Dillon: I have my ways.
My mind races back to him and Simon in Vietnam.
Olive: I have to ask—and please don’t be offended because it doesn’t matter to me—but are you a criminal?
Dillon: Why? Have I stolen your heart?
Olive: OMG you are the worst.
Dillon: But I could be the best.
Olive: There is definitely something wrong with you.
Dillon: I know. I can’t stop thinking about you.
The text floors me. I can’t even think of any way to respond. I walk around Kathmandu feeling crazy with it. Logistically, walking around is a nightmare. I have to drag my bag along the street but people keep trying to take it, assuming it’s been left there, so I end up pulling out the things I’ve collected for Felix and Rose, and spending an hour in the post office surreptitiously trying to post it all home. This is kind of nuts considering the Nepalese postal system, but hopefully worth it. I give the rest of my stuff to a beggar who starts dancing around upon finding my bag dumped beside him. I’m not sure what he’ll do with a bunch of girls’ clothes, but I’m sure he’ll put it to better use than anyone back home would.
It’s much easier travelling with everything shoved in my pockets. I don’t need much: my phone, charger, wallet, sunglasses, toothbrush and paste, gum, a change of underwear, a pen and notepad. All this fits easily into the brilliant Amelia Earhart jacket my dad gave me as a farewell present.
I have one last bowl of daal baht then I head for the airport.
At the airport Felix FaceTimes me. I tell him about the sleeper bus to Lhasa and fleeing from Simon in a helicopter across the Himalayas and Jordan getting sick and hanging out with an old nun. I tell him I was noble and reunited Simon and Jordan, and now he’s completely freaked out that I’m on my own.
‘Shit, Olive! Shit!’
‘Any other wise words of excretion?’
‘How can you be joking?’
‘I’m glad you’ve got so much confidence in me.’
‘But come on. It’s you we’re talking about. How are you not going to get yourself killed? Does Rose know?’
‘Of course not. And you’re not going to tell her.’
‘I don’t want to be part of your subterfuge.’
‘Oh get over yourself. Now tell me, what’s news? Still broken-hearted over Gromit?’
‘No. I’ve got a new girlfriend. Her name’s Prue.’
Already? How does the boy do it? Maybe it’s a class they take in psych. How to manipulate women into going out with you.
‘I’m sorry, did you say Poo?’
He clucks his tongue at me. ‘Prue. She’s studying to be a doctor.’
‘Ah! So you did go to a MENSA convention. Why do your girlfriends always have such terrible names?’
Felix goes on, ignoring my comment. ‘I’ve been seeing quite a bit of Tom too.’
I don’t like hearing Tom’s name. I’ve been trying not to think about him.
‘I didn’t know you were bi. Does Poo mind?’
Again, Felix ignores me. ‘He asks about you. A lot.’
A grin grows across my face. I really don’t want it to, but I can’t seem to stop it. ‘I’m not surprised. Do you guys have anyone more interesting to talk about?’
Felix laughs. ‘No. Not really.’
Good. ‘Hey bub, I’ve got to go, plane’s boarding.’
‘Call me when you get there, okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘I mean it! I’ll never sleep now. On your own—plah!’
I hang up, take a photo of the plane and text it to Jordan, Rose, Dad, Felix and, at the last minute, Dillon, with the caption: So long suckers I’m off to NYC! Then I get on the plane and select a free window seat in first class—because that’s just the way I roll solo.
CHAPTER
14
New York, baby! New York!
I want to scream as I jog up the subway stairs into Times Square. The night is black. The lights are doing their world-famous thing: flashing their neon dreams across the sky; mega-screens advertise luxe clothes, rockstar handbags, model-worthy fragrances. Welcome to consumer central, I’ve made it!
I do what all the other tourists are doing: stand in the middle of Times Square turning in circles, dumb looks on their faces which shine blue, then white, then yellow, as the advertisements on the billboards switch over.
I’m so happy to be here. I feel free. Like anything is possible. That’s what America is supposed to be about, right? Land of the free? Land of opportunity, yada, yada, yada? I feel it so strong, like it’s pulsing through the air, the whole city hammering to it.
