‘I’ve travelled,’ Mrs Ramirez explains, noticing me taking it all in. She sits herself down on a comfy-looking armchair and props her crutch up beside her. ‘I like to bring something back from every place I’ve visited. Come.’
She ushers me in from where she’s sitting and holds out a small handkerchief embroidered with wispy swirls of red, gold and silver. I sit on another armchair opposite her. She places the handkerchief into my hands.
‘It’s beautiful!’ I remark, marvelling at the elaborate stitching.
‘I got it from a fabric market in Bali,’ she says. ‘It’s yours now.’
She gives me a kindly smile. And despite my fed-up mood, I can’t help but smile back, touched.
‘Now, I’ll take that.’ She plucks the toilet tissue from where it’s bunched up in my hand.
‘I can’t actually use this handkerchief on my nose!’ I say. ‘It’s much too precious.’
Mrs Ramirez dismisses me with a quick flick of her hand. ‘Oh, my pobrecita, what else are you gonna do with it? Go ahead now.’
She’s pretty forceful, like a mum telling off her toddler. I press the soft square of fabric against my eyes, and remove the last of the teardrops.
‘Isn’t that better? Now, what will you have to drink? How about a soothing Salabat tea? I brought it back last year from the Philippines. It’s something special, I’ll tell you.’
Salabat tea? What the hell is Salabat tea? I don’t like the sound of it.
‘Oh, don’t go to any trouble. I’m okay, I promise.’
‘It’s no trouble for me. I need you to make me one, so you may as well have one yourself.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s the middle of the night! You woke me up!’ She points at her bandaged leg. ‘And I’m recovering from a sprained knee. The least you can do is make me a soothing tea,’ she says it with a smile, but she definitely is not joking.
Tucking the handkerchief into my dressing gown pocket, I potter over to Mrs Ramirez’s kitchenette area. All of the fittings are exactly the same as in my room, but the space looks completely different. The counters are covered with spice jars and cookbooks and exotic-looking knick-knacks from who knows where. There’s even a big wooden sculpture of a face hanging on one of the cupboard doors. I reach out to touch it. It’s rough and primitive looking. It’s so unusual.
‘I got that from Papua New Guinea,’ Mrs Ramirez says. ‘Wonderful place. It’s a ceremonial mask, made by the craftsmen of the Sawos people.’
I nod, not wanting to admit that I’ve never even heard of Papua New Guinea, never mind the Sawos people.
‘You must go sometime!’
‘Maybe I will!’ I say. I neglect to tell her that that I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who left her home country for the very first time less than forty-eight hours ago.
‘The tea is in the jar on the middle shelf of the cupboard on the right,’ she points out.
As I make two cups of this tea which smells like lovely cosy ginger, Mrs Ramirez tells me about her bad leg and how it’s kept her indoors for the last two weeks, how she hates being stuck inside. She tells me about how she has lived here for twenty years and she knows all the comings and goings of the various Airbnb guests next door. ‘None so pretty as you. Or crying so noisily and with so much self-pity.’
All right, jeez.
‘It’s just been a crazy, crazy day,’ I say, taking a sip of the tea.
Mrs Ramirez nods, slurping from her cup and making an ‘aaaaaah’ noise. ‘What happened?’
I must really need to get it out, or maybe it’s this tea making me relax a little, but I tell Mrs Ramirez –a total stranger– everything. I blurt about the flight and Seth, about Anders and the Gramercy Park getaway, and then about that wretched sketch on Sunday Night Live.
When I’ve finished telling her, I take a breath. ‘And that’s why I’m crying. I’ve never experienced this many emotions in such a short space of time!’
‘New York can be… a little challenging,’ Mrs Ramirez remarks. ‘But it is the most magical place in the world. Anything can happen here – as you are finding out. Most people dream of coming to New York.’
‘Oh. Well, yeah. I never expected to be here. I’ve come for my friend. Birdie. She’s dying and wants me to deliver a letter to a man called Chuck.’
