‘It’s not much weirder than my outfit,’ I tell her. I’m wearing a green and yellow printed 1950s dress with Clarks brogues and heart-shaped sunglasses. ‘Come on. Let’s get some breakfast into you.’
Breakfast at the hotel is probably great, but we want to see as much of New York as possible, so we decide to go out to a café called Jack’s Wife Freda on Lafayette Street. It’s a gorgeous sunny morning, and the air is full of that New York buzz. The sky is blue, the air’s fresh and as we wander through SoHo, everyone’s smiling – us most of all.
‘Look, the magnolia trees are coming into bloom,’ says Rachel.
‘Look, the new collection has landed at Marc Jacobs,’ says Maggie.
The café is lovely, all leather banquettes and marble tables, and sunlight streaming through the windows. They’re playing Rufus Wainwright’s cover of ‘Across the Universe’ by the Beatles; one of my favourite songs. Four glasses of iced water are plonked down in front of us as soon as we sit down; Rachel drains hers in one swallow.
‘I hope they can manage a decent cup of tea,’ says Maggie. ‘Oh no, it’s a man. Poppy, can you ask him for me?’
‘OK,’ I say, sighing. ‘What are the instructions again? And Maggie, I can’t be your interpreter for ever. You’ll have to start speaking to men at some point.’
The great thing about America, though, is the way they’re willing to cater to the most mad requests. So when I ask the waiter for boiling water and an empty cup, he says, ‘Sure!’ Everyone watches Maggie assemble her cup of tea with the tea bag she brought, and we all applaud when she finishes it off with a dash of milk.
‘Ah, breakfast in America,’ I say happily, drizzling maple syrup over my pancakes. ‘I could quite easily spend all day eating breakfast here.’ I remember to take a picture for Charlie; like me, he’s a pancake fiend.
‘What is our plan, though?’ asks Maggie, grinding pepper on to her veggie omelette. ‘We’ve got to get to the thing by five, did you say, Lily?’
‘A bit before if that’s OK. Quarter of,’ says Lily.
‘Quarter of?’ says Maggie. ‘You really have gone native.’
‘I have to!’ Lily protests. ‘They don’t understand me otherwise. I once arranged to meet someone at half-two and he thought I meant one thirty. And don’t get me started on pants.’
‘You like it here, though, don’t you?’ says Maggie, wistfully.
‘I don’t like it,’ Lily says. Swallowing a giant bite of her breakfast burrito, she pauses dramatically before saying, ‘I love it. I mean, I miss you guys, but I love Los Angeles, love living by the ocean, love the whole thing.’ She waves her coffee cup to illustrate her point; the waiter comes by and gives us all a refill. ‘See? Coffee refills. What’s not to love?’ she finishes.
‘So you really prefer LA to … Bromley?’ Maggie shakes her head. ‘You might have Beverly Hills, but we’ve got The Glades shopping centre.’
We all laugh, but Maggie looks sad. ‘You know how you’re organising this event here? Does that mean you might be moving to New York?’ she asks hopefully. ‘That would be much closer than LA.’
‘No, this thing is a one-off. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to live in New York. It’s cool, but it’s too frenetic and angsty for me. Everyone looks so stressed out. LA is much more relaxed.’
Rachel has already finished her pancakes and taken out a guidebook with a forest of Post-its stuck into it. She’s indestructible; her caffeine hangover is obviously a distant memory. ‘So for today,’ she says, ‘I was thinking we could start with the Guggenheim and the Met, then walk across Central Park and get the subway up to the Cloisters.’ She reads from her guidebook: ‘“This medieval art museum is a little-known highlight of the Upper West Side, with scenic views all over the Hudson.”’
Lily and Maggie are looking non-committal. ‘Hm,’ says Rachel, laughing. ‘Do I detect a case of the Colosseums?’ I know she’s referring to their holiday in Rome, when she wanted to march them around a load of sights and the others were having none of it.
‘We can always divide and conquer. I’ll do some culture with you, Rachel, while the others grab New York by the carrier-bag handles,’ I offer.
‘Mmm, shopping,’ says Maggie, rubbing her hands.
‘Are you sure you want to go shopping, Mags?’ asks Lily, less enthusiastic. ‘Aren’t you meant to be saving for a deposit for a flat?’
