Summer in the City: The perfect feel-good summer romance

by Emma Jackson

‘First it’s coffees, then fruit – now I’m wining and dining you. I’m beginning to think it would be cheaper to hire a private detective. I could go sunbathe while they were doing their work.’

  ‘You bring up an interesting point there. Why do you want to do this yourself? Law firms can usually handle tracking down people who have inherited money.’

  I squinted out at the street where people were bustling by. ‘It’s expensive.’

  ‘You can afford it.’

  ‘Can I now? Tad presumptuous of you.’

  ‘You’re a stockbroker.’

  ‘I might be a bad one.’

  ‘You’re not a bad one.’ She laid her menu down and folded her arms over the top of it. ‘You ooze competency.’

  ‘I think that’s a compliment even if it sounds disgusting.’

  ‘There is something inherently oozy about bankers – deal with it.’

  ‘And with the fact that I have to pick up the cheque for all manner of refreshments and bribery? I should deal with that too?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She flicked a mischievous look up at me and went back to reading her menu. I watched her for a moment as she was reading. A curl of red hair had escaped her clip and was brushing against the curve of her neck.

  ‘I suppose,’ I said, clearing my throat as she lifted her head again. ‘I wanted to do it myself because…it’s my last opportunity to do something for my mum.’

  Her eyes were very clear as they regarded me, and a smile touched her lips. ‘Well then, I’m honoured you’ve let me help you.’

  The waitress brought our drinks over, saving me from having to think of a response. She left us to choose our food. My glass was icy cool, and I pressed my thumb and forefinger to the stem, the condensation on the outside running off and pooling against my skin. Half the tables were full outside. I couldn’t see through the window to my left, the reflection and the golden writing on the outside made the people inside nothing but ghosts. I sighed.

  ‘It’s not probable he’s going to be working here anymore is it? And how likely is it they’ll remember him, even if he did, once upon a time?’

  ‘Oh my God. So defeatist, Stephen. I know we hit a bump in the road yesterday, but this is not the attitude I expect from a city high-flyer.’ She took a long drink from the wine and groaned. ‘Wow. You really can taste the difference when you buy the expensive stuff. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ I was tempted to order a full bottle since she liked it so much but who knew what would happen if I kept drinking in this heat, with her groaning like that – I’d most likely end up making a fool of myself with her again.

  ‘Right.’ She spread her hands on the pristine white tablecloth. ‘Here’s the thing. You gotta stop thinking we’re going to find the exact answer you want straight away. Life isn’t that simple, and you’re right, it’s been a long time. But New York is the kind of city that is built on gossip. Millions of people came together with their different heritages, clinging to their stories, and using them as a foundation to judge everyone – why did they trust each other and why they did hate each other? They needed to know and remember. The city rose up out of that.’

  I nodded. I understood what she was getting at. ‘It’s like that in London too.’

  ‘Sure. The difference here is most Americans like talking. They are just dying to impart their wisdom and God bless them for it. It’s a city of stories. It’s a goldmine.’ Her eyes suddenly widened. ‘Oh hang on there.’ She dived into her bag and grabbed a notepad scribbling a note down to herself. ‘Right, where was I? What I’m saying is, don’t despair, cynical Englishman. If this doesn’t work, we’ll find another angle and, in the meantime, we’ve had some lovely wine and a nice meal. Not too shabby.’

  ‘I haven’t got an endless amount of time to do this though.’

  ‘You’re here for another couple months, right?’

  ‘I go back home at the end of August but ideally, I’d like to get this done before Nick comes out in July.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She took another sip of wine and raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Just so we can spend the time doing more interesting things,’ I said expansively. She nodded, like she wasn’t really convinced.

