Heading for a bench, her bench, he stretched out his legs before crossing them at the ankles, the brown leather of his loafers dull against the well washed denim. He’d never been alone before and he was dreading it. Oh, he was alone now, sitting on her park bench. But being alone in a park full of people wasn’t the same as being alone. What he meant by alone was opening his front door, day after day, to the echo of his empty thoughts. What he really meant was he didn’t want to be alone like she was alone; alone and lonely, sitting on her bench with not a word or a thought for anyone else. Shifting back against the painted green slats and closing his eyes, he imagined the last time he’d seen her; sitting exactly where he was sitting with the cold wind against her cheek and the hard wooden slats digging into the back of her knees. Opening his eyes, he wondered what her thoughts had been as his eyes took in the neatly clipped borders, now bare of flowers in preparation for the spring bulbs. He saw the odd brave sparrow venturing out to sit on top of the statue of Edwin Booth and then he didn’t see anything except for the gravel under his feet. She wouldn’t have seen any of this. She wouldn’t have noticed anything except the gravel by her feet and her thoughts.
Standing up with a jerk, he stared around at the park now filling up with an assortment of New Yorkers out for their Saturday stroll. Apparently Gramercy was the go-to place for anyone and everyone lucky enough to have a key. He was one of the lucky ones, the key coming with the apartment; the only lucky thing in fact as the apartment was small, poky and barely two bedrooms. But it came with the job and, just like the secret garden, it came with the key to paradise.
Bagel now finished, he scrunched up the waxy wrapper and, walking over to the bin went to throw it in, his eyes snagging on the corner of a letter thrown on top.
Just who’d throw an envelope away in a park, even a private exclusive one like Gramercy? His eyes scanned the vicinity but the only person nearby was the park warden picking up litter with his extendable stick. Plucking the envelope out of the bin he turned it over in his hands, looking for an address so he could at least return it back to the owner, but there was nothing.
He frowned as he caught the eye of a little girl looking across at him with her mouth open, even as she went to yank the skirt of the woman standing beside her. She obviously thought he was going through the rubbish and wasn't that exactly what he was doing?
Turning his back he continued to stare. The envelope wasn’t one of those cheap ones sold in packs of twenty for a couple of dollars. This was thick, white, heavy embossed paper with the trace of a logo pressed into the corner, which even squinting in the sharp morning light, he couldn’t quite read. As a lawyer he knew the rules on mail and the legalities of opening something clearly meant for somebody else but how else was he going to be able to return it? The only certain thing was he couldn’t very well stay standing over the bin like a well-dressed hobo looking for his lunch. He could already feel the weight of stares on his back as they tried to work out just what he was up to. Allowing his arm to flex he aimed the wrapper at the bin and, turning, tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He didn’t think about what he was doing. It was an automatic response to not knowing what to do, but feeling he had to do something. He had to do something or risk having his key confiscated for weird behaviour. Did they even have the power to rescind key privileges, he thought, smiling briefly at a couple of young mothers pushing prams. Having his key confiscated meant that he wouldn’t get to see her again…
‘Dad, Dad, DADDY!’
‘What?’ He looked up with a smile. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d called him that. It felt good.
‘Dad, I’ve been shouting at you for like five minutes,’ she added, plonking herself down on the sofa beside him. ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That envelope thingy?’
‘Really Cara Mia, if thingy is all you can come up with you might as well go to an ordinary school and not one where I have to sell my soul to the devil every time I don a suit.’
‘Ha ha, very funny. I’m majoring in music where I’m excelling in flute not English, as you very well know.’ She stretched out her legs onto the edge of the table nudging the envelope with her toes.
‘You’re obviously avoiding the question. Now, why would you do that?’ Her eyes scrunched up at the corners. ‘It hasn’t anything to do with all the new clothes you’ve been splashing out on, not to mention the new haircut?’ she teased, sweeping her fingers across his forehead. ‘It’s a woman isn’t it? Wait ‘til I tell the girls at school.’
‘You’ll do no such thing.’
‘There, I told you – it is a woman, I just knew it. Look, you’re even blushing.’
‘I am not,’ he declared, even as he felt his cheeks warm.
‘You are! Daddy’s got a girlfriend. Daddy’s got a girlfriend,’ she chanted, jumping up and down and causing the springs to protest with a loud crack.
Daddy’s got an annoying daughter not to mention an annoying problem, his eyes glued to the envelope propped up in front of him.
‘So, are you going to open it?’ She eyed him for a second with both brows raised before snatching it up and ripping it apart.
‘Evelyn, you can’t…’ But he was too late. She’d already managed to mangle the envelope up into a misshapen ball with one hand, the other starting to unfold the letter.
Her eyes, scanning the top of the page quickly pulled into a frown. ‘If this is a joke, Dad, I don’t find it very funny. In fact I don’t find it funny at all.’
‘Joke? What are you going on about?’
