Something tells me that New York and I are going to be a lifelong affair. It’s not just the vibrant energy of the place I love, the exuberance, the way that everyone is in such a mad, tearing haste twenty-four-seven, it’s so, so much more.
Now bear in mind that I’ve just spent the last three years of my life in a remote country village where the giddy height of excitement might either be Bridie McCoy getting her bunions lanced or else Fagan’s pub being raided after hours yet again, ho hum. And to come from all of that to all of this? It’s just so breathtaking and exhilarating and though I’m practically sleepwalking with exhaustion from jetlag, not to mention all the technical rehearsals we’ve been having, I swear there are nights when I can’t bring myself to conk out; I’m just too buzzed up on the sheer adrenaline rush of actually being here.
Funny, but even though I had one flying trip here years and years ago with Dan, another lifetime ago when we first got engaged, this still feels like my first proper visit. Probably because he and I barely left our hotel room on that holiday – we were so revoltingly, toe-curlingly loved-up that we existed only in a little cocoon of our own making, completely oblivious to our surroundings. In fact, we could have been on Mars and frankly neither one of us would have noticed.
But now that I’m actually spending a decent amount of time here and really seeing New York without the love goggles…oh my God, it’s even more than I could have ever possibly imagined it to be. Weird, but in many ways, it already seems so familiar to me from watching a thousand movies shot here, not to mention the entire box set of Sex and the City. Like every time I turn a corner, I nearly expect to trip over a camera crew shooting an episode of Gossip Girl.
If every city has its own unique smell, then New York’s has to be strong coffee and pretzels and the sweet fresh smell of challah bread from the thousands of delis you pass on each and every street corner, all somehow mixed in with the stale smell of sweaty, hassled pedestrians who power walk up and down the city’s streets and avenues, twenty-four-seven. And it’s fab and I love it and somehow all the problems of home just seem to be a million miles away.
If all that wasn’t amazing enough, you want to see the apartments where we’ve all been billeted for the duration of the show! They’re right beside each other in a stunning, art deco, nineteen twenties building on Madison Avenue at East Forty-Fifth Street, only a stone’s throw from Fifth Avenue and a short hop to the theatre. Sorry, ahem, I mean theater.
The even-more-phenomenal news is that unlike most rentals in the city, they’re not studio apartments the approximate size of a child’s play tent; no, they’re all one-bedroomed and unbelievably spacious which effectively means that we’re living the life of luxury, like Russian oligarchs. Or one of the Hilton sisters, dependent on taste.
Another thing, at the grand old age of twenty-eight, I have a confession to make – never once, in my whole life have I lived alone and I’ve taken to it shamelessly. I love and adore my gorgeous apartment, which is big and bright by the way, with massive windows in the living room that overlook Forty-Fifth Street, a staggering twenty-five floors below me. It’s beautifully decorated too: everything is in delicate shades of white, cream and magnolia and all the furniture is blonde – the sofa, the armchairs, the floorboards, everything. Kind of makes you feel like you’re in Heaven’s departure lounge.
But it’s more than having this gorgeous space all to myself; I love it because it’s mine, all mine and no one else’s. It’s the pure fact of being on my own and actually being independent for the first time in my life that I’m getting such a kick out of. I’m someone who went straight from living with my mother to boarding school, then straight onto living with Dan so I’ve never only had myself to think about and I can tell you, it’s addictive.
For the first time in my life, I never have to tell anyone where I’m going or when I’ll be back. I don’t have to worry that there’s no food in the fridge in case Dan or Jules stagger in late and starving and wanting cold pizza. I can leave the living room like a tip if I feel like it and there’s no Audrey to lecture me the next day. I don’t have to cook at all if it doesn’t happen to suit me, and half the time here I never bother; none of us do. Eating out is just way too easy. I can leave the place exactly as it pleases me, with knickers strewn all over the floor if I couldn’t be arsed picking them up. I can walk round stark naked should the mood take me. And when the show opens and we’re finished doing technical rehearsals during the day, I can stay in bed all day every day if I want, eating noodles straight out of the box, then flinging it on the floor beside me. And if it felt weird at first having a whole bed to myself and not being woken up by a stray arm or elbow or knee digging into me, (when overtired, Dan tends to thrash around in bed, like someone running), I astonished myself at how quickly I adapted.
