I watch as the piece of paper disintegrates into ash and is carried away into the night air.
Brilliant. That bit’s done. Now I just have to bury the ham bone. I feel myself relaxing. See, it wasn’t so hard, was it? All that worrying for nothing. In fact, this magic stuff is pretty easy-peasy, I reflect, grabbing the ladle—we didn’t have a trowel—and digging myself a hole, quite literally. Because at that moment there’s suddenly a loud whooping siren and I’m bathed in a harsh light. I twirl round, blinking in the brightness.
What the . . . ?
And then a voice booms from a megaphone, “Stay where you are and put your hands in the air. This is the New York Police Department.”
Chapter Twenty-three
OK, don’t panic.
One scary ride in a cop car and a pair of handcuffs later I’m sitting on a very hard plastic chair at a police station in the Ninth Precinct, being interviewed by a very hard-faced Officer McCrory.
On second thought, maybe I should panic.
“So let me get this straight.” Clearing his throat, he looks down at his notes. “You trespassed on city property and lit a fire.”
“A candle,” I correct. “A white candle.” It’s important to be completely clear and stick to the facts, I tell myself calmly. Otherwise I could be mistakenly tried for a crime I didn’t commit. Like a robbery. Or a kidnapping. Or even a murder. I feel a clutch of alarm.
Facts, Lucy. Remember, stick to the facts.
“And why was that?”
“I needed to burn a piece of paper and say a chant.”
“A chant?” His eyebrows shoot up like two thick, hairy gray caterpillars scuttling up his forehead.
“Well, it was more a poem,” I explain. “Gosh, what was it now . . . ?” I try racking my brain, but I’m so nervous it’s as if it’s been wiped clean like a computer disc and there’s nothing on it. “Um, something about winds . . .”
“According to these notes, you were also caught attempting to bury a deceased animal.”
“It was a ham bone,” I say quickly. “My roommate keeps them in the freezer for Simon and Jenny.”
“Simon and Jenny?”
“Her dogs. Two rescues. Very cute. Well, Simon is, but Jenny has a dreadful underbite. That doesn’t make her ugly, though. I mean, she might not win Crufts, but—”
“Miss Hemmingway, can you please stick to the question?”
“Oh, yes, sorry, of course,” I apologize hastily. “Officer.”
Shit. I’ve seen those cop shows. Robyn is always watching CSI, in between Oprah and The Secret DVD. If I’m not careful, Officer McCrory is going to throw me in a cell with lots of deranged lunatics and a prostitute called Roxy who chews gum and seems tough but who’s really kindhearted and has a sick kid at home and is just trying to make ends meet. Actually, no, that wasn’t CSI—I think that was an episode of Law & Order.
“And you were doing all this in order to break up with your boyfriend?”
I snap back to the present. “Ex-boyfriend,” I correct. “We’ve already broken up.”
Frowning, Office McCrory puts down his pen, rocks back on his chair, and, steepling his fingers, gives me a long, hard look.
Fuck. This is not good.
“Miss Hemmingway, you do realize that the New York Police Department has reason to believe you have violated the law on three points.”
Really not good.
“Trespassing, arson—”
“Arson? But I only burned a bit of paper with my ex’s name on . . .” I trail off.
There have been times in my life when I really should have kept my mouth shut. Like, for example, the time when I was eighteen and got hideously drunk on Scrumpy cider and told Jamie Robinson, whom I’d been on three dates with, that I was madly in love with him and wanted to have his babies. Suffice it to say, there was no fourth date.
Then there was the time Mum bought me a yellow mohair jumper, the reasoning being that my favorite color is yellow. Which is true, except yellow is my favorite color because I think of sunflowers and sunshine, not big, fat, furry mohair jumpers that make my complexion look like I’m seasick. It was OK, though, because she told me that she would return it if I didn’t like it. She wouldn’t be hurt or offended. So I said it was a lovely thought but would she mind returning it? Mum promptly burst into tears.