‘What, you’re saying it wasn’t you? Why is it addressed to me then if it’s not from you, but it can’t be can it?’ Her voice now hesitant just as her look was now worried. ‘It’s only you and granny that call me Cara.’
‘Here, let me see.’ He plucked the sheet from between loose fingers and unfolded it properly. As he did, something fell out and fluttered to the ground. A photo, a small passport photo just like the ones he used to take in that funny little booth at the drugstore in order to keep his little sisters amused; a photo small enough to cradle within a palm, anyone’s palm. Her palm. He left the photo where it was, face down and turned his attention back to the letter and began reading the first line before folding it up and walking over to the pine chest of drawers in the small lobby. Rooting through the assorted junk in the top drawer he finally found what he was looking for under a bunch of keys and the spokes of a broken umbrella before stuffing the letter carefully into a fresh envelope.
‘Hey, you haven’t told me what it says.’
‘And I’m not going to.’
‘But it’s addressed to me.’
‘No, it’s addressed to another girl; you’ll just have to trust me on that.’
‘Well, that’s not very fair now is it?’
‘Ca… Evelyn, it’s a love letter, all right!’
‘I’m old enough to…’
‘Come and sit beside me for a minute honey,’ he said, patting a space beside him on the sofa.
‘Yes, Dad,’ her voice full of enough huffs to blow out a candle at fifty paces.
He smiled to himself, an art, or should that be a skill, all parents learnt as soon as their offspring started answering back. Daddy and daughter talks never went down well in their house, perhaps because he was crap at them. He could never seem to get the right fatherly tone and, instead, came across as contrite. In truth, it would be much better if she was the parent and he just did what he was told – that would suit them both down to the ground. But, as he was the grown-up, he’d better start acting it and he’d start with the letter. He felt bad enough as it was taking something that clearly belonged to someone else.
‘Evelyn,’ he started, clearing his throat before continuing. ‘Evelyn, someday you’ll love someone…’
‘Like in love a man?’
‘Ahem, yes, er, like loving a man. So, someday when you fall in love,
you might want to tell them how you feel.’
‘What, like you and Mummy and all those Valentine’s cards you keep under your socks?’
He paused, struggling not to laugh at the thought of Evelyn going anywhere near his sock drawer. He didn’t want to go anywhere near his sock drawer, although now he’d swapped his boring black for an assortment of reds and blues it was proving a lot more interesting trying to actually find a matching pair. Boring black had one big advantage in that they all looked the same, if not all smelling the same as he suddenly remembered his bulging laundry basket. Although thinking about socks was a darned sight more interesting than thinking about his wife, his mind pushing socks out of the way to remember the most imperfect relationship of all.
There were no love letters, no sweet missives, no saucy texts or passionate poetry. But that hadn’t necessarily been their fault. They’d been too young, far too young to get married and far too young to be parents. He still felt too young, or should that be too inexperienced, to be a parent, his eyes landing on her face with a smile.
‘That reminds me, I’m putting the washing machine on later if you have anything?’
‘Ew, Dad! How can Mum’s Valentine cards remind you of dirty washing?’
Because they weren’t from your mother, duh! But he wasn’t going to tell her that.
‘Do you want to hear why you’re not reading the letter or not?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘That’ll make a change,’ thinking of the ear buds she religiously wore 24/7 but he wasn’t going to say anything to aggravate the situation, not now she’d curled herself into his side just like she used to do when she was a child. He treasured these moments more than anything in the world, even more so now the hugs were becoming an increasing rarity. His gaze travelled across her smooth creamy white cheeks and fine blue eyes so like her mom’s before placing a kiss on top of her head and an arm around her shoulder. The part like him was her feet, or her toes to be exact, but now wasn’t the time to tease her about her toes. Now he had other problems. Now he had to explain about the letter.
‘So, if you received a letter,’ he smiled briefly, dragging his hand through his hair.
‘Yeah, I get that part.’
He gave her a little squeeze just to remind her who the daddy was, as if she’d ever let him forget. ‘As I was saying before I was interrupted – so if you received this letter, you know a love letter from your boyfriend and then you lost it someplace. It might have dropped out of your pocket for instance, or fallen out of a book.’
‘Or stolen, it might have been stolen, Dad. She might have had her bag stolen and they might have just thrown away the letter in the bin because it wasn’t worth anything.’
‘That’s right, although to her it probably meant the world, more than the world,’ his eyes recalling those first fragile words.
Cara, I can’t live without you.
He hadn’t read anymore. He couldn’t read anymore. Those six words told their own story, a story he wasn’t brave enough to know the ending to.
‘And if I lost such a thing, something so precious I wouldn’t really want someone else to read it. Okay I get that.’
‘Good, now put it in the drawer for your poor old dad and I’ll get you some lunch Ca… honey. What would you like; cheese, ham?’