Maggie shakes her head. ‘I’ve given that up. I’m going to be renting for the rest of my life, so I may as well do it in style.’
‘So you’ve abandoned the beach hut scheme?’ asks Rachel innocently. We try to keep straight faces, until Maggie starts laughing and we all join in. I’d forgotten this mad idea of hers.
‘I know, I know. It seemed genius at the time, but I hadn’t thought through all the practicalities. Like plumbing. And heating. Little things like that.’
‘But imagine waking up every morning to the sound of the waves,’ Rachel says, which sets us all off again.
We pay the bill and say our goodbyes, with Lily giving us some last-minute info. ‘Don’t forget, Christian’s got some outfits for you to wear if you want to. He’ll leave them in our room. Oh, and I’ve booked you all a Town Car for four p.m. I’ve got to be there early, so we can just meet at the venue. Maggie has the address.’ She looks very keyed up; she’s obviously extremely nervous.
‘No further questions,’ says Rachel. ‘Let’s get to it!’
‘Good luck, darling. I’m sure it will be fabulous,’ I say, giving Lily a hug.
We arrange to meet Maggie back at the hotel at three, and Rachel and I head off towards the Guggenheim – on foot, so I can walk off my pancakes.
‘That’s the only way I can stay ahead of Charlie’s cooking,’ I explain as we head uptown, in the general direction of Central Park. ‘I walk to and from work every day. Otherwise I’d be the size of a house.’
‘You’re lucky he’s such a great cook. Oliver’s idea of cooking is pasta and Dolmio sauce,’ Rachel says. I smile. She often pretends to complain about her boyfriend, in the same way she complains about all the hours she has to put in at her law firm. But she doesn’t fool me: she loves them both.
We’re at the Guggenheim for an hour and a half, spending almost as much time admiring the incredible snail-shaped building as the art inside. Then we decide that’s enough culture, cross Fifth Avenue and head towards Central Park. Looking at the lines of horse-drawn carriages, the pretzel sellers and the hot-dog stands, I sigh happily. Work, London, my angst over turning thirty all seem a long way away. As does my impending menopause.
‘What are you laughing at?’ says Rachel.
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you when we’re sitting down.’
We get hot dogs and two bottles of water, and take them into the park. After strolling for a while, we find ourselves by the lake, which is looking stunning, with floods of white cherry blossom reflected in the water, and the skyscrapers of New York floating up out of the greenery. We take turns seeing how many we can spot: the Empire State Building, the pink Trump Tower, and of course, the Chrysler building. Though we might have got a few of them wrong.
‘I’m going to send these to Oliver and make him jealous,’ says Rachel, taking about a hundred pictures.
‘How is Oliver?’ I ask, as we sit down under a cherry tree.
‘He’s fine,’ Rachel says. She looks so blissfully happy that I’m not at all surprised when she adds, ‘He’s asked me to move in with him. It is very soon, but it might be sensible – you know, we could sell both our places, get something better and see each other more often. We both work such long hours, it’s awkward travelling back and forth …’
‘Very sensible,’ I agree, smiling. ‘So it sounds like Project Rachel is all going well?’
She nods. ‘Project Rachel is showing good deliverables in the key areas of work, relationship and home. Finally. What about Project Poppy?’
‘Um …’ I was all set to tell her about my conversa
tion with my mum but it seems ridiculous, on this sunny spring day, to start talking about my biological clock. ‘I’m fine! Work’s fine, flat’s fine, Charlie’s fine. He’s talking about leaving publishing and setting up a café, did I mention that?’
‘Ooh, that sounds fab,’ says Rachel. ‘He could start with a supper club, couldn’t he?’
‘Yes, he’s mentioned that.’ I pause, and force myself to continue. ‘I suppose … I do worry that we might be on different time frames. In terms of settling down and, um, having a family. But it seems way too early to bring it up.’
‘No it’s not. Talk to him about it,’ Rachel says immediately.
I nod, but I realise suddenly I don’t want to, for the stupidest reason: because it would be unromantic. I don’t want him to feel he has to settle down because his elderly girlfriend is putting the thumbscrews on him. I want him to be the one to suggest it – the way Oliver’s suggested the next step to Rachel. Otherwise how will I ever know that it’s what he really wants?
