I’m about to whip my mobile out of my bag when Mike gently taps my arm, stopping me in my tracks.
‘Not quite the done thing in here,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Remember, Please Don’t Tell.’
‘Oh,’ I say as the penny finally drops. ‘I get it. Oops!’
I figure Mike must be a regular here though, as the barman lights up when he sees him and is straight over to us.
‘Hey Julio, my man!’ Mike says, high-fiving him. ‘I’d like you to meet a friend of mine who’s visiting New York for the very first time. Holly, meet Julio. The best mixologist in the city; you can take my word for it.’
‘It’s great to meet you,’ I say as he leans over the bar to shake hands. ‘And this place is amazing!’
‘Your first visit to New York, huh?’ says Julio and I nod. ‘Well in that case, this calls for a very special cocktail. How about you both grab a booth and I’ll be right over?’
‘We’re in your capable hands,’ Mike smiles as we head over to a gorgeous shiny red leather banquette directly behind us that’s miraculously free. Moments later Julio is back, holding up the most incredible-looking cocktails, vivid scarlet red and with a sweet maraschino cherry floating on top of each one.
‘First visit to the city, so I figure you gotta have a Manhattan,’ grins Julio, placing them on our table as we thank him warmly.
‘I’ve never tasted one of these before,’ I tell him.
‘In that case, I’ll just keep ’em coming!’ says Julio with a half wink.
‘Well cheers,’ says Mike when it’s just the two of us left on our own again.
‘Cheers!’ I say as we clink glasses. Then one sip of the Manhattan later and, I swear, I’m instantly hooked. ‘God, this is only bloody gorgeous!’ I blurt out. ‘What’s in it, anyway?’
‘Whisky, Vermouth and a few tossed angostura bitters for good measure.’
‘So tell me, because I’m dying to know. How did you ever manage to come across a place like this?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Luckily for you, listening happens to be a part of my job.’
‘Well,’ he says, sitting back into the leather banquette and looking all around him, ‘a client of mine took me along with some colleagues one night and … I guess I just fell in love with the place, because I’ve been coming back here ever since. Such a shame cameras are banned in here though,’ he adds, with a crooked little smile. ‘If I could have caught the look on your face when I got you inside that phone booth outside. Trust me, it was pure comedy gold. Or as you’d say in that unique Irish turn of phrase you have – it was fecking fantastic.’
I knock back the Manhattan. Didn’t mean to, but it’s impossible to just sit and look at it. It’s too bloody drinkable. Plus it’s having absolutely no effect on me alcohol-wise, so I figure it’s a bit like drinking a melted ice pop; nothing stronger. Mike sips his that bit slower, but waves at a passing waiter to bring me over a refill.
Which I knock back yet again. We’re chatting away now, exactly the same kind of light, teasing conversation that we started earlier on, only now that there’s cocktails involved, it’s suddenly taken a far more personal turn.
‘So tell me this then, Mike McGillis,’ I say, feeling very nicely buzzy but definitely not tipsy. ‘What is your thing?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Come on, you know what I mean! Every single guy on the face of this earth has a thing about him.’
‘Please feel free to elaborate anytime you’d care to,’ he says, mouth twisted down into a half-smile.
‘Oh for feck’s sake, come on. Take a look at you. On the surface you seem perfect. A bit too bloody perfect, in fact. You’re attractive …’
‘Why thank you. That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.’
‘Kindly shut up please, I’m talking,’ I say, slapping his wrist playfully. ‘Anyway, no false modesty. You know right well you’re not bad to look at. Plus you’ve got a proper job, you’ve obviously got a few quid to throw around and, on top of all that, you seem really lovely to your family.’
‘Please forgive me if I’m labouring under any misapprehension,’ Mike says, leaning into the table now so we’re a lot closer. ‘But I was actually under the impression that all of these were considered reasonably good qualities by the female sex?’
