‘Well …’
‘At least let us try to convince you,’ he says, black eyes glinting and leaning forward on the table now as if he’s sensing my indecision. ‘If you don’t have plans for tomorrow, then how about you swing by us for Christmas dinner? Give you a chance to really get to know Harry and to see for yourself how genuinely sorry he is for all this.’
I look across at him and he seems to sense I’m vacillating. ‘Come on then, Holly,’ he smiles. ‘You’ve come this far. So what do you say to going just a little further?’
Chapter Eighteen
As it turns out, brunch becomes surprisingly relaxed in spite of all the underlying tensions and after a good hour in Dishes deli, Mike and I eventually step outside into a chilly blast of snow-is-on-its-way air. We stroll side by side down 45th Street, though I could barely tell you what direction I’m headed in.
‘So tell me this,’ he says abruptly, stopping stone dead in his tracks and turning to face me full on. ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day? All the usual touristy stuff? I’m guessing a bit of sightseeing and maybe some shopping?’
‘Both, if possible,’ I shrug back up at him with a smile, ‘although if the truth be told, I haven’t the first clue where the day may take me.’ So much to see, so little time, etc.
He grins, and it’s a lovely, warm, open grin too. First time I’ve actually seen him smile like that. ‘In that case, seeing as how I’m in the neighbourhood, maybe you’d allow me to show you one of my all-time favourite buildings in the whole of the greater Tri-state area? Just one, that’s all. And it’s right beside us too, so I won’t eat up your whole afternoon. I promise not to detain you too long from the half-price Christmas sale at Macy’s.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ I say, completely intrigued.
So he leads the way while I try to keep up, as we weave through the packed street, while struggling shoppers laden down with heavy overcoats and stuffed shopping bags battle their way past us, all headed for Mecca: aka, the giant department stores dotted along Madison and Fifth Avenues.
Together we wind our way down 45th Street, then right out of nowhere Mike abruptly stops at a small, discreet side doorway tucked neatly away just to our right. The kind of doorway you’d walk right past and not even give a second glance to. He pulls the door wide and holds it open for me, tapping his index finger off his lips like he’s staying absolutely silent about where this’ll lead us.
So a bit uncertainly, I step inside and immediately find myself standing on a long, snaking corridor, with speckled marble flooring underfoot and a ceiling with gorgeous mid-century coving right overhead.
‘Follow me if you please,’ he says, still giving absolutely nothing away. ‘And trust me, it’ll be well worth it.’
We make our way down a flight of stairs and then all the way along another endlessly winding corridor, then yet another one after that again. I’m just about to peel away and hotfoot it back to civilization, on the pretext that this guy could well turn out to be some kind of weirdo perv leading me anywhere, when suddenly the corridor widens out into one of the most breathtaking concourses I’ve ever seen.
‘Welcome to Grand Central Station,’ Mike beams proudly. ‘One of the most beautiful buildings in the city, at least in my humble opinion. And I’m saying that as a born-and-bred New Yorker by the way, not just as an architect.’
I swear to God, my jaw actually drops as I look all around me now, just drinking the whole thing in. The entire concourse is absolutely vast, almost cathedral-like, and dominating the centre of it all is a fabulously ornate gold clock with four sides to it, all set inside a glittering domed structure. There’s elegant cream marble flooring underneath and a giant domed ceiling which seems to draw the eye up hundreds of feet above us.
Weird – I’ve never set foot in Grand Central before and yet it seems almost familiar to me from seeing it in dozens of movies and TV shows set here.
‘Wow,’ is all I can keep repeating, over and over like a halfwit, and Mike looks absolutely delighted by my reaction.
‘So tell me this, have you got a head for heights?’ he asks out of nowhere and now there’s a jet-black, mischievous glint in his eyes.
‘Ehh … why do you ask?’
‘Will you trust me? Come this way. As we say here in the Big Apple, you ain’t seen nothing yet, lady.’
