Alice-Miranda slept well, exhausted after her big day out in the park. But she had set her alarm for 6.30 am and still managed to wake before it began to beep. There were a few butterflies teasing her tummy.

Her mother appeared at the door just as she was sitting up in bed.

‘Goodness, you’re up early. I thought I’d have to wake you.’

‘Oh no, Mummy. I’m far too excited,’ Alice-Miranda slipped out of bed and scampered over to her walk-in closet where she retrieved a plaid skirt, white shirt and lilac blazer. She hung the clothes on the handle of the armoire. ‘Are you taking me to school, Mummy?’

‘Of course, darling, I wouldn’t miss it. And I’m going to have tea with Jilly while you’re getting settled,’ her mother replied, while she took Alice-Miranda’s school shoes from the closet.

Alice-Miranda was ready in no time. She packed her brown leather satchel with her pencil case and the lovely notebook that had been her gift from Mr Gruber. The notebook was covered with a silk-screened Japanese design of brilliant pink cherry blossoms interwoven with gold and green. Alice-Miranda thought it was beautiful.

During the evening Mr Gruber had told them of some of the challenges he’d faced with the renovation. There had been some truly odd difficulties, including the Finkelstein’s Parade being given permission to divert down Fifth Avenue the very same day they had the enormous crane in place to lift several art installations up to the sixth floor home wares department. Strangely, a number of their stock deliveries had gone missing too, only to be located at the Finkelstein’s dock several days later. And now some of their key suppliers seemed jittery about committing to exclusive contracts. The project was running two weeks behind schedule, with some odd requests from the planners at City Hall. Cecelia said that it was all just an unfortunate coincidence until Mr Gruber revealed that he had received an invitation at the end of last week to the Finkelsteins’ opening of their Grand Salon, which was on the very same day as the gala re-launch of Highton’s.

Cee decided that she would phone Morrie Finkelstein and see if they could meet for a coffee. Obviously there was something going on. Morrie was never easy to deal with but this was pushing the boundaries even for him.

Mr Gruber’s stories gave Alice-Miranda a strange feeling but this morning she didn’t want to think about that at all.

In the kitchen Mrs Oliver had prepared Alice-Miranda’s favourite: French toast. Her mother and father joined her for breakfast.

‘Oh, look at you, young lady,’ said Hugh, glancing up from the paper. ‘I like the plaid.’

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘But it’s nowhere near as formal as my uniform at home. And the girls in middle school wear the skirt with whatever blouse they like, and then in the senior years there’s no uniform at all.’

‘Well, I suppose the school is encouraging girls to be individual – or at the very least more comfortable,’ her mother added.

Cecelia poured a weak milky tea for her daughter and a much stronger brew for herself.

Alice-Miranda had worked out the night before that they should leave the apartment at 7.45 am to walk the ten blocks to school to be there in time for the start of class. Her mother had suggested they take the car but Alice-Miranda thought that was silly. It wasn’t far and besides, her mother could have Mr O’Leary pick her up later if she wanted.

So, at precisely 7.40 am, having kissed her father and Mrs Oliver goodbye, Alice-Miranda and her mother stood in front of the lift. Five minutes later they were on Fifth Avenue making their way further uptown.

The streets were alive with the almost constant beeping of horns from the black and yellow vehicles. Several yellow school buses added to the tapestry of morning traffic and Alice-Miranda tingled with the excitement of it all.

‘Do you know, Mummy, I don’t think there’s anywhere in the world like New York.’ Alice-Miranda looked up at her mother and smiled.

‘I think you’re right about that, darling. I’ve always loved the city, ever since your grandmother and grandfather brought me here when I was little. It reminds me of a giant, and the streets and traffic are the blood running through its veins.’ Cecelia’s eyes sparkled.

‘Oh, that’s exactly what it’s like,’ Alice-Miranda agreed.

