Could it be her?
I tell myself that it’s not. I don’t want my imaginary Shana to be with someone else.
Chapter Nine
Shana
“I never expected the club to be so packed,” Stephen says. Looking around, he adds, “Everywhere is packed. Even this place is filling fast.”
He’s right. There are wall-to-wall people and the buzz of the crowd is exactly what I need to get my mind off the show and on tonight. While the idea of room service and a bottle of wine had its appeal, this new and exciting chaos is just what the doctor ordered.
With all the work around the fashion show, we didn’t think about calling the Martini Club for reservations. Thankfully, this hole-in-the-wall just down the street is a hidden treasure. Like a step back in time, there are no neon lights or exposed beams. Stately, dark mahogany paneling covers the lower half of the walls, likely having been in place since before the turn of the twentieth century. The top half is covered in photographs of famous patrons through the years. Most are black and white and many have large garish signatures obstructing a portion of the face. The wood floor is so worn. The illusion of a shiny finish was given up so long ago that in areas it actually bows. Tables and chairs have a slight lean, almost imperceptible were it not for the lines in the paneling. The uneven surface from years of traffic adds to the appeal. What the floor lacks in luster is compensated by the long, glistening bar. Going nearly the length of the building, the surface reflects the lights from the ceiling, with a leather edge that shows its years of use and care. The wooden stools known more for their functionality than comfort could easily be older than me. All in all, there’s something about the establishment that feels comfortable and fun. It’s like a forgotten island hidden within the upscale area.
“I love it,” I say, taking in the positive vibes surrounding us.
Stephen touches my knee as he leans closer. “I do too. There’s something about New York: the energy is everywhere.”
Before I can respond, one of the bartenders, a handsome man with a deep voice, begins to sing along with the song coming from the speakers. All the patrons stop their conversations as the bartender’s hands go into the air and his voice grows louder. I recognize the song as a tune from a recent Broadway hit show.
I smile and shake my head at Stephen who is suddenly enthralled with the man behind the bar. It doesn’t take long before most of the customers begin joining in. The impromptu sing-along makes me realize how much I miss the arts of Manhattan. It isn’t that there aren’t amazing opportunities in London for culture: there are. I think it’s the familiarity of New York that I miss.
When the song ends, the entire clientele breaks out in roaring applause.
“We need to go see a show,” Stephen says, leaning close.
“Does that make us like tourists?”
“No. New Yorkers go to shows.”
“We have two weeks. How many do you think we can see?”
“That makes you sound like a tourist.”
“I’m not—” My rebuttal is stopped as my phone buzzes.
Kimbra: I’M FINALLY HERE. SORRY. TRAFFIC.
Me: WE’RE AT THE BAR.
I turn toward the door, peering over the heads of others as I wait for Kimbra. “She’s here,” I say excitedly.
Before Stephen can turn in the direction I’m looking, my smile widens as I see my other best friend’s red hair. My mind fills with so many memories. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed her. It isn’t until she’s within reach that I really allow myself to think about it. We lived together for years and since then, I feel like I’ve been separated from my sister from another mister—well, and another missus.
I know we’ve talked regularly—often on video-chat—but seeing her fills my heart with warmth.
And then the world freezes.
Stepping through the door behind her is Max: Maximilian Cantel.
It can’t be.
How and why would Stephen’s ex be in the same restaurant in New York City?
As Stephen starts to turn toward the door, I stop him. “Oh, can you get us all drinks while I go find her?”
His head turns from side to side. “Find her? Didn’t you say she’s here?”
I did. “Her text said she is here. This place is a madhouse. We don’t want to lose our stools. How about you order us all another round? Kimbra will have the same as me: a lemon drop martini.”
Before he can argue, I push my way through the crowd until I come face-to-face with Kimbra. Without a care for anyone else, we scream and hug, blocking traffic from moving all directions around us.
“I’ve missed you!” we say together.
I take a peek around her shoulders, wondering what happened to Max and if I imagined him. If that’s the case, my imagination has been working overtime today. The bar is so full; I can’t find the person I thought was him.
Surely, it wasn’t.
Why would he be here?
I reach for Kimbra’s hand and pull her toward Stephen. When he sees us, he leaps from the barstool and comes forward. Standing only a few feet back he shakes his head while smiling from ear-to-ear. “I can’t believe I finally get to meet you.”
“You must be Stephen,” Kimbra says as she closes the gap and surrounds him in a hug. There’s no handshaking for my best friend. She’s one of the friendliest people I’ve ever known. Now that doesn’t mean she can’t tell you her mind. She can. But once she’s done, you’ll forget she was upset and be laughing about something again.
I look around once more, wondering why I’d imagine seeing Max.
“Who are you looking for?” Stephen asks.
“U-um,” I stutter. “Duncan. Kimbra did you bring that man of yours?”
“No way! He’d be in the way. I miss girl talk.”
Stephen grabs her hand and tugs her toward the bar. “That sounds right up my alley.”
Within a few minutes, Kimbra and I are seated at the bar with Stephen standing between us as we all laugh like old friends. It’s everything I hoped it would be. The two of them are telling their most embarrassing stories involving me, and I love every word.
“You should have seen her,” Kimbra says. “We’d only lived here a few weeks, and we decided that the subway was the best way to get home. The problem was that neither of us knew the lines or stations. It’s a miracle we made it back to our apartment.”
“It was the homeless man who saved us.”
“Now that’s not a phrase you hear every day,” Stephen says, listening to the story.
“No,” I say. “He did. He asked us where we were going. He told us which line to take. He even rode part of the way with us to be sure we’d transfer correctly.”
Stephen shakes his head. “And you weren’t a little worried?”
“Why?” Kimbra asks.
“Is she always this trusting?” he asks.
“You could say we were both a little naïve,” I admit. Looking over the rim of my glass, I go on, “I guess with your new hubby, you aren’t riding the subway much.”