‘Oof! Sorry,’ I say, looking up to see that the beefy guy is actually airport security. He doesn’t look impressed.
‘No problem, ma’am,’ he sniffs. ‘It’s not like I have anything else to do beside, you know, protecting our great nation from the threat of those who want to attack the values of Lady Liberty.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He responds with a roll of his eyes, striding off cockily. I feel my cheeks sting at his sarcasm. Everyone else at the baggage claim stares at me as if I am the worst. Worse than someone who wants to attack the values of Lady Liberty. Worse, even, than a queue jumper.
‘Sorry!’ I say to them, feeling beads of humiliation sweat forming on my forehead.
Man oh man, I am failing hard at every turn!
I’ve only been in New York for twenty minutes and already it’s a total shit show.
After a series of gentle disasters (not being able to find a trolley, annoying the cab driver by pulling up the information about where I was going after getting into his car, and not being able to find my dollars when we reach the destination), we arrive outside a sixteen-storey building with a cream and red brick façade looking lovely in the bright sunshine.
Once the cab driver has deposited me onto the pavement, along with my cases, I look down at my phone to the email Birdie sent.
Apartment 3C, 400 Riverside Way, Upper West Side, Manhattan.
Here I am then. My home for the next five days.
Blowing the air out of my cheeks, I peer up and down the street. It’s a really, really long, wide road with huge, attractive red and cream buildings as far as I can see. I look at my watch. It’s only midday here, which feels weird. People are milling around, going about their days, walking their dogs and hailing yellow cabs to take them to lunch.
I try to gather the energy to heave-ho my cases towards the green canopied entrance when a middle-aged man in a blue uniform and matching hat hurries over and grabs them like they weigh nothing.
This must be the doorman. Birdie’s instructions say he’s the one who’ll let me into the Airbnb.
‘I’m Olive,’ I tell him. ‘I’m here for apartment 3C?’
‘Of course!’ he says warmly. ‘I’ve been expecting you. My name is Lloyd. If you can let me see your passport, I’ve been instructed to give you the keys to the apartment.’
I pull out my passport and Lloyd checks it with a nod.
He grabs my cases and we get the lift up to the third floor.
After depositing my cases inside, Lloyd gives me the number of the superintendent of the building, and an extra spare key. When he’s left, I take in my surroundings with a sigh of relief that I am finally still after an entire day of motion.
‘Bloody freaking hell!’ I groan, rubbing my eyes with a mixture of pure tiredness and pleasure at the studio space before me. The room isn’t big but it’s lovely and, more importantly, neat and airy. The floor is a slightly scuffed parquet, the ceilings are high and there’s panelling in the stark white walls. To the right of the room is a small open-plan kitchenette area with a full-size fridge and a two-hob cooker. I wander in and open cupboard doors and drawers. Plain white cups and plates, heavy steel cutlery and a small selection of pans. Nice. I open the fridge which holds nothing but bottled water, and the freezer which contains only a bottle of fancy-looking vodka and a tub of frozen yogurt. I’ll definitely have to go shopping then.
In the centre of the room there’s a small pale blue sofa that pulls out into a bed. I perch on it and give it a little bounce. As I do a little cloud of dust rises up, making me cough.
Ooh, I hope there are no bedbugs. I read something online about bedbugs being a serious issue in New York. I lean my face down to the fabric of the sofa to see if I can identify any bedbugs when I realise that I don’t have any clue what a bedbug looks like or even if they’re visible to the naked eye. I’m just a person pressing my forehead into a sofa cushion.
Wiping my hands on my jeans, I get up and open a door on the right wall and peek my head around. It’s the world’s teeniest bathroom. A tiny person-sized toilet, like the kind you’d get in junior school. There’s also a very, very narrow glass column holding a shower. I try to step in. I barely fit! And, apart from my gigantic hair, I’m a pretty small person. I mime washing in the shower and realise I will have to keep my elbows in at my sides if I am to successfully do it.
Back in the main room, I walk over to what are surely the room’s best features, two large rectangular windows.
