As planned, we went for a low-key birthday lunch at the Smorgasburg. In keeping with tradition, it was just the four of us: Fi, Barry, Bea and myself.
And it was perfect. The air was hot but not humid; it smelt of cooking onions and seafood. Locals filled their bags with chutneys and artisan coffees, and a naughty dog ran around eating stray pieces of chorizo. We had juicy lobster brioche rolls with sauce dripping down our chins and, to my delight, Fiona ate most of hers. She laughed, gossiped and hopped around as if this morning had been but an aberration, although she did disappear quite a few times. And was perhaps a little on the irritable side when people bashed into her with their bags. And she had forgotten her wallet so we had to buy everything for her, which we would have done anyway, but she made it into quite a big drama. But it was mostly OK. Mostly.
Later, Fiona and I split off and wandered through East River State Park, down to the water. We sat on a driftwood log in the sun, covered our hopelessly white arms and legs with sun lotion and drank Brooklyn beer out of bottles wedged into the brown river sand.
‘Hasn’t it all been great? Aren’t we having a great time? Isn’t it a nice day?’ Fiona chattered, gazing over at Manhattan. A large and impertinent-looking seagull sat on a ‘Danger’ sign staring rudely in our direction. Clouds moved lazily overhead through a bright blue sky that seemed almost to have been painted on to the ceiling of America. ‘Like, the best? I’m happy. Really happy. Like, HAPPY.’ She sniffed, wiping her nose on her trousers.
‘Borrow this, you minger,’ I said fondly, handing her a tissue. ‘Have you got a cold?’
She frowned. ‘Um, Sally, I’m not a minger. I’ve just got a cold.’ Then: ‘Sorry, that was unnecessary! I’m having a lovely day, Sal, a LOVELY day. All thanks to you. And a lovely time in New York!’
I looked back at the river. ‘It has been amazing,’ I agreed. ‘I really don’t want it to end.’
Fiona closed her eyes and leaned into my shoulder, playing an imaginary song on my arm with her fingers. ‘Bah bah bah, bah,’ she whispered. It sounded a bit like a rave.
‘Are we OK?’ she asked suddenly. The seagull barked at us. ‘I didn’t annoy you too much last night? Or this morning? I was just having a few drinks because, you know, it was a big night. And I’m just having this beer because it’s my birthday. Just one, OK? Then I’ll stop again. I don’t want you worrying about me.’
I was worried, but I told her I wasn’t. ‘Are you and Raúl all right?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Yep. Of course. I was being a dick. I created a fight with him. But I sorted it out.’
‘So everything’s fine?’
‘Everything’s fine. Why?’ She sprang up, searching my face. ‘Did he tell you it wasn’t? Has he been talking to you?’
‘No. He hasn’t said anything. It’s fine, Freckle. Chill.’
‘I am chilled!’ She dug her beer into the sand. ‘I’m FINE. Why are you coming over all earth-mother on me? I’m just having a nice beer in the sun on my birthday. I mean, it’s not like … Actually I need to go to the loo, I’ll be back in a minute …’
The seagull stared contemptuously at me for a few more seconds, then took off, shouting noisily as he swept out over the little wooden jetty that was rotting away in the water.
I felt odd. Splintered. Part of me was all curly golden swirls of excitement. I was going to see Julian later and he was amazing! Gorgeous, absent-minded, funny, kind. He seemed to really like me and we hadn’t even known each other twenty-four hours! And, irrespective of gorgeous Julian Bell, I was happy. I was enjoying my life, finally. I was taking risks and I was in mad, pulsating, beautiful New York where I could eat lobster rolls in the sun.
Yet another part of me was steely, tensed. Waiting for the storm. I was back in the watchtower again, scanning the landscape of Fiona for signs of trouble.
I didn’t want to be there. I thought I’d resigned.
By nine p.m., our apartment was full. Bea’s Brazilian masseur had exceeded expectations and arrived with a set of decks and trendy but very danceable-to music, and people were indeed dancing. At only nine o’clock! Our party ruled! The sun had long gone but the air was still warm and all of our windows were thrown open.