I follow him as we turn sharply to the left, my heels click-clacking along on the marble floors, just like everyone else’s. He strides ahead, hands deep in his coat pockets, all tall and long-legged, oozing confidence. In fairness, it’s hard to miss the guy even in a crowd.
We come to a giant marble staircase right at the end of the concourse and with Mike leading the way the two of us clamber up, past a whole dining level on the second floor stuffed full of incredibly cool-looking bars and restaurants, then up yet another level again till we eventually come to … of all things, an Apple Store.
Turns out there’s quite a crowd milling outside the store, onlookers all waving camera phones and a few knackered-looking paps, who look like they’ve been hanging round here for hours now.
‘What’s all this?’ I ask Mike, half wondering if this is what he brought me all the way up here for.
‘Celeb-spotting would be my guess,’ he shrugs.
‘Wow! Who would you say it is?’
‘No idea, but that’s the thing about Manhattan, you see,’ he chats easily on as we climb up yet another floor, although he’s barely out of breath while I’m puffing and wheezing two steps behind him. ‘It’s so tiny, you’ll find celeb sightings are pretty much ten a penny. In fact, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen some D-lister out walking their dog on the Upper West Side, I probably could have retired by now. I’m always seeing Amy Adams hanging around the Magnolia Bakery down in Soho, and you can’t throw a stick in the East Village without bumping into one of the cast of either Girls or Law and Order.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Absolutely,’ he says mock-theatrically, though by the glint in his eye I’d swear he’s having me on. ‘Plus if you ever fancy bumping into Robert de Niro, then all you need do is pitch up at the Tribeca Grill in Hell’s Kitchen any night of the week. Which he owns, by the way.’
‘That’s incredible,’ I pant my way up yet another flight of stairs, trying to keep up with him. ‘Mind you, I don’t know what I’d do if I went into a restaurant for a bite to eat and ended up running into the Godfather.’
‘Spoken like a true movie buff,’ he smiles, as now we step out onto the highest floor there is. It’s dizzying up here, and way down beneath us, busy commuters are weaving their way like tiny ants. Weird thing is though, it’s completely calm and almost peaceful up here.
‘Now,’ Mike says proudly, ‘can you see why I love Grand Central so much?’ I’m wheezing, I’m breathless, but still I can’t help nodding along in agreement.
‘I mean, here we are,’ he goes on. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, one of the busiest and most frenetic days of the whole year. And yet this building just gives you a sense of peace and calm, doesn’t it?’
Hadn’t thought about it quite that way, yet now that he’s articulated it, I can see exactly what he means.
‘And that to me, you see,’ he says, ‘is perfect architecture. When you can walk through a building and suddenly have a deep feeling of well-being, a real sense of connection come over you, without even knowing why. That’s something I really aspire to. Well, as much as I can,’ he tacks on dryly, ‘that is, given that a lot of my work involves building family conservatories out in Brooklyn.’
I find myself really looking at Mike properly now, touched at how passionate he is about what he does for a living. It’s not just a job to him; it really seems more like a vocation.
‘And just take a look at how people are physically moving,’ he’s saying now, waving down to the concourse that’s so far below us. ‘Everyone looks so graceful and elegant, don’t they? Even though the commuters are probably stressed o
ut of their minds trying to make their trains and their connections home in time for Christmas, they’re all weaving around each other seamlessly.’
‘Like watching a ballet,’ I say almost to myself, but I catch him grinning again, that same wide, warm grin.
‘Exactly. And I’ll bet the architecture is affecting them without their even knowing why.’
‘Just how old is Grand Central?’ I ask as the thought suddenly strikes me.
‘Dates all the way back to 1870. Now I know that to a European like you, that mustn’t seem old at all, but take it from me, to us Yanks that’s pretty ancient. And did you know that at one point the whole place was going to be demolished?’
‘Seriously?’ I ask him, shocked to think that all this beauty could possibly have ended up on a skip.
