‘Easy to see why they call it the crossroads of the world, isn’t it?’ Mike smiles across the back seat at me, his whole face suddenly lit up by all the fluorescent signs outside as I happily nod along in agreement. Wow, I think. Even in crappy neon light he can still look that good.
Next thing, he’s asking the driver to let us out at the Marriott Marquis, right on the corner of Times Square and Broadway. Turns out to be a vast hotel, with a foyer so enormous that there’s a whole line of escalators to take you up to the second floor, almost as though this was actually a shopping mall and not a plush five-star hotel at all.
‘This way,’ says Mike, hopping into a lift – sorry, elevator – as I follow behind him, drinking it all in and still trying to fathom where the hell he’s taking me. Next thing, we’re stepping out onto the hotel’s second floor, where there’s another lift bank straight ahead of us with a neat, orderly queue lined up in front of them. We obediently tag onto the end of the queue, and almost in answer to the quizzical look I shoot him, Mike says, ‘Here’s where you just gotta trust me. Be well worth it in the end.’
As the queue slowly snakes forward, we eventually squeeze our way into a special ‘express elevator’ and Mike advises me to grip on tight. I’m glad I do, as you wouldn’t believe the speed we zoom off at. The whole effect is almost hallucinogenic as we whoosh all the way up to the eightieth floor in just under ten seconds flat.
‘Impressed?’ he asks, as the lift comes to a sudden jolting halt and the doors glide open.
‘That was something else!’ I tell him and he grins again. ‘Have to say, your childlike enthusiasm for everything and everyone around you would warm the coldest heart,’ he says, the black eyes twinkling down at me as we step out of the lift. ‘That’s the trouble, you see. We New Yorkers get jaded so fast; there’s nothing as refreshing as seeing your own city through a visitor’s eyes.’
Two minutes later, we’ve latched onto the end of another queue, and not long after, the pair of us are being ushered to a gorgeous, cosy table for two, right over by a window in prime position.
‘Wow!’ is all I can keep saying over and over again as I finally get to take in The View. Finally, I can see what all the fuss was about, because this whole place is just breathtaking. Turns out it’s a vast cocktail bar with a highly appropriate name, as the whole Manhattan skyline just stretches out in front of you, right over to the Hudson River, as far as the eye can see.
‘So tell me this, Holly Johnson,’ Mike asks, helping me off with my coat and hat before I even plonk down. ‘Do you notice anything unusual about this place?’
I glance back up at him, puzzled.
‘Come on, just take a good look around you,’ he says teasingly. It’s only then that I feel it rather than see it: that slightly disorientating sensation that we’re actually moving. So slowly as to be almost imperceptible, but nonetheless, we’re definitely moving.
‘Oh my God, it’s a revolving bar!’ I say while Mike grins back at me.
‘Well done, I’m impressed,’ he says warmly, sitting down opposite me now. ‘You know it can take a lot of people a good while before they cotton onto the fact that we’re actually moving. But then that’s what I love about this place. The way that you get the whole Manhattan skyline spread out all around you, and in the space of just one hour, it’s like a complete visual tour of every single building of note. With cocktails on the side, of course.’
We order drinks, a Sauvignon Blanc for me and a beer for him, then fall back into the same light, breezy banter that seemed to bounce between us all yesterday afternoon. Mike proves himself to be just as invaluable a tour guide up here too and takes great care to point out every single building of interest to me as the bar gently revolves around, as ever going into the architectural history behind each building too.
The Chrysler with its amazing brass rooftop, the MetLife Building, the Empire State; we can even see all the way downtown to the brand new Freedom Tower, soon to be unveiled and taking pride of place as the tallest building on the island, as he proudly tells me.
Drinks arrive and we clink glasses, once again wishing each other a Merry Christmas.
‘Though looking around here,’ I tell him, ‘it’s so hard to believe that today is actually Christmas Day.’
‘What did I tell you? It’s invariably business as usual in this town,’ says Mike. ‘Even after 9/11, it was exactly the same thing. The city somehow just struggled on, in spite of its grief. You gotta love that about New York City; it’s a hard town to keep down for too long. Pain seems unimportant compared with this incredible gift human beings have to put the past behind them and move on. Wouldn’t you agree?’