And now this is one of those times, I muse, looking at Officer McCrory with a beat of apprehension. If I say anything, I will deeply regret it. I need to keep my big mouth so firmly shut a can opener couldn’t pry it open.
“And resisting arrest,” he finishes gravely.
“No, I didn’t!” I cry, before I can stop myself. “Look, I know how that must appear, but I was climbing over the railings to get toward you, not run away from you.”
“Miss Hemmingway,” he says sternly.
“Officer McCrory.” I sit bolt upright. This is it. He’s going to charge me.
“I need to say something.”
“I know what you’re going to say,” I blurt. Well, what the hell. It’s too late now. I know I’m going down.
“You do?”
I clear my throat nervously, then launch straight in. “‘ You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.’”
For a moment there’s complete silence and he just stares at me blankly. Then, shaking his head, he lets out a low whistle. “Jeez,” he says finally.
“My roommate is a huge fan of CSI,” I explain, my voice trembling fearfully. “I know the score.”
Visions of me being carted off to the cells swim before my eyes. Flashes of my parents’ shocked reactions, Kate campaigning as a lawyer to free me . . . I can see the newspaper headlines now: BRITISH GIRL JAILED IN AMERICA—LIFE SENTENCE FOR TRYING TO BREAK UP WITH THE ONE
“She thought she’d found her soul mate,” says former roommate Robyn Weisenberg, “but then she couldn’t get rid of him. The universe wouldn’t let her. It’s a tragedy.”
Still, I suppose that’s one way of having closure with Nate—a life sentence.
“So, do you have any questions?”
I zone back to see Officer McCrory looking at me expectantly.
My mouth goes dry. “Do I get a phone call?” I stammer. My eyes are beginning to sting with tears and I feel slightly dizzy. “Before I’m . . .” I can barely get the words out. “Before I’m taken down?”
“Down?” He raises his eyebrows. “Miss Hemmingway, did you not hear me? You’re free to go.”
I stare at him in shock. “Free?”
“I’m letting you go with just a warning.” He nods, shuffling his notes and standing up.
It takes a second to register and then . . . “Oh my God, thank you!” I gasp in astonishment. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief, I jump out of my chair and before I know it I’m flinging my arms round his stout uniformed figure. Taken aback, Officer McCrory stiffens and stands statue-still, his arms out like a scarecrow’s.
“Gosh, I’m sorry. I was just . . .” Suddenly aware that I’m bear-hugging a police officer in the NYPD, I jump back. “I’m sorry. I’m just so emotional.” I feel my eyes start prickling.
“I understand. I know how hard it can be to break up with someone,” he says, lowering his voice. “My wife left me less than a year ago.” Reaching over to his desk, he grabs a box of tissues and holds it out to me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I reply, taking one.
“Ran off with my best friend. But she’s still in here.” He bangs his chest with a meaty palm, his eyes glistening, and reaches for a tissue for himself. “It’s like she’s everywhere I go.”
“I know the feeling,” I say wryly.
Sniffing, he blows his nose loudly. “I just want to forget about her.”
> “Me too.” I nod wistfully, thinking about Nate. “Forget about him, I mean.”
Officer McCrory and I meet each other’s gaze in solidarity. Then, remembering himself, he stuffs his tissue in his pocket and says gruffly, “Is there anyone you can call to come pick you up?”
“Oh, I’m fine. I’ll catch a cab.”
“I’m not letting you outta here on your own—don’t want you reof-fending.” He looks at me, his eyes twinkling.
I think about Robyn. She’s my obvious choice, but she was going to her reiki class tonight and it usually goes on late. Last week she was out until the early hours having her aura read, apparently, and no, I don’t think that was a double entendre.
Then there’s Kate. I glance at the time. It’s nearly midnight. On second thought, no, there isn’t Kate. She will have been in bed for hours by now, earplugs in, wave music on, as she gets up at five every morning to hit the gym. She won’t take too kindly to her little sister waking her up. Especially when she discovers I’m at the police station downtown.
I rack my brain. Magda? Magda is the most liberated boss I’ve had, but there’s liberated and then there’s liberated. Calling her at midnight to tell her I’m at the cop shop and could she please come and get me probably wouldn’t be the wisest career move.