  ‘Okay. We’ll do our best. Pick what you’re gonna eat. We’ll enjoy it. Make a lot of positive compliments, pay, leave a massive tip for the waitress and then ask to see the owner. They’ll come out, eager to hear some good feedback – which we’ll obviously give. In fact, I’ll leave that to you Mr Silver Tongue. And then we just slide in there with some questions about how long they’ve owned it. Whether they knew someone who worked here, way back when, et cetera, et cetera. You can show them your photo. Where did you get that by the way? You never said.’ She stroked her fingers over the napkin, folded around the cutlery, trying her best to look only mildly interested. She wasn’t fooling anyone – her curiosity was sparked and the fact it would drive her mad was as much of a reason for me to keep it under wraps as for my privacy.

  ‘Mum’s best friend had it,’ I lied. ‘This still feels like it’s mainly about you getting a free meal. I’m sure we could’ve approached them more directly.’ I smirked to show her I was joking – for the most part.

  She shrugged. ‘Hey, a girl’s gotta eat and I hear the food is good here.’

  The food was good. I had stone-oven-baked eggs with ratatouille, and Noelle went for ricotta hotcakes with raspberries that made the pale pink of her lips darker. We followed Noelle’s plan and the waitress fetched the manager afterwards who also happened to be the owner. He was a small man, balding, with a pair of glasses perched on the end of his nose. He dabbed frequently at his forehead with a spotted handkerchief but was very pleased to hear the compliments on the food.

  ‘How long have you owned this place, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Noelle was on her second glass of wine, legs crossed, leaning forward, all eager interest. If he was getting the view down her cleavage that I couldn’t help imagining, it was no wonder he was getting overheated.

  ‘I bought it from my wife’s brother. Twenty years ago.’

  ‘Was that how you met your wife?’

  He shook his head. ‘We both worked here before that. As youngsters. I cooked. She served. Her brother wasn’t keen on us dating but…’ He gave an expansive shrug. ‘Love is love.’ He smiled between Noelle and I as though he thought we were a couple.

  ‘So true. Nothing can stop it.’ Noelle gave me a soppy smile and reached out for my hand, acting up to it. Her fingers were cool from the wine glass, slender but sure as they curled around mine. I was torn between the impulse to clasp her hand tighter and retreat rapidly. ‘Your story sounds so romantic.’

  No, it didn’t. It sounded like the normal start to a relationship and awkward for his brother-in-law. If it went wrong, he would’ve had to sack his chef. Or kill him – depending on how wrong it went.

  ‘So, did you buy the place to woo her?’

  ‘Not entirely.’ He pulled up a chair from the empty table next to us. Noelle had worked her magic and drawn him in to telling us his story. ‘My brother-in-law’s wife wanted to move back to Italy. She didn’t like it here. He wanted to make her happy but didn’t want to sell to someone who might lay off all the staff – my wife included. I borrowed some money and he sold it to me. Then I asked my Isabella to marry me.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. Does your wife still work here now?’

  ‘No. She helps me with the accounts, but she has her own business. One of these internet things.’

  ‘What an entrepreneurial family!’

  ‘It’s the American way.’

  ‘Have you ever had anyone English work here? We’re looking for someone and heard he worked at a restaurant in Little Italy, probably around the time you took over? As a delivery driver.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago.’ He wiped his forehead again. I wanted to borrow his handkerchief and mop my own brow. Noelle still hadn’t let go of my hand and I was beginn
ing to feel like there was only one area of my body with nerve endings anymore. ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘He was a friend of my mother’s. She left some money to him in her will,’ I jumped in with the explanation to attempt to focus my mind on something else.

  ‘Oh. I see. I’m sorry to hear your mother has passed on.’ He gave me the kind, sad smile I was familiar with. ‘My dear mama left us only a couple of years ago.’ He sighed and sent a kiss up to heaven. ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Trevor Moorcroft. I have a photo too.’

  He blew out a breath. ‘You know, my wife would be able to help more. I have a terrible memory for names and faces, whereas she never forgets a thing. Wonderful for situations like this – not so much when we are arguing.’ He laughed and Noelle joined in, her smile lighting her up.

  ‘May we speak to her?’

  ‘Let me call up to her. See if she’s free. Just a moment.’

  As soon as he went through the door into the restaurant, I pulled my hand from hers.