Unparalleled luxury beyond compare. The whole set up here is bliss. Sheer, unimaginable bliss. I’m really, truly free and I’m loving every blessed second of it.
‘I’ve found myself in New York City!’ I gush to Liz one morning while we’re strolling down Madison Avenue, drinking it all in, gazing upwards at all the skyscrapers, then walking slam bang into lampposts and parking meters. Basically looking like a right pair of tourist gobshites.
‘You found yourself? Didn’t realise you were missing.’
We don’t have to be at the theatre till this afternoon, which gives us the luxury of a whole morning off to shop or sight see or else just bounce around the place; still on an absolute high just from being here. So Liz and I head out for brunch to this fabulous little deli we’ve discovered on Forty-Fifth Street called Dishes, just a few blocks from the apartment building. And just as an aside…brunch! Don’t cha just love it? When I used to watch Sex and the City, I never envied the central quartet all their freedom or independence or money or shoes or the fact that each of them had a different and yet more gorgeous fella on her arm in every second scene…no. What I used to be mad jealous of was that four girlfriends could meet for regular long, leisurely brunches, take the world apart then put it all back together again. That they had the time for that, not to mention that they had each other.
Far cry from life in Stickens, where the only person I had to chat to was Jules, provided I could manage to drag her away from the TV for long enough. And even at that, all we had to talk about was which one of us the Countess Dracula was annoying the most. A whole other planet away now.
Anyroadup, back to Dishes and the food is astonishing; like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. We grab a table, serve ourselves and I immediately get stuck into the most divine smoked salmon bagel smothered in fresh herb cream cheese…too mouth-watering for words. But Liz, I’ve discovered, is one of those vampire-like people who don’t actually need to eat and on the rare occasions when she does, her dietary requirements from food are a) that it can be microwaved in under ten seconds, b) contain as much monosodium glutamate as possible and c) be eaten straight out of a container which can subsequently be re-used as an ashtray.
In short, a girl with a very casual approach to trans-fats. Who even more annoyingly still manages to stay a size eight, ho hum.
‘So listen to me, hon, because I’ve made a decision,’ she says, sipping on an Americano and playing with a box of Camel Lights while I stuff my face like a mucksavage. ‘After the tech rehearsal finishes up tonight, you and me are hitting the town and I’m not taking no for an answer. I know we’ve got work tomorrow but what the hell. Just for the one.’
‘Yeah right. Just for the one, as everyone knows, is the world’s greatest lie. With you, it’s more like just the one bottle.’
Only the truth. In all my born days I’ve never witnessed anything like Liz’s capacity for alcohol; honest to God, the girl can slosh them back like a camel fuelling up before a Saharan crossing.
‘Oh come on, what’s the point of coming to the city that never sleeps if all you want to do is sleep?’
‘But, Liz, we’ve a theatre call tomorrow afternoon and
if we stay out till all hours…’
And then comes the one phrase Liz will throw at me if she wants to get under my skin and really persuade me to throw caution to the wind.
‘Listen to you,’ she says sarcastically, shaking her head, ‘I don’t know what marriage and living in the wilderness has done to you, but you never used to be this boring and over-cautious and…middle-aged.’
‘Am not!’ I protest, rising to the bait. ‘The official first sign of middle age is when you find yourself wandering round the clothes department in Marks & Spencer’s saying, “Ooh those slacks with the elasticated waist look really comfortable,” and I’m a long way off that, thanks very much.’
‘Now you’re starting to make some sense, babe. You do realise that this whole NYC sabbatical for you is compensation for the marginal little life you’ve been leading for so long? Trouble with Annie Cole, is that you’ve never really had the time of your life and I’m telling you here and now, that’s all going to change. Come on, admit it, aren’t you sick of being such a good girl all the time? It’s such a disgusting curse.’
