‘He needed to go home to Australia.’ I take the weight of the shopping bag we’re holding together. ‘I understand why Dad left.’
When things are bad for me I want to run, run, run, one thousand times over. I can’t blame him for wanting to leave New York.
‘Yes, but he could have left you here.’
This is news. ‘You wanted to keep me?’
‘Can you imagine anyone more qualified to raise you?’ she asks. ‘You could have lived here with me, and your dad could have taken Rose. It would have been easier for the lot of us.’
She has a point. Dad struggled to bring up Rose and me, working full time. It would have been easier for him and Rose if I had stayed here. It would have been easier for me too, here with Muirgheal. But it’s not what I would have wanted. I’d choose a difficult life with Dad over an easy life without him, any day. Seems Dad agreed. It fills my chest with something bigger than love—knowing how much he wanted me.
‘So did you and Dad fight about it?’
‘It was one of the things. He also blamed me for your Ma leaving him and moving back in with me.’
Ah. This is why Dad doesn’t like her.
Muirgheal and I are so comfortable with each other now I have no problem asking her, ‘Were you to blame?’
‘No! I would never break up her family. She came to me when the curse hit your da—when he started not seeing people—and I said that perhaps if he didn’t love her anymore he would see people again. I never dreamed she would leave him. Of course, when she showed up here with you and little Rose, I wasn’t going to turn her away …’
‘Of course not.’ I push open the door into the foyer of her building and Muirgheal steels herself for the climb upstairs. ‘Here, we’re out of sight, let me take the bag.’
She hands it over. ‘I thought you’d be more like Aibhlinn. She was flighty as a bird, that girl. It’s why she needed so much stone soup—to ground her.’ I take Muirgheal’s hand as we walk up the stairs. It is moist with the lavender balm she uses every day. ‘But you’re stronger than your Ma, Olive. She’d be proud of you.’
I’m not sure anyone’s called me strong before. It’s a compliment I tuck away to keep.
It’s late afternoon and Muirgheal is tired from walking around shopping, or ‘doing the messages’ as she calls it. She’ll eat a ham sandwich, have a cup of tea and do the puzzles like she’s done on previous afternoons. But I don’t want to sit still, so when we reach the apartment I put the shopping bag on the floor and say, ‘I might head out again, do you mind?’
‘Of course not, it’s a glorious day,’ she says, turning on the kettle. ‘Just don’t say no to fun.’
I stop by the door. ‘What was that?’
‘You’re invisible, aren’t you, not deaf?’
I laugh as I shut the door and jog down the steps. She really is the best.
I walk up Eighth Avenue until I hit Central Park. I feel the need for space, perspective. The trees have coloured, and a scattering of leaves litter the path. I put my hand on my abdomen and take some deep breaths as I walk, trying to connect with nature and the world, like I did with Ani. It was much easier in the Himalayas.
There is a young couple sitting on a rug with a toddler. The mother feeds the kid a juice box, the father kicks off his shoes, then takes a photo of them with his phone. I feel the familiar jab of pain inside me. Mother. Father—everything I lost. Tom. A baby girl beginning with V—everything I can’t have.
I try to feel loving kindness towards them but it’s hard.
I clutch the mala Ani gave me, which hangs around my neck, and I remind myself how fortunate I am. My father loves me even more than I thought he did and I’ve got a grandmother who wanted to raise me. I’ve got Rose, I’ve got Jordan, I’ve got Felix. That’s five people who would do anything for me.
Then there’s Tom—a confusion.
And Dillon—an illusion.
Urgh.
I have no idea how to pursue this new knowledge about being seen by more than one person. Should I try to find Dillon? Track down my grandfather? Maybe I should just relax and let life happen. Yes, I hear Ani’s voice tell me. Focus on the beauty of the world and just ‘be’.
So I do. I see the pale afternoon light flicker through the trees. I feel the air against my skin. I shut my eyes and hear the city buzz, the wonder of infinite sounds combining—New York City’s purr.
Opening my eyes, I spot the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met is a massive building that houses some of the world’s most fabulous art and artefacts. It’s exactly the beauty I need.