‘But that’s my whole point! You seem so bloody perfect that there just has to be a thing about you, and I haven’t managed to find out what it is yet. Wait till you see, it’ll turn out you’re into weird, kinky fetish stuff or something.’
‘Not guilty, your honour,’ he says dryly.
‘Or else you’re married with kids, all living in Connecticut, and you just have all the appearances of a bachelor life in the city …’
‘Last time I checked I was actually unmarried …’
‘Well then, chances are you’ve got a long-term girlfriend who you’ve been living with for a decade now, and wait till you see, she’ll turn out to be a model for French Vogue with legs up to her armpits …’
‘Very kind of you to wish that for me, but I’m afraid the answer is still a firm no …’
‘Well then, come on! What is the deal with you?’
Then the one question I’ve been burning to ask him ever since yesterday. It’s only now that I’m onto my third Manhattan that I’ve the Dutch courage to ask.
‘So … can it really be possible that you’re not seeing anyone?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘But … how? Why?’
‘Well, you’re single too and what’s so wrong with that? It’s hardly a hanging offence.’
‘Yeah, but this is New York we’re talking about. And unless TV shows and movies have radically misinformed me, then aren’t cute, available guys something of an endangered species over here? I came across an article that said recent studies conclusively prove that in Manhattan single women outnumber men by something like ten to one.’
‘Where exactly did you read that?’
‘Ermm … well, it might have been in Grazia magazine, but you’re veering away from the point now.’
‘Far be it for me to argue with statisticians at Grazia magazine,’ he quips.
‘Come on Mike, you know all about my online dalliance with one Andy McCoy, and exactly the kind of trouble that landed me in. I’m unshockable when it comes to this kind of thing, trust me. So are you one of those New York multi-daters that simultaneously strings along a handful of women all at the same time, till you eventually decide which one of them you like the best?’
‘Ouch. I certainly hope not. Sounds like far too much hard work. But seeing as how you’ve asked …’ he says, waving over to the barman to bring us over yet another round of fresh Manhattans.
‘Ye-ees …’
‘There was someone, as it happens, not all that long ago. Another architect in fact.’
‘Go on.’
‘Not much to tell really. We met at a work do, dated for about six months or so and then went our separate ways.’
‘But … why?’ I ask, dying to know what it was that made this Ms Architect ever let a gem like Mike slip through her grasp. In fact, I’ve already formulated a vision of her in my mind’s eye. Bet you she’s pale and dark-haired and wears clever, sharply pointed glasses with classic black cashmere sweaters and Prada loafers. And wait till you see, her name will turn out to be something elegant and arty like Jasmine or Ayesha.
‘Well, why does any couple grow apart? Francesca is very career-minded and ambitious, whereas I guess I’m more of a family guy. After all, a job is a job and all that, but family is family.’
Family. Jeez, it’s like the theme word of the whole holiday.
‘She had a pretty tense relationship with her own mother, you see,’ Mike chats on, ‘so she had difficulty understanding how I could be so close to mine. Plus I think she resented all the time I gave over to Harry. Weekends were always an issue with Francesca and I, and it got to the stage where it
was like she was handing me an ultimatum. Spend your free time with either them or me, but you don’t get to have both.’
Outwardly I try to look sympathetic and supportive, while thinking to myself chi-ching. Hard as it is to believe, I think I’ve inadvertently hit on the holy grail of men here and just wait till I fecking tell them all back home. Then, for no other reason than I feel like celebrating, as soon as yet more fresh Manhattans arrive I immediately knock mine back.
‘But enough about me,’ says Mike after a pause, playing with the stem of the cocktail glass in front of him, ‘let’s talk about you for a change. Exact same question back at you. So what’s your deal then?’
‘What about me?’
‘Internet dating. Have to say I’ve never actually tried it myself.’
‘In which case, let my recent sad history act like a cautionary tale for you.’
‘I’m still curious though. Why would someone like you ever need to internet date? Surely Irish guys ask you out all the time? I mean, look at you … you’re … you’re lovely.’
