An English Boy in New York

by T. S. Easton

  ‘I like it,’ I said, shrugging. ‘But it’s not the American way. Things are different here.’

  ‘We just want people to have the option,’ Melanee said. ‘We’d like you to demonstrate just how fast and smooth this style of knitting can be. Then they can decide for themselves.’

  Well, put it like that and how could I possibly refuse? Also Melanee was hot. And Brandi would never find out.

  ‘Why not,’ I said, nodding.

  ‘Great,’ Melanee said. ‘Tomorrow at 3pm, OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, grinning.

  I left the KnitFair with a huge bag of samples. Enough to knit a dozen scarves. I even found some in royal blue, the colours of Hampton FC. It did have a bit of glitter threaded into it, but I thought I might be able to pick that out.

  There was no sign of Gex and Keith back at the hotel. Or my parents. I still had a little work to do on the Hoopie. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get it to Tony. I couldn’t ask Trey to take it, could I? Maybe Jasmine could arrange a courier for me. More money I didn’t have.

  I stopped outside Madison Square Garden to take a few photos of the building with the BlackBerry, which buzzed just as I’d finished. An email from Mr McGavin.

  Hi Ben,

  Thanks for your email. You’ve got a deal! I’ll go around this afternoon and see if I can do anything to help.

  Hampton lost again last weekend and we’re looking at relegation if we can’t win the last two. Problem is the final game is against the Milford scum. They’re top of the table. Good news is Joe Boyle might be back for the last game. It would be great to have the scarf by then if possible? It might make all the difference.

  Best wishes,

  Gordon McGavin

  Oh, come on, don’t put that on me as well, I thought.

  ‘Hello again,’ someone said. I looked up to see Melanee standing on the steps before me. She really was very pretty.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Are you finished for the day?’

  ‘I escaped,’ she said. ‘Hey, a few of us are going to a bar on 32nd Street. Wanna come?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a jumper to finish,’ I began.

  ‘Oh, screw the jumper,’ she said. ‘Come and have a drink.

  ‘Well, maybe a soft drink,’ I said.

  I could finish the Hoopie later tonight, or in the morning. It wasn’t as if I had any other offers.

  We walked half a block to the bar. Melanee’s colleagues were already there with a few bottles of wine in front of them. Who knew knitters liked to drink so much? Melanee introduced me to Beth, Rod and Diego.

  ‘Want some?’ she asked, waving a wine bottle.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said. I could still feel the cerise headache poking its way through the haze of the painkiller and I didn’t want to worsen it. ‘I’ll have a Coke. Diet Coke.’

  She poured a glass for herself and waved for the waiter.

  ‘Busy day?’ I asked as we sat opposite one another.

  ‘I’m pooped!’ she said. ‘I’m excited about your demonstration tomorrow!’

  ‘Me too!’

  ‘I think we should drink a toast,’ she said as the waiter arrived. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a proper drink?’

  ‘No. Oh, go on, maybe an Appletise.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Fizzy apple juice?’

  She stared at me for a while then said, ‘I’m going to pour you some wine, OK? We’re OK here,’ she said to the waiter, who rolled his eyes and walked off.

  ‘I don’t really like – oh,’ I said when I saw she was already pouring. ‘Big glasses here.’

  ‘A couple of glasses of wine now and again are good for you,’ she said. ‘I get so stressed at work it helps me to relax.’

  ‘Have you tried crochet?’ I suggested. ‘That’s relaxing too.’

  She flashed me a smile. And while her teeth are only an eight out of ten, compared to Brandi’s ten, eight is still pretty spectacular and I have to admit I was utterly dazzled. Like a deer in headlights I froze.

  It didn’t take her long to finish her glass. I had a couple of sips out of politeness while I listened to her talk about her work. It was a nice place, full of good-looking young people sitting in pairs or groups, laughing and chatting. I chatted to Beth for a while and Melanee talked to Diego. Beth told me she owned a small yarn shop in Yonkers. She had hair so frizzy it made Mum’s look like Penelope Cruz. I couldn’t relax though. I kept thinking about the unfinished Hoopie. I did not want to disappoint Fat Tony and his goons.