All I could think of was Julian. Gorgeous, nicely scented, warm, smiley, funny Julian Bell. He had marched over, taken me in his arms and kissed me in front of everyone when he arrived. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day,’ he announced. ‘Did you get my telepathic SMSs? Oh, I like you. Have you been thinking about me all day too?’ he asked, without any embarrassment whatsoever. That naughty, lovely smile was followed by a giggle and another big kiss. And a long hug. He was supremely beautiful, in spite of his creased shirt that didn’t know if it was tucked in or pulled out.
I was batty about him. I didn’t care that everyone was watching us. I was proud. And had I had any doubts that I’d fallen in love with him in two seconds flat, they were dispelled when I saw him sitting in the courtyard soon after, talking to the frog that lived there. ‘I had one just like you when I was ten,’ I heard him say, in that mad Devonshire-Brooklyn accent. ‘His name was Fun Frog. He lived with Big Frog and Mad Frog and Falsetto Frog.’
Eventually, Bea detached me from his side so that she could cross-question me about last night. We stood in the jungly courtyard, which Julian had vacated, and glass after glass of champagne went warm in my hand as I talked excitedly and forgot to drink.
In the kitchen Barry had set up a cocktail dispensary. ‘You can’t have anythin’ until you’ve tried one of my Blue Fionas,’ I could hear him shouting. Bea smiled and left, saying she needed to go and see a man about a dog. I wandered happily into the kitchen to try a Blue Fiona.
Speaking of which, where was she? Pretty much everyone invited to the party was there, apart from Fiona. She’d gone up to Raúl’s earlier to get something and I hadn’t seen her since.
‘Fi’s not still in your apartment, is she?’ I asked Raúl, offering him a plate of Parma ham and cheese things that we’d bought at the Smorgasburg. Something flashed across his face that I didn’t like. ‘Oh, actually, yeah, I think she might be,’ he said, with unconvincing casualness. ‘I think Julian’s up there too.’
‘Oh.’ I was surprised. I scanned around and found that he was indeed absent. ‘Is she … Are they coming back down soon?’
‘Sure. Hey, what time do you want us to play?’
He was trying to change the subject. I decided not to push him any further. If Fiona was being impossible, Raúl probably hadn’t the faintest idea what to do. So far he’d only known the nice, sweet, bubbly Fiona so the dark and difficult version must have been quite a shock. I still found it hard and I’d had nearly thirty years’ practice.
I hoped Julian was faring OK. It was very good of him to keep her company or listen to her ranting. Or whatever was going on.
‘How’s about you play at elevenish?’ I said to Raúl, slipping back into the crowd, then out of the door.
Raúl’s front door was ajar and I knew Fiona was up there before I so much as walked into the room. I could feel the nasty, brittle energy that came off her when she was in one of her moods. Something clawed at my stomach. Why was this happening again? She’d told me! She’d said she didn’t want to be difficult any more!
She doesn’t always have a choice, said a voice in my head. There was a darkness in Fiona that was sometimes bigger than her; bigger than all of us. Sensing that darkness, respecting its immense power, I always forgave her.
But as I arrived in Raúl’s flat I felt that forgiveness might be beyond me.
Fiona was sitting on the floor by the coffee table, bony shoulders swaying rhythmically to Irene Cara, whose voice was pounding out of Raúl’s sound system. In other circumstances I’d have enjoyed this impromptu disco, but at that moment she was racking up a line of cocaine and Julian was sitting next to her, chatting away as if she was baking a cake.
I stared at their two backs, devastated. They were facing o
ut over New York together; Fiona was saying something low and fast to Julian and he was smiling, watching her tidy up the line. To their right was a MacBook with a picture of Fiona on it, mid-arabesque. The new Royal Ballet website, I thought blankly. Yes, they said it would go live around now.
Just as Fiona bent down to inhale the line, Julian held out his hand – to take a line himself, perhaps? – and said something. She listened, then smiled before inhaling deeply, hoovering up stray powder with her finger. She passed her rolled-up banknote along the table to him.
I’d seen enough. The opening bars of Odyssey’s ‘Native New Yorker’ spilled happily out of Raúl’s speakers, clashing with the pounding bass I could hear coming up the stairwell behind me. A film of thick sadness settled over me. Fi was not any better. She was taking drugs at a counter-party for two while her own party, which I’d so carefully planned, went on downstairs. And Julian Bell, who had been giving me butterflies all day, appeared to be at it with her. I couldn’t stand it.