  She frowned at me. ‘Okay, okay, I don’t have cooties.’

  ‘You said no flirting. Was the hand-holding really necessary?’

  ‘I was just trying to make us more relatable – less like we come from a government department. It wasn’t flirting – it was fake-flirting.’

  ‘Of course it was – it goes without saying with you,’ I snapped back. She opened her mouth to respond but the restaurant owner hurried out of the door again.

  ‘She said, yes. Of course. She’s upstairs, fiddling with her website. Come.’ He led us through the restaurant, all the way out the back where there was an alleyway for dumpsters and deliveries. We followed him up a fire escape, our footsteps clanging on the metal. I kept my eyes on Noelle’s bottom swaying gently as she walked before me, until I could see their front door. There were worse ways to distract myself from heights.

  All the windows were open inside their large apartment, net curtains stirring with the soft breeze. An older woman with dark hair, one streak of steel running through it, sat at a small kitchen table, concentrating on a MacBook. She had a pot of coffee next to her and when her husband introduced us, she motioned to the wooden chairs opposite and poured us each a mug. Her husband went to sit down but she shooed him away.

  ‘You’re busy, Luca – go back to the restaurant. You know you don’t remember anything further back than last week.’ He obediently agreed and we thanked him before he went. ‘Now Trevor Moorcroft you say?’ She took the photo from me and smiled. ‘Oh yes. I do remember him. He didn’t stay with us too long, a year or so. Broke a couple of the waitresses’ hearts and then he moved on.’

  I didn’t know if I should feel any better that his love ’em and leave ’em attitude was not unique to Mum. I took the photo back silently.

  ‘Any idea where?’ Noelle was still a bright, inquisitive influence.

  ‘Yes. He went to work with my husband’s cousin, over at Coney Island.’

  ‘That sounds a strange career move.’

  Jack of all trades and master of none. At least I was different from him in that respect.

  ‘A little,’ Isabella agreed. ‘He was good with his hands, mechanical you know? He always fixed the van for us and our cars if they broke down. He went to help maintain the rides. I think it was better money, but also, I got the impression he liked to move around. I don’t think we’d have an address for him. Not here anyway – records that old would be archived at our storage unit by now, but I can go find a number for Luca’s cousin, if you have time to wait?’

  ‘As long as it’s no trouble for you,’ I said automatically.

  ‘No. Of course not.’ She disappeared off into another room.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Noelle said in a light sing-songy voice, her grey eyes sparkling at me as she lifted her coffee to take a sip. ‘New Yorkers love a story.’

  ‘I’d reserve your smugness for when we find him.’

  ‘I don’t need to reserve my smugness. I have an inexhaustible supply. Plenty more for later.’ She pressed her tongue between her teeth, and it drew a grudging smile from me. Despite my snapping at her downstairs about the hand-holding she was still helping me out. I was letting this search get to me and taking it out on her. I didn’t really want to do that – I wanted to keep her and the prospect of finding my father at arm’s length, so I could remain my usual collected self.

  ‘Is that why you love it here?’ I asked. ‘The stories around every corner?’

  ‘One of many reasons.’ She put her mug down and considered it, twirling that loose strand of hair around her finger as she thought about it. ‘I love the variety. The life. Everything is at your fingertips y’know? You want a taste of something, you can find it. It’s perfect for someone like me.’

  ‘Other cities are like that too.’

  ‘Of course! But this is my city. I know it well. And my family is here. That’s the most important thing isn’t it? If they weren’t here, maybe I wouldn’t be so attached to it.’

  I nodded despite the weight settling on my chest. ‘I can understand that. I always thought London would be my home. I love it – probably the same way you love New York. But since losing Mum, and Nick moving to the sticks to be near Beth, and Nan moving in with her friend in Surrey, there’s only me left there. If it wasn’t for work, I’m not sure I’d care enough to stay anymore.’

  She frowned and put her hand out to touch my arm. ‘I’m sorry. That was a really insensitive thing for me to say.’