  ‘There’s a great cocktail bar with a dance floor,’ Melanee said to me after a while. ‘Rod and Diego are going. Let’s finish our wine and go with them.’

  ‘But the Hoopie … ’

  ‘Forget the Hoopie. Come to the Highball with us.’

  ‘It’s just that Fat Tony said … sorry, did you just say the Highball?’

  ‘Yeah. The Highball Lounge, midtown.’

  ‘I suppose they must … do they make highballs?’ I asked.

  ‘The best highballs in New York,’ she said.

  ‘Well, maybe just one,’ I said, swallowing nervously.

  Sometime. Someday. Somewhere

  I woke with a mouthful of sand. Or a tongue made of sandpaper. Or perhaps I was buried in sand with my mouth open. There was a sandy demon in my skull pressing hard on the back of my brain with something sharp. I opened one eye and a second demon jabbed a sharp spear of sunlight into the back of my eye socket.

  I heard a groan. It took me a while before I realised it was coming from me. My open eye gradually focused. I saw white sheets and a bright thing that might have been a window.

  I could hear traffic cheerfully honking in the street below. New York. I was in New York. I was at the hotel, rather than some gutter. Thank God for that at least. But what had happened last night? I lay, puzzling. Trying to remember.

  It was no good. I’d need to raise my head and try opening my other eye. That’s if I still had another eye. Had I definitely had two to start with? I couldn’t be sure of anything. I suddenly remembered an urban myth I’d heard about a man who wakes in a hotel room, holding a mobile phone, with his stomach cut open and his liver missing. Maybe it wasn’t an urban myth. Maybe body-part traffickers had taken my eye, my liver, my spleen! How would I get by without a spleen? I took a deep breath and pushed up with my arms. I managed to lift my head a few inches and opened my other eye. The relief I felt that the eye was still there was somewhat tempered by the fact that the demon was waiting for this and quickly jabbed another spear into that eye too.

  I sat up and looked around, blearily. No Gex. I was pleased about that. After our row yesterday I was in no mood to talk to him just now. I peered under the covers. I was wearing Gex’s boxers. Usually a thought to terrify, but today actually quite comforting. I was otherwise undressed. I saw my Bloomingdale’s bag on a chair and heaved a sigh of relief. I still had Fat Tony’s Hoopie. I lay and tried to remember. What had happened? How had I got back? Who had undressed me? Did I have any Canadian paracetamol?

  Saturday 18th May

  10.15am

  I took some pills, called room service and ordered a cup of tea. Rock and roll. While I waited, holding my head, the phone rang. Melanee.

  ‘Hey, Ben,’ she said. ‘I’m just phoning to see if you’re OK. You seemed a little … tired last night.’

  ‘You brought me back here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How many highballs did I drink?’ I asked.

  ‘One,’ she said.

  ‘One!’

  ‘And you didn’t finish it,’ she said.

  I furrowed my brow, trying to remember. ‘Why do I feel so bad?’ I asked.

  She laughed. ‘You’re not much of a drinker, are you?’

  ‘So what … ’ I began.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘I got drunk,’ she said. ‘You had like a glass of wine, then a highball and then we danced for a while
until you fell down and knocked over a table, so I took you back to your hotel to sleep it off.’

  ‘Dancing?’ I asked, hit with a vivid flash of memory. A crowded dance floor. Lithe figures. Thumping bass. Melanee and I dancing close together. My hands on her hips. Then it was gone.

  ‘I didn’t do anything … er?’

  ‘Anything what?’ she asked.

  ‘Anything I shouldn’t have done?’

  ‘Well, it was pretty crazy in that bar.’

  ‘But did I do something inappropriate?’

  ‘No, not at all.’

  Phew! ‘Oh, that’s a relief.’

  ‘Apart from all the twerking,’ she added.

  ‘Twerking? I twerked?’

  ‘You sure did,’ she said. ‘You really like Miley, huh?’

  The tea arrived then and I said goodbye to Melanee, promising her I’d see her later at KnitFair. I tipped the waiter $2 which he didn’t comment on. I poured myself a cup and sat back, closing my eyes.

  Then my phone vibrated again. It was Mum calling.

