Thankfully I’m saved from having to answer though because just then our cheesecakes arrive. I also manage to buy a whole two-minute parcel of time in fumbling around with napkins and forks before tucking in.
He’s looking right at me though, clearly not willing to let it drop.
‘Come on, Holly. I’ve told you just about everything there is to know about me. Here I am with a father I never see, stepbrothers and sisters I barely know, my mother now a single parent and a kid brother who I’m going to have to watch like a hawk till he turns forty, the way he’s headed. Trust me, nothing you could say could possibly shock me.’
Silence. Long silence. And then he pipes up again.
‘OK, so now I’m guessing you’ve got a husband who you’re on the run from?’ he asks, trailing off so hopefully I’ll elaborate further.
Which I categorically don’t.
‘Or maybe you’re on some kind of witness protection programme?’ he throws in lightly, for good measure.
‘Please, can you just drop it?’ I find myself half-snapping, then instantly regret it when I see Mike looking back at me in mute surprise.
‘I’m sorry,’ he eventually says. ‘Forgive me. It’s none of my business.’
But then I think back to what a magical, memorable day he’s so unexpectedly given me today, and suddenly my waspishness evaporates.
‘Course you’re forgiven,’ I say with a quick smile, taking a sip of the hot chocolate, which is warm and comforting and soothing all at once. Exactly what I need.
Another lengthy pause as Mike looks out over the skating rink, almost like he’s giving me all the time I need to regroup.
‘Look, Mike,’ I tell him so softly that I can barely even hear myself. ‘It’s not that my story would shock you. It’s not that at all.’
‘Then why don’t you want to talk about it?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘I’m a good listener.’
‘Because, well … it’s a run-of-the-mill story. It’s a nothing-you-haven’t-heard-before story. It’s a perfectly ordinary story about the kind of thing that happens every day. And it’s not that it would get to you at all, not in the least. It’s that even after all this time, it still has the power to get to me.’
He sighs when he sees that there’s no more coming, shakes his head then sits back, turning his focus back onto the skating rink outside.
‘OK, it’s clearly something you don’t want to go into and I completely respect that and faithfully promise not to probe any further,’ he says. Then a tiny pause before he adds, ‘I will say this though. You’re a real mystery woman, Holly Johnson. But if there’s one thing I happen to be particularly adept at, it’s solving mysteries.’
Chapter Nineteen
C-Day. And as the AccuWeather website predicted, it’s a white Christmas. It’s snowed lightly overnight – just the perfect amount; not so heavy that you’d be left stranded indoors, yet still picture-postcard pretty enough for me to want to get out onto the streets good and early this morning so I can take lots of photos of a snowy white 5th Avenue.
Anything just to stay good and numb. Because that’s the whole secret to surviving today, I’ve learned the hard way. Feel nothing; just pretend it’s another, albeit pretty quiet, day. Trust me, I know what I’m on about. And being a visitor in a strange city is surprisingly energizing, which can only be a good thing too.
I call Joy to wish her a happy Christmas, but her phone just clicks straight through to voicemail. Then I call the few – the very few – relatives I have: my auntie down in Kerry and another batch of cousins who are scattered all over the place, some in Ireland, a few in the UK. But all the calls go to voicemail, so I text a cheery HAPPY CHRISTMAS! around them all instead. Then I try Dermot and some of the gang at work, but same thing again, except in Dermot’s case he’s changed his outgoing message to him drunkenly murdering ‘Fairytale of New York’. And that’s pretty much it; that concludes my list of people to call on Christmas Day.
But just this bleeding once, I decide not to dwell on the pathetic-ness of it all and instead try to make the most of the day ahead. Without even knowing how or why, I accepted the lovely invitation to dinner with Mike and his family, I think as a distraction technique for one thing, but then there’s a whole other reason too.
I can still remember with pin-sharp clarity just how unforgivably rude and sullen Harry was with me the other night, so this is it then: because Mike was so anxious that I give the kid one last and final chance to redeem himself, I’ve decided to go along with it. And if Harry doesn’t in some way prove to me that he’s learned a lesson, then guess what? My catfish exposé runs and I’m on the next flight home. Sorry, but that’s just the way the world works.