Mrs Ramirez’s hands fly to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness. How terrible. What is wrong with her?’
‘It’s lupus,’ I say. ‘She’s had it for a while. It’s just a matter of time now until it gets the better of her. She’s a had a few close calls and she’s gotten through them. But she’s starting to get poorlier as the months go by.’
Mrs Ramirez narrows her eyes. ‘It is very interesting how bluntly you tell me this.’
I frown. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Like… it doesn’t bother you. You are so matter-of-fact about your friend dying.’
I wave her away. ‘Of course it bothers me. I just don’t think about it too hard. I can’t, because if I do…’
I trail off, not bearing to even think about it.
Mrs Ramirez gives me an odd sort of look. Like she’s trying to work me out. ‘Forgive me. I just… grieving is very important.’
‘Birdie’s not dead yet,’ I say heatedly.
Mrs Ramirez’s soft tanned cheeks flush pink. ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’
There’s an awkward moment.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to get grumpy. It’s just…’
‘I know, chica,’ Mrs Ramirez says, leaning across to pat my knee. ‘I know.’
‘I should probably let you get back to bed,’ I say, talk of Birdie’s illness lodging like a stone stuck into my throat, neither coming up nor going down. Just there. Waiting for me to confront it.
‘Wait!’ Mrs Ramirez says as I stand up to leave. ‘Why don’t you just call this TV show and tell them you don’t like what they said about you.’
I fight the urge to laugh. For someone so well-travelled Mrs Ramirez doesn’t seem to have a great handle on how these things work.
‘You can’t just phone a TV show. And even if you can, they won’t do anything. It’s already happened! It was live TV!’
‘I suppose…’
I approach the door when Mrs Ramirez calls me again.
‘Will you do me a kindness? My knee is not quite healed and I need to post these letters to my pen pals. They have been sitting on my dresser for two weeks and I would very much like to get them in the post. Do you think you might take them for me?’
‘Oh, sure,’ I say. ‘No problem.’
She stands up, leaning on her walking stick and hobbles over to a large mahogany dresser where a small stack of postcards are arranged neatly in a pile. She picks them up and limps her way back over to me.
‘You have a lot of pen pals,’ I remark, taking them from her.
‘I met them on my travels,’ she says. ‘My friends come from all over the world! I’m very lucky! Maybe you will meet a special friend in New York City!’ she says with a chuckle.
‘I’ve met you!’ I smile at her. ‘Thanks for the tea and the chat. I really needed it.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ she says, pulling me in for a spontaneous hug that, to my surprise, makes my heart swell. ‘You come see me again anytime?’
‘I will,’ I say, hugging her back, her soft round body comforting and oddly protective. ‘I definitely will.’
Chapter Sixteen
Email from [email protected]:
Dear Olive,
Hope you’re well.
I am writing regarding the phone call you made to your brother and I in the early hours of this morning. It was unfair of you to get in touch at daft o’clock, merely because you wanted to talk to your brother on your timeline and not ours.
Alex already worries enough about you. Of course he always will – you are his baby sister after all. But I think he – we – expected that as the years went on there would be less of the baby and that you wou
ld be able to take care of yourself.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that you were upset about something, but it isn’t Alex’s or my place to fix things for you. We told you we thought it was a bad idea for you to fly to a new country on a whim, when your experience of new situations is, well, less than stellar. But you went, and while we are soooo proud of you for doing something new, we are not at your beck and call when things fall out of your control and you become upset.
I know you are back soon, but I wanted to say this now before my upset dissipates and I decide that the best course of action would be to say nothing at all for the sake of tension.
With truth, care and love,
Donna
By Monday morning, I’ve managed to convince myself that no one will know that the Watch Me Piddle sketch was based on me. And even if people in the UK see it on the internet today, beyond the Joans, Birdie and Alex and Donna, I don’t really know many other people who would recognise me. There’s nothing I can do about it now and even though I am generally embarrassed and mad as hell at that stupid Seth Hartman, being consumed with my own humiliation will only take my mind off the task at hand. Which is to get to Wall Street and give Birdie’s letter to Chuck.