Mother and daughter trotted along in the morning sunshine, past the mansions and apartment buildings opposite Central Park and the magnificent Frick Collection in its grand old building. Cecelia decided they should head towards Madison Avenue as there was more to see and then turn right into East 75th Street.

‘Look at that!’ Alice-Miranda stopped to admire thousands of pink roses, which were providing the backdrop to some high fashion in the windows of Finkelstein’s.

‘They’re beautiful –’ Cecelia drew in a sharp breath. She peered in closer. ‘And I think they’re the very same roses I was planning to use to decorate Highton’s for the reopening.’

‘I’m sure the Finkelsteins won’t mind if you use the same roses,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

‘I think they might,’ Cecelia sighed. ‘Morrie Finkelstein has never been our greatest fan. In fact, I’d say openly hostile has been his mode of operation ever since I’ve known him.’

‘But why?’ Alice-Miranda asked, wide-eyed.

‘I don’t really know, darling, although I’ve heard whispers of a long-standing grudge. Something to do with when the stores were first established in the 1920s. Apparently, Great-Grandpa Highton and Morrie’s great-grandfather were the best of friends and they were all set to go into business together but something happened and the deal soured at the last minute. They both went it alone. From the day the Finkelsteins opened their store they declared war on Highton’s and it’s been that way ever since. I don’t understand it at all. We’ve both got beautiful stores that make handsome profits – it’s just a nonsense.’

‘But Mummy, have you ever asked Mr Finkelstein what the problem is? Maybe it could be solved and you could be friends,’ Alice-Miranda suggested.

‘Oh darling, I’ve tried to extend an olive branch to that man on many occasions. In the early days, when your grandfather was still in charge and Morrie’s father Joseph was running Finkelstein’s, your father and I were determined that the next generation would get past whatever the problem was. So we invited Morrie and his wife Gerda to dinner, we had them over to the apartment for drinks, I wrote notes to congratulate Morrie whenever he did something fabulous at Finkelstein’s. In fact, I still do. My father told me I was wasting my time and that the Finkelsteins would hate the Hightons forever – it was just a fact of life. Like breathing. But I wanted to prove your grandfather wrong.’

‘And did you?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

‘Apparently not. Look, Morrie Finkelstein can be charming and Gerda’s lovely – apart from her voice, it’s a little on the high side – but just when I think things are fine between us, he does something nasty to put me back in my place. No matter how many times I ask him to explain what the problem is, he just says, “Cecelia, you know what your family has done.” And really, I have no idea – and neither does your grandmother. We’ve even hired someone to look into it for us and they said that all of Morrie’s great-grandfather’s personal effects were destroyed in a fire that devastated their store back in the thirties and there didn’t seem to be anything in Great-Grandpa Horace’s things that gave us any leads either.’

‘Oh well,’ Alice-Miranda replied. ‘Perhaps one day Mr Finkelstein will want to be friends.’

‘You are an optimist, sweetheart.’ Cecelia tightened her grip on Alice-Miranda’s hand and they crossed into East 75th Street.

‘Well, here we are,’ Cecelia pointed towards an inconspicuous brownstone building across the street. In small brass letters on the wall, a sign said: Mrs Kimmel’s School for Girls.

A yellow school bus pulled up and out tramped a long line of girls, some wearing plaid skirts in lilac and blue with white shirts and navy blazers, and others in an array of casual clothes. A cacophony of chatter accompanied the students as they jostled into school. Alice-Miranda studied the group from behind. She couldn’t wait to meet them all. A tall girl with blonde hair parted perfectly in the middle and tied up in matching pigtails with lilac bows was talking intently to a smaller child beside her. The body language indicated that the shorter girl had done something that displeased the taller one. There were lots of hand signals and inflated gestures and raised voices. Alice-Miranda thought for a moment that her actions looked familiar, but she dismissed the notion from her mind.

Alice-Miranda and her mother waited on the other side of the street until the girls disappeared through the doorway.

‘Come along, darling. Let’s go and see Jilly,’ said Cecelia Highton-Smith as she led her daughter across the road.