But given that said dinner isn’t happening till 3 p.m., I make up my mind to have a wander round the snowy wonderland that Manhattan has suddenly turned into. Fresh air and a bit of exercise to take my mind off the day that’s in it, is my reasoning.
Now given that back in Dublin, Christmas basically lasts from the Friday before C-Day till well after New Year and in between the entire city just grinds to a drunken, staggering halt, NYC turns out to be a complete revelation to me. A quick chat with the concierge before I head off for the morning, and I leave the hotel absolutely astonished. Because, barring the huge department stores, pretty much everything else is open today, and by that, I really do mean everything: museums, galleries, even stores all around the Garment District on 6th Avenue are up and running for business as usual.
‘It’s because Manhattan is so interfaith,’ Bob, the smiley hotel concierge patiently explains to me. ‘After all, not every race, colour and creed celebrates Christmas, so the city’s gotta keep open for business as usual, right?’
He hands me a whole list of brochures about exhibitions and all kinds of tourist attractions that he recommends I check out, whether it’s C-Day or not. And it’s incredible! So why didn’t I do this years ago? I find myself wondering in bafflement. Instead of hiding out at home with a duvet over my head, counting the hours till the 26th rolled around and I could breathe easy for another twelve months, why not take myself off to a whole different corner of the world instead? One where life just goes on pretty much as normal, in spite of what the calendar is screaming at us?
Two minutes later, I’m bracing myself against the chilly winds and thanking God for my snug Puffa jacket and winter boots as I slip and slide my way down Madison Avenue. Thankfully, one of the first stores I come to is a deli that’s open for brekkie, so following the smell of freshly brewed coffee, I make my way inside, suddenly starving.
To my astonishment though, I don’t have the place to myself; it’s actually pretty busy in here. The whole deli is alive with tourists just like me, all kitted out against the cold and on the lookout for something to do. One delicious melted ham and cheese croissant later, along with a travelling cappuccino clamped to my hand for warmth, and I’m back out on the street again, just in time to flag down a passing cab with its light on.
‘Canal Street, Chinatown,’ I tell the driver, unsure of why I even want to start there, other than – according to the hotel concierge – it’s a must-see, particularly if you’re a bargain hunter. I then manage to while away a good hour being besieged by elegant Chinese ladies, all dragging me in twenty different directions and all saying, ‘Lady, Gucci? Prada? Chanel? I give you good plice … for you, just twenty dollar!’ Half an hour later, I manage to leave with Christmas presents not only for Joy and Dermot, but also for half the office as well.
Another revelation is 6th Avenue: every single shop seems to be open and I even manage to find a gorgeous Jewish patisserie where I fork out on one of those incredibly fancy millefeuille tiered cakes, so at least I don’t have to arrive at the McGillis’s later on with my arms swinging. There’s also a ‘liquor store’, where I buy them all a bottle of champagne for the day, and it’s gift-wrapped so elegantly, I almost feel like it would be a sin to even open
it.
Turns out there just isn’t time to get to a Titanic exhibition that I’d only kill to see at the Discovery Museum on Times Square; more’s the pity. So instead I race back to the hotel to dump the bags, have a quick freshen up and change into a knitted black dress from Zara that’s a bit more presentable, then head back into the snow to grab another cab outside.
And so back to the scene of the crime, aka that neat brownstone building over on West 68th Street, just in time for Christmas dinner. No waiting around this time, instead I’m buzzed in downstairs, scoot up to the second floor and ring the doorbell.
Which is opened by Harry. Bloody Harry. I feel an instant sense of deflation, all thoughts of the lovely morning I’ve had suddenly evaporated into thin air. Yesterday had been such an unexpected and fun diversion, I’d almost shoved him right to the back of my mind. But now here he is this afternoon, standing right in front of me. And it’s like every last gram of mortification I felt the other night just floods right back to me, unavoidable.
