by J J Maya
Deciding it best to help him out, I reached my hand out in the darkness and flicked on the light switch at once illuminating, the apartment and our faces, as the hallway strip lighting sprung into life. I scanned the view in front of me with bated breath.
A huge surge of disappointment swept over me (and not for the first time that day) as a noxious smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze filled the atmosphere. The fumes brought back the memory of arriving at Geneviève’s flat and opening the door to be greeted by a similar assault on my senses. To make it worse, a musty smell permeated the atmosphere.
Visibly crushed by my look of disappointment, Rick rushed towards the windows, pulling open the blinds, "I'll open the windows...let some air in."
Just then, my nostrils were filled with a waft of thick, cold, pungent New York City air, flowing in through the open window. I shivered.
Walking slowly around the tiny apartment, which was little more than a room and kitchen with a bedroom off to the side, I ran my finger along the sideboard, picking up a thick line of dust. The apartment had clearly not been cleaned the whole time that Rick was away. Bang went my vision of housecleaners coming in. Catching Rick's eye, I felt sorry for him. I knew he could register my look of disappointment and I felt strangely bad for him. It was time to bring out the big guns and turn this situation around. Making a dire attempt at being the playful new wife, I winked at him, "Could do with a woman's touch, Ricky boy."
Rick blushed slightly. My heart melted. Realising that this was probably not how he had envisaged bringing home his new wife, I snuggled up to him, putting my arms once again around his warm neck.
"Where's the bedroom?"
"Now you're talking!”
Rick led me by the hand towards the closed door and opened it to reveal the king-sized bed of my dreams. It was gigantic, taking up almost the whole room, and was dressed in pristine white Kate Spade linen. Result! This man clearly has taste. Throwing himself down on the bed, Rick pulled me on top of him, caressing my neck, running his hands up and down my spine, reminding me once again that we were, in fact, on our honeymoon. And then it happened. That same familiar sensation I had experienced as we were about to land at JFK; I needed to pee, really bad. Pulling myself out of Rick’s clutches, I sat up straight and crossed my legs, hoping I would make it in time.
"Where's the bathroom?" I asked.
"In there," Rick pointed to a door facing onto the side of the bed.
Relieved it was so close, I rushed over, "En-suite?" I enquired, flashing a mischievous smile full of promise.
"Luxury as standard."
Closing the door swiftly behind me and throwing myself ungraciously onto the cold seat, I was stopped in mid-flow by the sight of a huge scrawl written in red lipstick over the vanity mirror - "Call Me!"
"What the f...?" Ping went the elastic band chorus in the pit of my stomach.
On closer inspection, I deduced the message was written in Dolce Vita by Dior, a long-lasting luscious red beloved by all makeup artists.
Scanning the tiny room, I found evidence of a woman's presence everywhere I looked: scanty underwear lying at the bottom of the bathtub, an opened box of tampons, and foundation rings on the windowsill. My stomach lurched and my head spun as I took it all in. Whoever had been here, had only just left, that much was certainly evident. Examining further it looked like whoever had been living here was a fan of Agent Provocateur judging by the label sticking out of the lacy red bra which was hanging off the hook on the back of the bathroom door.
Frantically scanning back through our previous conversations, I tried to remember if he had ever spoken about another significant woman in his life.
What the hell have I missed? Alarm bells rang out as I went over our chats and talks that went on long into the night, highlighting our precious evenings together at his serviced apartment in Ingram Street. Perhaps he has a roommate that he has forgotten to tell me about? Although, what kind of lodger would be making herself at home like this in Rick's en-suite? Engulfed by a sea of overwhelming thoughts, I sat down heavily on the edge of the tub and held my pounding head in my hands. My stomach lurched the way it used to as I walked onto the shop floor in Devonshire's.
"Willow? Willow? You alright in there?"
Silence. I couldn't bring myself to answer him.
"You haven't fallen asleep on me, have you?"
The knocking grew louder and more urgent as I sank deeper into despair. Rick frantically attempted to open the door from the other side as I watched the door handle go up and down.
"Willow...let me in!" he shouted.
Moments passed. Slowly, I stood up and released the door from the lock, taking a step back as I held the door ajar. Following Rick's gaze from me to the scene around me, I watched as the colour drained from his face, his worried expression at once replaced by a look of utter shock.
Holding aloft a pair of red silk knickers, I stared at Rick.
"Who in hell do these belong to?"
Folding his arms tightly while clearing his throat, Rick's wild-eyed stare had settled slightly as he prepared to launch into an explanation.
"That I can explain."
2
The Sandman
THAT NIGHT, RICK had been banished to the couch in the living room to spend what should have been our first night as a married couple.
I lay in bed alone, perplexed and unsure. My mind raced uncontrollably while my body called out for sleep. Am I a fool? What’s he doing with someone like me anyway? The previous allure of Rick’s king-sized bed had faded and now all it represented was his past, and a life that I would probably never truly know. Seven years, he goes out with someone for 7 years then dumps her after he meets me? And why am I only just finding this out now? He should have told me before we got married! I’m sure I must have asked him at some point if he had been in a serious relationship, but Rick had just shrugged and hinted at a string of frivolous relationships which didn’t have any significance. Significance? Then what the fuck is 7 years with one person if it isn’t significant? Clutching my knees tightly under my chin, I shuddered as the voices ringing in my ears became louder and louder,
"See! Told you! You should have listened to us.”