  ‘Oh, you’re back,’ she said. ‘You were out late.’

  ‘We went dancing.’

  ‘Who’s we?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Um. Me and Melanee. She does the PR for the American Knitting Guild.’

  ‘I thought her name was Brandi?’ Mum said.

  ‘No, Brandi’s with the Knitting Guild Association of America,’ I explained.

  Mum was quiet for a moment. ‘Ben,’ she said, ‘have you been taking some unscheduled flights?’

  ‘What? No! Of course not!’ I said. ‘Unless you count twerking, that is.’

  Poor Megan is at home nursing her dying grandmother,’ Mum said tartly. ‘And here you are, swanning around New York with a series of attractive PR girls.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I said. ‘It’s entirely professional.’

  ‘And aren’t you supposed to be at KnitFair in half an hour?’

  I checked my watch. She was right. I had an appointment with Mid-West Knitwear at 10.45.

  ‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘You’re right. I gotta go.’

  ‘Be careful, Ben,’ Mum said. As I hung up, Dermot O’Leary’s voice-over popped up again.

  ‘It’s crunch time for Ben. Is he going off the rails? Partially drunk highballs and Canadian paracetamol are a dangerous cocktail. Will his self-destructive lifestyle be his undoing? Or will he be able to hold it together for the crucial series of meetings today? Join us after the break to find out.’

  ‘Shut up, Dermot,’ I muttered. What was I going to do? I picked up my tea cup only to be interrupted again. This time it was Claudia Gunter. Oh God, I was in no fit state to talk to her. I rejected the call, I then noticed I had about fifteen missed calls. I’d had it on vibrate all night, but I suppose I mustn’t have noticed with all the dancing.

  As it happened, I got my act together well enough. I was showered, fed and down at the Priapia stand at KnitFair with ten minutes to spare. I felt a pang of anxiety as I saw Brandi standing there, chatting to Trey, but Melanee just squeezed my hand quickly and slipped away before Brandi saw us. The paracetamol had wiped my headache and I was starting to feel capable of anything, just like I had in the TV studio.

  ‘Ben, there you are,’ Brandi said. ‘I called you, like, twelve times.’

  I’d have to come clean with her, I knew. About the texts from G, about twerking with Melanee, and flirting with the American Knitting Guild. I can’t live with all this guilt.

  But not just yet. I was in no fit state. So I said nothing. Then Brandi had to go back to her stand and Mr D’Angelo told me where to sit and got me a glass of water. Someone at Priapia had made up some display cards with pencil and ink drawings of the Hoopie. They looked amazing. Whoever the designer was I could tell they really understood what I was trying to do.

  The morning round of meetings went surprisingly well. Or at least that’s the feeling I was left with. The display cards and the paracetamol had done the trick and I was either talkative and charming, or smug and full of rubbish depending on your viewpoint. I saw so many plump, middle-aged Americans they all blended in with one another after a while, and they all said pretty much the same thing. That they loved the Hoopie design, and would definitely take a test quantity once I was set up to mass-produce the garment. I made sure I got a business card from everyone and wrote on the back what quantity they would take and what they would pay. It was all extremely promising, assuming I could get my hands on enough funding for a few machines. Or else get Mr D’Angelo to produce the garments for me.

  The pills started to wear off after a while and I could feel the headache coming back. I struggled through until midday when Mr D’Angelo came over to see me. I showed him the cards. He nodded.

  ‘That’s great, Ben, but you need to increase those numbers,’ he said. ‘It costs a lot to set up production. We need to produce thousands to make the costs work, not hundreds.’

  The BlackBerry buzzed almost as soon as he’d walked away. An unknown number. I blinked at the screen. My head pounding.

  Where are you? We need to talk. Gx

  I was puzzled for a moment. Something about the text seemed odd. Why was Gex texting from an unknown number? Then I remembered we’d murdered one another’s contacts. After a moment’s thought I texted back.

  At the KnitFair. Stand 102.5

  There was still something though about his text that was worrying me. Was it the full spelling? Usually he’d write Wher RU? Or even just Wr U. And We need to talk? Despite the argument we’d had, this sounded serious. As I headed back to the stand, I pulled out the BlackBerry for another look. What I saw made me stop in my tracks. A party of full-size knitters streamed around me, static electricity crackling gently in the air. I felt my hair stand on end as I read the text again.

