by Anna Premoli
“Have you taken anything for it?” I ask him.
“Not yet – I was going to eat first, but then I fell asleep.”
“Ok, then, I’ll start cooking.”
I open the fridge looking for something to prepare a soup with. I’m a really bad cook, but I manage. I find some frozen peas and carrots, and I put them both to boil.
“Do you have any potatoes?” I ask him, but I don’t get an answer.
I lean out of the kitchen and go over to the sofa. “Mark?” I call him. He’s fallen asleep again. But his breathing is uneven and his skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. I touch his forehead with my hand, brushing the usual lock of black hair away: it’s boiling.
I hurriedly finish preparing the soup and soon after return to the sofa.
“Mark, wake up,” I say, shaking him gently. “Come on, Mark. You need to eat.”
He opens his eyes and peers at me in confusion for a moment. He looks very different from usual – he looks almost vulnerable. But then he remembers who I am and what’s going on and sits up with some effort. I give him the bowl and the spoon and he starts eating without saying a word.
“It’s awful,” he complains, after the first spoonful, “but thanks anyway.”
“I don’t know where you keep your ingredients,” I defend myself.
“Are you here because you feel guilty?” he asks.
“No,” I lie badly.
“You can admit it. I felt guilty, too, when you ended up in the water today. We’re even, in a way.”
I think about it for a moment. “Well, you might be right. I do feel guilty.”
“It’s strange to hear you admitting it. Or am I so sick that I’m imagining things?” he asks, while continuing to eat.
“I guess you really are sick,” I answer. “But let’s not talk about who’s right and who’s wrong and let’s think of more important things: have you got any painkillers?”
He indicates a little box on the table. “Everything’s ready. I’ll finish your awful soup, take a good dose of paracetamol and go to sleep.”
“Very wise. Do you need anything?” My voice is unusually accommodating.
“Don’t worry, I’m not about to die – you won’t have me on your conscience,” he says with a laugh.
“Ok then, I’ll let you get some rest.”
As I stand up from the sofa, Mark raises his eyes and says simply, “Thank you.”
For the first time he says something to me in an almost… well, nice way.
“You’re welcome.” I smile and head towards the door, but before leaving I pause. “Anyway, for the record, I was right when I said didn’t want to participate. For Heaven’s sake, no more rafting, please.”
“Are you kidding? Another experience like that could be the death of me,” he agrees.
Chapter 7
New York
Today – Monday – I arrived at the office early. I was anxious to know if Mark would show up. I was afraid he would still be sick, but I now know he has extraordinary recuperative abilities. Yesterday was long enough for him to recuperate and now here he is, already hard at work. And apparently he got here at dawn.
As I walk towards my desk I eye him carefully: he even looks to be in great shape. But as I get closer, I’d say he’s in a bad mood. The proof of which might be that raised eyebrow. He’s on the phone with someone and he looks quite annoyed, and I really wouldn’t like to be the person he’s on the phone with.
“Maddison!” he shouts eventually, after slamming the receiver down. “Instead of spying on me, make yourself useful!”
Ok, he seems to have totally recovered.
“I wasn’t spying on you,” I answer firmly, standing up from my chair and walking over to his door. I don’t really feel like entering the wolf’s den, but it looks like I’ll have to.
“For your information, I can see your reflection even when I’ve got my back to you, so don’t lie to me. Anyway, I’m feeling better, thanks for not asking,” he adds. And then he gives me a hateful smile.
How can you even ask him anything anyway if he doesn’t give you the chance to?
I decide not to respond to his provocation.
“What can I do for you?” I answer in an innocent tone.
“For a start, I need the balance sheets you’re working on as soon as possible and I need the forecasts for the next three years, and I need them yesterday,” he instructs me, throwing himself back into his chair.
What’s the big news? They want everything ready yesterday round here.
“Come on, get a move on!” he orders, waving his hands at me.
Why on earth did I go over to his house on Saturday and make food for him? Maybe if I hadn’t knocked on his door he wouldn’t have woken up, and he wouldn’t have taken any medicine. And maybe today he would have been forced to stay in bed… I really screwed that up!
I’m about to leave his room when he calls me back: “Maddison!”
I’m not a dog! And my expression probably shows how happy I am at being treated like one.
“Yes?” I answer, in a slightly less polite tone.
“I almost forgot – I have some good news for you.”
“Am I being transferred?” I can’t help asking and I almost smile at the idea.
“Stop daydreaming about the impossible,” he says, ignoring my question. “There’s going to be another business trip – we’re being sent to New York. We’re leaving on Wednesday. And this time we’ll have separate rooms,” he tells me seriously, trying to hide a smirk.
“And I thought you actually liked my company during the night…” I tease him. I’d like not to be excited about the destination, but I am. The only thing I can think about is that I am going to New York! The Big Apple!
Well, yes, it’s a shame I have to go with him… but who cares? I can get rid of him.
“For this week I have decided not to reply to your taunts,” he informs me. But I don’t care any more. He can say whatever he wants. The important thing is that he’s taking me to New York.
“You’re not listening to me, are you?” he asks, seeing how lost in thought I am.