I wouldn’t as it happens, so instead I do the polite thing and just don’t answer. ‘I’m loving it here,’ is all I say as a good subject-changer. ‘It’ll be hard going home and getting back into the swing of work after all this.’
Only the truth, as it happens. And now that I’ve voiced it aloud, suddenly going home seems so scarily close. Tomorrow. I’m due to fly out tomorrow. Then when I think about the whole January treadmill of trudging in and out of work, day in, day out, in the biting cold when everyone’s stony broke and none of us can even lessen the sting with a few decent nights out, my heart sinks like a leaden stone weight.
Which on one level makes absolutely no sense at all: after all, I knew this was only ever going to be a flying visit to New York, didn’t I? So why will I find it so hard to tear myself away and settle back into reality?
‘When do you leave?’ Mike asks quietly.
‘Tomorrow evening,’ I tell him. Scarcely able to believe it myself, truth be told. I could swear I caught a brief flicker of something on his face when I tell him. Disappointment, I’m hoping. But it’s so fleeting that I’m not quite certain whether I imagined it or not.
‘You’ll stay in touch though, right?’
‘Course I will. And in the meantime, you’ll have to try to come and visit Dublin sometime soon.’
‘I’d love that,’ he says. ‘In fact I’d love nothing more. I’ve always wanted to see the Emerald Isle for myself.’
A pause while a cocktail waitress offers us bar menus, which we immediately wave away after the big feed the two of us had earlier. Then silence.
‘Thank you for today,’ I eventually pipe up. ‘Because in my wildest dreams, I never thought I’d end up coming all the way to Manhattan to have a proper family Christmas, and I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed it.’
‘Mom puts on quite a spread,’ he twinkles back at me. ‘But it must have been tough for you being so far from home today of all days. Surely you were missing out on some kind of family Christmas there? Come on, you must have done.’
Shit. This again.
But the drinks we ordered earlier arrive just now and I’m grateful for the distraction, so I don’t have to answer him back.
‘Speaking of home,’ he says after a pause. ‘If there’s anyone you want to call to wish them a Merry Christmas, feel free to use my phone. I got free international calls, so you’re more than welcome to.’
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I say a bit tersely.
‘I could go up to the bar and give you a little privacy, if you’d like?’
‘It’s OK. Really. But thank you.’
‘OK,’ he says, flipping his hands up in an ‘I surrender’ gesture. ‘I promised you I wouldn’t ask about your family situation, and here’s me, not asking. Mouth well and truly zipped.’
My family situation.
Funny, but I thought I’d become expert at banishing stuff away to the furthest recesses of my mind, padlocked away and labelled ‘abandon all hope ye who enter here’. Yet whether I like it or not, long-suppressed memories will keep on stubbornly intruding. And it’s not just because Mike seems like a kind soul who I could definitely trust to listen. And maybe even to understand.
Maybe it was today that brought all this on too, I think. The simplicity of just sitting around a family di
ning table, laden down with the good stem wine glasses and the freshly ironed linen. Even the smells brought it all tumbling back to me too; the cinnamon from the candles, turkey and crisply cooked ham, the waft of whisky and brandy from the plum pudding. I haven’t even touched a proper Christmas dinner since … well, ever since.
‘I’ve had family Christmases before, you know, many of them,’ I eventually say, keenly aware that he’s looking quizzically over at me now, waiting on me to say something, anything. ‘And they were wonderful, just like today was wonderful. They make up some of the happiest memories that I have and probably ever will have. But, well, that was then and this is now.’
‘You OK?’ he asks, leaning over to take my hand. His grip is warm and tight and I find myself interlacing my fingers with his, just because it feels easy and comforting. ‘You know, if there’s someone on your mind, you can tell me.’
I shake my head though and he almost looks a bit let down.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ I say, ‘because the truth is, even after all this time, I can barely process it myself. Saying it aloud is almost like a punishment for me, because it’s a form of having to relive pain. And tonight just isn’t a night for reliving pain, now is it?’