Keep your cool, I tell myself sternly. Do not let anything he says or does get to you. Remember a) he’s just a kid, b) I’m only here to enjoy a family dinner, then get the hell out of here, hopefully with my head held high, nothing more, and c) his older brother isn’t exactly uneasy on the eye and I’ve yet to ascertain whether or not he’s ‘spoken for’. So if by some Christmas miracle Mike does turn out to be single and if I do happen to have a lovely time with him again this afternoon, then, ahem, where’s the harm in that?
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ Harry says flatly, opening the door to me and looking just as I remember him from the night before last, right down to the thick black head of hair that stands upwards, the braces and the unfortunate acne. Formal Christmas dinner or not, he’s wearing jeans with an Abercrombie T-shirt stretched over his bulging tummy, with a hoodie and a pair of trainers, immediately making me feel a bit overdressed in a woolly wrap-over dress with my good black boots.
‘Merry Christmas, Harry,’ I manage to say through gritted teeth, but I’m rescued by his mom, who waddles into the hallway from the kitchen, all silvery-grey hair, dressed like something straight out of the M&S Per Una catalogue and with an apron clamped tight around her thick waist.
‘Holly, there you are, sweetie, come in and let me wish you a Merry Christmas,’ she says, giving me a warm peck on the cheek, immediately taking me back to another mammy, who baked and said novenas and always smelt of soda bread and lily of the valley perfume too.
‘Merry Christmas, Mrs McGillis.’
‘Oh please, call me Dorothy. Everyone does, honey. Mike will be along shortly, he’s just slipped out to get some logs for the fire. Now come on, Harry, where are your manners?’ she says, bossily turning to him. ‘Take Holly’s coat and go fetch her a nice glass of champagne to toast the day. Champagne OK for you, Holly?’
‘Ermm … lovely, thank you.’
‘Spoken like a true Irish gal. You know, my best friend Doris is Irish too? She lives right down the hallway – she’s been there for close on ten years now and there’s not a day that I don’t thank God for her. She calls me at 6 p.m. every Friday evening to say, “bar’s open,” and no sooner do I knock on the door of her apartment than she puts a chilled glass of white wine straight into my hand. Then we have a very pleasant night catching up with all our gossip and bitching about just about everyone who’s teed us off. Now that’s my kinda neighbour, honey.’
‘Mine too!’ I smile, handing over the millefeuille cake and the champagne as I warmly wish her a Merry Christmas.
‘Oh, honey, this is way too generous! You’ll sure as hell be invited back. Tell me, did you bake this gorgeous cake all by yourself?’
‘Ermm … no, I’m afraid not.’
‘It’s just that Harry here was telling me what an absolute whizz you are in the kitchen,’ she chats away as I follow her inside.
‘Oh, … well …’
‘Baking is your fundamental switch-off mechanism, I think those were your exact words?’ Harry grins at me just that bit too sweetly, while helping me out of my coat and handing over a glass of fizz.
I flush raw red and want nothing more than to throttle him. I actually want to lock my two hands around his spotty little throat and do the kid physical harm, but instead, I dig deep and hardwire my jaw into smiling back at him.
‘Ermm … beautiful Christmas tree, by the way,’ I manage to say, mainly as a subject-changer. Which is only the truth too. In fact the whole apartment looks sensational; cosy and homely, like a set designer just signed off on it. The dining table is set beautifully too, there’s a roaring fire lit and every spare surface is cheerfully decorated with Christmas cards and long stringy bits of silver tinsel.
‘Well thank you so much, sweetie,’ Dorothy beams proudly.
And had I the wit to leave well enough alone just there, all might have been well, but no. I had to go and put my big size sevens in it by saying, ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’
Now at home that’s a fairly rhetorical question. No one ever says, ‘Yeah actually, grab a mop and bucket and get to work,’ but not here in NYC it seems.
‘Well, isn’t that just lovely of you!’ Dorothy lights up, the cornflower blue eyes twinkling at me. ‘Because you know we gotta tradition in this house: Christmas dinner, everybody mucks in. And I sure could use a little help in the kitchen, particularly from someone who’s an expert baker like you!’