You should have known, a voice in my head said. Of course it was never going to be a fairytale. You idiot. You fool. You silly, fat –
I ran off down the stairs, slamming the door behind me. As I tore down I could see someone looking over the banisters from above, then heard Julian’s voice calling my name, but I carried on running. I ran past our front door, out of which drifted happy laughter and cool music, then into the street.
I ran down Bedford Avenue through McCarren Park, breaking into a furious march and then a furious amble as I got more out of breath. I was dimly aware of bars and eateries crammed with hipsters as I got closer to the centre of Williamsburg, and decided it was too bloody happy there. Idiotic trendies were dancing to some silly musician off to my right and a pair of girls howled with laughter beside a Mexican food cart. Why had I run here, of all places? Without stopping to think, I marched straight down into the subway and jumped on the L train, which had just arrived at the platform. I sank into a hard plastic seat, jammed the heels of my hands into my eyes and cried.
When I reached the end of the line twenty minutes later, I got up and stood, breathing hard, on the platform. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. It was intolerably hot now that I was off the train, and my hair stuck to my face. My dress, which I’d bought especially, was lank with sweat.
‘Where next?’ someone asked me. Probably some drunk. I ignored him. I stood and tried to breathe, to recalibrate my life back from hopeful to crap.
The man tried to touch my arm but before he had a chance I stormed off towards the stairs to the interchange for the A train.
‘Sally, please.’
The man took my arm again. It was Julian.
We stared at each other for a few seconds and, in spite of what had just happened, I felt last night’s magic spark up.
‘Why?’ I said simply. I couldn’t stand it. Julian Bell was just beautiful. Standing on a sweaty platform with a swirling vortex of emotions around us, his hair already a bit fluffy from the heat, he was perfect.
And I knew, looking at him, that he had not been taking drugs. As with last night I could see – with amazing clarity – what was coming out of him. It was not cocaine and it was not booze. It was fear and it was concern and it was kindness.
‘I wasn’t taking coke,’ he confirmed. ‘I was just hanging out with Fiona because she was in a funk.’
‘Nobody uses words like “funk”,’ I said. ‘Not even half-Americans.’ Then I smiled sadly. This was how last night had started. Arguing linguistics.
‘Well, I do.’ Julian watched me warily. ‘And she was in a funk. The Royal Ballet’s website had a new picture of her or something, and she thought she looked really fat in it. She went totally mad – it was intense. Then the coke came out. I was quite stunned by the whole thing, to be honest. But she needed a friend. So I hung about.’
‘I’m her friend!’ I said defensively.
He nodded. ‘I can see that.’
I slumped, immobilized by heavy sadness and indecision.
‘I was worried about you,’ he said quietly. ‘You’ve got quite a sprint on you, girl.’
‘Muh.’ I didn’t know what else to say. But I did quite appreciate the idea of him sprinting down Bedford Avenue after me. That had to count for something.
There was a long pause. There was so much I wanted to say to him, and I knew there was so much he wanted to say to me. Yet unseen obstacles hung down between us, stifling spontaneity.
‘Come with me,’ Julian said, offering me his hand. I took it but didn’t move. I believed that he wasn’t on drugs but everything else in my world felt impossible. ‘Come with me,’ he repeated. ‘Let me take you on a second date.’
I watched him guardedly.
‘Sally, the party’ll be fine. Fiona’ll be fine. For today. I’m mad about you. I want to hang out. Just you and me.’
Still I hesitated. Julian got closer and looked me in the eye. ‘I was not taking coke,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t take drugs. Not now, not ever. Jesus, I can’t even remember where I keep my socks. How do you think I’d conceal a drug habit?’
I smiled briefly.
‘Do you believe me?’
I nodded, because I did.
He smiled again, that lovely, mad, cheeky smile, and I allowed myself to be led up the stairs towards the A train.