‘Well … thank you,’ I flush, but then I’m unused to compliments from fanciable men. Or rather, from fanciable men who actually exist in real life and aren’t just makey-uppey online caricatures. ‘Thing is, though,’ I tell him, ‘in Ireland everyone I know is online dating now. Probably because we’re all so cash-poor and time-poor. After all, it’s a quick and handy way to meet guys from the comfort of your own home, with three-day-old manky hair and no make-up on.’
‘I’m guessing you still look pretty passable with three-day-old hair and no make-up.’
I knock back another big gulp of the Manhattan beside me and think, what the hell. This is one of those ‘cards on the table’ conversations that I so rarely get to have; a real no-holds-barred kind of chat.
So I tell him.
‘The only downside is that, well as you know, people lie online.’
‘Thanks to my little brother, I’m only too painfully aware of that fact,’ he says with a tiny eye roll.
‘Ah, but are you, I wonder? You see there’s two types of online lying …’
‘There are? Enlighten me.’
‘Of course. Firstly there’s the odd acceptable little white lie …’
‘Such as?’
‘Well … like knocking a few years off your age, that kind of thing. Everyone does it though, so I always figure that’s only levelling out the playing field. We can all allow for that much. Ditto height. So if a guy claims that he’s five feet seven and thirty-nine years old, you can take it from me that he’s mid-forties and a hobbitty little hobbit with bad breath and an ex-wife breathing down his neck.’
‘Is that so?’ says Mike, mouth curled down in this cute little grin.
‘Plus people sex up their jobs on dating websites too. All the time,’ I tell him, not budging off the subject. ‘Take it from one who knows.’
‘That so?’
‘Course they do! I mean …’ I break off here to knock back the dregs of my fourth Manhattan. Or was it my fifth? Ah, to hell. Sure, who’s counting?
‘OK, look, here’s the thing,’ I warble on while Mike just looks at me with a glint in his eye. Although it could well be all the Manhattans just making me imagine that. ‘So what Harry did to me was pretty bloody unspeakable in online dating-land.’
‘I believe that fact has been well and truly established, but do please go on.’
‘Well the fact is that my own conscience isn’t entirely clean on this subject either.’
‘How so? Are you going to tell me now that you’re not really Holly Johnson at all?’
‘No, but I did sort of play around with the truth a bit. Well, no actually, scrap that. Not a bit, definitely more than a bit. A lot. For starters, I’m not a reporter on a hard-hitting current affairs TV show at all. I only bloody wish.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m a humble researcher. On an afternoon radio phone-in show mainly. And I’ve only just started doing a tiny bit of TV freelance work, but still. So in other words, I lied, just like Harry did.’
‘Albeit to a far lesser extent.’
One more sip of the cocktail later and I’m still on this subject. For no other reason I think, than it’s just something I could never possibly get off my chest while sober.
‘And that’s not all,’ I tell him.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘I can’t bake either. I know I said I could, and I don’t know what possessed me, but you’re basically looking at a woman who stick fecks pasta to a wall to see if it’ll stick. Like eighteen-year-old students in bedsits do.’
‘Fecks?’ he says, raising an eyebrow.
‘It’s an Irish-ism. You’ll get used to it. Point is though,’ I slur just a tiny bit, but I’m hoping I got away with it, ‘when it comes to the kitchen, I’m completely useless. I only said that in the first place because it’s been statistically proven that women who are supremely confident and Nigella-like in the kitchen tend to have a far higher hit rate with fellas than people like me. My idea of a home-cooked meal is to reheat an Indian takeaway in the microwave.’
‘Do you know something?’ he says thoughtfully. ‘I’m not entirely sure I agree with you on that one. If a woman told me that she could rustle up a chocolate biscuit cake from scratch, although it’s perfectly laudable and everything, I’m not exactly sure it’s what you might call a turn-on, is it?’
‘Shhh, stop interrupting me! I haven’t finished yet, there’s still more I have to get off my chest. And you brought me out on the lash, so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to hear me out.’
