by Jade Beer
The two of them sit there, smiling deeply at each other, like they’ve just hatched the plan of the century, knowing big things could happen on this trip. Then they collapse into hysterics as Nat’s neighbours start round two of what she imagines they might call ‘rumpus-pumpus’.
19
Betsy
There is something so immediately thrilling about landing in New York, thinks Betsy, knowing that once she’s through the airport’s sliding doors and out into the dense, gasoline-enriched air, there is a sprawling, hectic, famous city waiting to be explored. New cocktails to down, spontaneous encounters to have, living the life of someone else for a precious few days. That’s what she’s hoping for, anyway.
But the queue at customs is ludicrously long, snaking all the way across the arrivals hall and back up the ramp. There are hundreds of bleary-eyed, slightly crumpled people just staring off into the distance, too tired to talk, waiting for the progress of the person in front of them to dictate their own slow passage forwards – towards passport control, where the gateway to Manhattan’s unlimited fun will be thrown open. Betsy and Nat’s flight left London at 5 p.m., it’s now 1 a.m. according to their body clocks, but 8 p.m. local time. Why didn’t she nap on the plane when she had the chance, thinks Betsy, before she was penned into this hot, harshly illuminated vacuum of body odour, bad manners and fraying tempers. Just as she’s reminding herself it could be worse, there could be a toddler or two brutalising a worn-out parent, one unleashes hell, a few metres back from them in the queue. The wail for my bed is shattering the numbness she’s feeling at least, but it’s like an alarm clock that won’t turn off, one that only gets louder the longer it’s ignored. The verbal assault continues for the forty-five minutes it takes them both to reach the front of the queue, as their emotions swing between empathy and incredulity at the kid’s stamina to downright hatred for someone for spawning a creature so vile.
Never has Betsy been so pleased to hand her passport over the counter. Never has she been so brusquely dismissed as she was by the large male official whose face didn’t alter expression throughout their entire four-minute exchange. All thoughts and perks of their business class flight are fast fading. An unexpected extravagance on Dylan’s part, the tickets were obviously booked when he believed it would be him sitting next to Betsy, enjoying the menu, with proper cutlery and endless top-ups of fizz that they never needed to ask for. The treat was not wasted on the pair of them, though. Nat spent nearly the entire flight eating, Betsy noticed, working her way through every conceivable snack they could put in front of her before, after the fourth mini box of chocolate truffles, finally declaring she felt sick. Then she cocooned herself in two cashmere blankets, spread out a selection of glossy mags on her table and asked one of the cabin crew if there was any chance of a head and shoulder massage. Only in first class, apparently. Next time, the flight attendant mouthed, not a hair out of place in her tight bun, not the slightest smudge to her bright red lipstick. She looked just as perfect as she wiggled her way up and down the plane’s aisle to hand them a complimentary bag rammed full of beauty products as she had at the beginning of the flight.
Now, as she’s waiting for Nat to make it through customs behind her, Betsy thinks for a moment how grateful she is for this uncomplicated few days away with a new friend. How energising it is to be around someone with no sense of your history, as you edit yourself to appear your most appealing, show them only the bits you want to. And there will be none of the trauma of wondering what might happen next with Dylan, having to remind herself to stay professional, the constant second-guessing about how he might feel after that night in his office. She’s thinking about the text he dangerously, stupidly, sent to her mobile later the same evening, saying, please can I do that to you again soon? She also knows that the force of what she feels for Dylan is going to dictate the conversation she has to have with Jacob when she gets home. The wedding can’t happen, she knows that. But is there any sort of future for them? It’s making her dread the return flight before they’ve even had a chance to buy their first street hotdog, sit in their first diner, order their first cwoffee.
After grabbing their luggage – first on the carousel, thanks to the speedy business class priority – Betsy and Nat step out into the loud madness of their first New York evening, fellow tourists clattering cluelessly around them, and straight into the path of all the unlicenced cab drivers touting for business. It’s Nat who takes control, diverting them left and to the official yellow cab rank. Betsy is starting to lose the power of logical thought and collapses in the back seat, fighting the urge to let her head drift backwards as they pull away. She’s only vaguely aware of Nat directing the driver to The Mark hotel on the Upper East Side as they slide into the speeding traffic heading for Manhattan and all the promise it holds for the next two days.