I take a photo of it and fire it off to Dillon. It’s a touch touristy but I haven’t sent him anything in a few days. A moment later he responds.
Dillon: The Met? You’ve got to see the Van Goghs.
Olive: Thanks for the tip. Checking out the Masters hadn’t occurred to me … How’s Honkers?
Dillon: Honkers is honkers. You’d have to ask it.
Cheeky.
The Met is huge so I take Dillon’s advice and head to the second floor, knowing I’ll need to come here more than once. I’m blown away by Jackson Pollock, Johannes Vermeer, Van Gogh and so many other paintings I never dreamed I’d see in real oils. I’m strolling through to see Degas’ ballerinas when another text comes in.
Dillon: And the Greek & Roman sculptures. You’ve GOT to go there.
Olive: I will. I will. Let me look in peace!
Dillon: Just thought you’d like the naked guys
Oh, he’s asking for it.
Olive: Not as scrawny as you?
Dillon: You’d know. Don’t think I didn’t see you watching me on the beach.
Oh. My. God. How embarrassing! He saw me watching him and that girl on the beach in Vietnam. How do I reply to that? I pace up and down the room trying to think of a witty reply but I’m coming up blank.
Dillon: Are you there yet?
Olive: No. I’m concentrating on the Van Goghs like you told me to!
Dillon: But I want you to take a photo of Heracles for me. Please?
Olive: Fine. Fine. I’ll go there now.
Talk about impatient. I stomp back down to the first floor into the hall of Greek and Roman art. There are scores of marble sculptures of gods and monsters, emperors and philosophers. I love a culture that values these concepts equally: power, mythology, imagination, curiosity.
Dillon is right, this room is awesome. The cut stone surprises me, the figures look so fluid and graceful, not hard at all. I wander around feeling the smoothness under my fingertips—a few times alarms go off when I touch them, but security just thinks the alarms are faulty. I could nick one of these artworks but I don’t want to. The art here is lifting the spirits of commonfolk like me. They need to stay where they are.
Besides, they’d be way too heavy to carry home.
I start looking for Heracles, eyes skimming from one marble statue to the next. Finally I spot him, a monolithic statue of the demigod in his lion skin and club. It’s brilliant, the curves of his body, the expression on his face; the sculptor had such talent to make something so lifelike out of a chunk of stone.
‘Ahem.’
I hear a cough and switch my attention to the figure behind Heracles. It’s not a sculpture, it’s a man, but he’s got his shirt off, posing like a statue. The words ‘what an idiot’ form in my mind until my eyes flick to his face.
‘Dillon!’ I scream and sprint over to him. I leap into his arms and even though we actually have spent less than twenty minutes with each other it feels like I’m hugging a long-lost friend. ‘It’s you!’
‘Ya like seeing one of these big boys come to life?’ he says, nodding to the sculptures around us.
I laugh. ‘Is that what you were trying for?’
‘Of course. Ya took long enough to notice. I’ve been standing here for yonks.’
‘I’m not sure Heracles is quite the guy to position yourself next to, Nut.’
He jerks his thumb at
Heracles. ‘Ya prefer them as big as that—in a lion skin?’
I shrug. ‘Wouldn’t say no.’
A security guard approaches. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to put your shirt back on.’
Dillon is already tugging it over his shoulders. ‘S’alright mate. You’re not the first person who’s asked me to do that.’ He looks at me pointedly and I roll my eyes at him, but really I’m thrilled. I can’t believe he’s here. It’s him. Neanderthal Man. Somehow, he’s here with me.
I shut my eyes for a second. I need to be cool. I can’t ruin this.
When I open them Dillon has stepped closer. So close, I can see the depth of the wrinkle between his eyebrows. His pupils dart about, inspecting me. It’s so intense. I’d forgotten how amazing it feels to be looked at.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he says.
He has no idea.
‘You’re supposed to be in Hong Kong.’
‘Arrived last night. I was trying to figure out how to surprise ya. That Met pic was perfect.’
‘So you just came here?’
‘Jumped in a cab.’