Which leaves . . . I scroll through the contacts on my phone. Adam.
His number jumps out at me. I punched it into my phone after he sent it to me on Facebook. I stare at it for a few moments, toying with the idea, mulling it over in my head.
Well, he did say to call him.
“Lucy! Are you OK?”
Twenty minutes later I glance up from staring at the scuffed floor of the police station to see the fire doors swinging open and Adam appearing through them. Like a knight in shining armor, I can’t help thinking, only instead he’s wearing a scruffy T-shirt, baseball cap, and ripped jeans. He looks at me, his face etched with concern, and my heart swells. I have never been so pleased to see anyone in my entire life.
“Yeah . . . fine.” I jump up from my plastic chair to greet him, then hold back, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Everything’s fine.”
“You usually hang around in police stations for fun?” he says, his mouth twitching with amusement.
My cheeks flush. “Well, there was nothing on at the movies,” I quip feebly.
He laughs an easy, relaxed laugh and, tilting his head to one side, surveys me from beneath the peak of his cap. “Sure you’re OK?” he asks quietly. Reaching for my hand, he squeezes it gently.
As his fingers brush mine, a little tingle rushes up my spine. “Sure.” I nod, but as I’m saying the words, I feel my lips tremble unexpectedly. “Everything’s cool,” I manage, and then, to my absolute embarrassment, I burst into tears.
Chapter Twenty-four
Adam escorts me back to my apartment, where I discover Robyn and the dogs fast asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly, an episode of Oprah playing faintly in the background. Tiptoeing past, so as not to wake Simon and Jenny—nothing, I’ve learned, will wake Robyn, who doesn’t so much fall asleep as fall into a coma—I grab half a bottle of wine from the fridge and a couple of glasses and go into my bedroom. It’s a warm, muggy evening, and pulling open the rickety old sash window, we clamber out onto the fire escape.
“I’m so sorry about bursting into tears like that,” I say for about the zillionth time, as I perch on a metal step and pour two glasses of wine. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Hey, no problem.” He shrugs, sitting one step up from me. Taking out his tobacco, he waves it at me as if to say, Do you mind? and I shake my head. “I tend to have that effect on women.”
Laughing, I shoot him a grateful smile and hand him a glass.
“So, you had a lucky escape by the sounds of it,” he continues, licking the cigarette paper. “Trying to rescue that cat and getting trapped in there.”
“Um . . . yeah, I know.” I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back. “Lucky the police found me!”
In my defense, I didn’t come up with this story; Officer McCrory did. On meeting Adam, he took him to one side to “explain the situation.” It was only afterward, when we were leaving, with strict instructions to Adam to “look after this young lady,” that he threw me a wink over his shoulder and I realized he’d been up to something. And it wasn’t law enforcement.
“Thanks for coming to get me”—I smile shyly—“and for being so nice about everything.”
“My pleasure.” He grins. “I’m used to rescuing damsels in distress.”
“You are?” I peer at him in the darkness, the soft, twinkly glow from the fairy lights in my bedroom casting patterns across his face, and for a brief moment I get a wobble of insecurity. Damsels? What damsels? Who are these damsels?
“Oh, yeah.” He nods, his face serious. “It’s a little sideline I have going. When I’m not crashing gallery openings.” He looks up at me, his mouth twisting with amusement, and I punch him playfully on the arm. “Hey, I’ve still got a bruise on the other arm from where you punched me last time,” he yelps.
“Well, now you have a matching pair.” I grin ruefully.
“This is my reward for rushing out halfway through a movie?”
I look at him in astonishment. “You left a movie halfway through? For me?”
“A late-night screening of Annie Hall at the Pioneer Theater.” He nods, then seeing my face adds quickly, “Don’t worry, I’ve seen it a hundred times, so I know how it ends.” He adopts a funny voice: “‘Well, I guess that’s pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know, they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd and . . . but, uh, I guess we keep goin’ through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.’”
