Christmas at the Cupcake Café

Marian came in from the kitchen and beckoned Austin over.

‘I have a gift for you,’ she said. Austin raised his eyebrows as she brought out an envelope. ‘I want you to go see my daughter,’ she said. ‘No, I insist on it. Just for a day or two. See if you kids can’t work something out without distractions around you. We’ll keep Darny here; he has fun with the other kids. Just go and see her. She doesn’t know it’s finished. She doesn’t know what’s going on. I like you, Austin, but if you make her unhappy and leave her dangling, I will cut off all your fingers. Is that clear?’

Austin opened the envelope, shaking. He stared at it.

‘Where did you get the money for this?’ he said.

‘Oh, a friend who made rather a lot of money in those computer things … he died,’ she said. ‘Lovely man. Well, sometimes horrible. Very clever, though.’

Austin raised his eyebrows.

They both looked at the drifting snow in the little garden.

Austin looked at the ticket again.

‘This flight leaves in two hours.’

‘Lucky you’re already in Queens, then, isn’t it?’

This time, there was no sleeping on the flight. Full already from Christmas dinner, Issy couldn’t face another one. The crew were very jolly and cheerful, but the flight was full of grumpy-looking people who hated Christmas, or plenty of people to whom it didn’t mean anything, so their exuberance was slightly lost on them. She clutched her bag fiercely, biting her lip, trying not to think about anything except that for the first time in a fortnight she wasn’t crying. And that, one way or another, they’d soon be in the same room again. Beyond that, she wouldn’t let herself go, simply looking at the crackling ice over the oval window and staring into space.

Austin found himself on his plane so fast he didn’t have time to think at all. He tried to order his thoughts, but he felt too full of gibberish. He drank an extremely large whisky and tried to sleep. He failed.

Their flights crossed over Newfoundland; Issy flying into a New York morning, Austin into a London afternoon, the pure white traces of vapour drawing a large X in the sky.

There was no traffic. Austin didn’t stop to think; he knew exactly where she’d be. Where she’d always be. As the taxi driver – chatting animatedly about his recent miraculous recovery from renal failure, Austin barely listening – drew up just by the tiny little alleyway on Church Street, Austin’s eye was distracted by the rows of fairy lights outside the Cupcake Café reflecting off the dirty white snow, the steamed-up windows and, inside, the hint of shapes of happy people moving about.

As soon as he saw it, in an instant of clarity, he knew. He would come back. They could start again. He’d try something, anything. They’d figure it out. New York was harsh, a shiny dream. Not for him. He had given up everything once before in his life. He could do it again. Because at the end of the sacrifice was happiness. He knew that. And however much money he made, or however good Darny’s school, they couldn’t be happy – neither of them – without Issy. And that was that. He paused for a minute as the cab pulled away, the night coming on fast, his long overcoat flapping in the wind, his scarf likewise; paused and took a deep breath full of happiness before marching forward, cheerfully and with an open heart, towards his future. He pulled open the tinging door.

There was a long silence.

‘What the hell?’ said a slightly tipsy Pearl, as, just at the same moment, Louis launched himself at Austin’s legs.

‘AUSTIN! WEAH’S DARNY! I DID MISS YOU AUSTIN!’

One of Ashok’s cousins blew a party hooter. It sounded a low note in the silence.

Snow was still falling. Issy could barely remember a minute of the trip, or the shorter-than-normal line at immigration. Sometimes it felt like the outskirts of London and the outskirts of New York could touch each other, that they were all part of the same metropolis of taxis and restaurants and businesses and people rushing with lots to do.

The cab dropped her at the hotel.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said the same lovely woman who’d been there before. ‘I’m afraid Mr Tyler’s been checked out.’

Issy swallowed. This had never occurred to her. She had no idea where he might be. Had he gone to his boss’s house for Christmas? She didn’t know how to contact him. And she’d kind of hoped … she realised this was stupid, daft, but she’d kind of hoped just to meet him; to see him; to see his face – hopefully – break into that wide smile of his; to run into his arms. Not to have to call and have an awkward conversation and sound desperate – or worse, crazy. Much better just to appear and explain later, she thought.

‘Do you have a room?’ she asked.

‘We have one room left,’ said the woman, smiling nicely. ‘It’ll be seven hundred and eighty dollars.’

Issy snatched up her credit card like she’d been stung.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh, I’ll leave it for now.’

The woman looked worried. ‘You know, it’s quite difficult to find a hotel room in New York at Christmas time,’ she said sympathetically.

Issy sighed. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, shaking her head, stunned at how badly her mission was failing, with all the excitement and good intentions her friends had sent her off with. ‘I can stay on my mum’s couch.’

‘Super!’ said the friendly receptionist.

It would be best, thought Issy. Stay at her mum’s tonight, call Austin tomorrow wherever he was, meet up like civilised adults. That would be best. She could catch up on sleep and have a bath and all of that stuff. She sighed. Sit through her mum’s lecture about not relying on men, or in fact anyone. All of that.

First, she wandered the streets. It was a beautiful day; sunny, with the ice crackling. As long as you stayed in the sun, it didn’t even seem that cold. There were lots of people out and about, taking a stroll and saying good day to each other; tourists, not quite sure what to do on Christmas Day, hoicking rucksacks and taking photographs; lots of Jewish people noisily cramming into Chinese restaurants. It was … it was nice.

She found herself, eventually, on a familiar back street. The big shops weren’t open, of course, but it was amazing how many of the smaller ones were. Even at Christmas time, commerce was everything. She heard, suddenly, a snatch of her favourite Christmas song coming through an open door … and caught a slightly off smell. She went through the door. She was, she noticed with a quick pang, the only customer. Well. He might have been there. The sole member of staff was standing red-eyed by the till, and didn’t even look up.