  Where are you? We need to talk. Gx

  Gx! Not Gex! Oh my God! And I’d told him where I was. He thought I was Brandi. The horror dawned on me. G was coming! He’d run into Brandi. She’d find out I’d been texting him. He probably thought I/Brandi wanted to renew the relationship. When he got here and found out it was all a terrible misunderstanding, he might go mental. He might kill himself, or Brandi. Or worst of all, me!

  Back at the stand I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was whirring. I now had a list of things to worry about as long as my arm. I made a list on the back of a Hoopie pattern sheet.

  – I was about to be owned by a knitting machine.

  – I had a constant, low-level cerise headache.

  – G was coming, with all the trouble that entailed.

  – I was becoming dependant on Canadian paracetamol.

  – My relationship with Megan was clearly over. And her mum was mad at me too. That was the last I’d see of her Tupperware.

  1.44pm

  I sidled over to the American Knitting Guild stand straight after lunch for the European Knitting demonstration. I’d lied again and told Brandi I was going to a symposium on Azkabani Finger-Stitching. My headache was gone, thanks to one of Brandi’s magic pills. I didn’t feel quite so light-headed as I did in the TV studio, but I wasn’t quite myself either. I’ve decided to knit a Hampton scarf to keep things simple. I’m not sure whether it was the pills or what, but I was smoking. I did twelve rows in a quarter of an hour and with no mistakes. People were gathering to watch me. If I perform like that at the DeathMatch tomorrow then it will be pretty special. If I perform like this at the DeathMatch, then maybe I can beat that machine!

  After the demonstration Melanee brought me a cup of coffee. I really wanted tea of course but didn’t want to make a fuss.

  ‘That was amazing,’ Melanee said. ‘Thanks so much for doing this, Ben.’

  ‘No problem,’ I replied. I was just pleased Brandi hadn’t walked by and seen me. Maybe I could keep this under my beanie.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a man’s voice said from behind me. ‘I’m looking for Brandi DeLacourt.’

  ‘Wrong stand,’ Melanee said. ‘Yo
u want the Knitting Guild Association of America.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the man asked. ‘I got a text from her telling me to meet her here.’

  Uh-oh. The hairs on the back of my neck stood and I turned to look. It had to be him. G.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Melanee said. ‘You need stand 101.2.’

  The man sniffed and turned to leave.

  ‘Sorry, Melanee,’ I said. ‘I have to go.’

  If I was quick, I could make it to the KGAA stand before G got there. I knew a short cut, through the South Carolina Loom-makers’ Association. I raced all the way, knocking over a rack of chunky yarns and a display of crochet hooks outside the Puerto Rican Crafting Society stand.

  ‘Ay caramba!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Sorry,’ I yelled back over my shoulder. ‘Knitting emergency!’

  ‘Hi, Ben, how was the symposium?’ Brandi asked as I ran up to the KGAA stand, puffing.

  ‘Inspirational,’ I said. Why does lying come so easily to me?

  As I looked around, checking for the approach of G, Brandi pulled something out of her handbag.

  ‘Hobnobs!’ I cried. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘I went to the English store.’

  ‘You went all the way to Brooklyn for me?’

  She nodded.

  Suddenly the guilt was all too much to bear. The lies had to stop. ‘Look, Brandi, there’s something I have to tell you,’ I said.

  ‘OK,’ she said, leaning towards me, her big eyes burning into my soul. She was just about to see what a loser I was.

  ‘I’ve let you down,’ I began. I went on to tell her what I’d done. How I’d texted G to try and let him down gently, to try and get rid of him. I watched her face turn from open trust through surprise, disbelief and finally anger.

  Brandi wasn’t just angry though. She was furious. I’d never seen her even remotely cross before. And she put a proper face on, let me tell you.

  ‘I can’t believe you texted my ex-boyfriend!’ she said.

  ‘He started it,’ I protested. ‘And you didn’t want to know about it. I was just trying to let him down easy.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to let him down easy,’ she said.