‘God, look at the time,’ Rachel says. ‘We’d better get back to the hotel for our red-carpet treatment.’
Since we’re running late, we decide to get a cab, and before long we’re back at the Mercer, where Maggie is contemplating a rail full of dresses and boxes of shoes and accessories.
‘What a great job perk,’ says Rachel. ‘This almost never happens in law firms. That’s funny … they’re all different shades of blue. Isn’t there anything black?’
‘There must be some kind of dress code, or theme,’ says Maggie, who’s in heaven rifling through the dresses. ‘What about this one? With maybe these booties? Oh my God, it’s Elie Saab!’
‘Has Lily left already?’ I ask. ‘Did you help her get ready?’
‘No! She insisted she didn’t want me to, and she left without me even seeing her. I’ve never seen her in such a state.’
‘Did she give you invitations or anything?’ I ask, holding up a petrol-blue halter-neck number against myself.
‘No. She said she’d wait outside for us. Oh, no.’ She’s holding up an exquisite pale blue minidress, with long sleeves, lace-appliquéd all over. ‘This is so pretty. But it won’t work with my no make-up vow.’
‘Maybe you’re being overambitious – with no make-up and no talking to men,’ Rachel says.
‘How about if I curl your lashes and add tinted lip balm?’ I suggest. ‘That won’t count, and it’s honestly all you need.’
An hour and lots of costume changes later, we’re all set to go. Rachel’s hair has been backcombed into a high pony, and she’s in a blue printed poplin dress with black leather sandals. Maggie’s wearing her Elie Saab minidress, and I’m thrilled with my floor-length halter-neck dress from Halston Heritage. We’re so busy taking pictures of each other we almost forget about the Town Car, and they have to ring us from the lobby to remind us.
‘I’m quite nervous,’ says Maggie as we drive off. ‘Is that really sad? I keep on wondering what to say if I meet someone famous. Do you think it’s better to pretend not to know who they are, or to say you love their work?’
‘Love their work, definitely,’ I say, checking my reflection in my little gold compact mirror. ‘Will you tell me if one of my eyelashes comes loose? I don’t want it to drop in my champagne just as I’m chatting to Hugh Jackman.’
‘I probably won’t know who anyone is anyway,’ says Rachel. ‘Did I tell you about the time I met what’s-his-name … Dominic Cooper? It was at a party. I asked him if he’d been in anything I’d seen, and he said he was the fiancé in Mamma Mia. I said, “Really? But that guy was really buff!” He was incredibly nice about it, though. Cute, too.’
‘But you won’t have to worry about talking to Dominic Cooper,’ I remind Maggie. ‘You’ve taken a vow of silence with men, remember?’
‘Dammit!’ she murmurs. ‘Damn. Ooh, I think we’re here.’
The car has stopped outside a big stone building. It looks very grand from what I can make out from the window – a flight of steps, and pillars at the top.
‘Where’s the red carpet?’ asks Maggie, as we climb out and walk up the steps.
‘There are lots of people going in and out,’ says Rachel. She looks up and reads the sign outside the building. ‘New York City Hall. Hm. Are you sure this is the place?’
‘Yes! Look, there’s Lily,’ Maggie says, pointing to the top of the steps. Then she stops dead. ‘Oh my God.’
We look up to see Lily coming slowly down the steps towards us. She’s wearing … I blink. A fifties-style white dress, with a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt. And silver pumps. She’s carrying a bouquet. And wearing a veil.
This can’t be what I think it is. This is a new trend, right? Wedding chic. Maybe it’s a Japanese craze that’s spread to New York. Or she didn’t pack anything smart so she borrowed a wedding dress. And a veil. That must be it.
‘Bridesmaids,’ Rachel says, clutching my arm. She indicates our dresses. ‘That’s why the colours match. We’re bridesmaids.’
‘Hi, girls!’ Lily says, stepping down towards us. ‘Perfect timing. You all look great!’
‘Is this a film? Do you have a part in something?’ Rachel asks. We all look around hopefully. There are plenty of other people here – that is, other couples, in dresses and suits, surrounded by friends and family taking photos. But no movie cameras. Lily shakes her head.