As the buildings start to climb up around them, Nat is running through a checklist of everywhere she wants to go, everything she wants to do in the short time they’ll be here.
‘I know you’re working, Betsy, but we must find time to see the Christmas windows at Saks Fifth Avenue and go ice skating in Central Park. I’d love to walk the High Line one afternoon, then there’s shopping at Barneys. We’ve got to have lunch at Balthazar, cocktails at The Blond and brunch at Jack’s Wife Freda. A bride flew me out here in June to help plan her wedding and she took me to loads of cool places. Are you getting all this?’
Betsy has entered that twilight place that exists on the very edge of sleep. She’s catching about every third word coming out of Nat’s mouth, wondering where the hell all her energy is coming from. Then she remembers the seven thousand calories Nat scoffed on the way out here.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Betsy’s eyelids are refusing to stay up and so she musters all the energy she has left to extend an arm and press the small black button on the passenger door that lowers the window and lets a blast of cold air hit her face.
‘I want to walk down Fifth Avenue like money is no object. We need to hang out in the West Village, then get our nails done at Tenoverten.’
Nat’s got a proper case of verbal diarrhoea but then again it will be handy to have her own personal tour guide and nothing to think about herself. And, gloriously, someone to look after her. Despite how little they know about each other, Betsy gets that sense. Nat’s strong, she won’t put up with any nonsense. The sort of girl who no doubt has spent her entire life putting mates before meat. She could probably learn a lot from her. Betsy has missed that so much. Having someone in her life who made their own life revolve around hers. She needs someone to think about her for once – someone who isn’t family and therefore biologically obliged to play that role – and maybe for the next two days, that’s Nat.
Betsy’s legs are jammed right up against the back of the driver’s seat, forcing her to sit sideways, her view of the road completely obscured by the back of his head and the partition separating them both. Her seat is so low, the ads on the inbuilt TV in front of her blaring so loudly and he is driving so fast, weaving in and out of vehicles, regardless of their size, without bothering to indicate, that she is starting to feel violently sick, and just a little bit in fear of her life. The thought of hurling all over the cracked leather seats is at least keeping her awake. And she slightly hates herself for it, but in this moment of need, her thoughts turn to Jacob and the first and only time they came to New York together, all those years ago when romantic foreign city breaks were everything. Before Jacob thought writing novels was everything.
She’s thinking about the tiny, overpriced hotel they stayed in, just off Times Square, the eternal lightbulb of the city. How they threw open the door to their hotel room with great expectation, then struggled to manoeuvre themselves around the bed to unpack, such was the total lack of space. How they opened the minibar and baulked at the price of even a Diet Coke, then set about grabbing as much food as they could from the breakfast buffet each morning, wrapping a secret stash into a paper napkin each, and ma
king it count as lunch.
Why is she getting so wistful about all this? Why is she wishing suddenly it was Jacob in the back of the cab with her, stroking her hair and telling her to breathe deeply, they’ll be at the hotel soon. But the fact is, Jacob didn’t give a toss that she was coming on this trip, he just saw it as an opportunity to get the word count up, without having to feel bad about neglecting her again. Nothing new there.
As Manhattan starts to appear ahead of them like some giant pop-up book, the instantly recognisable movie set slowly unfurling in front of her eyes, Betsy makes herself a promise. She’s going to enjoy this trip, it’s going to be for her. Yes, she’ll tick off everything on Dylan’s itinerary, the meetings, the site visits he wants, but beyond that she wants some uncomplicated fun. And Nat is the wing woman she needs on this mission.