  ‘I asked a question and you answered it.’ I shrugged. I’d only just escaped that gentle hand-holding of hers, which had made me so uncomfortable but I couldn’t bring myself to move away, and our eyes caught. There was something there – a moment of calm at the centre of our usual argumentative storm. My heart rate kicked up and my mouth went dry.

  ‘Here it is.’ Isabella bustled back into the room with an old diary. Noelle and I sprung apart and she paused in the doorway and smiled at us. She scribbled the details down on some notebook paper and pushed it over. ‘Now, can I get you some cannoli to go with that coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  We spoke simultaneously and she laughed. ‘You two, I see how it is. Just like the song, you know it?’

  We looked at each other and Noelle cocked her head. ‘How does it go?’

  ‘You know? The potato, potartoe one? Lala-la-lala.’ She danced with her index fingers and turned around to grab two cannoli from the white box on the counter. ‘Here, one each, because the woman is always right.’

  Noelle laughed gleefully, dipping a finger into the cream stuffed into the pastry and licking it off her finger. ‘You know what this means, Stephen?’

  ‘That I’m going to go back to England a stone heavier?’

  ‘No. We might need to make a trip to Coney Island. You’ll love it.’

  Chapter Seven

  Even if I hadn’t promised to bake cookies for Alfie and Teddy, I would have bought chocolate from the store on the way home and started cooking. It wasn’t really the season to have the oven on but there were some frames of mind that were only helped by mixing copious amounts of butter and sugar and then licking the spoon.

  My head was swimming now with the faint picture of who the mysterious Trevor Moorcroft was and how we were going to track him down. And, okay, I had to admit, it was swimming a bit from spending that much time with Stephen. Drinking wine and trading smart remarks and looking at his handsome face. It was a dangerous recipe in the heat. Being around him made me feel like a cat who was constantly being petted, but half the time it was long, luxurious strokes and the other half it was having my fur pushed up my back towards my head and my tail tugged.

  Isabella was right. We were chalk and cheese. Him, all uptight and controlled and smooth, and me, basically a ball of messy ideas and over-the-top enthusiasm, but somehow, it had worked. We were a good team today. He had the money, I had the brains, he had the charm, I
had the…balls? Or something. When my methods weren’t working – like with the lady at the market last week, he could take over, and vice versa.

  Maybe I should give up writing and convince him to start up a detective agency with me? Kingston and Cartwright. Hmm…sounded more like a law firm.

  There it was. Flash. A little flicker of an idea. I dumped the mixing bowl and spoon on my kitchen counter and made a grab for the nearest notebook. I flicked quickly to a fresh page, past the note I’d made about ‘the city of stories’ and wrote down quickly:

  A more personal investigation, not Charmaine – Kit needs Charmaine’s help and they get to see a new side to each other. My pen hovered for a moment. She realises that he has depths he has kept hidden from her, and it makes her reconsider the attraction she’s always fought.

  It was just for the story. That’s all I needed. A nugget of an idea from real life and then I could mould it into something more, to fit my characters. It wasn’t how I felt. I might be seeing another side to Stephen, but I still knew better than to imagine anything happening with him. He wasn’t interested in long-term relationships; he’d admitted as much. And even if he was, I seriously doubted he’d ever believe my work was as important as his, Mr Big Shot in the city. I was very close to giving up on the idea that I’d find anyone I was attracted to, who fit my life and respected my job. It was just too good to be true.

  We met for our next detective mission on Wednesday evening, straight after Stephen finished work. I’d been busy putting in some solid hours re-plotting the first act of my novel but I was still excited to get back on the case with Stephen. That was why I was hovering around on the subway platform getting in people’s way and staring at the stairway like a pooch waiting for its owner to come home, ears pricking up every time I saw a dark-haired man. No other reason at all.

  There he was. He spotted me straight away and glided through the crowd, reaching me before I’d had a chance to check whether I had sweat marks on my dress. He was still wearing his suit trousers and a lilac shirt, straight from the office.