One Secret Summer (22 page)

‘Here.’ To her surprise, half an hour later Carla stuck a ten-dollar bill into Maddy’s apron pocket. ‘From Table 12,’ she
called out over her shoulder as she rushed back to the kitchen.
‘The English guy.’ Maddy looked at it, rather bemused. It was an exceedingly large tip. Especially since his breakfast had
hardly come to much more. She looked over the heads of customers clustered around the bar, but he was no longer there. She
shrugged. Shame. She’d have liked to have thanked him. Oh well. She picked up her coffee jug and wound her way across the
floor. She hadn’t exactly lied to him; she
was
waiting for her agent to call. Virginia was just about the only person left on the planet who thought that Maddy might one
day find fame and fortune as an actress, not a waitress. It had been nearly two long, tough years since her final-year performance
at Tisch. Her mother had come to New York and sat in the audience, entranced as her only daughter transported her and a couple
of hundred other people somewhere else entirely. The hardest thing of all, Maddy often thought to herself, was that she’d
actually been
good
. She’d lost count of the number of auditions she’d gone to, the number of casting calls, the promises to call her back, the
days and evenings sitting waiting by the phone … In two years she’d had one commercial and a pilot for a sitcom that had eventually
been cancelled. She’d done the community and neighbourhood theatre workshops, she’d put her picture on every board that she
thought might help … nothing. Nothing ever came of anything. Virginia, touchingly, refused to give up, but there were days
when even she tapped her pen against her teeth and proclaimed it a mystery. It was partly the fiery red hair, she mused, and
what she called Maddy’s ‘unique’ looks … quite what she meant by that was anyone’s guess, least of all Maddy’s, but the bottom
line was that the work simply wasn’t there for a redhead with the kind of porcelain skin and hazel-green eyes – set fractionally
too far apart – that looked a little strange with dyed brown hair. She just wasn’t ‘marketable’ enough. End of story. Except
it wasn’t, of course. Like Virginia, although for different reasons, perhaps, Maddy stubbornly refused to give up. She couldn’t.
New York was her life now. She’d found herself a tiny studio apartment on the wrong side of Fort Green in Brooklyn; there
was barely enough room for a
sofa-bed and a desk, but it was hers. After a year of living in crowded apartments with half a dozen other aspiring actors,
actresses and models of every description, she’d finally managed to save enough to plonk down three months’ advance rent.
Sandy, who was the only person she’d kept in touch with since graduating from Tisch, had fared no better. Too Jewish-looking;
too ‘ethnic’, which pretty much meant the same thing, Sandy said bitterly; ‘a touch too much character in your face, honey’
was how casting agents usually put it. Only unlike Maddy, Sandy wasn’t poor, and she lived in a large apartment in the East
Village that her father had bought for her whilst he waited for her to come to her senses and get married.

‘Fat chance,’ Sandy scoffed over a bottle of wine. ‘And certainly not to any of those nice Jewish boys my mother keeps inviting
over.’ Maddy and Sandy still met every other week, usually at Sandy’s apartment, where they both drank far too much and wound
up in tears, over the dismal state of either their love lives, or their careers, or both. This hiatus was interrupted every
once in a while by an overexcited phone call from Virginia. There’d be a flurry of readings and preparation, followed by a
period of fasting and then bingeing and making herself sick … and then Maddy would go off for the audition and sit by the
phone until the rejections finally arrived and then the whole cycle would repeat itself. If it hadn’t been for the atmosphere
at the restaurant, Sunshine’s, which she genuinely enjoyed, and the thrill of living in New York, Maddy wasn’t quite sure
what she would have done. Going back to Iowa was out of the question. But there was still a chance, she reminded herself firmly.
She’d been to two auditions for the same role only the week before. The girl they’d originally picked had had to cancel. It
was all a bit last minute, but ‘if everything goes well, honey,’ Virginia growled down the phone, ‘you could be onstage on
Saturday night. You’ll be playing opposite Bette Midler.’ Maddy had had to sit down to stop herself from falling over.
Bette Midler?

She refilled coffee mugs that afternoon with an automatic,
vacant smile, her mind and stomach churning over together in unison.
God, let me get this part
, she whispered to herself as she pulled her pad from her apron and a pencil from behind her ear and prepared to take yet
another order.
Let me get the part. Please God, please, please, please.
Despite her resolve, she was beginning to wonder if she’d ever do more than write out a meal order and balance a tray on
her head.
This
was what she’d slogged her guts out for four long years for?