Scene Ten
Changing at Columbus Circle, we took the 1 Train up into Harlem, which was like walking straight into Sesame Street. Beautiful old brownstone houses trailed steps down into streets from 1930s films, and Sugar Hill towered above us like a stately cruise liner. I was disappointed not to see Oscar sticking his head out of a trash can, really, but forgot all about him when Julian walked me into a tiny soul-food restaurant next to a neon-lit church and ordered me fried chicken with macaroni cheese and green stuff with bacon in it. Or ‘mac-n-cheese and collards’. It was bloody amazing. ‘My GOD,’ I kept exclaiming.
‘Mah GOAD,’ Julian imitated, until I pelted him square in the face with a piece of chicken.
We didn’t talk about Fiona or the party. We were back in last night’s bubble. In fact, I don’t know what we actually did talk about, but I didn’t once find myself scrabbling for something to say. I believed that he was not taking drugs. I believed that he hadn’t been sitting too close to Fi and all the other things my head was telling me. I knew he was really into me.
It would be impossible to feel all of this chemistry with a human being if it wasn’t mutual.
Wouldn’t it?
Somewhere around midnight we walked into the sort of bar I’d always dreamed of but would never have had the nerve to go to. Paris Blues was a total dive, a sweaty, beautiful, wild, noisy place, crammed with people and literally shaking to the sounds of thumping jazz. Not Jamie Cullum, or plinky-plonky piano, but proper, driving, infectious blues, rock ’n’ roll sort of jazz. An old man with a saxophone was in the middle of a rip-roaring solo, a real pork pie hat on his head. The notes fell over themselves to get out of his sax into the hot, packed bar. A large woman with a creamy blonde Afro – dazzling against her rich dark skin – stood behind a microphone watching and clapping. ‘Don’t tease me, baby,’ she roared, as he pulled back. ‘Don’t tease me!’
A double bass, piano and drum set completed the act, although there was an anyone’s-welcome air about the place. It was mental and it was wonderful. Had I had any lingering thoughts about Fiona, they were wiped out.
Julian was laughing at my goggling face. He pointed to a beam on my left that I was to lean on, then went to the bar and came back with two terrible-looking bright blue drinks soon after. ‘Sorry,’ he shouted, grinning. ‘It’s someone’s birthday. He insisted. And I’m shit at saying no.’
‘Me too!’ I shouted back. ‘Awful!’ A big man wearing a suit waved at me, and I toasted him a happy birthday. His wife, a short woman with a huge Hollywood smile and a foxy black crop, yelled that she was going to fetch us some cake right now.
As we settle
d into our tiny spot by the beam she thrust two enormous slices of multicoloured birthday cake into our hands, on napkins, and shouted that we were most welcome. She was wearing a sequined blue dress. The cake tasted of strawberry-flavoured chemicals. The saxophone freestyle finished and the crowd went wild; the music roared on. I was in heaven.
‘This place is really crap,’ I yelled in Julian’s ear.
He smiled down at me. ‘I know. If I’d had more warning I’d have got us some tickets for Céline Dion. You’d have liked that, wouldn’t you? I certainly would.’
‘Oh, dear God, yes. That would have been so much better.’
I started singing the dreadful, whingeing ‘Think Twice’ in Julian’s ear. ‘Do you like that?’ I shouted. ‘Did you enjoy Céline’s melodies there?’ For a second I stood back and watched myself doing this free, easy banter thing and marvelled. It didn’t feel forced or silly. I was basically a bit brilliant with Julian. Perhaps I’m just a bit brilliant anyway, I wondered briefly.
I laughed at myself, coming back to Julian. ‘Well? Did you like my tunes, Julian? My Dion flavas?’
Julian scratched his nose. ‘To be honest, I thought you were quite average. I can sing that lady much better than you, Sally Howlett. Listen up, kiddo.’ He cleared his throat and sang the chorus into my ear – a fairly remarkable impression, in fact – until I pummelled him with my fists to stop.
‘You have no understanding of music,’ he said gravely. Then he wailed about how this was getting SHEREEOUSH, and was I thinking about you or us?
I laughed harder and Julian enjoyed it. ‘I sing Céline Dion to Fat Pam,’ he told me. ‘She’s crazy – she sort of sing-howls back. I LOVE THAT DOG.’
I am completely in love with you, I thought dizzily. I love that you sing Céline Dion to a dog called Pam. I smiled at him, and couldn’t stop smiling.
The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me Page 18