* * *
Betsy didn’t have time before they left London to Google the hotel Dylan had booked. But now she and Nat are here, she’s breathless at the choice he’s made. As their cab pulls up outside, on a beautiful tree-lined street that leads directly to Central Park, Betsy gets her first glimpse of the Art Deco entrance to The Mark. It’s like the Manhattan townhouse of every girl’s dreams. There are help-yourself liveried bicycles with monogrammed bells, black helmets and matching baskets ready for them to use or pedicabs if they want someone to do the cycling for them. How very bloody New York!
Their bags magically disappear ahead of them as they step onto the shiny black and white striped marble lobby floor dotted with vibrant pops of amber-hued furniture. She can see immediately the sort of break Dylan had in mind for them both. Glamorous. Discreet. Luxurious.
There are all sorts of arty objects suspended from ceilings, protruding from walls or balancing on expensive-looking furniture that Betsy makes a mental note not to touch while she’s here. None of it makes much sense to either of them, but it sets the tone immediately and they exchange a supercharged grin. Are they really about to hang out here together for two days? Betsy glances through to the softly lit, mirrored bar full of beautiful people – she’s guessing film execs, supermodels, Russian oligarchs, power players from the art world, owners of fashion houses – the sort of people who have the confidence to spend three thousand dollars on an outfit and then finish it off with a pair of white sneakers. They’re perched on low-slung ponyskin sofas, or mocha-coloured leather bar stools, sipping a rainbow of cocktails and lapping up each other’s company. There’s a bar-to-ceiling spirits cabinet glittering like a collection of vintage jewels and everything is bathed in a soft pink glow.
As they’re checking in, a tight-faced woman glides past them, the flattering lighting making her cosmetic surgery look just a little less severe. She’s all diamonds and perfect black tailoring, forcing Betsy into a quick mental assessment of what she’s packed. Nothing nearly swanky enough, it seems.
‘I’m so pleased I threw in some of my old bridesmaid dresses,’ chirps Nat. ‘I was determined to wear them again and this is my chance! Do you mind doing the honours here, Betsy?’ She’s nodding towards the reception desk. ‘I’m busting!’ Then she’s gone, off over the shiny floor, skidding a little on the way.
‘Welcome to The Mark, Miss Whittaker. I’m Ethan and I’ll help you with anything you need during your stay with us.’ The elegantly suited man addressing Betsy from behind the black lacquered desk has surely just stepped straight off a catwalk somewhere. There is not one blemish on his chiselled face, his teeth are blinding, his hair styled just enough not to look vain. And as he leans forward with some paperwork for her to sign, Betsy is engulfed in a cloud of fresh floral scent, too feminine for most men but strangely enticing on this one. It’s 10 p.m. now (3 a.m. London time) and much as Betsy wants to respond to his lightly flirtatious grin, she’s struggling to remember the basic details required for the registration form in front of her.
He disappears from view for a few minutes just as Nat reappears, tears streaming down each cheek.
‘Oh my God, what’s happened?’ Betsy is suddenly, brutally, awake again.
‘I can’t breathe. Just give me a minute.’ She’s actually sobbing.
‘You’re scaring me, Nat. What is it?’ Please God, let her not have knocked over anything expensive. Dylan’s generosity will only stretch so far and Betsy’s not sure even he will cover the cost of a broken artwork or two.
‘I just saw Oprah in the ladies’!’ Nat holds a calming hand to her chest.
Betsy raises a disbelieving eyebrow and looks to Ethan for confirmation.
‘She has been known to have that effect on people,’ he whispers, nodding discreetly at them both before busying himself with another guest, subtly drawing their conversation to a close.
Then Betsy notices a shift in Nat’s expression. Her hand drops, along with her mouth and she’s unable to stop herself staring at… what? Ethan, with their room cards? With Betsy he was all professional slickness, and she watches now to see how he will respond to Nat, who is doing nothing to contain her obvious delight at seeing him. He falters slightly, just for a second, but not before Betsy sees a flash of something cross his crystal blue eyes. Lust? Maybe it’s the way the waistband of Nat’s joggers has slipped downwards slightly to reveal a strip of flesh or the vulnerability in the tears she is wiping onto the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Whatever it is, Ethan clearly likes what he sees.
