It’s hot and humid and I stare out of the window and watch Manhattan slowly pass us by.
‘Now Union Square. Man, that was nasty, full of drug dealers, but now it’s totally cleaned up its act. Over there is where Roosevelt was born. Amazing, huh? Now Chelsea, that’s famous for where Sid Vicious killed Nancy Spungen.’
As we move uptown, old brick warehouses covered in cast-iron fire escapes that cling like ivy give way to elegant brownstones with wide steps and polished brass doorknobs. Shafts of sunlight shine through the gaps in the buildings that tower overhead, and shopfronts change from discount 99-cent shops, busy markets and eclectic bookstores to fancy designer stores and expensive restaurants.
Neighbourhoods smarten up, as do the people. From the grungy guys, with their skinny jeans, piercings and White Stripes T-shirts, trawling through second-hand record stores on Canal Street, to the blonde ponytailed mums with their four-wheel-drive baby buggies and coffees-to-go on the Upper West Side, to the hordes of joggers and rollerbladers zigzagging in and out of Central Park.
‘And finally we have touchdown . . .’
Amid a fanfare of horns the truck swings to a shuddering halt outside a large, modern high-rise towering over the park.
‘We’re here?’ Dipping my head, I try craning upwards to see.
‘Yup. Sure are,’ nods Mikey, flashing me a huge grin. He glances at the building and lets out a whistle. ‘Very fancy.’
I look across at the dark green awning, the square of carpet that spills out on to the pavement and the polished glass and brass door out of which a uniformed doorman hurries to greet us.
Wow. It’s like arriving at the Savoy or something.
‘Are you sure this isn’t a hotel?’ I call to Mikey, who’s already jumped out of the truck and is hoisting up the back door with a loud rattle.
He laughs at my reaction. ‘Nope, this is how some people live, lady.’
I feel a clutch of nerves. God, this is seriously posh. Nervously climbing out of the truck, I tug down my skirt and quickly smooth my hair, which has gone all poufy in the heat. That’s another difference between my sister, Kate, and me. Whereas she’s got thick, straight blonde hair, mine’s fine and brown.
I swear I have the most boring hair colour in the world. I’ll never forget the first time I dyed it. I matched it up against a colour chart in Boots, the ones where they give you little locks of hair to compare against, and guess what? It wasn’t even chestnut brown or dark brown; it was ‘normal brown’. Can there be a more dispiriting description?
Hence I’ve coloured it my entire life. I’ve been ‘butterscotch’, ‘cinnamon’, ‘jet’ and all the colours in between, including a dodgy period in my mid-twenties when I thought I’d try something different and dyed it ‘bubblegum pink’. I’m currently a very sensible and mature ‘chestnut’.
‘Good afternoon. You’re from the gallery?’
I turn to see the doorman. Wearing a dark green uniform, complete with peaked cap and white gloves, he nods briskly.
‘Hi, yes,’ I say, smiling brightly to cover up my nerves, before realising he’s not smiling and I’m grinning away like a loon. I quickly match my expression to his very formal one. ‘Lucy Hemmingway . . . um . . . senior coordinator.’
I just made that up. I don’t actually have a title.
‘I’m here to oversee the delivery and installation of a collection of artwork.’
I want to appear super professional. Like someone who’s completely in control of every situation. Someone who’s efficient, organised and, well, basically like my sister.
I do not – repeat not – want to appear like someone whose approach to problem-solving is ignoring something and hoping it goes away, who writes lists only to lose them and once hit ‘reply all’ to a friend’s birthday evite and asked if she was still having sex with her ex.
‘Ah, yes.’ The doorman nods gravely. ‘I’ve been given instructions to expect you.’ Pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose, he flicks his eyes to the paintings, which are being unloaded on to a trolley by Mikey. ‘I’m to take you up to the penthouse.’
My stomach gives a little flutter. It’s that penthouse thing again. You can take the girl out of her poky little one-bed flat in Earl’s Court, but you can’t take the poky little one-bed flat out of the girl.
‘If you’d care to follow me.’