As I leave the apartment building, it immediately starts drizzling. I open the little umbrella I brought with me, congratulating myself on being so resourceful. See? It was worth bringing two types of umbrella for my trip – one compact one that will fit in my bumbag and a bigger one for when I’m carrying my over the shoulder handbag!
Despite the drizzle, Manhattan is in full flow. I say hello and goodbye to Lloyd the doorman and make my way down Riverside Drive. My plan this morning is for a quick breakfast at a deli Birdie has recommended, post Mrs Ramirez’s postcards and, from there, head right back to Chimes Investment in Wall Street and get this letter to Chuck Allen.
It only takes me a few minutes to reach the deli, which is called Zabar’s, and before I’ve opened the big glass doors, I’m salivating at the delicious bakery smell wafting out. I take down my brolly, shake it off and wander inside.
Wow, it’s enormous in here! Not only is it a place for breakfast, but a grocery store too! It’s already busy with people filling up trolleys full of artisanal cheeses and fresh bread and meats.
I head over to a small seating area, delighted to find that one of the few tables is miraculously free. Perfect! Maybe today is going to be a success!
As I take a seat, I notice a young woman nearby staring at me. For a moment, I wonder if my hair is tangled, or if I have toothpaste on my boob – both things that happen to me more regularly than is necessary. And then see exactly where she’s looking. Right at my pink bumbag!
Does… does she recognise me? No. Only people who know me would know that the Olivia character on Sunday Night Live was based on me, surely? Apart from the curly hair and bumbag, the actress didn’t look at all like me… She must just be admiring the lovely bright shade of pink.
I turn my chair away from the staring woman and pick up my menu. As I do, a waitress in a crisp white shirt and a black checked skirt approaches. ‘Good morning! May I take your order?’
‘Ooh, I haven’t had time to look at the menu properly yet! Can I have another few minutes?’
As I speak, I notice even more people in the cafe start to look at me.
The waitress narrows her eyes slightly. ‘Do I… know you?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Are you sure you haven’t been here before?’
‘I am pretty sure I haven’t. This is my first time in Manhattan, actually!’
The waitress frowns, her eyes flicking down to my bumbag. Then she shrieks. Really loudly. ‘Watch me piddle!’ she cries. ‘That’s it! Watch me piddle!’
Oh shit.
She shouts so loud that all surrounding noise comes to a halt and everyone in the place turns around to stare. One person even lifts up the phone to take a picture of me.
Noooooo!
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I lie immediately, trying to act casual. ‘Ooh, the smoked salmon on bagel sounds amazing. Can I have that please? Thank you!’
The waitress shakes her pretty blonde head in confusion. ‘But… you sound like the piddle woman and you look like the piddle woman and your pink fanny pack is identical.’
‘Actually mine has this cool sunshine hologram on it,’ I point out, realising a split second too late that I sound like an absolute nerd.
‘Oh, it’s definitely you!’ a hipstery-looking bloke says from the table opposite, beaming with pleasure. ‘You are exactly the same as the piddle woman. Did you really make someone watch you pee on a plane? Why would you do that? Is it a sexual thing?’
‘NO!’ I yell, my throat starting to tighten as everyone looks my way. ‘I don’t know what any of you are talking about! I just want to have some breakfast!’ I look at the waitress. ‘I just want a bagel with some smoked salmon!’
‘Whether you know or not, you were definitely impersonated on Sunday Night Live last night,’ hipstery bloke’s female companion says. ‘I would watch it if I were you…’
‘Definitely,’ the waitress adds, completely ignoring my order.
This is so very awkward. I don’t think I’ve ever had this many people looking at me at the same time! I feel my brow start to get sweaty. I want to just spiral down onto the floor so they all stop staring. Does everyone in New York watch Sunday Night Live? Argh!
