Charlotte’s laughing, too, and reaching down to help me up. “What was that you were saying?”
“Okay, never mind.” I stand up, shake off. Stare down the path, but the speed demon that caused this mess is long gone. “The city’s dangerous for everyone. Hope that didn’t scare you off.”
She shakes her head. “Definitely not. I’m just getting the hang of it. But maybe we should actually decide where we’re going?”
I look down at Charlotte’s tote bag, beneath the fallen Citi Bike. “What’s Step Two?”
Charlotte follows my gaze, then shakes her head. “You don’t have to —”
“Come on. You want to kill time, I want to … All right, not kill time, but I’ve got no place to be. Why not?”
She looks at me for a long moment, and even though her face seems to say, You’re a bit weird, I feel like she understands. She’s been dumped, too. She gets it.
She crouches and digs the bag free. Takes out the book, finds the right page. Smiles, screws her eyes shut and gives me a look, like, You’re not going to like this.
“Macy’s is on …?”
“Thirty-Fourth Street,” I answer.
Charlotte stuffs the book back into the bag, then picks up her bike. “Well, that’s where we’re headed.”
“Why?”
She rehooks the bag and swings her leg over the saddle. “Makeovers, of course. Race you there!”
And now she’s pedaling away, and I’m watching her go, snowflakes dancing around her. A stranded British girl, riding a bike to Macy’s on Christmas Eve, for a makeover a book is telling her is a good idea if she wants to get over her ex. Could this night get any more random?
But I’m leaning down to pick up my bike.
For some reason, I’m kind of curious to find out.
1. DO SOMETHING YOU STOPPED DOING BECAUSE YOUR EX DIDN’T LIKE IT.
~ Chapter Three ~
Charlotte
2. EXPLORE ALTERNATIVE YOUS …
Having modified or tweaked your personality to meet the demands of a relationship over months or even years, it is very easy to lose sight of who you were before it began. But rather than just go back to Who You Were, what about exploring different options for Who You Are Now?
5:05 p.m.
I know it’s embarrassingly touristy of me, but I can’t help it — the windows at Macy’s, with their intricate Charlie Brown display, are so magical, I actually gasp.
“It’s not as good as last year’s,” Anthony mumbles.
“Come on.” I point to the window that we’re passing. Charlie is complaining that Snoopy’s Christmas decorations are “too commercial.” It’s totally bonkers and totally Christmassy! “You’re not impressed by this?”
“Last year’s was better.”
I wonder if he means when he was with Maya. Were they together this time last year? Anthony has been wearing this face — tight-lipped, narrow-eyed, like he’s trying to will away a mild headache — since we docked our Citi Bikes at Broadway and Thirty-Second Street, and it’s only now I realize that maybe his ex has been on his mind.
It’s another moment where a distraction is needed, so I tug his coat sleeve and point out: “They seem to be loving it, though.”
“They” are the two boys and one girl — siblings, which I can tell from their near-identical puffer jackets and beanie hats — pressing their mittened hands right up against the glass, their breath fogging it up as they gawp at the display. One of the boys, no older than six, turns around and looks up at the thirty-something couple standing, shivering, just behind them. “Mommy?” he asks. “Is Macy’s where Santa gets the toys that he gives to the kids around the world?”
The mum gives the dad a bit of a panicked look as she stutters. “Um, yeah … I guess so, sweetie.”
The boy frowns, looking suspicious, and the mum grimaces a little, seemingly wondering if this is the day the magic will die.
But her son just shrugs and turns back to gawping at the display. “He should hurry and pick up all this stuff, then. It’s gonna be Christmas soon, you know!”
I look to Anthony, expecting to see him melting as much as I am — but when he sees me smiling at him, Anthony seems to realize that he’s smiling and looks away from me.
No, no, no, I think. No clinging to your misery. You’re tagging along because you want to get over it. So, get over it!