“It's absolute madness going all the way to New York with a man you hardly know.”
"You must be off your freakin' head to even contemplate it.”
The vision of Greta, my floor manager in the Beauty Hall, peering at me, snorting with self-righteous derision and laughing in my face as I told her I was leaving for America now haunted me. I felt sick to my stomach.
Was she right? Why didn’t I think this through? Oh my God, what have I done?
Early the next morning, I awoke to a pounding headache and a streak of crusted drool trailing down the right-hand side of my mouth. Dehydrated from the flight, I leaned over to take a sip of the fresh orange juice that I had brought into the bedroom the previous night. Not yet fully awake, I welcomed the sensation of the juice in my parched mouth, swishing the liquid from one side of my mouth to the other. Then, I bit into something hard.
What the…?
It happened again.
Looking down at the contents of the glass, I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing: a trail of worker ants had climbed up onto the bedside table, circling, and making its way back down again, while a group of the less fortunate ones had formed a thick, dark, nasty layer on the top of my juice.
"Aaaargh!"
I spat into the glass.
"What is it?” Rick rushed in. “What's happened?"
I scowled at the glass of ant infested juice then stared at Rick. The expression on his face twisted and distorted as he made a vain attempt at mock sympathy.
"Welcome to the Big A!" he announced.
“The Big Apple you call it? The freakin big apple?” I spat out black ants as I spoke, wiping them indelicately from the side of my face. “You think this is funny?”
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I watched in awe as he exploded into great outbursts of laughter, gripping his sides tightly. I had never seen anyone laugh so hard. It’s not that funny. He was now bent over, holding onto his knees, as I spat yet another dead ant into the glass. Every time I attempted to speak; Rick erupted. Obviously, I was the funniest thing he had seen in a long time. Gradually calming down in between howls of laughter, I was able to make out the words "sprayed" and “apartment."
"Sprayed? What do you mean sprayed?" I asked, wiping my mouth on a handkerchief. "You mean toxic chemicals all over the place? And how can ants climb this high up anyway? I don't get it."
Finally calming down, Rick pulled himself together, took out his cell phone from his back pocket and called downstairs to the front desk.
“Hi Tomas, Rick here. Yes, Glasgow was great, thanks." Rick flashed a cocky smile at me, and I could tell he was doing his best not to erupt into another bout of laughter at my expense.
“Looks like since I've been gone, the ants have come back." Turning his back on me, I heard him say in a low voice, "You know Isabella doesn't clean." Thinking I hadn't heard that comment, he turned around to face me once again, flashing another smile then signaling over to me, "Two pm OK for you to let the guys in to spray?"
"Suppose so, what else am I going to be doing, except cleaning this damn apartment?" I replied sulkily, spitting more ants from my mouth, picking them off my pyjama top, the ones I had bought especially for our first ‘married’ night together. Now the white satin top was dotted with little black things that resembled polka dots.
Rick turned his back on me pretending he didn't hear the disdain in my voice.
"Two pm it is, Tomas. You too. Catch you later."
Looking closer at the carpet, which appeared to be swaying like palm fronds in a Caribbean breeze, I realised the carpet fibres were moving. The whole apartment was well and truly infested. Shuddering, I felt cold spread all the way down my spine as I noticed a trail of the little blighters crawling in and out of my half-opened suitcase.
"Looks like they found the Tunnocks Tea Cakes,” I called out, feeling faintly happy that Rick would no longer have his favourite tea cakes to look forward to.
Serves him damn well right.
Rick ran over to check. Peering into the suitcase, he stared back at me and frowned.
“You’re right. I was so looking forward to those,” he replied, disappointment colouring his voice.
Now it was my turn to laugh as Rick realised there would be no treats to dunk in his tea, if he ever got around to buying a damned kettle. Ignoring me and the situation he was about to leave me in, he looked at his watch.
"Shoot! Is that the time?"
Rick scurried around the bedroom pulling out a clean shirt from his wardrobe. I looked at my phone, it was only 6:30am but it appeared the day started early over here.
"What time do you leave?" I asked, watching him closely as he transformed into the suave version of himself, I had seen that first day in Devonshire. His jet-black hair shone with vitality as he straightened his tie and fixed his starched shirt cuffs. He pulled his leather belt tight, although he did appear to struggle slightly.
“Now," came the rushed reply.
Leaning in for a kiss, on the side of my face that was not covered in crusty ant residue, Rick flicked one of the blighters off my collar bone
"I’ll be back for 7pm. Now don't forget, pest control will be here at 2pm. So, make sure you’re here to let them in. I've left you a key and five dollars on the kitchen table and a map too."
Rick appeared to stare at me a moment too long, making me feel slightly uncomfortable.
Five dollars? What am I supposed to do with five measly dollars?