I take a peek out, only to find myself looking directly into someone else’s apartment in a different building! The person in there – a long-haired man of around forty who is wearing a khaki coloured vest and, from what I can ascertain, nothing on his bottom – half looks up at me from his rocking chair and scowls. Eeek. Creeptastic or what. I close the blinds as quickly as I possibly can and vow to never ever open them again.
Shudder.
After getting myself a bottle of water from the fridge and taking two painkillers to help ease the post-alcohol/stressfest thud in my brain, I text Alex, the Joans and Birdie to let them know I’m here safe. Immediately my phone starts ringing. It’s Birdie FaceTiming!
I put on the brightest smile I can manage and press answer.
‘Why are you smiling weird?’ Birdie says immediately, her dark eyes narrowed in suspicion. She’s wearing mascara and bright crimson lipstick, her eyebrows are perfectly filled in and there are huge colourful earrings hanging from her ears.
‘It’s a bright smile,’ I explain. ‘A welcome to our FaceTime conversation smile. I’m being perky. Like an American. Why are you wearing all that make-up?’ I ask. Then I gasp. ‘Did they let you leave the hospital?’
Birdie shakes her head, turning her phone camera around to reveal the same old hospital room she’s been in for the past eight weeks. ‘I wish. No. It’s Doctor BJ’s shift tonight. I’m peacocking for him.’
‘Peacocking?’ I ask, screwing up my face. ‘What’s that? It sounds rude… Are you sure you’re up to it? Have you got protection?’
Birdie laughs. ‘Peacocking is when you make yourself look fancy in order to attract a mate. Peacocks do it with their feathers. The make-up, the outlandish earrings.’ She points the camera down to reveal a tight blue dress that clings to her, not inconsiderable, curves. ‘I’m peacocking like a mofo up in here.’
‘Ah.’ I nod. ‘Well, you look very pretty. I’m sure Dr BJ will feel super inappropriately attracted to you.’
‘That’s the plan!’ She wiggles her eyebrows. ‘Are you sober now, you sneaky drunkard? How was the flight? Anything interesting happen?’
I think back to forcing a rando TV writer into the loo. To the flight attendant getting mad at me. To the whole plane thinking I was fake engaged.
‘I got a date…’ I say, deciding to omit the more humiliating aspects of the whole experience. After all, Birdie is always telling me I should try to focus on the positives…
‘Whaaaaaat? On the plane?’ Birdie presses a hand to her cheek. ‘That’s badass! Wow, I’m impressed.’
‘Not on the plane. Before the flight. I did meet a man on the plane but… well we didn’t exactly hit it off. Anyway, the man I met at the airport is called Colin. He has sideburns.’
‘Just like you wanted your Big Sexy Love to have!’
I nod, touched that she remembered.
Birdie shakes her head. ‘I didn’t think you were interested in dating? Don’t get me wrong, I totally think you should be getting laid on the regular, but… this is a surprise. A good surprise, but, you know, unexpected!’
I shrug. ‘I didn’t think I was interested either. But… Colin was sweet. I felt comfy with him. He was nice.’
‘Just nice?’
‘Really nice!’ I add.
‘Did you want to climb him like a tree?’
My eyes widen. ‘God, no. I mean, not yet, at least. I don’t really know him. Anyway, you know how I feel about sex. I don’t get those kind of f
eelings like you. Especially with someone I don’t even know!’
‘Well, either way, I’m glad you’ve got a date. It’s about time you opened yourself up to new things. You’ll be as horny as the rest of us in no time.’
‘I hope not,’ I say, thinking back to that damn Atonement library scene and how it is constantly popping up my brain, making me feel peculiar. What if that was a real person I couldn’t get out of my head? What a pain in the bum that would be!
I find myself yawning, despite the fact that I slept on the plane.
‘You should get yourself all unpacked,’ Birdie says softly, tilting her head to the side. ‘If you’re not shattered after that, you should try going up to the roof terrace of the building. The view from there is insane.’
My mouth turns down into a frown. ‘No thanks. You know I don’t do heights.’
‘Hey, you were just on a plane! You already faced that fear! A roof should be easy-peasy now!’
‘I had to get drunk to even get on the plane!’