And so later on that night when rehearsals have finally finished up, Liz and I stay back for a bit longer in the dressing room, filching each other’s clothes and make-up, laughing and giggling, wearing age-inappropriate clothes that I know I’d be arrested in back home, getting all dolled up for our night on the town. (Liz in a sexy leather dress and me in a super-tight mini she lent me, that a seventeen year old would have difficulty pulling off.)
And I’m having the best laugh I’ve had in I don’t know how long. Because this feels like the single life that I never really had; you know, having the freedom to head out for the night, then crawl in at all hours, being able to stay in bed till noon tomorrow if I feel like it, giggling the night away with Liz and loving every second of it. Laughter lines are even beginning to appear on my face in the most un expected places.
Psychiatrists say that if you skip out on a part of your life, then you’ll find some way to go back and reclaim it and that feels exactly like what I’m doing now. Reclaiming the single years I never had, the girl-about-town years, the mortgage-free, husband-free, fun-soaked years.
And loving every precious second.
Anyway, all glammed up and ready to go, the pair of us slip out the stage door of the theatre, miraculously find a cab, then Liz takes me to a new place she’s discovered called the Vander Bar on Forty-Fifth Street, close to the apartments where we’re staying. When we get there the place is still sardine-packed with after-work boozers and just as I’m ordering a vodka for Liz and a Pinot Grigio for myself, next thing, two guys slowly saunter over to us and strike up a conversation.
Now bear in mind that the last time I was chatted up by any man not my husband was back in the mid-nineties and you’ll understand just how understandably naïve I am in these matters. One of them, who has a shaved head, not unlike a statue on Easter Island, corners Liz and immediately starts flirting with her, asking her to describe herself in three words.
‘Stylish, insane, high-maintenance,’ she shrugs carelessly, giving him the get-lost-mate-fish-eye. But somehow she’s captured his attention, because then he starts buying her drink after drink, telling her all about his last tour of duty in Afghanistan and I’m not messing, boasting about how he’d actually once been tear gassed. Like this is something calculated to impress.
A couple of vodkas later and Liz begins to flirt back with him a bit, all nicotined-up by now and not adverse to a bit of action. And believe me, she truly is a sight to behold when she’s got sex on the brain; after a few drinks, I notice, she’s actually looking at his big Easter Island head like she’s the spoon, and he’s a tub of Häagen-Dazs.
‘Afghanistan?’ she starts to purr, swishing her hair extensions and beginning to feign interest now. ‘So what was that like, then?’
‘Tell you one thing I learned out there. Never invade Russia.’
Meanwhile his friend, who’s about as tanned and lacquered as a life-size Ken doll, zones in on me and in my gobshite innocence, I’m standing there thinking we’re having a perfectly inane chat about how he’s one-quarter Irish on his maternal granny’s side and how he’s never actually visited the country but plans to very soon, blah-di-blah. All completely innocuous, until I slip off to the bathroom and by the time I get back, Liz has disappeared off with Easter Island-head guy. Completely vanished. Never even told me she was leaving, never said a word, just took off.
Bad, burning sensation just like heartburn immediately starts to flare up; my own personal ulcerous early warning system on high alert.
Realising that just leaves me and lacquer-head-Ken-doll uncomfortably standing together on our own, I make an excuse about how I have to leave; saying I want to go home and call my husband back in Ireland. What with the time difference I stammer, getting increasingly flustered, this is actually a really good time to catch him, blah-di-blah-di-blah.
Your husband, he asks disinterestedly? Yes, I answer prudishly, deliberately twiddling with my wedding ring. No problem he says smoothly, in that case, you must allow me to walk you home. Absolutely no need, I say with a slight panic beginning to rise, I only live a stone’s throw away. But he absolutely insists, and I start to feel gradually more and more nervous as we walk the two blocks home, not helped by the fact that he keeps slipping a sweaty arm around my waist and I keep pulling away on the pretext of skipping off to admire stuff in shop windows. Shop windows with metal grilles pulled down in front of them.