I gently nudge his shoulder with mine, urging him toward the revolving door, and he moves along. But outside the Thirty-Fourth Street entrance, he comes to a stop, looking unsure about whether he wants to go in. That’s when I notice the ocean of people inside, making the airport crowds from earlier look calm and civilized.
Anthony tugs at my sleeve, guiding me toward the revolving doors. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
About seventeen seconds later, I’m rethinking my approach to Step Two, because as soon as we go through the revolving doors, the chaos of Christmas Eve in Macy’s hits me like a slap in the face. Children are running and screaming, but so are parents, chasing and screaming after them. The sight actually brings me to a standstill — for about two seconds, because more shoppers are streaming into the store, and one of them knocks into me. I lurch forward, and it’s only Anthony’s quick thinking, as he yanks back on my arm, that saves me from becoming part of a three-way tug-of-war over a fancy perfume gift set!
As the “tuggers” — three thirty-something guys dressed identically (brown sweaters, glasses, corduroy trousers) — argue over who saw the gift set first, I wonder if the makeover is really worth all this hassle and stress.
The gift set hits the ground with a clatter and a smash, and the Brown Sweater Trio leaps back, away from the mess. Given the overpowering citrusy scent that seems to replace the oxygen on the ground floor, I think their girlfriends, fiancées or wives have had a lucky break.
Now Anthony’s pulling me toward an elevator bank, guiding me inside. He pushes the button for the eighth floor. “Why are we going to the eighth?”
“Because,” he says, as the elevator gets moving, “Santaland should be closing up about now, so the eighth floor is most likely dead. We can take a breather, and then slowly descend into the madness.”
At the eighth floor, the elevator pings, the doors slide open and I see that Anthony was right. It’s pretty dead up here. There are a few older people looking at houseware stuff, some women shrugging themselves out of perfectly fine winter coats to try on new ones — but other than that, it’s quiet.
In the center of the floor is Santa Claus. All right, not the real one — obviously — just a guy in a suit lugging a snow-dappled sleigh as Santaland shuts down for the day and for the year. His face is so stony I’m actually surprised that the ground floor isn’t overrun with bewildered little kids asking if they’ll be getting presents at all, because Santa seems so angry this year.
As Anthony and I share an amused look, a mobile rings, and Santa almost jumps out of his suit, patting himself down and muttering, “Where is it, damn it?”
One of the elves steps forward, reaching into a satchel slung over his shoulder. He takes out a roll of faux parchment and then a mobile phone, which he holds out. Santa pulls down his white beard — revealing a clean-shaven face — and glares at the elf.
“You stole my phone?”
The elf looks a little flustered. “You asked me to hold it for you, remember?”
“Oh yeah, like I’d ever do that.”
“You did, George — you have no pockets in your suit, and you didn’t want to miss the call if it was” — he gives the phone a little shake — “you-know-who … calling.”
Santa lets his beard snap back into place, taking the phone and staring at the screen. He gasps and looks up at his little helper. “It’s really him,” he croaks. Then he taps the screen to answer the call, turning away. “Giovanni? Oh, G
ee-Gee, I’m so glad you got my messages …”
He disappears into the Au Bon Pain restaurant, and I actually think, Ugh, even Santa’s love life is in better shape than mine. Then I grin, wondering what Mrs. Claus would make of him having a Gee-Gee on the side.
I shake my head and tell myself to get back to business. But I’ve been to Macy’s just twice, and one of those trips lasted only about eight minutes, because when we got up to the Mezzanine, Mrs. Lawrence saw her old high school boyfriend lurking among the handbags and she got us out of there. Thirty years later, and she was convinced he wasn’t over her. Apparently, he’d friend-requested her from a second Facebook profile using his mother’s maiden name. Creepy.
That’s one good thing about me going half the world away — I won’t have to worry about bumping into Colin in John Lewis. Ever.