“If you really want to know, no, I’m not,” I answer with satisfaction.
“Great, in that case go back to your desk. Everything needs to be ready before we leave.”
“Yes, boss, got it.”
“Are you still here?”
“I’m going, I’m going!”
I’m out of his office in a second. New York, beloved shopping capital of the world, here I come!!!
*
We’ve just landed at JFK airport in New York. I’m so excited that the second the plane landed I forgot about how terrified I had been during the journey. The turbulence wasn’t actually too bad this time around, but I wasn’t relaxed at all. My neck is stiff and quite painful in a particular point…
To be honest I’m a bit annoyed because my big boss, the bastard, flew business class, while I, the second-class-citizen employee, had an economy ticket. Of course, an uncomfortable seat was a price I was willing to pay for not having him around. His frowning face would only have made this long flight even worse.
At the check-in he mumbled something like “If you want I can give up my business class ticket and fly with you in economy,” but the only thing that would have made any sense was letting me fly in business class and him in economy. Anyway, he certainly wasn’t really thinking of doing anything like that, so I firmly refused his proposal. And what could be worse than having to spend fifteen hours so close to Mark, anyway?
He must have read my thoughts, because he didn’t insist and immediately became very silent. Is it possible that he actually got offended? I am the offended one here! What sort of man doesn’t offer the most comfortable seat to the woman? Of course he is probably the exact opposite of a gentleman and I am not really some poor, defenceless girl, but I would have still appreciated the gesture.
“Does your neck ache?” Mark asks me while we’re
heading to the passport check point. At least he waited for me at the exit. So generous of him. I give him a glare that says, “What do you think?”
“Of course, spending so many hours squeezed in there like a sardine was ideal for my neck…”
But then I remember I’m in New York, so who cares about Mark and about my stiff neck. Nothing else matters at all from this moment on.
In front of us there are two lines: a huge one for all foreigners, and another, much shorter one for American citizens.
“I’m going this way,” Mark informs me, indicating the US only line. I had forgotten that this was his home.
“See you in a bit then. I’ll be a while, I’m afraid.”
“Ok, I’ll be waiting for you at the baggage claim,” he says and goes away.
As I thought, it takes me over half an hour to complete the checks. After that, I walk quickly towards the conveyor belts carrying our luggage and see Mark in the distance; he has already retrieved my bag and is now on the phone. He hasn’t noticed me and his voice is weirdly soft. He’s even laughing. He must be talking to a lady friend, I assume. Maybe he has a lot of friends on this side of the ocean. I cough, so he realizes that I’m here.
“My colleague is here, I have to go. So tomorrow for dinner? Sure,” he concludes his phone call.
I can’t help being curious. “Is your agenda already full?” I tease him.
He lifts an eyebrow and glances at me in amusement.
“All this curiosity, so typically feminine…” he says, without ending the sentence.
What does he mean? I was hoping for some juicy details! I look at him with disappointment, while he laughs at my sad expression.
“Come on, Nosey Parker, the taxis are this way.”
We patiently wait in line for our turn and finally take one of those yellow taxis I’ve seen in so many films. And of course the driver is Indian.
“So, don’t I deserve a reward for allowing you to come with me to New York?” Mark asks.
I give him a serious look.
“I didn’t think it was a gesture of generosity from you – aren’t I here to work like a slave?” I ask.
He laughs, looking out of the window. “Of course you are – but you’re still in New York, thanks to me.”
Ok, let’s not exaggerate. I give him a very eloquent glance, but by some miracle Mark appears to be in a fantastic mood and doesn’t even notice it.
We spend the rest of the journey in a relaxing silence: I’m so lost in what I’m seeing that I can only look out of the window.
After about half an hour, the taxi pulls up to the kerb, and Mark pays the driver while I look around: we’re right in the centre, a few minutes from Central Park.
“Nice!” I exclaim, observing the big city roads.
“Yes, you’re right. I loved living in New York.”
The taxi driver steps out of the car to take our bags from the boot and says goodbye to us. Wow, America. The hotel usher immediately leads us to reception. Everything is very luxurious, I observe happily. After the check-in formalities, we’re given an electronic key each. I love the fact that I can easily enter the room, without all the problems I have with the Korean locks. I’m already planning my trips to the most fashionable shopping streets, which I think are just a few minutes away from the hotel. I just need to dump my bag in my room. The excitement of being in this town means that I don’t even notice the jet lag. Mark observes me with concern while we’re in the lift.
“I hope you know that we have to go to the office now.”
“What?” I ask as if I have misheard. It can’t be true, I was sure that I had at least this half day off.
“We have a meeting in less than an hour,” he reveals.
“Really?” I ask, feeling the flame of hope slowly dying inside me.
“Really,” he confirms.
“Oh,” I mumble, not knowing what to say. How could he schedule a meeting so early? I try to hide my profound disappointment, but I’m not sure I can. I’ll have to be patient and wait for tonight. New York never sleeps, there’ll be time later.
Our rooms are adjacent, and we each enter our own. Before closing his door, Mark says, “See you in the lobby in half hour.”