The Englishman was there the following morning when Maddy began her shift. This time he was seated at the bar. A dark blue
suit and a shirt unbuttoned at the collar; well-polished shoes and a newspaper. He lowered the paper as she passed and their
eyes met. They smiled tentatively at one another. He looked slightly the worse for wear. There was a faint shadow of a beard
beneath his skin and his eyes were heavy with sleep.

‘Heavy night, huh?’ she asked as she poured him a cup of coffee and flipped open her order pad.

He looked at her and grinned sheepishly. She caught her breath and had to look away. ‘’Fraid so,’ he said, in a voice still
tinged with sleep.

‘I … I guess it’ll just be coffee, then?’ she stammered. His charm was unsettling; she wasn’t used to it. New Yorkers were
many things, but usually not charming.

He studied the menu, then shook his head. ‘Veisalgia,’ he said firmly. ‘Remedied by foods rich in cysteine.’ He smiled at
her.

Maddy stared at him. ‘Sorry?’

‘Veisalgia. It’s the medical term for a hangover. Cysteine is what the liver uses to break down alcohol, and eggs are rich
in it. That’s why you often crave an omelette after a heavy night.’ He
laughed suddenly, showing a row of perfect white teeth. ‘Now I’m showing off.’

‘You’re a doctor?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Guilty as charged. I’m here for a conference, actually. Hence the long night. My paper’s not until this afternoon, so I nipped
out to get breakfast.’ He looked at her. His eyes were the colour of cornflowers or the sky on a warm summer’s day. ‘Did she
ring, by the way?’

‘Who?’ Maddy was confused.

‘Your agent.’

‘Oh, she’ll ring me soon, I guess,’ Maddy shrugged, trying not to sound despondent.

‘Well, I’ll cross my fingers for you. What’s your name? Just so I can say I knew you back when.’

‘Maddy. Maddy Stiller.’

‘Nice to meet you, Maddy Stiller,’ he said, gravely formal. He held out a hand. ‘I’m Rafe. Rafe Keeler.’

‘Nice to meet you, Dr Keeler.’ His hand was warm and firm. From the corner of her eye she could see Carla frowning at her.
‘Well, I’ll … I’ll just get your eggs, then,’ she said hurriedly. ‘How d’you like them?’

His eyes came to rest on her own. There was a moment of frank appreciation so swift she thought she’d imagined it. ‘Whatever
you suggest.’

She could feel her cheeks tingling. ‘I … I’ll be right back,’ she stammered and fled. His charm unnerved her. She rushed into
the comparative safety of the kitchen.

‘He’s cute,’ Carla stated baldly, coming in behind her.

‘Who?’ Maddy kept her voice as neutral as possible.

‘Oh,
chica
. Don’t gimme that. You know who.’

‘You think so?’ Maddy kept her voice as neutral as possible.

‘Doesn’t matter what I think, honey,
you
think so.
Hey!
’ she yelled suddenly, pointing to the plate the short-order cook had left on the counter. ‘Didn’t you hear me say ‘‘scrambled?’’
Do these look
scrambled
to you?’

Maddy grinned. Carla’s reputation in the kitchen was fierce.
Deservedly so. She slid her own ticket quietly under the flap and hurried out. Being on the sharp end of Carla’s tongue or
under the microscopic gaze of her brown eyes weren’t places she particularly wanted to be, certainly not today. For reasons
she couldn’t quite fathom, Rafe Keeler had unnerved her. She grabbed her own order of scrambled eggs and walked quickly back
to his table.

He glanced up at her from his newspaper as she placed it carefully in front of him. ‘Thanks. This should do the trick.’

‘Let me know if you need anything else.’

‘I will.’ He folded away his newspaper and began to eat.

Twenty minutes later he signalled for the bill. She hurried over, slid the tab across the bar and was just about to turn away
when he spoke. ‘Um, look … I know this might seem rather sudden, but I was just wondering … I’m here in New York for a couple
of days and I don’t really know anyone other than my colleagues and I’m sort of fed up hanging out with them. The conference
is over this afternoon … would you like to have a drink with me afterwards? Tonight?’

‘A drink?’ Maddy was so surprised she nearly dropped her tray. ‘With you?’

‘Er, not quite the reaction I was looking for,’ he deadpanned, lifting his eyebrows. ‘Is it too awful a suggestion to contemplate?’

‘No, I didn’t mean it like that … I just … you took me by surprise, that’s all.’

‘Well?’

