our arrival, so does Harold. ‘Customer Services,’ he says as the door opens. ‘Enjoy your time at Tiffany’s.’
‘Thank you, Harold,’ I say, stepping out of the lift.
‘It’s a pleasure, miss.’
I could seriously get used to this.
Tiffany Customer Services, unlike your usual customer-service department where you queue for half an hour to get to an unhelpful assistant at a Formica desk only to be told you’re in the wrong department, is filled with long plush settees and several antique-looking desks. And from what I can overhear from the many conversations going on at those desks, it’s mostly people wanting their Tiffany jewellery to be fixed or resized. I approach one of the desks with a young man sitting behind it.
‘Good morning, how can I help you?’ he asks, looking up.
I tell him the story about the brooch and what they’d suggested at the Roadshow. He looks surprised.
‘We don’t usually deal in fakes here, miss.’
‘Yes, I understand that, but I just wanted to know if you had anything on the particular history of the original brooch.’
The young man looks carefully to either side of him. ‘Look, miss, if I were you I’d keep your brooch inside your purse while I was in here. Tiffany’s don’t take too kindly to their designs being replicated in any way, however old your piece may be. If your brooch turned out to be counterfeit goods from way back when, they might be well within their rights to seize it.’
I grip my bag to my side protectively. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Yes … yes, of course. Thanks for the warning.’
‘No problem, miss. I really hope you find out what you want to know.’
‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll get to the bottom of it somehow. Thanks again.’
I travel back down in the lift with Harold, not doing what I had originally planned – nosying around the other floors. I suddenly want to get me and my brooch as far away from here as possible. I can’t risk it being taken away from me. I’m not sure why this little brooch in my bag suddenly feels very significant, but it does.
Nine
I find Jamie and Max still standing on the sidewalk as I exit the building. They’re just packing up Max’s camera equipment, so they must have met enough willing volunteers for one day.
‘Hey, how did you get on?’ Max asks.
‘Not that great, actually. The guy up in Customer Services basically advised me to get out of there as quickly as I could; he said they didn’t take too kindly to Tiffany fakes.’
Max pulls a face. ‘Awkward.’
‘So what will you do now? Jamie asks.
I look up at him. They’re a funny pair, when you see them standing next to each other. Jamie is about six foot tall, slim, with short-cropped brown hair, wearing a blue shirt and smart chino-style trousers. Max is about five foot seven, stocky, with a mass of dark curls framing a smiling face.
‘I don’t know. Wait until I see my father, I guess. See what he has to say about it.’
‘Where did you say he was right now – Dallas?’ Jamie asks.
‘Yeah, long story.’
‘Look, we’re about to go and get a coffee. Do you want to join us? We’re done here for the day. You can tell us all about it. You never know, we might be able to help.’
‘I don’t know …’ I look at the two of them. They seem harmless enough, but they’re strangers I’ve literally just met on the streets of New York.
‘We don’t bite – honest,’ Jamie grins. ‘Well, Max does sometimes, but that’s only when I haven’t fed him enough Starbucks.’
‘Ha, funny,’ Max says, grimacing. ‘I think you’ll find you’re the one that has to get his caffeine fix every few hours, or he can’t keep awake.’ He looks across at me. ‘Far too laid-back for his own good, this one,’ he says, gesturing at Jamie. ‘I have to give him coffee to pump him up a bit, otherwise he comes across onscreen about as lively as a giant pretzel.’
I laugh. ‘OK, OK, no more bitching, you’ve persuaded me. I’ll come for coffee.’
We walk along the street to the nearest Starbucks, and while Max gets our drinks, I sit down at a table with Jamie.
‘So,’ I ask, glancing across the table at him. ‘Have you been doing this long?’ I’m guessing Jamie is about the same age as me. He looks fairly young to be a news reporter, though. They’re usually dull, grey-looking men in suits and ties when I watch TV news, which isn’t often.
‘Drinking coffee in Starbucks?’ he asks with a half-smile.
‘No … working here in New York!’
‘Yes, I know what you meant. Well … I’ve only been a correspondent here for a few months, but I’ve been with Morning Sunshine for a year now. Before that I worked in children’s TV in the UK.’
‘Anything I might know?’
‘Why, do you watch a lot of children’s television?’ he teases.
I smile ruefully back at him. ‘No, not that much, actually … Why, what did you do – something embarrassing? You weren’t one of the original Teletubbies, or some other children’s favourite hidd
en inside a big suit, were you?’
‘Funny! No, I worked on Newsround, actually, as a reporter.’
‘Oh, I remember watching that when I was a child.’