Then he was gone, slamming the door noisily behind him. As I swung my legs out of the bed, taking care not to stand on the moving trail of worker ants, the red-lipsticked message on the bathroom mirror screamed at me, unsettling me, reminding me of the previous night’s furore. What kind of fresh hell is this?
3
Girl in a Hurry
AS SOON AS Rick had left, I got up, washed, and brushed my teeth three times before dressing in ten minutes flat. I was faintly glad to be on my own for the first time. I was one of those strange people who liked their own company and relished time alone, if only to re-charge and get ready for the next day.
I surveyed my surroundings while picturing the room layouts in my head. Years of reading Geneviève’s collection of interior design magazines had left me with quite a talent for room re-designs and shifting furniture.
I planned on visiting the nearest Ikea at the first opportunity to grab a few things for the apartment. Or maybe I could persuade Rick to go shopping with me in some of New York’s outstanding furniture and accessory shops. I knew all the names of these stores by heart and where to find them. I even had an app on my phone which told me which ones I was within walking distance of.
The first thing I would do would be to change out the streamlined sofa for something squishier and more comfortable. Royal blue velvet…sage green velvet…stately winged armchairs, one for each side of the fireplace…that would be perfect.
Then I got onto thinking of paint colours before I was snapped out of my interior design daydream by a sudden thirst for a cup of tea. I had been in the USA for two days now, and like a drug addict pines for their line of coke, I was in desperate need of a cup of tea.
Grabbing the five-dollar bill, keys and map from the kitchen table, I threw on the thin winter coat I had arrived in and made a dash for the door.
The air was thick with city smells like the ones I was used to from home; the only difference here was the pungent aroma emanating from the hot dog carts. Deep down I knew it was a smell I would slowly get used to, but, right now, it made me want to be sick.
On and on I walked, passing an interesting array of corner shops, dirty looking dining establishments that made you wonder how they ever got a license to sell food, and cute little vintage stores selling things you would find hard to believe there was ever a market for. There were window displays filled with laundry airers and pull out portable washing lines and crazy looking dryer balls that softened clothes in the drying cycle. And there appeared to be a dry-cleaning establishment on every street corner.
There appears to be some kind of obsession with doing laundry in this city.
As I continued to walk, stopping every now and then to check the map Rick had given me, it dawned on me that I had been walking the streets of Queens for almost an hour. I was dying for a cup of tea and although I had passed countless branches of Starbucks and Italian style coffee shops, I had made it my mission, that first morning, to buy a kettle. A strong cup of brew first thing in the morning would be just the thing to settle my nerves, of that I was sure.
It was only just past 10am but the jet lag had knocked me for six and it felt like the middle of the afternoon. To accomplish my mission, I knew that I would have to find a department store, something akin to the one looming straight ahead: D’Arcy's Department Store.
They would be bound to sell a kettle in there, right? I thought.
Looking through the windows of the stately Art Deco building, I could just about make out the svelte figures of rows and rows of makeup artists dressed head to toe in black uniform. Some wore their hair perfectly coiffed whilst the MAC assistants looked the same way they looked the world over; a complex take on grunge and punk with a splash of eccentricity thrown in for good measure. My heart skipped a beat as I walked through the open door which was carefully guarded by a top hatted elderly door man.
"Hello, Welcome to D’Arcy's Department Store.”
The old door man smiled, his eyes twinkling with delight as he beckoned me in. The rough luxe exterior of this Grande dame of a building had seen happier times, and it was obvious that several vain attempts had been made to hide its cracks and flaws. It had this in common with the makeup artists who worked there at least, oth
erwise known as, what I would call, the mistresses of disguise.
Inside the building I noticed there were visible signs of low-grade maintenance carefully disguised with interior design tricks. Flowing velvet curtains hid unsightly cracks in the paintwork and there had clearly been attempts to mask the damp patches seeping through the walls.
The sea of women dressed in black went about the business of the day: primping, prepping and beguiling clients with their professional stance, demurely painting the faces of the women of Queens, while bystanders complimented their work, suggesting colours and scrutinising techniques. This secret world was familiar to me: a world where women shared their concerns and problems with each other, and the art of disguise possessed the power to either reveal or conceal. I could feel myself getting sucked in as I heard the opening notes of Frank Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ followed by Tony Bennett singing ‘San Francisco.’ The music playing in the background only served to make the whole experience, a very special one indeed. My heart leapt with the absolute familiarity of it all, to an onlooker the ease with which I expertly moved about the counters gave me the appearance of a native New Yorker but deep down the nerves I was beginning to feel threatened to disarm me, throwing me into a mild state of panic.
Was I here in New York City, shopping all by myself? What if something were to happen to me? Who would know or even care?
Alarmed by this sudden realisation that I was truly all by myself in the big city, the sensation was both delicious and frightening. I felt a rush of frigid coldness travel up and down my spine as I shivered. Something about this experience reminded me of a time on holiday in Greece, when I had jumped off a yacht into the crystal-clear water below only to be immediately filled with panic as I realised my feet couldn’t touch the bottom of the ocean. I stopped for a moment to calm my breathing, soothing myself as I waited for the fleeting moment of panic to disappear.