I stroll into a brightly lit souvenir shop and steal an ‘I heart the big apple’ T-shirt. I slip off my jacket, dropping it by my feet while I pull off Dillon’s stinky shirt which I’ve been wearing since Tengboche. The new shirt is so clean against my skin, I shudder with pleasure. I shove Dillon’s shirt in a pocket (there is no way I’m giving it up) and shrug on my jacket. It stinks of incense and yak dung, but somehow that makes me like it more.
I promised to call Felix, so I FaceTime him. He takes a while to pick up and he doesn’t use the video screen.
‘Olive. You’re there?’
‘Times Square, baby! If you weren’t blind you could see it.’
‘I’m so jealous! You have to see a show. I’ve always wanted to see a Broadway show.’
I snort. ‘Good luck with that. Hey, put on your video screen. I want to see your pretty face.’
‘Nah. I haven’t showered yet. I’m still in bed.’
‘So? How many times have I slept over?’
‘Shh.’ He hisses it. Something is not right.
‘So you’re okay without Jordan?’ he goes on. ‘You’re not scared?’
‘I’m better than okay, I flew first class, baby. Jordan was holding me back.’
‘That’s great. Keep checking in with me, okay? Now go see a show.’
Mmm. It sounds suspiciously like he’s trying to get rid of me.
‘Why? Are you making sweet love to your woman?’ I joke.
There is a brief pause before he answers. ‘I was attempting to, yes.’
‘Jesus. Yuk! TMI.’ I have the urge to throw the phone across the pavement. I can’t believe he picked up. ‘I thought you had class, bub. Do not ever pick up your phone when you’re doing that. Never. Ever. It’s very rude.’
‘I was worried! I’ve been waiting for you to call.’
It’s very sweet so I can’t argue. ‘And Pruey knows how important you are to me.’
Urgh. So she’s Pruey now.
There once was a girl called Pruey
Whose demeanour was recklessly pooey.
She was a horror to meet
And had foul smelling feet
So Felix please choose someone newy.
I better keep that little gem to myself.
‘Well go. I’m out. Love you.’
I tuck my phone away and saunter out onto the street. Crumbs, it’s good to be alive! I peruse a leaflet which lists all the shows being performed on and off Broadway tonight.
Sometimes being invisible totally rocks—and this is one of those times. I can do anything I want. Anything. I’m going to wipe the image of Felix making out with some pruney Prue from my mind—disgusting—and enjoy myself.
I pocket the leaflet and track down the theatre playing Chicago.
The production has already started so I sidestep the ushers and find myself a seat in the front row. They’re performing my favourite part—the ‘Cell Block Tango’. The six married murderesses are flinging their legs about in fishnet stockings, shimmying their skimpily clad asses and singing their hearts out about how they killed their husbands. It’s brilliant.
I slip an elastic off my wrist and pull my hair into a bun, then I jump on stage with the performers. I stand there and feel the bright lights burn on my face. I can’t restrain myself, I dance along with them singing the chorus at the top of my
voice.
La la la la la.
La la la la la.
La la la la la la la laaaaaaaaa!
(For legal reasons I’m not allowed to repeat the words here but this really is an excellent song—you should YouTube ‘Cell Block Tango’.)
The rush of energy on the stage is titanic. I feel like I could explode with the attention. I know people can’t see me, but I push that aside and soak it in. I’m here! I exist! You might not see me but your eyes are on me.
I’m sure Ani would completely disapprove but I don’t care. This is fun. I’m alive.
Maybe she would approve.
I stand beside one of the actors as she holds out a gun and says how she fired two warning shots—into her husband’s head. It makes me crack up laughing, and I see the actor’s eyes switch briefly in my direction.
I’ve got to calm down.
I climb off the stage and sit down in my seat, wild with adrenaline bubbling through me. When the show ends, I head backstage to celebrate with the cast. I expect we’ll be sipping champagne and partying into the early hours of the morning but they’re already wiping off their makeup, pulling on their coats and waving goodbye. Well, it’s not opening night. I guess they have to get up tomorrow and do it all again. Bummer.