A few other customers of the deli start to approach the area to ogle at me. One requests an autograph and a selfie. Another asks me if I want to accompany them to the nearest public bathroom.
And that’s when I decide that enough is enough.
Face flaming, I jump up from the table, chair screeching across the floor. I jog out of Zabar’s and into the street. My stomach rumbles at my missed bagel, my whole body smarts with embarrassment.
I put up my umbrella and stand dumbly in the middle of the street, feeling completely exposed. I can’t go through the rest of my day like this!
Across the road I notice a grocery store. A little plan forms in my mind. I go in and ask them for a paper bag. Back outside, on the street, I unclip my pink bumbag and stuff it in the paper bag like it is some sort of contraband.
I breathe a sigh of relief. I love that bumbag, but thanks to horrible Seth Hartman, it is now a major identifiable feature of the piddle woman. I really loved wearing that as well. Right. I definitely need to hide my curls too. They made a big deal about how big my hair was in the sketch. And with the water quality here in New York they’re looking even more poofty than usual. I spot a chunky middle-aged man striding in my direction. He’s wearing a black beret.
‘Excuse me?’ I call, jumping in front of him to get his attention.
‘I ain’t interested, whatever it is!’ he grumbles, stomping past.
Damn. I need a hat right away. I need that hat!
‘Please, sir!’ I yell after him. ‘I want to buy your hat!’
The man stops walking and spins around. He takes a closer look at me under my umbrella. ‘You wanna buy this?’ he points at his head, eyebrows shooting up. ‘How much?’
I shrug and lift my chin. ‘How much you want?’
‘Fifty dollars.’
‘Ten dollars,’ I counter-offer, folding my arms.
The man’s scowling face breaks into a warm smile. He takes the beret off his head and hands it to me. ‘It cost me five bucks from a thrift store. It’s not even my favourite beret.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say, giving him his money and taking the beret.
‘Hey,’ his eyes glint with recognition. ‘Don’t I know you?’
Poop. Another Sunday Night Live fan. ‘No. It’s not me. I was not on Sunday Night Live. Goodbye. All the best to you.’
I back away, shielding my face from the man. He’s calling after me, something about the New York Daily paper, I think. But I ignore him, spin around and hurry off do
wn the street, pulling on the beret as I do and tucking as many of my curls as I can up into it.
Securing my umbrella underneath my chin, I take out my phone and turn the camera on to check if I’m still recognisable.
Aha! My disguise worked. Without my mass of mad curls, I just look like any other girl in New York, casually wearing a beret like I’m the kind of person who can pull it off! No one will recognise me now. I feel sweet relief sweep over me. Now I can get back to my day.
But before I do, I pout into the camera, snap a pic and immediately send it to Birdie with a text.
Who would have guessed I would suit a beret so much? I feel like maybe this is who I truly am. Do you like it?
Within 30 seconds she sends a reply.
You look like Samuel L Jackson.
I lift my chin defiantly.
I will choose to take that as a compliment.
Using trusty old Google, I find that the nearest mailbox isn’t too far away on 106th Street and West End Avenue.
As I approach it, I pull the bumbag out of the grocery bag and unzip the back pocket to find Mrs Ramirez’s postcards, and as I do I hear a vaguely familiar voice.
Huh? I don’t know anyone in New York? Ooh, is it someone famous? I turn my head around to follow the sound of the voice and… Oh. My. Goodness.
What the hell?
Standing under a red bar canopy, waiting out the rainfall and chatting casually to a beautiful strawberry blonde woman with the kind of good skin that comes only from a true dedication to expensive face masks, is that absolute turd.
Seth Hartman.
The dirty, rotten queue-jumping identity thief.
Chapter Seventeen
Text from Colin: G’day from sunny Australia! Hope NYC treating you well and weather good. What do you think we should do on our indoor date? You know I give an excellent Indian head massage ;) ;)
Big Sexy Love: The laugh out loud romantic comedy that everyone's raving about! Page 11