It’s only now that I realize Anthony is talking and has actually moved to stand by a color-coded map of Macy’s. I walk over, apologizing. He taps the map, then points out a pair of escalators that he says will take us down to the seventh floor. It’s only as we get on the escalators that I notice they’re made of wood and make a weird clickety-clackety noise that has me worried they might collapse. But I do like how Manhattan seems content to just let ghosts of its past barge in on the present, like a stubborn older relative making sure the rest of the family doesn’t forget them. It reminds me of home, because London’s like that, as well. Maybe that’s why I fit in so well here.
Not that that matters anymore, but it’s a nice feeling to have on my last day.
Once we’re on the seventh floor, I look around to see if any sales clerks are free, but the seventh floor is much busier than the eighth. Like, The Walking Dead is real-life-from-tomorrow busy!
“The sales clerks all look slammed,” I tell Anthony.
He nods. “Guess we’re on our own.”
We walk to the nearest display table, which has a pyramid of folded black jeans. I’m about to pick up a pair when I see the price tag. $165? I maybe should have read more about Step Two — I didn’t anticipate it being this expensive.
“Don’t worry about it.” I look at Anthony. A smile is straining to break free of the rest of his face. He’d probably be handsome if he smiled more — it’s only because he hasn’t smiled much that I don’t know for sure.
“It’s a hundred and sixty-five dollars! For jeans!”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says again.
I reach into my bag and take out Ten Easy Steps … flick through it.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I stop on Step Two. “Looking for where it says, ‘Shoplifting’s totally fine and acceptable.’ Nope, don’t see that in the book!”
He’s smiling now, and I was right — he looks better when he’s relaxed. “I didn’t mean that. I have a Macy’s credit card — so, whatever we buy, we can wear today, and I’ll return it after Christmas. Free makeover.”
Buying clothes to wear for only one day — a few hours — isn’t like me, but I can’t pretend that getting to wear something expensive without paying for it isn’t exciting. I’m about to nod, say all right, when I cringe at another thought. “This place must have, like, the strictest return policy. And it’s cold and snowy out — no way we’ll be able to keep these in returnable condition.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Stop being so British. New Yorkers don’t always follow the rules. You’re gonna need to learn that if you want to be one of us.” He’s walking past me, back to the escalator. “Now, I’m going down to the fifth floor to pick something out. Meet you there in ten?”
But something else in the book catches my eye, and I turn and walk to him, pulling him away from the escalator. “Nope, I’m going down to fifth.”
“Why?”
“Because” — I show him Step Two, pointing to the text in question — “‘letting a friend pick your outfit is a healthy exercise in seeing how people truly see you.’ Besides, if I have to choose my own stuff, I could be here until Easter. It’ll be much quicker if you just pick something out for me.”
He steps toward me, and, for just a moment, I think he’s going to take my hands in his and pull me away from the escalator. “Oh no, that’s a horrible idea,” he says. “Look at me — I don’t have a clue about fashion.”
I try to keep my eyes off the yellow-and-cream plaid shirt that really doesn’t belong beneath the brown field coat, try not to show that I kind of agree with him. “It’ll be easy,” I say. “Just pick out something that you think you’d like to see me in.”
Oh, that came out wrong. Am I blushing? I feel like I might be blushing. I quickly turn and start heading down the escalator, calling back that I’ll be doing the same for him.
Yeah, I’m definitely blushing.
*
5:25 p.m.
I’m feeling pretty confident in my outfit selection by the time I see Anthony coming down the escalator to the fifth floor. He doesn’t look anywhere near as confident as I feel. He’s holding a bundle of clothes tight to his chest like it’s a newborn he’s afraid of dropping.
“You ready to do this?”
“You sound like we’re making a drug deal,” I joke.
A smile breaks through his face, and his eyes light up. He fakes looking for cops. “I got your stuff here, girl, but you better get to steppin’ before the pigs spot you.”
I look at the floor so he doesn’t see the silly grin on my face. Then we exchange the outfits in the least stealthy way possible, and we both laugh. I wish I was better at improv because, if I was, I could keep this little role-play going.
