Free Fairytale of New York by Miranda Dickinson Page B

brain surgeon—but not if, like me, you say you’d like to be Tinkerbell. They smile and pat you on the head…but you guess from this reaction that they will be relating your career aspiration at their grown-ups’ dinner parties for years to come. And the world of the Grown-Up becomes an irresistibly romantic utopia: one that you would do anything to visit. Well, almost anything.
    Now that I have reached that illustrious pinnacle, I often find myself wanting so badly to be five years old again. Choices were simpler (orange or blackcurrant squash?) and I knew what I wanted (always blackcurrant). I remember thinking that being a lollipop lady like Mrs Pearson, our next-door neighbour, was really cool (if you couldn’t achieve your fairy ambitions, that is). In fact, I spent a whole summer when I was five making my brother pretend to be a car so I could step out in front of him with my homemade paper-plate-and-stick lollipop. When you’re a kid, your whole ethos about what makes a good friend can be turned upside down by the offer of a Fruit Salad chew from a 10p mix. Friendships were simple—I’ll be your friend if today you’re not speaking to her, but not if you’re her friend tomorrow. Come to think of it, though, that’s not altogether unlike the way some so-called grown-ups behave right now. Maybe there are a lot of peoplewho are really just big kids in suits. Especially in a city like New York.
    As I was soon to discover.
    At twelve thirty I left the shop and hailed a yellow taxicab to travel to the offices of the New York Times. My morning had been incredibly hard. Coming so close to revealing my past to Ed had unnerved me, but sitting in the back of the cab now, I couldn’t shake the niggling doubt that I might not get another chance. I shifted my position, still feeling uncomfortable.
    ‘You OK, lady?’ asked the smiling oriental taxi driver, looking at me in his rear-view mirror. I managed a smile. ‘I’m fine, thanks. How are you?’
    This is not always a wise question to ask in New York. You are usually treated to a delightful combination of complaints and strongly worded opinions about anything and everything from the price of rents and the state of the US domestic situation to the possible parentage of the driver in front. Usually, I don’t ask. But my mind was attempting to process too many thoughts and needed distracting for a while.
    Thankfully today, Ken, my friendly driver, only wanted to talk about his new baby girl. He reached behind the sunshield, pulled out a photo and passed it over his shoulder to me. A smiley lady was pictured holding a tiny, equally smiley baby.
    ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.
    Ken smiled. ‘Sunshine. Sunshine Wang. We call her Sunny for short. She’ll be five weeks tomorrow. My wife is so proud. She always wanted to be a mother. You know she left a good job on Wall Street to look after Sunny? I’m working double shifts so she can be a stay-home mom.’
    ‘That must be difficult for you,’ I sympathised, handing the precious photo back.
    ‘Nah, it’s OK, lady.’ he replied, taking it from me and carefully replacing it. ‘I just spend every day showing New York my little blessing girl.’
    I smiled and sank back into the cab seat to watch New York pass by. Buildings, people and traffic merged into a colourfilled blur as I let my aching mind drift a little in the soothing anonymity of the yellow taxi carrying me through the city I love. I was tired; wearier than I had felt in a long time. But there was something else, too: something new. Deep inside me I sensed a change, subtler than the switch from late summer to early autumn, heralding a new season of sorts. The dream last night had brought so many well-concealed memories bubbling back up to the surface and a large part of me felt completely ill-equipped to deal with them. Just as I was six years ago…Only this time, there seemed to be even more at stake.
    Hiding a secret takes more than simply not