‘Are you and Jesse getting married?’ asks Maggie. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re back together and you’re getting married!’
Lily puts back her veil with a sigh. ‘No. That would have been easier, but I wouldn’t have done that to Jesse. I am getting married, though.’
‘You’re getting married,’ Rachel repeats. ‘To whom?’
Before Lily can reply, Maggie bursts out, ‘But you said there were going to be VIPs! I’ve been practising my Hollywood small talk!’
Lily indicates us. ‘You’re the VIPs! I couldn’t get married without you here.’
‘Lily,’ Rachel says in a deliberately calm voice, ‘is this a visa marriage?’
‘Of course,’ says Lily. ‘Look, the truth is, I’ve lost my job. My boss has decided to cut back, and she’s letting me and another girl go. It’s nothing we did wrong; we were the last ones in … Now I’ve got ninety days to leave the US. And I can’t do that. I love it here. I want to stay, and this is the only way to do it.’
I think we’re all in shock; we all want to shake her and tell her she’s crazy, but we’re too stunned to even know where to start.
‘But can’t you get another job?’ I ask. ‘You said you had a meeting yesterday?’
‘That was an interview, and he said he liked me but he can’t justify paying for my visa. That’s what I keep hearing. The only way is to marry a US citizen.’
‘Shh! Keep your voice down,’ says Rachel. ‘Come on, over here.’ And she marches us all down to the bottom of the steps. One family group after another is walking up and down past us; we have to stand aside to let a couple pose while people throw confetti. Little do they know a crime is being discussed just out of shot.
‘Who’s the guy?’ I ask. ‘And what’s in it for him?’
‘That’s the great thing,’ says Lily. ‘You see, he’s in the military. And he gets better quarters and leave if he gets married. And they go easy on people in the army, so no one is ever going to ask him. I’ve researched it all and it’ll be fine.’
‘I’m sure you have, but it’s not happening,’ says Rachel.
‘What do you mean?’ Lily asks.
‘I mean we can’t let you go through with this,’ says Rachel. ‘You’re talking about committing a crime, Lily. It’s called marriage fraud and they take it very seriously. You’ll be deported. You could even go to prison. Either way, you’ll have a criminal record and you won’t be allowed back into America. Ever.’
Like spectators at a tennis match, Maggie and I swivel back at Lily to see her reaction.
‘I won’t,’ she says c
almly. ‘Honestly, Rachel, it’s foolproof. An Australian girl I know in LA married a soldier in a set-up like this, and that was five years ago and she’s got her green card now. They always turn a blind eye to soldiers, especially if they’ve got exemplary records. My fiancé has a medal.’
She sounds almost proud, and with a sinking heart I realise she’s getting into character; she’s going deep. We swivel back over to look at Rachel.
‘You know that even once you’ve got married,’ she says, ‘you won’t get the visa right away? They’ll make you go back to the UK and apply for it from there.’
‘They won’t! There’s an exception for military spouses,’ Lily says triumphantly.
Rachel continues, ‘And they’ll investigate your relationship with this guy – they’ll want to see details of your history together, where you met, email exchanges, airline tickets, everything. God almighty, Lily,’ suddenly she sounds very Irish as well as agitated, ‘have you never seen Green Card?’
‘We’ve figured all that out,’ Lily says. ‘He can fake letters to and from his base. He’s been in Afghanistan. They’re not going to say boo to him.’
There’s an awful silence, broken tentatively by Maggie.
‘Maybe you could call off the wedding for now,’ she suggests, ‘and sort of get to know this guy instead? If you hit it off, maybe it will become a real thing … you know, it could be … romantic?’
Poor Maggie. I know she doesn’t really believe this will happen; she’s just hating the tension, as am I.
Suddenly Rachel laughs, and shakes her head. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’ve said what I think, and now it’s up to you. If you want to do this, and potentially go to prison or get deported … I can’t stop you.’
‘Right,’ says Lily. ‘Thanks.’ She seems nonplussed, as if she’d expected more of a fight. She looks at me. ‘What do you think?’
‘Honestly, babe, I think it’s a completely insane idea. And I can’t bear to think of you in prison. You’d have to have a mullet, and a prison wife, and wear the same knickers for months.’ Lily smiles, which makes me even more irritated. It wasn’t a joke!
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