‘Yup. Of all people, it was Jackie Kennedy who spearheaded the campaign to preserve it, with a lot of help from Donald Trump, who was a major investor in the renovations. And if you’re feeling particularly brave,’ he says tour-guide style, ‘then step right this way.’
He leads me up one final flight of much smaller stairs till we’re up so giddyingly high now that the giant domed ceiling is so close to us, I almost feel like I could reach out and touch it.
‘It’s astonishing!’ is all I can say, and keep saying.
‘Exactly what I’ve always thought myself. And if you look closely, you can see all twelve signs of the zodiac.’
He’s right. They’re all here, from Aquarius to Capricorn, laid on in twinkling blue stars against the blue high-vaulted ceiling: just magnificent. Then he steers me onwards still, right along the very edge of the parapet till eventually we come to a small domed structure.
‘What’s this?’ I ask, intrigued.
‘Welcome to the Whispering Gallery,’ he grins back at me.
‘The what?’
‘It’s kind of famous round here. If you whisper something here, it can be heard right the way across the other side of the concourse. Trust me, I’m not making it up.’
‘I’ll just have to take your word for it,’ I laugh. ‘You’ve got me up this far, but if you think I’m climbing up as high again on the other side of the concourse, you’ve got another thing coming!’
‘Have to hand it to you, Holly Johnson. You certainly weren’t joking when you said you had no fear of heights.’
We spend another good half hour soaking in Grand Central, and I keep expecting Mike to peel away any minute now, pleading last-minute Christmas shopping that he has to get done before C-Day. After all, he’s got family to buy for, etc., etc.
And yet to my surprise he lingers on.
That’s because he’s only trying to win you round, a nagging inner voice keeps telling me. That’s the one and only reason for all the charm offensive and attentiveness; he doesn’t want you to out his kid brother when you get back home. He’s trying to get you onside and you’d be an eejit to read any more into it. A number is being played on you and you can forget that at your peril. Do not fall for this, Holly Johnson, or else not only will Harry have sucked you in, but now his older brother will have too.
Yet when I weigh up how I’d normally spend Christmas Eve, holed up in bed and leaving my room only to get to either the kitchen, the microwave, the telly or the loo, then isn’t this a far more enjoyable option? As long as I stay wise to the fact I am being manipulated, just a bit?
No sooner have we drifted away from Grand Central than he insists on showing me some more of his favourite buildings uptown. So for the next few – I’m not joking – hours, he takes me all the way up to the Met at Columbus Circle, which again is utterly breathtaking. And I’m not just talking about the architecture, as it happens, I’m talking about the amount of women ‘of a certain age’ who’ve had so much plastic surgery done, they collectively look like they’ve just stepped out of a wind tunnel. Plus never in my entire life have I seen so many women all wearing real fur, but then that’s a whole other story.
Mike, as it turns out though, seems to be one of those guys blessed with indefatigable energy levels. Not content that he’s shown me quite enough already, he leads me on to see the Guggenheim, designed – as he tells me – by the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright, yet another huge inspiration of his. It’s in a stunning double helix shape, and even if there wasn’t a single work of art housed here, just to see the building itself really is a sight to behold.
But by the time we finish looking around, it’s coming up to almost five in the evening and I finally begin to sag a bit, as the jet lag hits me square on.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘what do you say to a quick pick-me-up before we go our separate ways?’
I’m all for it, but it’s started to snow lightly, so finding an empty cab proves impossible. Totally unperturbed, Mike leads me downtown and, I swear, just walking down a street with this guy is an education in itself. He encourages me to look upwards, pointing out all sorts of intricate turrets on buildings and stained-glass windows that I’d normally never even have noticed. But then in weather like this I’m normally too busy with my eyes glued to the pavement, trying my best to make sure I don’t fall flat on my face into the slushy snow that’s fast piling up beneath us.
After a brisk twenty-minute walk, we eventually arrive at the Rockefeller Center, yet another dazzling skyscraper right slap bang in the middle of Fifth Avenue, which yet again Mike seems to know every square inch of.