Listening to him, I laugh, feeling a surge of amusement and affection.
And something else. Out of nowhere I suddenly fancy him. Like, really fancy him. Even with that ridiculous Woody Allen impersonation.
“No, this is your reward.” Impulsively I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. His skin feels soft beneath my lips and he smells faintly of cigarette smoke. Then, realizing I’ve lingered just that millisecond too long, I pull back, blushing.
How embarrassing. Why not just grab hold of him and snog his face off, Lucy, why don’t you?
“Well, it’s not much of a reward,” I add self-consciously, trying to make a joke of it. Honestly, could I be any more crap at flirting? If I’m not lunging at him, I’m making bad, clumsy jokes.
His eyes sweep over my face and for a moment I think he’s going to say something, do something. Then he seems to think better of it. “I accept cash and checks,” he quips.
“I’m sure I can’t afford you,” I quip back.
“Oh, I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” he replies, and holds my gaze for a moment.
My chest tightens. He’s flirting with me, right? That’s definitely flirting. And yet all my confidence has deserted me and I’m not sure. He could be just being friendly, I reason. I mean, for all I know, his invitation to “hook up and see a film” might simply have been him returning the favor after I showed him around the MoMA. It could have been purely platonic.
As the thought strikes, so does another: Which means he’s probably not interested in me like that at all. Followed by another: I’ve been reading it all wrong. And another: He’s just being a gentleman, coming to rescue me from the police station. As the thoughts gather momentum, hope starts unraveling like knots: In fact, he’s probably not single at all.... He’s probably got a girlfriend. . . . I bet it’s the brunette at the gallery.
“So are you single?” I suddenly have that discombobulated feeling of hearing a voice blurt out, wondering whom it belongs to, then realizing with horror that it belongs to me.
In the middle of sipping his wine, Adam pauses.
The shame. The shame.
“I mean . . . sort of . . . as in . . .” I scramble around desperately in my brain for something to say that will stop me from lo
oking like . . . like . . . Oh, this is awful. I can’t even think of that word.
“As in, do I have a girlfriend?” says Adam evenly.
I stop scrambling and look at him resignedly. “Yes, that’s what I meant.” I brace myself. OK, so he’s got a girlfriend, and it’s the pretty brunette, and they’re very happy together, but that’s all right—we can be friends. Platonic friends. Like in When Harry Met Sally.
Actually, no, they end up sleeping together. Oh crap.
“No, I don’t have a girlfriend,” he replies. “I did, but we broke up a while back.”
“You did?” I sound happy and relieved. “I mean, that’s tough. Breaking up is tough,” I add, trying to look suitably glum.
Though not as tough as not being able to break up, I think fleetingly, rubbing my wrist, which is still a bit sore from the handcuffs.
“Not really. She cheated on me.” He shrugs.
I’m shocked. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to cheat on Adam. “Gosh, that’s awful.”
“Yeah, finding out wasn’t fun, but once I did, well, it was over pretty quick.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “There’s no point. You can never trust someone again after that. . . .” He trails off as if deep in thought, then holds out his cigarette. “You smoke?”
I hesitate. “Only on special occasions.”
“Do you think getting out of jail is a special occasion?”
“Maybe.” I nod, playing along as he passes me the cigarette. I inhale. It makes my head spin slightly, but in a good way. I can feel myself gradually unwinding after the madness of the evening, and for a few moments neither of us speaks; we just sit together sipping wine and listening to the sounds of Manhattan, which are playing like background music.
“I guess this is a bit different from most first dates,” he says finally.
“Um . . . yeah, I guess so.” I nod, trying to keep my voice even, but it’s zipping through my brain: We’re on a first date? So he wasn’t just being friendly. I feel a buzz of delight, quickly followed by a sudden pressure. Casually drinking wine on the fire escape and sharing a cigarette has suddenly turned all official. If this is a first date, aren’t I supposed to have made an effort, washed my hair, put on some mascara, at least? Aren’t I supposed to be making flirty small talk, and flicking my freshly washed hair, and trying to be cool and impressive?
You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter Page 24