Birdie bites the corner of her lip. ‘Just consider it, okay. The New York skyline is… well, it’s pretty special.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
That’s a total lie. There’s no way in hell I’m going up to a scary rooftop to look at a view of other scary rooftops. If it’s so cool I can just Google what it looks like – I don’t need to actually go up there and scare myself shitless.
Birdie makes me promise to send her pics and updates about what’s happening as frequently as I can before hurriedly saying goodbye because ‘Doctor BJ is outside my room and I need to arrange myself sexily on the bed.’
It takes me an hour to unpack my stuff and when I’m done I slouch on the sofa bed and pull up Birdie’s most recent email. It’s a pretty long list of places she thinks I ought to visit while I’m here. I click on the link to the website of a deli she recommends for breakfast, but before the page even loads, I find my eyes drooping closed and soon enough I’ve completely dozed off.
Chapter Eleven
Excerpt of email from
[email protected]:
Chuck Allen’s family owns, like, an entire block in Gramercy Park. His parents, him and even a cousin lived there! Unless they’ve sold the block (which I highly doubt because Manhattan real estate tends to stay in families for hundreds of years), he will be living in one of the luxury apartments. And if not, his parents or some elite who knows him will be there and they can tell you his whereabouts. I doubt he’ll be too far away – the Allens are to Gramercy Park what Serena van der Woodsen and Blair Waldorf are to The Upper East Side. XOXO GOSSIP GIRL ;)
The next morning, after a long and patchy sleep, I squeeze myself into the world’s narrowest shower cubicle and have a good old scrub, bruising my elbows in the process. I dry my hair as gently as possible so that it doesn’t explode into its usual wild halo, but it’s no use. Something in the water here has made it look even bigger than usual. I wouldn’t mind – voluminous hair is lovely on most people – but I have quite a small head and a short body, so the effect is one of complete disproportion. I pull the disobedient chestnut waves back into a ponytail and get dressed into a navy blue T-shirt dress, maroon tights, long knitted cardi, black pumps and a turquoise cotton scarf on account of the mild weather.
I double, triple and quadruple-check that I have Birdie’s letter to Chuck, my phone, dollars, Rescue Remedy and blister plasters (which, one of the apps tells me, is a must for walking around NYC) in my bumbag, make sure it is securely tied around my waist and leave the studio apartment.
Outside the building, the sweet doorman Lloyd starts chatting to me about the weather. Most people find talking about the weather to be dull. But I like it! I like having a fair idea of what the temperature will be and what kind of clothes I’ll need. Lloyd seems to enjoy it too, although he suggests that the weather in New York can be somewhat capricious, which isn’t great to hear. He’s just recommending that I go and see the cherry blossom blooming at the Botanical Gardens (which sounds like a much more pleasant activity than standing on rooftops) when my phone beeps with a reminder.
Shit! According to the schedule I planned out on the travel planner app this morning, I should be arriving at the subway station in three minutes because the train is in six!
‘I have to go!’ I tell Lloyd, zooming into the map on my phone. ‘Sorry, Lloyd! I need to catch my train, stat!’
‘Yes! Go! Enjoy New York City! Have a wonderful day!’ Lloyd cheerily calls after me as I scuttle off.
I wave goodbye and once I’ve rounded the corner of the street, I look at my watch and start to full-on sprint in order to make it to the subway station on time. I’m not particularly fond of running, and I’m not very good at it, but I definitely do not want to miss my planned train. If I miss it then all the connecting trains I planned for get thrown out of whack and everything messes up. It basically turns into the butterfly effect and the next thing I know I’m Ashton Kutcher waking up with no arms.
Or something.
Fortunately, I make it just in time, my freshly washed hair now sticky with sweat and my nice maroon tights – that I am now realising are just that tad bit small for me – rolling down my belly and hanging low at the crotch. The subway is crowded and awkward, but it’s on the ground and there are no bouncy castle slides and judgey air hostesses so, you know, I’m not complaining.
Thanks to my collection of apps and their various alarms and notifications that inform me when I’m supposed to switch stations, I manage to change my subways without any major upsets.