‘Come on, you gotta see the Rockefeller, I absolutely insist,’ he enthuses, steering me around a corner. ‘And right here’s the main event.’
Next thing I know, he’s leading me right round the back of the building, where just one floor beneath us there’s a giant skating rink with a huge Christmas tree dominating it. It’s jam-packed full of wannabe Torvill and Deans twirling effortlessly about the ice, while the more nervous skaters – not unlike myself – cling anxiously to side railings, gamely trying their best not to land splat on their arses. Even though we’re a full level above the rink, you can still clearly hear waves of laughter and helpless giggles as skaters flop, skid and slide all over the place.
It’s packed full of families today clearly all enjoying a pre-Christmas jaunt; proud mums and dads are carefully steering kids in heavy wintry coats over the ice, while there’s a load of grandparents gathered together in a cluster, taking photos and squealing out words of encouragement.
‘Come on, Taylor, honey, you can do it, attaboy!!’
‘Grandpa, look at me … I can do twirls now!’
‘I’m so proud of you, Janey!’
‘Jake! Smile for the camera, you’re doing great!’
‘Still on for that pick-me-up?’ Mike asks, tearing me away from gazing at the ice rink, clearly sensing that I’m running on empty at this stage. I nod, wondering where the hell he’s taking me this time only praying it’s not for another marathon-long walk.
Next thing though we’re headed for a lift that seems to go all the way down to the ice rink level. I’m half dreading that the guy will hand me a pair of skates and point me in the general direction of the ice, and am just racking my brains for possible excuses to get out of it, when suddenly the lift door pings open onto a whole dining concourse.
Now this, I think, is far more like it.
We head for a restaurant called the Rockefeller Café and two minutes later are being guided towards a table for two over by the window, with a fantastic view of the rink right outside. After the crisp, chilly air outside, the cosy warmth inside couldn’t be more welcome, as the most delicious smell of cinnamon and eggnog hits us full on. And so we order: a coffee for Mike, a hot chocolate for me and, on his recommendation, two very large slices of gooey New York cheesecake on the side.
‘When in Rome,’ he smiles and I happily go along with it, badly in need of the sugar hit.
Having chatted so freely and easily all day, suddenly there’s silence between us, almost as though we’re both completely talked out. I find myself focusing on the skaters outside and at on
e girl in particular who can’t for the life of her seem to find her balance, but in fairness doesn’t give up, no matter how many times she falls splat on her bum.
Drinks arrive, and after a sip of coffee, Mike suddenly leans forward.
‘So …’ he says, the black eyes really focused on me now.
‘So?’
‘Well … do you think it would be OK if I asked you something that’s a bit personal?’ he says, and I swear I know what’s coming next. I can just sense it. I always can. You get good at it after long enough.
‘Go ahead,’ I say, still staring absently out the window.
‘Well, there’s something that I’m dying to get to the bottom of. For no other reason than I’m a nosey bastard who’s intrigued, that’s all,’ he adds lightly.
‘Intrigued by …?’
‘I was trying to ask you over brunch earlier, but then you so elegantly managed to dodge the question on me.’
‘Hmm?’ I say, deliberately distracting myself by concentrating on the skater outside that had caught my eye. Poor girl falls again, but she just laughs it off and is back up on her feet a minute later.
Why can’t I be like her? I find myself wondering randomly. Why does it take me so bloody long to recover from life’s knocks? Why can’t I just pick myself up and get back in the race, like other people seem to do so effortlessly?
‘Thing is,’ Mike is saying a bit more pointedly now, ‘it’s Christmas Eve. And here you are.’
‘Here I am …’ I say vaguely, half listening. Not entirely certain what’s pulling me back to the past so much right now.
‘… In New York City, all alone. Which seems a little strange, if you don’t mind my saying. I mean, don’t you have family back home that are wondering how you’re doing? That’ll maybe miss you tomorrow? That you’d normally spend the day with, if you hadn’t come all the way over here to chase a story? After all, tomorrow is a day for family, right?’
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 15