With Mikey in charge of pushing the trolley, I dutifully follow the doorman through the doorway and enter a large marbled lobby, complete with trickling water feature, button-back leather sofas and oversized vases filled with the kind of exotic-looking flower arrangements that you know cost an absolute fortune.
‘The elevator is straight ahead.’
I’m trying to appear completely nonchalant and unimpressed, but my head is swivelling from side to side like a barn owl. It’s a bit different to my lobby, with its obstacle course of bikes, pushchairs and piles of mail to negotiate. And that’s before you even begin to climb the three flights of stairs to mine and Robyn’s apartment. Stairs, by the way, that are so steep they make the ones up the sides of the Mayan pyramids at Chichen Itza in Mexico seem like a walk in the park.
‘Whoa, fancy,’ whistles Mikey from behind the trolley. ‘You must have some celebrities living here, right?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that kind of information,’ replies the doorman stiffly.
Mikey throws me a look and mouths, ‘Madonna.’
I break into a grin, despite myself, and stifle a giggle.
Ahead of us, I notice a lift, the doors of which are just about to close. ‘Oh look,’ I say, gesturing to it, ‘just in time.’ I make a dash towards them, but the doorman stops me.
‘The penthouse has its own private elevator.’
‘It does?’
He turns the corner, where another lift is waiting for us.
Crikey. There’s posh and there’s then posh.
Maybe Mikey’s right. Maybe Madonna does live here.
Buzzing with anticipation, I step into the lift. It’s quite tight inside and we have to shuffle up against each other as the door slides closed. The doorman presses the button with a ceremonious stab of his white-gloved finger and we start travelling upwards, climbing steadily higher and higher. I feel my stomach drop as we gather speed. Gosh, we really are going quite high, aren’t we? Now my ears are even starting to pop.
I try swallowing to unblock them. Nope, they’re still blocked. I know, maybe if I yawn . . . Hiding behind my hand, I give a couple of hippo-sized yawns, but nothing. My ears are still well and truly blocked. So much so I can’t hear anything.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the doorman. He’s looking at me expectantly, the way people do when they’ve asked you a question and are waiting for your reply. Shit. Trying to look as natural as possible, I throw him what I hope looks like the confident smile of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and not someone who can’t hear a bloody thing as their ears are popping like crazy.
Honestly, you’d think I never go in elevators.
You don’t, pipes up a little voice. You hate them.
My nerves wobble. With everything that’s been going on, I’ve managed to block that out, but now I feel the familiar creeping anxiety. Still, it’s no biggie. It’s not like I’m phobic or anything. I just prefer to use the stairs.
Ever since you got stuck in one at art college and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.
I feel a flash of panic, but ignore it. I’ll be fine. Totally fine. That was a crappy old lift in the student union at Manchester Poly. This is New York. Home of the skyscraper. People use elevators all the time here.
Elevators are just lifts in American clothing, and you’re scared of lifts. You have nightmares about the cords snapping and plunging to your death.
I slow my breathing and stare fixedly ahead. I’m being ridiculous. I bet if you told a New Yorker you were scared, they’d think you were crazy.
I glance at M
ikey for reassurance, but he’s staring at his feet and muttering something under his breath. I notice he’s wearing a small gold cross round his neck. And he’s clutching it.
Fuck.
This is not good. This is not good. This is—
The elevator suddenly comes to a halt and the doors spring open.
Wow.
My fear instantly evaporates as I’m hit with the most breathtaking view of Central Park. Stretching out ahead of me, as far as the eye can see, is a vast carpet of trees. On and on it goes, as if someone just plopped a big piece of the English countryside in the middle of Manhattan.
‘Holy shit.’
As we step out into the apartment, with its huge floor-to-ceiling windows, I turn to Mikey. Eyes out on stalks, he’s gripping on to the trolley as if for support. ‘I’m not good with heights. I get dizzy,’ he mutters gruffly, a queasy expression on his face as he gazes out at the skyline and the towering skyscrapers we’re now rubbing shoulders with.
‘I would recommend putting the crates here in the hallway,’ the doorman is saying in the background. ‘That way, they’re not causing an obstruction.’