It’s up to Betsy to shatter the moment, grabbing Nat and directing her towards the lifts.
‘Can’t we have just one cocktail before bed?’ Nat pleads, pointlessly, with Betsy, who has already decided to unpack in the morning, too whacked to think about anything other than bed now. ‘OK,’ accepts Nat. ‘But first thing tomorrow, I’m into their hair salon. I can’t risk Oprah, or Ethan, seeing me in this state again! Sleep well, Betsy.’
* * *
Betsy lies on her super-king bed for the next two hours, her mind on spin cycle through her turbulent love life. Maybe it’s the effect of being so far away from home, in a city where anything is supposed to be possible, but her own movie is playing out in full colour well into the early hours of the morning. Despite everything that has happened, who is it she really wants to see play the leading man for her? Who would she like to open the door to tomorrow – a surprise visitor standing there, barely visible for the giant bouquet he’d be holding, asking to be chosen? Her old Jacob? Or her new Dylan?
20
Helen
Hyde Park in December is just magical. Helen has always loved it; the clean, earthy smell in the air, the sense of space and escape just moments from the frenzied pulse of Knightsbridge and its relentless stream of tourists flowing in and out of Harrods, proudly swinging their iconic green carrier bags.
Despite the chill, Helen takes a seat on the terrace at the café that overlooks the Serpentine lake. It’s the first Sunday in December, ten o’clock, and already the park is full of activity. Joggers with thighs reddened by the cold are belting around the running paths, their frozen breath trailing behind them, bodies steaming like racehorses. The boating lake is already teeming with young families, driven out of bed early, now rugged up in scarves and bobble hats and trying to master the bright yellow pedalos. Their laughter is drifting across the water to Helen as she turns up the collar of her cream wool peacoat and warms her fingers around the cappuccino she’s ordered.
Nick isn’t due to meet her for another half an hour, but she’s arrived early for a bit of calm thinking time. She’s looking forward to seeing him, taking a romantic walk along one of the footpaths that will pass Diana’s memorial fountain and all the way through to Kensington Gardens and the Palace. They’ll look like any other couple, thinks Helen, as she wipes the frothy milk from her top lip. No one will guess at the scramble of emotions she’s feeling as he leads her by the hand past the rollerbladers and power-walkers.
As the minutes tick by towards Nick’s arrival, Helen is thinking again about his proposal and what it means. She’s a woman who’s wanted. Loved. Desired. And that f
eels so good, but does accepting Nick mean she will have to close the door finally and permanently on her old life? Will it still be OK to think about Phillip, talk about him as affectionately as she knows she’ll always want to? And what might be the alternative if she declines Nick’s offer? Will he want to move on, to find another more committed relationship? And if he does, where will that leave her? Trying to maintain her dignity while battling her way through the undignified midlife dating scene? Constantly on the receiving end of pitiful remarks like, ‘It will happen when you least expect it’?
Her mind flicks back to the passionate night they shared together at his Mayfair apartment a few weeks ago – and how everything seemed to flow so naturally between them. But can she really hope it will stay that way if her answer is yes? Is she ready for the level of self-consciousness a new relationship will bring? Nick seeing her knickers drying on the washing line? The day-to-day mundanity that was such a comforting framework when she had a young family to scramble through life – will that become a source of dullness to them both after this first flush of excitement? Will she ever again feel the deep peace that comes from being so happily married?
She’s distracted for a moment by a young couple at the next table, their limbs casually wrapped up in each other, faces so close they are almost touching. Despite everything there is to love about him, is Helen capable of building that level of unguarded intimacy with Nick?
She can see a line of near-naked swimmers across the lake, about to make their heart-stopping leap into the water, cheered on by a bigger crowd of sensible spectators. Their bodies are pale, rounded and real. Some of the men have boobs bigger than the women. Some of the women have strong, muscular thighs bigger than the men’s. They’re lined up, about twenty of them, apparently not giving a hoot who sees them and what judgement they might make.