‘Anything is fine.’ She scooped down and picked up the photo, taking her time to examine the blond haired man before placing it in the envelope and, just for once, did exactly as he asked.
Chapter Four
She wasn’t there. The third day in a row and he’d either missed her or she’d changed the time of her visits. She might even be away or on holidays, although mid-February New York wasn’t the ideal time to take a holiday unless it was somewhere warm. He didn’t know why he continued this jogging lark, watching as his breath steamed out in front of him. He’d been to the doctor for a check-up and he was fine, more than fine. Apparently his weight was text book normal, as was his blood pressure so it was all a bit of a joke, continuing to run round and round in circles, but then it’s not as if he had anywhere to go, except work.
He’d have to do something about work but he didn’t know what. He’d discovered he loved New York. The drive. The speed. The wise cracking cabbies. The little deli’s squirrelled away on each street corner serving Michelin standard wraps and bagels. And the fact there were still areas of peace and tranquillity like Gramercy to go to when his batteries needed recharging. He also had to think of Evelyn and the stunning future she kept telling him lay ahead, but only if she stayed at the exclusive academy for gifted musicians.
How could he have given birth to a gifted child? Him, someone without a musical note to his name had this angel of a flutist for a daughter. He loved New York and he loved Gramercy, but the only way he could afford to go on living there and pay Evelyn’s fees was to stay working for Prymentia.
Slowing his speed to a fast walk he headed back to the apartment before shower, suit and office. Murray had moved him off Mrs Angent’s loan in a fit of pique and had him working on the repossession of a brownstone in the Bronx.
Arriving at his desk, he smiled as soon as he saw her email address in his in-box. He was still receiving emails from her; long chatty, letter type emails that always started with Dear Matti, and ended with Kindest regards, Mrs A. He’d never have guessed he’d enjoy finding out about the church bazaar and the fact she’d discovered a couple of old handbags in the back of her closet, which she’d auctioned on eBay to pay off both the butcher and the coal merchant.
A frown pooled at the thought of her scrabbling around for a few dimes in that old house of hers. It was one thing selling a few ugly paintings but handbags and the like were something else. His wife had taught him well about the power of the perfect handbag. The fact that the perfect handbag always came with the perfect price tag never featured in her nagging. It was more by luck and careful penny pinching they ever had any money left for groceries at the end of the month. For all the many qualities bestowed on a luxury handbag, being a food source wasn’t one of them.
With an ever increasing reluctance, he closed her email and started shifting his way through the fifty or so pleading letters from the housing association that rented the brownstone in the Bronx due for demolition in preparation for offices.
Her financial difficulties were still haunting him just in the same way the letter did, now gathering dust in his chest of drawers. Part of him felt he should finish reading it to see if there were any clues but he just couldn’t bring himself to open it. It sat like an elephant in the room, reminding him he should have left it in the bin where it belonged. It sat alongside his other problems in level of importance. Just as Mrs Angent’s current position was untenable so was the letter. So, while he worked on placating the charitable organisation, he also worked on a plan to solve her financial problems, not that he was getting anywhere with either.
He’d already worked out the charity couldn’t afford to stay on in the building. The only thing going for it was its location. It was damp, dreary and not fit for purpose and, in this instance, the fact that Murray was about to cream off 3.1 million of net profit held little relevance. He had to shift them lock, stock and barrel but it would be easier for all concerned if he could find them an alternative; something Murray had finally agreed to earlier.
‘Just boot them out, they have three weeks.’
‘Three weeks is a long time, a very long time,’ his face grim.
‘Long, what do you mean long? It’s not long; it’s short so get on with it.’
‘Did you know they’ve let the insurance lapse?’
‘All the more reason to shift them…’
‘As I was saying, Murray,’ he continued, ignoring that he’d picked up his phone again. ‘With the lapsed insurance are you really sure you want to hack these people off any further? You’re about to kick them out of their home, some of whom have lived there for years. Some of them, all of them, are mightily angr
y at you and some of them might even decide to do something about it.’
‘Are you threatening me, because if you are?’
‘Me? How am I threatening you? All I’m doing is pointing out the reality of the situation. You haven’t been down there but I have. You can’t reason with these people, they fight first and ask questions later. It would be a shame if one of them decided to do something stupid, like fail to stamp out their cigarette.’
‘Do what you like then, you have a week.’
Matti smiled and moved towards the door, only to pause at the sound of Murray’s voice.
‘Matisse, don’t make me regret ever having employed you.’
There was no reply to that. He walked through the door and closed it behind him with a gentle click.
‘Dad, I’ve got a concert performance tonight, can you come pleeese? We can pick up a McDonald’s on the way home. It will save you having to cook?’
His phone had started to ring as soon as he’d stepped back into the office.
‘Where and what time?’ His voice resigned. He’d be spending the rest of the day running around the Bronx looking for suitable real estate for eighty lower income, soon to be homeless, New Yorkers and he didn’t have a clue where to start.
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 37