There’s a long pause while he looks at me, almost as though he’s weighing something up. Then, whatever it was, letting it go.
‘Tell you what,’ he says eventually. ‘How about we order another round, and in the spirit of Dickens, make a toast to the ghost of Christmases past. In all their glory.’
‘Now that,’ I tell him, instantly brightening, ‘I can do.’
*
The snow is coming down thick and fast by the time we eventually do leave The View and the traffic is gridlocked, which of course makes trying to get a taxi virtually impossible.
‘I’ve never seen snow quite like this before!’ I tell Mike, as he grabs my arm and steers me away from the hotel and on towards the bright lights of Broadway, just in case we’ve better luck grabbing a cab there. But it’s coming down so heavy now that I swear to God, it’s almost impossible even to see my own hand in front of my face. All around us, people are slipping and sliding their way along and I see plenty of people falling over, but thankfully no one seems to get hurt. The snow is piling up thick, but it’s still at that gorgeously soft stage where it’s all clean and with that Dickensian Christmas card look.
‘Thing is, I know it all looks fabulous now,’ I say, ‘but knowing me, in another half hour, I’ll be cursing the skies with a balled-up fist shrieking, “Enough of the bleeding snow!”’
‘You know, I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of that Irish sense of humour of yours,’ Mike smiles. ‘But I think I better get you home good and fast though, at least while we still can.’ And then yet another Christmas miracle: a passenger suddenly jumps out of a cab stuck in traffic right beside us, so Mike hammers on the roof for the driver to wait up and in we both pile, shaking the snow off us and delighted to be inside a warm, cosy car, even if it is only for the six-block journey back to the Roosevelt hotel.
But now for the first time all evening there’s a long and prolonged silence between us, almost as if – having chatted most of the evening away so easily – something has shifted. Hard to say exactly what though. Mike’s sitting so close to me, our knees are almost touching and I can smell a gorgeous deep, spicy aftershave that he’s wearing. Sharp, citrusy, delicious.
‘I can’t believe it’s my last night in the city,’ I say a bit wistfully, more to myself than anything.
‘Well, you’ve kind of read my thoughts, as it happens …’
His words hang in the air and I get to the stage of actually counting the seconds till he bloody well finishes that sentence, when suddenly he turns back from the window to face me.
‘Can I make a suggestion?’ he says, and this time I most definitely catch that glint in his eye full on. No mistaking it.
‘Hmmm?’ I say, in what I hope is a reasonable stab at a seductive voice.
Well, this has to be it, I think. After all, I can hardly ask him up to my hotel room without coming over as some kind of a working girl/escort, now can I? So if he’s about to suggest a whole late-night ‘how about we have coffee’ thing, then maybe he’ll ask me back to his? Absolutely fine by me if he does, I think, half-smiling to myself in a nervous little flutter of anticipation.
He leans in a little closer to me now, so close, we’re shoulder to shoulder. Just play it cool, Holly. Do not ruin the moment by coming over as too eager and leaping on the guy in front of a taxi driver.
Then in that deep, gorgeous voice, he says, ‘So, Holly …’
‘So …?’ I try to say as sexily as possible.
‘So how do you feel about a late-night hot dog?’
‘Ermm … a late-night … what?’ I ask, suddenly jolted back to reality. Hard to know exactly what to say when a man you find attractive asks how you feel about hot dogs. I’m half wondering if this isn’t some kind of New York euphemism that I’m not quite up to speed on, while Mike just winks at me, giving absolutely nothing away.
Instead he leans forward to the driver and says, ‘Sorry about this, but we’ve decided to take a slight detour, if that’s OK.’
‘Your call,’ shrugs the driver.
‘Can you take us to 113 Saint Mark’s Place between Avenue A and 1st Avenue?’ he asks politely. Then turning back to me says, ‘I’m taking you to the East Village. And you might just need to prepare yourself for a little surprise.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
We do a sharp about-turn and in next to no time are zooming through what looks like a pretty deserted residential area as the snow continues to gently fall. I still haven’t fully caught my bearings as of yet, but I’m guessing we’re leaving the fancy midtown area because the streets keep getting progressively that bit dingier, to put it bluntly.
