Free Fairytale of New York by Miranda Dickinson Page A

‘You’re unbelievable, Ed! And this diagnosis of my life from the great Ed Steinmann, amateur psychiatrist, who feels licensed to comment on everyone else’s life but never shares his own! The man who must be so damn perfect because he’s apparently the only person in the whole world with no cares at all?’
    My last comment hung in the air like gun smoke. We stopped firing and stared at each other, our breathing quick and short, our minds whirring. But remorse was beginning to kick in.
    Ed looked away and took a long, deep breath. ‘You have no idea what my cares are, Rosie.’ Gone was the anger, replaced instead with a steady, measured defiance.
    ‘And you don’t know mine,’ I returned. My voice sounded weak and shaky.
    Tears stung my eyes. We were like two gunslingers one minute after high noon, waiting for someone to realise we’d been mortally wounded. For a moment, I was determined not to give in. Until Ed spoke.
    ‘Well. Thank you for your honesty. At last I know where I stand.’ Real fear hit me as his words sunk in. Someone had to back down. I took a step towards him, scanning his expression in the hope I might catch a flicker of redemption there.
    ‘Ed, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m just…I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry…Can we be friends…please?’
    I could see the tension gripping his broad shoulders as they rose and fell quickly with his breath. Head lowered, staring at the floor, his mussed-up dark hair was almost obscuring the blue eyes that had burned into mine moments before. I waited for his response, fearful of what it might be. It seemed an eternity before he slowly raised his eyes to meet mine. He studied me like he couldn’t believe I could hurt him so much.My pulse quickened, scared I could have blown our friendship for the sake of a few cheap shots. The store was silent except for the slow, rhythmic tick of the clock behind the counter. The world outside seemed to be holding its breath. Watching. Waiting.
    Finally, Ed sighed and came close. His hug was warm and forgiving, the scent of his woody cologne mingling with the fresh cotton of his shirt, soft against my cheek. Relief washed over me as I held him tight. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie…’ he breathed, stroking my head. ‘I didn’t mean it either. It’s OK, it’s OK now…’
    Then my tears came, gently at first but rapidly increasing in intensity, until soon I was sobbing hard against Ed’s shoulder. For a long time the only sounds were my tears and the insistent beat of his heart. Then he spoke in a soft whisper right by my ear.
    ‘It’s time you started to live a little, OK? That’s all I’m saying. You have people who care about you and this amazing city to play in. You can trust us with anything, you know?’
    Slowly, my tears began to ebb. I pulled my head up and we locked gazes.
    ‘You just have to trust me on this, Ed. I know you care about me and I know I can tell you anything. It’s just that the reason I came to New York is something I’m still trying to work out. I can’t tell you about it yet. But I promise you, as soon as I’m ready, you’ll be the first to know. Is that OK?’
    Ed shook his head, the faintest glimmer of a smile appearing. ‘You are very lucky to have me as a friend. I’ll hold you to that promise, you know, Duncan.’
    I smiled back, relieved to be moving away from the subject I dreaded more than anything. ‘Absolutely.’
    Nobody ever tells you when you’re little how hard life can be when you grow up. They don’t explain that friendships stop being simple, choices stop being easy and the joys of childhood stop altogether. They just ask you what you want to be when you’re older. Whatever the minefield of life could hold in store for you, it seems the answer to this single question is all you need to be armed with. Which is all very well if you happen to have picked something sensible for your future career—like being a doctor or a