‘Sure … er, why not?’ The words were out before she could stop them.

‘You will?’ Now it was his turn to sound surprised.

There was something warm and open about him. It wasn’t the sort of thing she normally did. Four years in New York was a long
time and she’d kissed more than her fair share of frogs. Sometimes more than kissed, she thought to herself with a sudden
pang. But he seemed different. And it wasn’t just his
accent. ‘Why not?’ she said again, trying to sound more offhand than she felt. ‘There’s a little bar just around the corner
on Canal Street. Joey’s. You can’t miss it. About halfway down the street.’

‘Great. What time d’you finish?’

‘Around seven.’

‘Seven thirty, then? Unless you need to go home first … ?’

‘No … seven thirty’s fine. I … I’ll see you then.’ She flashed him a quick smile and hurried back to the kitchen. Her mind
was already racing ahead. She had a grey flannel sweatshirt in her bag and a pair of jeans – hardly appropriate attire for
a date. A
date
! How long had it been since she’d been on a date? She didn’t want to think.

By 7.25 p.m. she was ready. She checked her reflection in the tiny washroom mirror one last time. She brushed her hair and
carefully applied a dab of lip gloss. She’d borrowed a white shirt from Carla that was several sizes too large but it looked
marginally more date-like than a faded college sweatshirt. She fluffed her hair out, blotted her lips and picked up her bag.
It was cold outside, but the bar was only a couple of steps away. She checked her watch – 7.29. A few minutes late. A girl’s
always
gotta be a few minutes late. Another unfathomable New York rule. The blue neon sign gazed steadily at her from above the
entrance. She hurried up the steps, and pushed open the door into a blaze of music and voices. He was already sitting by the
bar, his body half-turned towards the door. She made her way towards him, conscious of his eyes on her as she approached.
His smile was one of cautious relief.

‘Hi,’ he said, sliding off the stool as she came up to him. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d actually show up.’ He pulled out the bar
stool next to him. ‘What can I get you?’

‘I’ll have a whisky,’ Maddy said, hopping on to the stool as elegantly as she could.

‘Ah, a whisky drinker. Single malt, without ice. Am I right? You look like you know a lot about whisky.’

He wasn’t. Maddy knew less about whisky than she did about
wine, and she knew nothing about wine – but he wasn’t to know that. She cast about quickly inside her head for a character
on whom she could base herself for the duration of the date … someone fun and feisty, someone who would know about whisky
and wine and all of that sophisticated stuff. Ah … she had it! Nora in
The Thin Man
. Within seconds, she knew exactly what to do, right down to her hands. She aimed just the right teasing note of banter at
him and watched as he responded. It was an old trick of hers – and it worked. Every single time.

‘Cheers,’ he said as the bartender slid two glasses across the counter top. ‘I’m deeply grateful. You’ve saved me from another
interminably dull evening with my colleagues. And from sitting alone in my hotel room, watching CNN.’

‘How did it go?’ Maddy asked, taking a sip of her whisky. It was warm and smooth. Note to self: single malts. She hurriedly
swallowed her smile.

‘The conference? Oh, fine. Managed to get my words out in the right order and answer a couple of questions. No one pays much
attention really.’

‘What was it about?’

He looked at her. ‘You don’t really want to know, do you?’

‘I do,’ Maddy protested with a smile.

‘New surgical advances in the removal of pilocytic astrocytomas.’

‘Oh.’

‘Told you so.’ He was smiling back at her. ‘But enough about me. Did you get the part?’

Maddy shook her head ruefully. ‘My agent hasn’t called. I guess that means no.’

‘That must be hard. Constantly auditioning, I mean.’

‘No harder than removing poly-whatever-you-call-thems. So, you’re a surgeon?’

He nodded. ‘Neurosurgeon. The brain,’ he added helpfully.

‘I know what neurosurgery means,’ Maddy said tartly.

‘Sorry. Habit.’

They smiled at each other. Somehow a kind of ease had been
established between them. His humour was light and teasing and he offered her the facts of his life easily, generously. Within
half an hour, she’d found out that his father was a brain surgeon, like him, and his mother a well-known lawyer. He had a
younger brother, Aaron, who was a lawyer, like his mother. The following March he was about to spend three months in Switzerland
under the guidance of one of the most famous neurosurgeons in the world. He’d wanted to be a brain surgeon as long as he could
remember. ‘My mother took us to see Dad operate when I was about thirteen,’ he said. ‘Aaron fainted as soon as he made the
first incision.’