‘It wasn’t that long ago …’ he teases again, raising an eyebrow. Then he smiles.
‘Hmm, quite the funny man, aren’t you?’ I say, folding my arms.
‘Nah, not me. Max is the funny one. I’m sorry, it’s just my way.’
I watch Jamie for a moment over the table. ‘Do you enjoy being out here?’ I ask, deciding to continue with my line of conversation. I wasn’t quite sure how to take him just yet.
‘Yes, I do. It’s hard work, mind, but it beats standing out in the rain in the early morning reporting from the side of the road somewhere, like I did when I was a correspondent in the UK.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it does. What’s the difference between a reporter and a correspondent, then?’
‘Nothing, just a fancier name!’ Max says, returning with our drinks. ‘Skinny caramel latte for you and you,’ he hands both me and Jamie a cup filled with hot coffee. ‘And a grande mocha Frappuccino with cream for me.’
Jamie rolls his eyes. ‘It’s no wonder we have to keep going into J. C. Penney’s to get you new elasticated shorts to wear if you keep ingesting all these calories on a daily basis.’
‘Hmm, funny man,’ Max says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. ‘At least I don’t spend my time poncing about in Barneys’ and Bergdorf Goodman’s designer departments.’
I look between the two of them and smile nervously.
‘Ah, don’t worry about us,’ Max says, sitting down and taking a sip of his Frappuccino. ‘We’re always like this. Hey, I’ve just realised we don’t even know your name yet.’
‘It’s Scarlett,’ I say, waiting for the inevitable.
‘Cool. Like in Gone with the Wind?’
‘Yes, my mother is a big movie fan.’
‘As are you by the sounds of it,’ Jamie says, looking across the table at me with interest. ‘From what you were saying before about Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’
‘Yes, just a bit. I adore them. But it occasionally gets me into trouble.’
‘Oh, really?’ Max asks, eyeing me with a different sort of interest.
‘Ha, I’m afraid it’s not that exciting, and it’s a very long story. I’m sure you don’t want to hear about it right now. Anyway, tell me about you. Jamie was telling me how he used to work on Newsround back in the UK. So what have you done, Max?’
‘Well,’ Max smirks at Jamie and puffs his chest out a little. ‘After I moved here from London, I was stationed over in LA and got to go to the Oscars a number of times.’
‘Really!’ I sit up in my chair with delight. ‘You went to the actual Oscars ceremony?’
It’s Jamie’s turn to smirk now as he picks up his cup of coffee and sips on it. He raises his eyebrows at Max over the top of the mug.
Max shuffles in his chair a little. ‘Not the actual ceremony. I filmed outside on the red carpet, with the reporter I was stationed with in LA.’
‘But still, that must have been very exciting. I’d love to go to the Oscars.’
Max shrugs. ‘Not really. Any red carpet event is a bit crap if you’re the wrong side of the carpet.’
‘But why? Surely it’s super-glamorous, all those stars wearing lovely dresses, and the men slick and smart in their tuxedos.’
‘God no, we’re given an area to stand on about the size of a A4 sheet of paper, and that’s for two of us, remember, with everyone pushing and shoving all around, and I’m usually balanced precariously on a stepladder with my camera so I can see over the top of everyone’s head. Glamorous it is not – murderous, more like.’
Jamie nods sympathetically at him. ‘He’s right; I’ve covered a few film premieres and it’s much the same at those, too. Because we’re a British TV company, we don’t get very high up the pecking order on the red carpet, so by the time the stars get to us they’re pretty fed up answering questions. You’re lucky if you can get anything out of them at all.’
‘Oh.’ I’m somewhat disillusioned hearing all this. I’ve always dreamed of going to the Oscars, and they make it sound awful. ‘Maybe if you’re on the right side of the carpet your experience is better,’ I suggest hopefully. ‘If it’s your film premiere, or you’re up for an award, maybe you have a lovely time.’
‘Still wouldn’t want to go though, even if I was the right side,’ Max says, taking a large slurp of his coffee. ‘Most of the celebs are so up themselves they can’t see out past their own intestines into the real world.’
‘Have you met many, then?’ I ask, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Celebs, I mean, not intestines.’
Max grins. ‘Ha, I like your style, Scarlett. Yeah, a few, some are OK, others aren’t. You can usually tell by the size of their entourage. The bigger the amount of people circling them, the bigger the pain in the arse they are.’
‘How about you?’ I ask, turning towards Jamie. ‘Have you interviewed many stars?’
Jamie wrinkles his nose. ‘“Star” is a very overused word. Well-known people maybe, yes.’