‘Sure, good idea,’ nods Mikey. Immediately he gets underway unloading the crates in an eager bid to get out of here.
‘It’s very important not to cause an obstruction,’ continues the doorman sombrely. ‘Fire regulations, you know.’
‘Um, yes.’ I nod distractedly, my eyes flicking around me. Gosh, this place is enormous.
Wow. In my head I hear Lloyd Grossman’s voice. Who lives in a place like this?
‘Fire?’ repeats Mikey. His voice sounds a little strangled. ‘Did someone just say “Fire”?’ He starts unloading faster, his biceps popping like pistons.
And white. Everything’s white, I notice, glancing around at the white rugs, white sofas, white walls. I feel nervous just looking at it. Like I’m going to get this sudden impulse to chuck a glass of red wine everywhere.
Not that I go around chucking glasses of red wine everywhere, but I have been known to spill things occasionally. Not that I’m clumsy, I’m just—
Oh, who am I kidding? If I lived here, I’d have to take out shares in Vanish.
Anyway, I don’t need to worry about that, I reflect, thinking about my cluttered little shoebox downtown with its clashing colour schemes and eclectic mix of East-meets-West-meets-thrift-shop. Which is something, I suppose.
‘I like art, you know.’
I drag my eyes back to the doorman. ‘Oh, really?’ I nod politely.
‘Van Gogh, he’s my favourite,’ he confides. ‘Got any of his stuff?’ He jerks his head towards the paintings.
‘Er, no.’ I smile apologetically.
The doorman’s face drops with disappointment.
‘OK, well, I’m all done here,’ interrupts Mikey, straightening up. Digging out an invoice from his back pocket, he holds it out for me to sign.
‘Great. Thanks.’ I scribble my signature and pass it back.
‘Right, I’m outta here.’ Diving back to the elevator, he stands by the closed door with his trolley, waiting for the doorman. He reminds me of my parents’ dog when it’s time to go for a walk and he’s sitting by the door, desperate to go out.
‘If you’ll excuse me, miss . . .’ Clearing his throat, the doorman adjusts his peaked cap and strides into the elevator, like a pilot climbing into his cockpit. ‘Any problems, buzz down.’ He jabs at the button with a white-gloved hand. ‘I’ll be straight up.’ And with that, he and Mikey disappear behind the sliding door.
I listen to the hum of the lift as it descends, gradually getting quieter and quieter. Then it’s gone.
Chapter Seven
OK, so now what?
Alone in the penthouse, I stand motionless for a moment, looking around me. The owner might not be back for ages. What am I going to do now?
Out of the blue I get an image of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, rushing wildly from room to room, opening cupboards and jumping on beds.
Not that I’m going to do that, of course. I’m a professional twenty-nine-year-old woman, not an eight-year-old child.
Saying that, I’d love a quick snoop . . . Er, I mean a look . . . around.
Tentatively I venture down the hallway and into the spacious living room, still marvelling at the incredible 360-degree view. Quite different from the one you can see from my apartment, I muse, gazing at the Empire State, which is right there, as if someone moved it specially – a little bit to the left, a little bit to the right – so it’s smack bang in front of the window.
To think I got all excited about cricking my neck to catch the teeniest of glimpses from Robyn’s window. I feel a flash of embarrassment. This is like having front-row seats.
Awestruck, I turn away from the view and continue tiptoeing around, but I’ve only gone a few steps when a thought strikes. Swanky pads like this probably have some super-top-of-the-range security system. What if there’s CCTV cameras and I’m under surveillance? And I’m standing on a pristine white shagpile rug with my grubby old flip-flops . . . Looking down at my feet with dismay, I quickly step backwards. Only one of my feet has sort of stuck. Hang on, what’s—
Chewing gum.
On the white shagpile rug.
Shit.
Dropping to my knees, I quickly pick at the greasy, grey blob with my fingers. Eugh. This is so sticky and disgusting. I pick harder, but it’s welded itself to the rug and won’t come off. I feel a stab of panic. Crap! I know, maybe if I use my nail scissors . . . I scramble around in my bag. I carry so much rubbish around with me that I’ve probably got a pair . . . Aha, here they are!