But I’m not good at improv. I only ever got B-minuses in Drama.
Signs direct us to changing rooms on opposite sides of the floor. “Meet you back here?”
He nods. “Sure.”
We give each other a last look, as if we’re about to jump off a cliff or something. Looking at each other just makes this awkward, so I turn and head for the women’s changing rooms before I can think too long about how we are doing something totally ridiculous.
It’s only after I’m in the booth and have laid out Anthony’s selections that I actually see what he’s picked out for me. Skinny, slightly distressed black jeans; a black T-shirt with a skull on it; an indigo scarf; a black leather jacket.
Who’s he trying to turn me into, Jessica Jones?
But at least he seems to be thinking about what I’ll be comfortable in, rather than what will look “hot,” which was basically how Colin judged everything I wore. But then, I’m Anthony’s one-day-only friend, and there’s not going to be a time where we’re seen together. No point where I’ll be part of whatever front he wants to present.
My makeover is about me, not about Anthony and me.
It feels good.
Two minutes later, I’ve changed into the jeans and the T-shirt, and I look at myself in the mirror. The jeans are snug and in need of breaking in, but I have to admit, they look good. The skull on the black tee looks like it’s in an intense staring match with its reflection, and with my dark hair I’m surprised I’m somehow managing to stop short of Goth. I complete the outfit by slipping on the scarf and then the jacket, expecting to see a ridiculous Bizarro Charlotte looking back at me from the mirror.
But I don’t think that. I look … all right, I think. Kind of quietly tough. Not “tough” as in “a girl who gets into fights” or anything — more the kind of girl who doesn’t have to get into fights, because people know she doesn’t tolerate nonsense.
I like her. I’m wondering what it was about me that made Anthony choose this outfit, and for some reason I think of the Ten Easy Steps book. As if it might have an answer. There’s something niggling at me, something that caught my eye when I was in the taxi, flicking through the book for the first time … I take it out of my bag, flip to the contents page, my eye immediately drawn to
Step Nine …
9. SEE YOURSELF HOW SOMEONE ELSE SEES YOU.
Mirrors often lie — and the mirrors in our minds are the emotional equivalent of fun-house mirrors, made out of a magical glass that we can alter, whenever we want to get down on ourselves. It is in the eyes of others that we see the parts of ourselves that we sometimes willfully ignore …
I don’t know if this counts as crossing Step Nine off, but let’s see how it goes — if I can get comfortable in this gear, then maybe Anthony’s onto something!
I stuff my old clothes into my tote bag, step out of the booth and meet him in the middle of the floor. He’s wearing the ensemble I selected: a pair of classy plaid trousers and a navy blue jum— sweater. He looks self-conscious; his shoulders are what my friend Amelia calls “slunched” — slumped and hunched at the same time. He has his red backpack in one hand, dangling loosely by his legs.
“You look nice,” I tell him. I mean it. He does — apart from the slunching.
“This doesn’t look very me.”
I roll my eyes. “You do realize what ‘makeover’ means, right? It means, you try something different.”
“You sure I don’t look like a complete dork?” he asks, lifting a hand to rub the back of his head. I know this is a nervous tic of his, as I’ve seen him do it a couple of times already, and am surprised I’ve picked up on it. It usually takes me years to spot friends’ “things.”
“Oh, stop it,” I tell him, giving him a playful slap on the arm and turning him around so that we’re both standing in front of the full mirror propped up against a pillar. I stand beside him as we check out our reflections. “You look good.”
And so do I. I notice that our selections for each other are very different. I came out rough and tough; he came out classy.
We’re making eye contact in the mirror, looking at each other, but at the same time not. It’s somehow more intense than actual, for-real eye contact — like the mirror is a third person in the conversation, cradling our gazes in its hands, threatening to drop them at any moment.
Kiss Me in New York Page 4