I sigh with resignation. Come on, I have to be strong, I repeat to myself. I throw my bag on the bed… And now that I notice it, it’s great! It’s a double bed, right in the middle of a big room furnished with stylish black furniture. This is the high life. Or it would be the high life, if Mark hadn’t scheduled this boring bloody meeting. I try to remind myself that I’m here to work. And I knew this was a business trip… But it’s useless, I still feel profoundly disappointed. After a quick shower I get dressed and prepare to go down to the lobby. I’m a career girl in New York, I’m wearing a fabulous black suit with a gorgeous pink shirt, I look really glamourous, and my high heels suit me perfectly. I check myself out in the mirror and think yes, I’m a successful woman. But how boring is that? It would have probably been more fun to come here as a tourist. I look at a woman coming out of her room holding a camera with envy. Argh, I forgot to bring mine! Or was that a sign from my sixth sense?
“What’s with the long face?” a familiar voice asks from behind me.
I jump with surprise.
“Mark, would you mind not creeping up on me?”
He looks at me doubtfully.
“Actually, I only spoke. I thought you were waiting for me. Or were you waiting for someone else?”
“Of course I was waiting for you!” I answer in exasperation. “Let’s go – aren’t we supposed to be in a hurry?” I ask, walking towards the exit.
“Of course we are,” he answers, following me.
Once outside, I realize the bank’s office is just a few seconds walk from the hotel. We walk fast, just like everyone else in New York. Looking at the crowded streets I shiver in excitement again.
“It’s wonderful here,” I sigh, while we’re waiting to cross the road.
“Yes, I can tell that you like it,” he confirms with a smile.
“When exactly did you live here?” I ask him.
“When I was a teenager and first started work,” he informs me.
“So why did you move away? I would never leave such a place…”
“London is a wonderful city too, even better in some respects,” he says.
“Yes, but look how much life there is here,” I answer, indicating the river of people around us.
“I don’t think we’re short on crowds in Seoul,” he laughs. “Come on, let’s get to work. Are you ready?” he asks, indicating the entrance of a very fancy building, on which I can the see the logo of the investment bank we work for.
For once, I decide to go for a joke. “I thought you’d know by now: I was born ready,” I say with conviction. Mark can’t help but burst into laughter. And I do, too.
*
It’s nine thirty in the evening. Incredible, almost unbelievable. Time is going by so slowly. I look for the thousandth time at the guy who’s been talking for far too long while projecting a series of very boring slides. Beside me is Mark, his expression completely professional. How does he manage it? I’m about to slit my wrists from the boredom. Moreover, all the shops will be closed by now.
My stomach starts to rumble. Not long ago two secretaries served us tea and biscuits, but I’m hungry! I don’t want a snack, I want a bloody hamburger! And I want it big and juicy, surrounded by thousands of French fries. At this thought, my stomach makes another noise, much louder this time. Mark turns to me and understands what I’m going through. He waits for another few minutes before interrupting the boring guy.
“Forgive me, Jeremy, but I think that’s enough for today. You know, the jet lag is literally killing me.”
The hominid in front of us nods without conviction and stops talking. Do they really think people have to justify themselves if they’re tired and hungry at ten in the evening? Do these people even have a life?
We’r
e out of the damn building in less than ten minutes.
The evening air is crisp, but the streets are still full of light and people.
“I presume you must be hungry.”
“I’m starving!” I say with conviction.
“And what do you fancy eating?”
“A hamburger!” I replay without even thinking.
“What about your diet?” Mark teases.
“I couldn’t care less about my diet… I’m starving myself in Seoul, I need to recover. I would never have thought it was possible, but I’m almost too skinny.”
Mark observes me from head to toe. “I wouldn’t say you’re too skinny…”
Doesn’t he know when he’s going too far? I give him an angry glare, and he understands its meaning immediately.
“Ok, let’s have a hamburger then.” He indicates the street theatrically and gives me his arm. I’m not sure what to do, but in the end I accept. I’m really tired, today has been never-ending. We arrive at the diner Mark has decided on in a few minutes, sit down at a table and order our hamburgers.
“You know, we could actually have gone somewhere a little more refined,” says Mark.
“Do you mean you wanted to have dinner at some nouvelle cuisine restaurant, where they serve microscopic portions?” I answer firmly. As far as I’m concerned, this diner is perfect.
“No, but we could have chosen something a bit more appropriate to the occasion,” he insists.
“What occasion would that be?” I ask curiously. “It’s hardly a date, is it?”
“Do you mean that you don’t eat hamburgers when you’re on a date?” he asks.
“Of course not. I can’t let a prospective boyfriend see how much I really eat,” I answer seriously, while ferociously biting into my hamburger.
“So you usually pretend?”
“Oh, my God, Mark, all women lie! I thought you knew that already! You must have gone on some dates, haven’t you? How much do girls usually eat, when you take them out?” I try to make him think.
“Not much, come to think of it,” he observes, rubbing his chin.
“Of course not, we can’t frighten off our suitors immediately… Nice girls would rather starve, you should know that.”