Oh shit. Maybe she just means give her a hand stirring gravy, that kind of thing, I think, wildly clutching at straws, while Harry clocks my panicky look and cheekily chips in, ‘Pear and almond tart, that’s your speciality, isn’t it, Holly? I distinctly remember you mentioning that.’
‘Harry, you just finish hoovering up in here,’ Dorothy snaps at him sternly, before turning on her heel to head back into the tiny kitchen. ‘Remember, after what you put poor Holly through, you’re still very much on probation in this house.’ I try shooting him a filthy look as well, but it’s absolutely no use, all the kid does is shrug coolly and look like he’s only just getting warmed up for the main event.
Jesus, give me strength.
I follow Dorothy into the kitchen and immediately start making myself useful by stacking up the dishwasher and getting stuck into washing a few stray pots and pans that were steeping in the sink. Anything rather than to end up handed a whisk and a Magimix and told to bake a crusty pastry base. From scratch. To my great relief though, Dorothy seems happy enough to sip her champagne and natter away like she’s known me for years.
‘So Mike was telling me all about you and Harry and this whole online dating thing …’ she says, expertly cracking eggs into a bowl, I swear to God, with one hand, like a finalist on Great British Bake Off.
‘Oh. Ermm … yeah,’ I redden, delighted to have the excuse of scouring a pan so she can’t see my face scorching hot red.
‘Ridiculous, honey, that’s what I call it. In my day, if you wanted to meet someone, you just went out with your friends while he went out with his, and that’s how you all met up. Now I suppose that all seems real innocent to you young people today, with your fancy iPads and iPhones and your “i” this, “i” that and the other. But let me tell you,’ she adds, whipping a ham out of the oven, glazing it and then shoving it straight back in again, ‘it was highly effective, back in the day. And there was none of this online making up fake names and fake careers and fake families to go along with it. Jeez, I don’t know how anyone ever gets to meet anyone these days. Seems to me that all your generation do is put obstacles in the way of meeting each other, even though you all think you’re so sophisticated with your emails and your cell phones right beside you constantly. I say the very same thing to Mike all the time, but he don’t listen to me neither.’
‘Mike?’ I ask, faux-innocently, but then I remember that I’m a crap actress and immediately drop the act. Who am I kidding anyway? Ever since yesterday, I’ve been dying to know whether or not Mike is gay, straight, married or s
ingle. Just out of a healthy curiosity, that’s all.
‘Now don’t get me wrong, I love both my sons very much,’ Dorothy chats on, taking a lump of Parmesan cheese out of the fridge now and skilfully grating it on the work surface beside her. ‘But there are times when I really do despair. First of all there’s Harry, underage and leading on a lovely young woman like you, lying to you, deceiving you, all of that. He sure as hell has a long way to crawl back from this one, honey. You’ve been so gracious and forgiving, coming here today, but I’ve no intentions of letting him off lightly, let me tell you.’
‘I know exactly how you feel,’ I nod along, but she chats over me.
‘And meanwhile over in the red corner,’ she goes on, ‘I’ve got Mike, just bouncing along from one empty, meaningless relationship to another. Do you know, in the last few years, he’s only ever brought home two girlfriends here to meet us? One of them was divorced with two kids and the other one was a realtor who kept checking out every cupboard and shelf in the place. Then she had the cheek to ask me if I’d ever considered moving apartment, or “downsizing,” as she called it. She said she’d find me somewhere far more suitable in a much classier area. I ask you, leave this gorgeous apartment? Where my own mother breathed her last? And which is rent-controlled too?
‘So tell me this much, Holly. Please say the whole dating thing is at least different in Ireland these days?’
I’m just about to tell her that, if anything, in Ireland, things are actually far worse and that generally if you want to meet a guy in a club or bar, then you need to be aware that most Irishmen will barely even register you till after last orders, when the bar has run dry and it’s a case of last man standing. But I shut up just in time, reminding myself that, after all, I was the one freely messaging her teenage son and desperately arranging to meet up with him until just a few short days ago.
Thank Christ, though, I’m suddenly interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 16