Then, as soon as we get to the door of my building, I rummage around the bottom of my handbag for my key but next thing, before I even know what’s going on, lacquer-head has pressed me roughly up against the wall, and is forcing his tongue into my mouth. The smell of his aftershave nearly chokes me and I try hard to pull away from him but he’s so much stronger than me.
‘Hurry up and open the door,’ he says thickly, ‘I’m coming upstairs with you.’
‘Stop it,’ I yell, really panicking now and desperately trying to shove him off, ‘I’m married!’
‘Yeah, sure, baby, with a husband five thousand miles away. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, now will it?’
Somehow, I manage to give him an almighty dig right in the solar plexus and by some miracle of synchronicity, a neighbour happens to come out of the building at the exact same time, so I’m able to slip inside without having to grope around for my key. Trembling and shaking, I stumble upstairs and try calling Liz, but she isn’t answering either her door or her phone. And of course, I can’t exactly call Dan because what in the name of Jaysus would I say to him?
Anyway, late the following morning, Liz texts me to arrange to meet for brunch in Dishes and in she swans, a good half-hour late and still in the same clothes she had on last night, except now with laddered tights, very sexy scraggly blonde bed hair and an unmistakable love bite on her neck, that she’s wearing like some kind of badge of honour.
‘Christ Alive, Liz, where in the name of arse did you disappear off to last night? I was worried sick about you!’
‘Oh relax…and grab me a coffee while you’re at it, will you?’
‘Just for the record, you left me alone with a complete sex pest…’
‘Take it easy…’
‘…and you didn’t even tell me where you were going…’
‘…honey, it’s waaaaay too early in the morning for me to listen to this…’
‘…so I’ve spent the whole night worrying about you…’
‘…I need an Americano and a fag in that order before I can even begin to take in what you’re saying…’
‘…there I was, wondering if we’d end up on page three of the Daily Star in a homicide case, with everyone saying, “Wouldn’t you think her pal would have raised the alarm when the poor murdered girl disappeared off?”’
But I’d forgotten one thing about Liz; she doesn’t do contrition. Instead she just cackles her smoky, hung-over laugh at me, teases me for being so paroc
hial and tells me I’ve a lot to learn about single life.
‘But when you disappeared, I was nearly about to call the police!’
‘And thank Christ you didn’t. Last thing I’d want is my photo appearing on the six o’clock news. Recent pictures of me are very jowly.’
‘Liz, you got plastered and went home with a total stranger! Jesus, you’ll end up with an electronic bracelet around your ankle one of these days.’
‘Oh for feck’s sake, can’t you just get past this? My head hurts. Need caffeine. Now.’
‘No, you’re still in the penalty box with me. Suppose I hadn’t been able to get rid of hair lacquer guy?’ I insist, still vividly remembering the stench of his aftershave overpowering me and the horrible feeling of his darty, rough tongue in my mouth. Jesus, I thought he was having an epileptic fit.
Gak, gak and gak again.
‘But you were able to get rid of him, weren’t you? You’re a big girl and you’re well able to take care of yourself. Now loosen up a bit and stop acting like such a prematurely middle-aged aul one, or else I’ll be forced to go out and buy you a cat, to really complete the image. So a guy walked you home and then tried it on with you. Big deal, happens all the time. Welcome to my world. And just remember, you’re a long way from The Sticks now, babe. Like I say, you’ve never had the time of your life and now you’re having it.’
I’m about to primly tell her that fencing off some lecherous git isn’t exactly what I’d call having the time of my life, but I let it pass and just put the whole thing down to gobshite stupidity on my part for even getting myself into that situation in the first place. Because deep down I know Liz is right; there are things missing from my life.
Like, a life for starters. And this is all part of its rich tapestry, isn’t it?
Anyway, the whole thing blows over quickly enough and of course I forgive Liz, it’s impossible to stay mad at her for long, but boy have I vowed to be a bit less of a trusting moron from now on. Nor will I ever set foot back in the Vander Bar as long as I’m alive, which is a pity because I really did like the place.
Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow Page 14