‘Let me hazard a guess: now you’re going to tell me that you’ve been married and have two kids in school and an ex-husband in prison or something.’
‘No, but I may not have been entirely truthful about, ermm … well, let’s just say my outdoor activities, either.’
‘You mean …’
‘Mountaineering,’ I blurt out, instantly covering my face with my hands to hide my mortification. ‘I don’t know what in the name of arse I was thinking! Truth is, I’ve a terrible head for heights. I just didn’t want any athletic guys reading my profile to rule me out because I happen to like spending my free time in front of Netflix watching House of Cards.’
Now Mike looks at me as yet another penny drops.
‘So I’m guessing that skydiving mightn’t exactly be your thing after all?’
‘Mike, I’m so sorry, I really am,’ I eventually manage to say, red in the face with mortification, I’m sure, by now. Well, mortification and alcohol, that is.
‘It was so sweet and thoughtful of you to buy me a Christmas gift in the first place and I was really touched that you did,’ I tell him. ‘But I have to be honest with you. I’m terrified of flying. Petrified. I was only able to get on the flight over here in the first place after a half a Xanax and a gin and tonic inside me. I just wanted to come clean to you before you found out for yourself.’
‘I see,’ he says, the black eyes looking directly at me now. Through my buzzy haze from all the cocktails, I scan his face, desperately trying to get a read on him. Is he annoyed at me for lying? Or that he forked out on such a spendy gift that’s now virtually useless?
Instead though, he throws his head back and just snorts with laughter.
‘And now it’s my turn to make a confession,’ he says. ‘Truth is, I guessed as much.’
‘You did? How?’
‘Because, Holly Johnson,’ he says, leaning right into me, ‘you are cursed with an honest face. Never take up poker, or in all likelihood you’d end up in a debtors’ prison. The look on your face when I handed over that envelope this afternoon is for evermore etched in the comedy quadrant of my brain.’
‘But all that money you forked out for the voucher … you’re not annoyed?’
‘Believe me, given the fallout from what you’ve just suffered at the hands of my kid brother, this pales into complete insignificance. Although I h
ave to say, I do think you’re wrong about one thing.’
‘Which is …’
‘That guys have a thing about outdoorsy girls. Not necessarily true,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I used to date a girl who was a triathlete. Which was all well and good, but she was always either cancelling dates because she’d torn a ligament while out jogging or else she’d peel away at nine at night because she had to be up at five the following morning for a training run. Just keeping up with her was exhausting.’
‘So,’ I say, leaning forward so I’m that bit closer to him, ‘outdoorsy women don’t do it for you at all?’
‘Nah,’ he smiles. ‘If you ask me, I’ve always thought … what’s so wrong with having a night in front of Netflix anyway? And you are right about one thing: House of Cards rocks. Kevin Spacey can run the country any day.’
I’m not quite certain how we got out of there. My memory of the night gets fuzzy round the edges from here on in. I do, however, remember the following in no particular order: me insisting on buying a last round of Manhattans – ‘just one for the road’ – and Mike gently talking me out of it; stumbling in my too-high boots on our way back to the speakeasy phone booth; drunkenly insisting that we should really buy hot dogs as soon as we were both on the street outside, scouring around for a taxi; and Mike tactfully suggesting that going straight to bed and having a good long sleep might just be by far the best thing all round for me.
And the snow. Dear God, by the time we left – or rather by the time Mike left and I staggered behind him out of Please Don’t Tell, it was coming down so thick and fast it would almost take your breath away. I remember wondering just how long we’d been in the speakeasy for anyway.
Because this really was like stepping out into a whole other landscape. What had been a nothing-to-worry-about snowfall just a few short hours ago had now completely transformed the street outside into a full-on winter wonderland as the snow pelted down. The whole place was unrecognizable and even this slight, dingy, run-down side street in the East Village now looked like the set of an adaptation of A Christmas Carol.
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 19