I can’t help but grin at him.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘You’re so cool about everything.’
Max almost splutters on his Frappuccino. ‘J, cool? I hardly think so.’
‘No, I mean chilled, relaxed, not flustered by the fact that you work in TV. Neither of you are, really.’
‘Should we be, then?’ Jamie asks, looking at me with that same amused expression he seems to carry most of the time.
‘Well, I think it’s exciting. It’s more interesting than what I do; supplying popcorn machines to cinemas.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Max exclaims, his eyes wide. ‘My own popcorn machine, that’s like my life’s dream!’
‘But it’s not your average job, is it?’ Jamie continues. ‘When you were telling us about your dad and mentioned it earlier, I thought it was a bit unusual.’
‘I guess it’s not standard issue, no. But it’s still not as great as working in television.’
‘TV is not all it’s cracked up to be, I guarantee you.’
I look at Jamie over the table while he studies me equally intently in return. There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe I have seen him on TV before.
‘But it just might come in handy for you right now,’ he says mysteriously.
‘How do you mean?’
‘With your brooch. I think we can help you. I know someone who works on the US version of the Antiques Roadshow. Maybe they might be able to help you trace its history.’
‘There’s an American version of the Antiques Roadshow? I never knew that.’
‘Yeah, the guy that presents it used to visit the same dentist as me,’ Max says, putting his empty Frappuccino cup down on the table. ‘I sometimes used to see him when I was waiting for a check-up. Er … Walberg, his name is, Mark, I think.’
‘You have the same dentist as Mark Wahlberg?’ I ask in astonishment. ‘Wow, the Antiques Roadshow is way cooler over here if they have movie stars presenting it.’
Jamie and Max both laugh. ‘No,’ Max says. ‘Not the ex-rapper, now actor and producer Mark Wahlberg. This guy is called Mark L. Walberg. Same name, different spelling.’
‘Oh right,’ I blush. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine,’ Jamie smiles. ‘I bet he gets it all the time.’
‘I bet he wishes he got rapper Wahlberg’s wages, though!’ Max jokes. ‘They’re worth a lot more than anything you’ll find on that Roadshow.’
‘So I’ll have a word with my friend about your brooch,’ Jamie continues, ‘and see if Harry knows anyone that might be an expert in such matters, you know, fakes rather than the real thing.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ I smile at them both. ‘I’m so glad I came to Tiffany’s today. I should have known it would help me in some way.’
‘You never know,’ Jamie s
ays, ‘you might be able to help us out too. This could make a good story, if you were interested in being on Morning Sunshine.’
Hmm … at least it would be on a different channel, and I’d actually be appearing as myself this time. ‘Of course I would. Sure, that sounds great.’
‘Right, well, let’s swap numbers and I’ll be in touch.’ Jamie gets out his iPhone. ‘It seems like bumping into you today, Scarlett, could be pretty beneficial for both of us.’
Ten
That evening, to make up for ‘abandoning me’ during the day, Oscar takes me for dinner at Serendipity 3, the eclectically decorated restaurant made famous in the movie of the same name. This, of course, pleases me greatly.
‘What are you doing on that phone, Scarlett?’ Oscar asks, putting down his menu for a moment to see what I’m up to. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re supposed to be choosing your rather yummy, by the looks of this fabby menu, dinner.’
‘I’m seeing if there’s a Wi-Fi signal in here,’ I say, furiously tapping at my iPhone.
‘Why do you want Wi-Fi in a restaurant, darling?’
‘Because I haven’t tweeted today, and I want to find out what’s going on back home. I’ve had to switch off data roaming while I’m here, or it will cost me a fortune.’
Oscar looks amused. ‘The last time I used anything called “data roaming” over the internet I met a Greek chap called Cosmo. He didn’t speak much English but he had a very big—’
‘Oscar!’
‘I was going to say kebab shop, actually. Just off the Edgware Road.’
‘Hmm …’ I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Moving on … how was Jen?’ I almost say this through gritted teeth. But I manage to turn it into a smile of sorts.
‘She’s very well, thank you. She’s working as a PA to the boss of one of New York’s top fashion houses now. Oh, you should see her, Scarlett, she does look the business in all her finery. Very Carrie Bradshaw, she is. I’m so proud.’
My menu suddenly becomes infinitely absorbing. I give up on the internet and put my phone back in my bag. I’ll tweet later on the hotel’s free Wi-Fi. ‘That’s great. Good for her. Let’s order, shall we?’ I say with newfound enthusiasm, keen not to talk about the ‘fabulous’ Jen any more.