I start digging at the tufts of shagpile with one of the blades. If I just scrape those . . . Painstakingly I work on each tuft, scraping each one, until after a few minutes there’s just a couple of stubborn little bits left. I know, what if I just trim those? No one will ever notice. It’ll be as good as new . . .
Fuck. There’s a hole.
I’ve made a hole!
With my heart thumping hard in my chest, I stop my frenzied topiary and stare at the rug in frozen horror. The hole stares back at me. Oh my God, Lucy! You’re left on your own for five minutes and this is what happens?
In a desperate attempt I try ruffling it with my fingers, but it’s no good – there’s definitely a space where more tufts should be. It’s almost like a bald patch.
Suddenly I have an idea. I know! What about doing a sort of comb-over?
Using my fingers, I get to work trying to arrange the tufts just so, but it’s not easy. They keep springing back and I have to flatten them with my hand, then wrap a few more strands round . . . God, now I know how Donald Trump feels. Exasperated, I continue tugging a piece this way and that, until finally I seem to have it covered. OK, now it just needs to stay that way.
Rummaging around in my bag again, I pull out my little can of hairspray and give the rug a generous spritz. Perfect. You’d never even know the difference.
Triumphantly I survey my handiwork. I feel rather pleased with myself. Disaster averted! Still, perhaps I should just sit down and wait for the owner to arrive home, I think as an afterthought. It’s probably safer that way. After all, I don’t want any more accidents.
Padding barefoot over to the sofa, I perch gingerly on the edge of a cushion, being careful not to de-plump it. A fan of magazines is neatly spread out on the coffee table in front of me, but I resist the temptation to flick through them. I’m not going to touch anything, remember? I’m just going to sit right here and wait until the owner arrives. I’m not going to move a muscle.
Instead I glance at the titles, Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Vanity Fair . . . In my head I hear Lloyd Grossman’s voice again, Whoever lives in this penthouse is probably in the film business. I feel a beat of excitement. Gosh, I wonder if it’s someone famous. There was me thinking it was some boring old banker, but maybe it’s a big-shot director. Or even an actor.
No, Magda would have told me, I
tell myself quickly.
Wouldn’t she?
Intrigued, I cast my eyes around for clues, but I can’t see any photos or knick-knacks or unopened mail. I wonder if there’s anything in the rest of the apartment . . .
I last about five seconds.
Then my curiosity gets the better of me and I’m up from the sofa and tiptoeing into the bedrooms. There are packing boxes strewn everywhere. So that explains it. Whoever lives here has just moved in, I conclude, playing detective. I feel a sudden sense of affinity with my mystery client. I wonder if he’s new in town too.
I steal a look inside the fitted wardrobes. A sleek row of suits hangs neatly in various shades of grey. Underneath are several pairs of shoes. I pick one up. It’s leather. Despite myself, I can’t resist taking a peek at the sole: ‘Made in Italy.’ I feel a flash of excitement. Which of course is ridiculous, I tell myself quickly. As if I care where his shoes are made.
Quickly putting it back, I sneak glances into both bathrooms – large, white and marble, they’re empty apart from an electric toothbrush and a couple of disposable contact-lens cases – and end up in the designer kitchen.
I glance around it nervously. My lack of culinary skills is something of a running joke in my family. Kate calls my style of cooking ‘one, two, three, ping’ in reference to the sound of the microwave when it’s finished. Which is a little harsh (I once made Rice Krispie cakes and they were delicious). I admit I do find kitchens a bit scary. I mean, they’re filled with endless equipment, and utensils, and ingredients, that I have no clue what to do with.
Take this one, for example. It’s terrifying. Stainless-steel countertops, state-of-the-art gadgets, an intimidating cooker with a million different dials and knobs. It’s called Wolf. How scary is that? And then there’s that hulking great big fridge. What on earth do you need a fridge that size for? I take a look inside. There’s nothing on the shelves apart from a few bottles of sparkling water, a bag of organic oranges, a tub of 0 per cent fat Greek yoghurt and some quinoa.
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