Fairytale of New York Read Online Free PDF Page B

creation, for me? I’m so honoured!’
    I smiled and shook my head. ‘My strange old American friend.’
    ‘Hey—less of the old. Though I’m beginning to feel it.’ She pulled a face and rubbed her neck. ‘I’m thinking my entertaining days are numbered.’
    ‘You? Give up your famous parties? Never!’ I retorted, pleased to see her face brighten in reply. ‘It was another amazing gathering of people. Once again you’ve orchestrated orders for my business and allowed me to meet some fascinating individuals. As I said, a triumph!’
    We finished clearing up, packed my van and then I drove Celia back uptown to her apartment. Though it was late, the lights along Broadway burned brightly as ever as we made our way slowly up through Manhattan to Columbus Circle and on into the Upper West Side.
    There is something uniquely magical about driving through New York late at night. It’s almost as if you should hold your breath in reverence as you pass through the neighbourhoods, each with its own trademark architecture and atmosphere. Allnight diners are packed with customers hunched over their never-ending coffees, whilst brightly lit store windows reveal their treasures even when their doors are locked. The ubiquitous yellow taxis are everywhere, winding in and out of the traffic as if travelling on air. Sometimes it can feel as if the whole city has been put into slow-motion mode; its perennial activity transformed into a deftly choreographed ballet—a symphony of movement, sound, light and scent. No matter how many times I drive through the City That Never Sleeps, I never cease to be amazed by its majestic beauty and proud self-assuredness. Just like the people who walk its streets, work in its resplendent buildings and call it home, New York knows that it is special and unashamedly declares it to the world.
    We arrived on West 91st Street and parked by the steps to Celia’s apartment block. As she was about to leave, she turned back. ‘Thank you, Rosie. Thank you for putting up with my panics. Thank you for always being there for me. I don’t say it often enough, but you are a true friend. See you Saturday?’
    I smiled. ‘Sure. Good night, Celia.’
    ‘Good night. I’ll call you!’
    As I began the drive back home, I couldn’t help but smile. It had been a surprisingly good evening all round.

Chapter Three
    Mimi Sutton called the day after Celia’s event to invite me to meet her at her offices in SoHo the following day. I arrived a little early, design books in hand, and was shown by an assistant to a waiting area in the atrium of the ultra-modern building. In typical artsy minimalist style, the whole area was filled with clean lines with shiny metal and glass. Cobalt spotlights, discreetly hidden everywhere—behind frosted glass screens, in the middle of lush green foliage and inside tall steel and glass pillars—bathed the area in a soothing glow. This was a perfect complement to the white marble floor, which produced a rhythmic percussion as people crisscrossed its wide expanse.
    I love arriving somewhere early to get a feel for the place. In this city you never know what to expect when you walk through the door of a building. You can experience classic styling, baroque opulence, bohemian chic or even puritan austerity as you move down a single street. It’s nothing short of inspirational. Maybe it’s my designer instinct, but I have days when everything inspires me. Even the scary kitsch stuff that most people with any remote sense of taste would be appalled at. I love trying to interpret the styles I see with myflowers—it’s a constant challenge I like to set myself to keep my designs fresh and different.
    Mimi Sutton is a highly successful writer-turned—literary agent. She made her name writing blockbuster novels, most of which have, in turn, become blockbuster movies. She is constantly courted by Hollywood’s movers and shakers. The film rights for her most recent book had been sold three