As I step out onto the pavement at 23rd Street station, I’m struck by just how huge everything is here. The roads are so wide! Triple the size of British roads. The buildings are gigantic, even the windows are bigger than at home.
It’s busy, as I expected it would be on a weekend, but not so busy as to cause me any hassle. Not Manchester Arndale on Christmas Eve busy. I did that once – a dire mistake that I will never make again.
Squinting down at my phone, I follow the map towards Chuck’s last known address on East 18th street. I turn a corner and it’s almost as if I’m in an entirely different place. Gone are the Starbucks and Radio Shacks, lines of yellow cabs and super-fast walkers. That’s all been replaced with beautiful, majestic, old red-brick buildings with sophisticated facades, steps leading up to glossy front doors, all shaded by trees in full foliage. It’s absolutely gorgeous!
As I get further down the street, I notice an elegant row of about four brownstones, the first and biggest of them covered with climbing ivy. I look at the email. This is the house! It looks like something from a movie! Wow.
I step onto the first stair leading up to the door and notice that there are lamps lit inside, glittering through the window. Someone is in. Maybe Chuck Allen is inside there right now. I wonder what he’s like? If Birdie’s past flings are any indicator, he’ll be unbearably handsome, athletic and just a little bit dumb.
My stomach flips with nerves that I’m actually here. At how crazy this entire thing is. How is Chuck going to feel when he finds out I’ve been sent here by Birdie? Is her letter going to make him sad? Or will he pleased to know that she still holds a candle for him after all these years? Happy that she forgives him for being a douchebag and going to Princeton instead of Manchester Uni? Either way, it’s pretty nerve-wracking to be the person bearing news of this magnitude.
I ascend the last four steps up to the sleek navy blue front door and grab hold of the brass knocker, knocking three times.
Eeeeeeek.
I wait for someone to answer, biting my thumbnail as I do so. Ooh! There’s a shadow behind the door! Someone’s coming!
Here goes!
I take a deep breath as the door is pulled open by a man wearing a haughty expression. He’s around my age, very tall, very thin and icy blonde with long pale lashes. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with extravagant ruffles at the sleeves. He’s very striking in a way that’s so symmetrica
l it’s almost not real. He looks a bit like a villain in a movie set in the future. A handsome CGI villain. Not at all what I’d expect to be Birdie’s type. But then she’s been known to surprise me in the past…
This can’t be Chuck Allen, can it?
‘Hiya!’ I say uncertainly. ‘My name is Olive.’
The guy just stares at me, so I clear my throat and try again.
‘Are… is your name Chuck Allen at all?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Olive Brewster. I have a message from Birdie. Chuck’s, um… teenage sweetheart?’
He nods slowly, looking me up and down.
‘Yes, come in.’
Bingo!
Chapter Twelve
Text from Birdie: Doctor BJ is single = yay! BJ stands for Bruce Jim = nooooo! I think that might be worse than BJ… What do you think? Anyway, I flirted up a storm with him after our call last night but he was entirely professional. Little does he know that his honourable ethics only make me fancy him more. Ah well. It’s nice to have a crush, even if it is a futile activity. Sometimes meaningless things can be fun just for fun’s sake. SO, did you go to the roof? Have you been to Gramercy Park yet? Is Chuck there? I’m DYING to know. (Is it still a sick joke if I am the one dying? It made me laugh anyways.) Tell me things. Xx
I follow Chuck Allen through a grand hallway. Looking up, I notice the high ceilings are etched with gorgeously intricate fleur-de-lis cornicing. We enter a living room that looks like something from a glitzy American period drama! It’s large and grand, the walls painted in a dark bottle green, the sofas all made of velvet, lamps at every possible spare floor point and, best of all, a beautiful, huge open fire, flames flickering away. Wow. Chuck Allen is, as Taller Joan would say, ‘Not short of a bob or two’.
‘Drink?’ he utters, indicating that I should sit down.
I perch myself on the end of a massive mustard-coloured sofa, hands folded in my lap like I’m about to meet the queen.
Big Sexy Love: The laugh out loud romantic comedy that everyone's raving about! Page 7