Outside it’s almost midnight. I steal a burger and strawberry shake and go and sit on a step to watch people. A man throws an almost full packet of fries into a rubbish bin and I cringe, thinking about how one small potato was like gold to Ani. I make a vow to myself not to take things for granted now that I’m back in the West.
As I’m sitting there my phone vibrates. I pull it out: Tom.
My heart thuds wildly. I can feel it in my throat. I haven’t heard a word from Tom since he left.
I love you but it’s not enough. This is too hard. I’m done.
He did send me a playlist which was full of promise—but I’ve probably staked too much hope on it. It was just a compilation of songs. He hasn’t called me, texted me or anything for more than a year. I don’t even know how to feel about this.
I tremble as I open the screen.
Tom: Hi Ol. Felix says you’re in NYC. Really happy for you I know you’ll love it
I try not to read too much into this. I refuse to get excited over nothing. He’s just being friendly. I need to keep it light.
Olive: I just danced on a Broadway stage!
Tom: Bet you were awesome
Crap. How does he still own my heart?
Olive: You saw Felix just now? He was making out with some new girl when I called him.
Tom: Yeah Prue. She’s smart. You’d like her.
Mmm. I doubt it.
Tom: I’m serious. You would.
Olive: I didn’t say anything!
Tom: Yes but I know what you’re thinking.
This is wonderful and scary. And also kind of annoying.
Olive: Really. So what am I thinking now?
Tom: It’s too filthy to repeat.
Huh? Is Tom flirting?
There is an awful long moment when neither of us writes anything, then suddenly our messages are tripping over each other in the stratosphere.
Olive: How’s Marnie? Did she have the baby?
Tom: Maybe it’s just what I’m thinking
I’m stunned into cyber silence. I watch, breath baited, as those awkward dot-dot-dots appear as he writes again.
Tom: Marnie’s good she had a girl
Are we going to pretend he never wrote that other thing?
Tom: Violet.
Looks like it.
Olive: I love V names.
Tom: Me too. Vivian.
Olive: Yes!!!!
In our heads right now we’re both holding a baby, looking up at each other. Vivian? Perfect! And even though we’re on opposite sides of the world I can feel the tension between us. This was our problem—a future.
I shove it from my mind.
Olive: And Alex?
Tom: They’re engaged. Mum is going crazy over the wedding plans
Olive: I’m so happy for them, Tom. You too.
Tom: Nothing to do with me
Olive: Yeah but you seem to be doing well.
Again there is a long pause but I wait it out. I need to hear how he answers this. I want him to be doing well, but a tiny bit wants him to be suffering like hell without me. Okay, maybe it’s more than a tiny bit.
Tom: There is some good stuff going on
Olive: ?
Tom: There’s an internship my lecturer wants me to apply for, it’s great but it’s complicated. I don’t know if it can happen
Internship? Urgh. Boring. What about us? I want to ask him if he’s seeing anyone, but maybe I’ll quiz Felix instead and ask Tom about his career stuff. Yes, that’s a more responsible/mature/socially acceptable idea.
Olive: Sounds great. I know you’ll do well. You’re smart, dedicated and hardworking.
Tom: Whoever this is can you put Olive back on?
Olive: Ha. Ha. It’s true!
Tom: You sound different
I wish I could hear the tone of that. I have no idea if that’s a good or bad thing, but I am different, I can’t deny it.
Olive: I am.
Tom: Don’t change too much
An enormous grin spreads across my face. I’m really stuck, I don’t know how to reply. I actually consider littering the screen with emoticons of hearts and fireworks. Thank god Tom saves me.
Tom: So are you going to see your nan in NYC?
Only he would ask me that. Only him. It makes my heart ache how much he cares about me and my messed-up family issues.
Olive: Yes. But Dad’s going to be pissed.
Tom: Bugger him. See her.
Olive: I’m scared.
Tom: What of?