Swanky, upmarket boutiques and restaurants are now gradually being replaced by dingy-looking tattoo parlours and, I swear to God, I even see a mattress strewn right across the middle of one side street we whizz by. I glance over at Mike, who clocks the look on my face but just smirks, giving absolutely nothing away.
‘So you’ve seen the safe, touristy side of the city,’ is all he’ll tell me. ‘Now let me show you the real Manhattan.’
Sweet Jesus, I think. This guy could be taking me to some kind of swingers club for all I know.
Turns out he wasn’t messing when he asked me about hot dogs either. Because a few minutes later, we pull up outside a pretty run-down-looking basement diner with a giant sausage sign hanging above, with ‘eat me!’ scrawled over it. Mike pays the driver and out we get, kicking our way through an ever-deepening pile of snow and down a short flight of steps to the basement.
OK, so this place is definitely not in any Zagat guide that I’ve ever come across, and that’s for certain. To put it mildly, it’s a run-down diner that’s seen better days and is the kind of place that you’d worry your hot dog might just come with an order of salmonella on the side. A guy in an apron working behind the counter seems to recognize Mike though, because he just nods at him as we walk by and mutters ‘Booth’s free, go right ahead.’
Instead of ordering hot dogs though, like I thought he would, Mike just strides past the counter and makes straight for a bright red phone booth right at the very back of the diner. Still not giving a single thing away, he holds the door open for me, while I just stare at him like he’s completely lost the run of himself.
‘Oh, Holly Johnson,’ he mock sighs. ‘Why can’t you just trust me?’ Then he snaps the door shut behind us tight, so now we’re squeezed into the phone booth side by side. OK, so now I’m getting seriously antsy, the thought that this could be some kind of portal into a swingers club suddenly seeming very real.
‘Don’t tell me this turns out to be some kind of Doctor Who-style tardis or something?’ I ask, deliberately trying to keep my voice light and breezy, but he’s still saying annoyingly little. Instead, he pi
cks up a bright red wall phone opposite and it’s only then that I see what’s written in scrawly handwriting beside it.
‘Welcome. This phone is our doorbell.
Dial 1 and we’ll be with you shortly.
And remember … Please Don’t Tell.’
Mike dials the number then gestures over at me to keep quiet while we wait. I’m utterly at a loss and starting to think, ah here we go now. Bloody typical. Just when the first interesting, attractive man in a scarily long time bounces into my life, wouldn’t you know it? He turns out to be a complete perv with a fetish for underground dungeon clubs. God, I wonder, am I going to need an escape plan here?
Which is exactly when the wall we’re both facing, me tetchily and Mike with calm confidence, suddenly slides open, leading down into … well, I’m not certain what exactly. It’s pitch-dark ahead and all I can make out is a short flight of stone steps below. Mike takes my hand, guides me down the steps and now I can hear music playing in the background. Low-level jazz. It’s so dark, I can barely make out his face, but a second later, a bit like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he pulls back a red velvet curtain that’s right in front of us and I gasp.
Oh dear Jesus, it’s a speakeasy. An actual speakeasy, like something out of the Prohibition era, circa 1922. There’s a fabulously cool-looking long bar to the left and just opposite it are cosy booths, most of them completely packed. The atmosphere is electric too; it’s buzzy and everyone’s busy having a great old time of it. Christmas night or not, an impending snowstorm or not, everyone here looks determined to party, and to hell with whatever tomorrow may bring.
‘You’re very welcome to Please Don’t Tell,’ Mike smiles, steering me in the general direction of the bar. ‘I kinda figured you’d had a proper New York family Christmas today, so why not see how real New Yorkers like to celebrate Christmas night?’
‘This place is something else!’ I laugh, still astonished and just drinking the whole sight of it in. ‘Wow. Just wow. You know, I have to take a pile of photos of all this, otherwise no one back home will ever believe me.’
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 18