Nobody has chased me across New York before. Not any city, really. It’s thrilling. His eyes are assessing my lips and I think he’s considering kissing me, but then they snap back up to my eyes, twinkling with mischief. ‘Want to do something fun?’
I hesitate. It’s like I’m on the edge of something and I don’t know whether it’s safe to leap. ‘I … I don’t know …’
‘You don’t like fun?’ he asks.
‘Only on Tuesdays,’ I retort.
Dillon grins. Holds out his hand for me to take. ‘Every day is Tuesday with me, love. Come on.’
CHAPTER
17
Dillon pulls me out of the museum onto Fifth Avenue. I look down at his beautiful hands wrapped around mine. I feel so happy. Dillon found me. He came here—for me.
‘Where are we going?’ I say, as he pulls me along the street.
‘I don’t know. Where can we find shenanigans in this part of town?’
‘I’m pretty sure you can find shenanigans in any part of town.’
He looks over and grins. ‘With you, for sure. Let’s try Central Park.’
The way he looks at me—like anything is possible—kicks my mind into overdrive, reefing up the inevitable questions. Why does he see me? Is Dillon my true love? And what about Tom? I’m not over Tom. Not really. Could I have more than one true love? Does that make a mockery of any love I feel at all?
The whole thing is winding me into a panic. It’s so unfair. Finally I’m with Dillon and I can’t just enjoy it.
I take a deep breath and think about what Ani would say. ‘Just be a girl, not an invisible girl.’ Yes. That’s it. I’m not going to think about any of my shadowy complications. I’m just going to have fun.
Dillon slows his pace when we reach Central Park. There are people all around—families, couples, kids—but none of them affect me now. Dillon’s thumb traces my knuckles and I can’t think about anything apart from the warm pressure of his thumb against my skin.
‘So my little Lemon Ice Lolly, tell me about yerself. So far I know that yer particular about who’s allowed to lips-ync and that ya like staring at naked guys …’
‘Hey!’ I elbow him in the gut. ‘Only some naked guys.’
Dillon laughs.
‘And so far I know you’re a Bieber fan who craves the attention of a crowd.’
‘Did I humiliate myself with that?’ he says. ‘My filter for that sort of thing is kind of screwed up. I don’t have a bull’s notion what I’m doing half the time. I’m always doing daft stuff—’
‘You mean like dumping ice on girls’ heads?’
‘Yeah and telling them how to live their lives when I’ve only known them three minutes.’
‘Oh that,’ I say, screwing up my nose. ‘I kind of deserved that.’
‘No doubt,’ he says. ‘But I shouldn’t have told ya so.’
I frown at him, not sure whether I should be insulted or not. Then I decide there’s no point being mad. ‘So is there any daft stuff you wouldn’t do?’
Dillon thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. ‘Nah. I’m pretty much up for anything.’ He knocks me with his elbow and grins. ‘Got something in mind?’
We’re walking past Central Park lake. The sky is showing its first signs of morphing into night. I spot a couple rowing past in a wooden dinghy. ‘Would you row around the lake in your scanties?’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘If you would.’
Ha. Sometimes it’s so delightful being invisible.
‘Sure,’ I say, tugging at my collar. ‘I’m a bit hot in all this fabric stuff anyway.’
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Yer serious?’
‘Why not?’
He chuckles that chuckle I loved in Hanoi. ‘Ya really wouldn’t have got on with Simon.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘Ya should,’ he says. ‘So how did you leave it with them? All good?’
I stop and turn to him. ‘Can we not talk about Simon and Jordan? Would you mind?’ I say. ‘It’s just nice, you know, if it’s just about … us?’
His dark blue eyes blink. ‘Aye. I’d like that. But I need to warn you. This “us” …’ He swallows. ‘I’m not a relationship kind of lad.’
His words sting but I try to stay light. ‘One night only show?’
‘I’m serious, love. I’m no one’s boyfriend.’
Right then I see how dangerous this could be. Dillon doesn’t want true love: he wants fun. There’s no question about it—I’m going to lose him.
‘I think I can handle that,’ I say in the most blasé tone I can muster. What option do I have? I need to see what this is. ‘So, where are we going to strip off?’