Olive: Of what I’ll find, the future, us …
I delete every word. There is no way I can send that.
I don’t know what to send. This is too much, it’s way too heavy.
Olive: I should go. I need to find somewhere to stay tonight. It’s late.
Tom: You don’t have a place to stay?!? Ol! Please be careful. Go. Be safe. Speak soon.
I don’t want this conversation to end but it must.
Olive: Ok. Thanks for getting in contact.
In contact? Who is this person?
Tom: That’s ok. I know things haven’t been great between us but you’ll always be my friend.
I snap the phone shut. That word—friend—burns hotter than the fires of Mordor. Is that what he wants? To be friends? Urgh. Tom and I would be horrible friends. I’d rather be nothing at all than to look at those lips and not be allowed to kiss them.
I’m so confused. I open up the phone again and scan the conversation, so intimate in some ways, yet so remote. What does it mean? What does it mean???
As clueless as before, I shove my phone in my pocket. There is only one thing I’m sure about—I need to find Nan’s. I’ve got no idea if my grandmother is still alive. I’ve got no idea if she’s still living in the same old tenement building she did when Rose and I lived here with Ma and Dad, but I need to find out.
Hell’s Kitchen is a few blocks’ stroll west of Broadway. It used to be a dive: factories, lumberyards, slaughter-houses. The poorest of the poor. Loads of immigrants, loads of Irish. It was a violent neighbourhood with brilliant names like Battle Row and House of Blazes—apparently arson was a favourite pastime back in the day.
A Starbucks on the corner makes me growl. It’s not a dive anymore. It’s almost a ‘nice’ neighbourhood. I prefer a bit of grit.
I don’t remember my grandmother’s address but I do remember there was a butcher’s shop downstairs. The chop-shop was underneath the bathroom and my Ma would complain that she smelled like steak coming out of the shower. So I walk around forever, combing the streets for a butcher or something that looks familiar. It’s after 1 am when I sit on someone’s front steps and FaceTime Rose.
‘Rose, I’m trying to find
Nan’s.’
‘You’re there? In New York? Show me!’
I turn the phone and do a panning shot of the dark street. ‘Hell’s Kitchen. Although it’s more like some bland Ikea kitchen now.’
‘I’m so jealous. I love New York.’ I turn the screen around so I can see her face. ‘And I’m glad you’re seeing Nan.’ Rose frowns suddenly. ‘Does Dad know?’
‘Does he need to know? She’s my grandmother.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why does he hate her so much? I don’t remember her being awful …’
‘He doesn’t hate her. I think he was jealous. She and Ma were very close. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nan was jealous of him too, both of them loved Ma so much …’ She blinks rapidly like she’s just remembered something. ‘Hey, where’s Jordan?’
I better cut this short. ‘Peeing. Look, I know you don’t have her address but do you remember anything about her old place? Where it could be?’
‘She was on the top floor and there was an Irish pub downstairs.’
‘I remember a butcher.’
‘That too. But a pub … it had a green sign with a shamrock.’
‘Doesn’t sound very Irish,’ I joke. But my brain is already retracing my steps to a bar I saw two streets away. There was a homeless guy parked out the front. ‘Thanks for the tip. I’ll check it out.’
CHAPTER
15
Yes. This is the building. The pub remains but the butcher is gone. The shop sells mobile phones now, cell phones they call them here. It’s so boring and corporate I want to spray-paint over its sterile facade. At least the pub looks satisfyingly squalid. There is even a nice puddle of puke on the footpath I have to step over. I’m glad there is a little of Hell’s Kitchen left.
The drop ladder on the fire escape is down which is unusual for New York. Ladders are kept raised to discourage intruders, but when I grab the sides I can see the metal has been welded in place. This ladder is down permanently. For my Ma, I think.
I begin to climb and am struck by a vivid memory from my childhood—the heat and rust of this ladder on my palms, the pressure of Ma’s invisible arms either side of me as we climbed up.
Ma’s whisper. ‘You’ve got it, one step at a time, honey.’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 9