We find a hedge by the water and stash our gear. I pull off my jacket, dropping it on the ground, then kick off my shoes and stand there in my dress, waiting for Dillon as he fastidiously places his trainers together, laying his jacket neatly on top. He carefully balls his socks and folds his shirt, placing them smartly on top of his jacket. It’s very amusing.
‘They could cast you on that Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners TV show.’
Dillon laughs. ‘I know. It’s a problem.’
He stands back up. His torso is as pale and chiselled as the statues in the Met, just skinnier and hairier. I admit I’m staring. I might even be drooling, just a little.
He smirks. ‘Better view than the beach?’
‘You’ve still got your pants on,’ I point out.
He unbuckles and drops them to the ground, not taking his eyes from mine. It’s taking all my nerve to act cool. Guys are not undressing for me on a regular basis.
But then he smiles. ‘Ya don’t have a coathanger, by any chance?’
I laugh as I unzip my dress and step out of it, thanking the lord I have new underwear. ‘Come on,’ I say, starting off towards the Boathouse. ‘You can iron your jeans tomorrow.’
Dillon slaps my ass as I pass. I squeal and run. He chases me until he catches me, his arms circling my waist. We’re both laughing.
It’s impossible to ignore the improbability of this happy couple cliché actually happening to me. If I saw someone else acting this way I’d be scowling bitterly about how fake it was. It makes me feel like a pretender—only this is real. Scary real. Frightened, I push Dillon away and we walk hand in hand to the Boathouse.
The Boathouse is one of those picturesque places lovers (or those trying to redeem themselves as lovers) flock to. Beautifully dressed people mill about waiting to be seated at their alfresco dining tables. They stare at Dillon as we approach, exchanging disapproving looks.
‘I can’t believe you suggested this,’ Dillon says under his breath. ‘And you call me Nut.’
It makes me chuckle in delight. He’s got no idea he’s the only one doing it. Nobody can see me—this humiliation is his own.
‘Go on,’ I say, u
rging him forward.
Dillon salutes me, then strolls over to the jetty where the rowboats are tied up, his stride easy, as if spotty trunks are his everyday attire. He chats to the guy in charge for a moment, then strolls back to me, his grin even wider.
‘I don’t have any cash on me.’
‘You’re kidding.’
He taps himself down. ‘Was sure I had a gold card on me somewhere.’
We both start laughing. We’re laughing so hard, one of the beautifully dressed men comes over. ‘You’re making the ladies uncomfortable, son,’ he says to Dillon. ‘Perhaps you should move along.’
‘I’m awfully sorry to disturb you,’ Dillon replies. He’s put on a posh British accent that would rival Simon’s. ‘I do apologise.’
It unsettles the well-dressed man as much as it shocks me. He seems to change his mind about Dillon.
‘Do you need any help?’ he asks. ‘You haven’t been mugged, have you?’
‘No. I’m attempting to woo this young lady,’ Dillon says, taking my hand. ‘Don’t suppose you could spot me a fifty to take her out on the lake?’
The man is looking at Dillon like he’s mad. He can’t see any lady. ‘I’m sorry? What?’
‘I said, I don’t suppose you could spot me a fifty to take this lady—’
‘What lady?’
‘Let’s go,’ I whisper in Dillon’s ear, pulling him away. ‘I want to go.’
Dillon leaves reluctantly. ‘What are you doing?’ he says, when we’re out of earshot. ‘I was about to get fifty bucks out of that guy!’
‘What are you, a con artist?’
‘At times. Aye.’
I snort. ‘Idiot. What should we do now?’
Dillon’s face is bright again. ‘I have another idea.’ He takes me back around the lake until we get to a private spot by the water. ‘Wait here,’ he says, then disappears.
I suppose I could be scared standing in Central Park alone in my underwear but fortunately, being invisible, I’ve never had to concern myself with anything like muggers. It’s one of the perks.
Dillon appears a few minutes later, standing at the rear of a gondola, pushing it across the lake towards me with a very long pole. It has a red rose on the bow, like the gondolas of Venice.
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 11