I’m closing my eyes and making kissy faces into the camera when I realise that Birdie is no longer laughing.
I open my eyes to see that she is looking in the direction of her hospital room door.
‘Doctor BJ!’ she says, her pale cheeks reddening. ‘Hi. Ahem. Sorry. Um…’
The screen goes blank as Birdie quickly ends the call.
I spend the next fifteen minutes sitting on the bench and laughing so hard that I cry.
God, I love her.
The next morning, my phone alarm yanks me out of a really weird dream. I’m dreaming that Birdie is a ghost and we’re at the top of the Empire State Building and she wants me to jump off. She says that I’ll be able to fly, but I know, for sure, that I will splat onto the top of a yellow cab and make a mess. Then I’m in a big old library, watching the sex scene from Atonement again. Only James McAvoy is actually Colin from the airport. But he can’t seem to get it up.
‘This has never happened before!’ Dream Colin says.
‘That’s all right. I’m not that bothered about sex anyway!’ Dream version of me replies. But in the dream I’m feeling very disappointed indeed.
As the alarm sounds, I grumble and sit up in the sofa bed. Last night I did Netflix and chill (in the non-millennial way) and while I did enjoy the Aziz Ansari stand-up special, it was finished in about an hour. At home I’d have been content enough to scroll through Instagram, take a bath, organise my closet or read a book, but last night none of those things appealed.
I briefly considered venturing out. Maybe treating myself to a dinner in one of the restaurants Birdie suggested, or going for a walk somewhere. But I soon dismissed the idea when I realised that I am not brave enough to go out for dinner alone. Breakfast and lunch is one thing. But dinner? In a restaurant? Alone? That sounds terrifying!
In the end I knocked on Mrs Ramirez’s door and she was only too happy to feed me soup and tell me tales of all the exotic places she’s visited and which ones I should definitely go to on ‘my next trip abroad’.
After my shower, I peek out of the blind and check the weather. From what I can see, the sky is looking pretty dark and ominous, to be honest. Like something out of Ghostbusters. Plus, it’s raining again. I swallow down my reservations about getting on a ferry in this weather, and get dressed in jeans, my favourite T-shirt with a picture of Bill Murray on the front, and a big maroon-coloured jumper over the top. Layers seem like the right call for a treacherous ferry trip.
I blow-dry my curls straight in an effort to make myself less recognisable. I don’t have straighteners, but I do have serum (a must in every curly girl’s arsenal), and after a lengthy battle with the hairdryer and a flat paddle brush, my hair looks pretty damn straight. There! No need to wear the beret!
After necking a strong coffee, I pull on my duffel coat, grab an across-the-body satchel, sadly leaving my attention-grabbing bumbag behind, and leave the apartment.
Because I’m already late I decide to forgo the subway, and hail a cab out on the street. But I mustn’t be doing it right because none of the cabs stop for me! I look at my watch. Shit, I need to get a move on. I wave over to Lloyd in the entrance of the building, but he’s chatting intently to another resident and doesn’t notice me.
I hold my hand out and shake it about, like I see people do on the movies. But it still doesn’t work.
An elderly Jewish woman holding a massive red umbrella shuffles past me. ‘Doll, ya gotta be more aggressive than that!’ She chuckles before continuing on down the street.
I’m not an aggressive person, though! How does one even aggressively hail a cab? Do I flip the middle finger instead of waving my hand? Do I do some of my best karate chop moves to get their attention?
Oh man. I haven’t got time to ponder this if I’m to get to the ferry port on time. So I take a deep breath and yell at the next cab that drives in my direction.
‘Oi!!!! Stop! STOOOOOOOPPPPP!’
To my surprise and delight it works! The cab zooms to a stop right in front of me. I climb in quickly, a little buzz rushing through me. I don’t think I’ve ever shouted that loud before in my whole life!
‘Where to?’ the cabby asks bluntly.
‘The Whitehall Ferry Terminal,’ I say. ‘And step on it.’
The driver grins at me in the wing mirror and puts his foot down onto the pedal so hard that we take off with a noisy screech, just like in the movies!
I nod, satisfied, allowing myself a little proud smile.
Maybe I’m starting to get the hang of this whole New York thing!
Nothing dents the burgeoning confidence of a scaredy-cat quite like turning up at a rainy ferry port and seeing the ferry – that you’re about to climb on to – rocking from side to side in this alarming weather.
‘Olive? Over here!’
I spot Seth running over from across the road. He’s wearing a scruffy black T-shirt, a black hoodie and faded black jeans. His hair is all mussed up, like he forgot to comb it.
‘I didn’t recognise you without your…’ Seth says, gesturing to his head.
‘My curls. Yeah. I’m more incognito like this,’ I say, touching my straight locks. ‘No random people shouting “watch me piddle” in the street.’
Seth grimaces. ‘I’m sorry!’ he says. ‘Will you ever forgive me?’
‘I will if you help me get my letter back.’
‘That’s what I’m here for!’
‘Good.’
‘Are you all right?’ Seth asks as we start to board the ferry after getting our tickets.
‘Fine!’ I lie.
‘You look a funny colour.’ He puts a hand on my arm.
I jump a little at his touch and move my arm away. ‘I’m fine! Totally fine!’
The drizzle has abated somewhat and so, once we’re on the ferry, we go straight onto the deck. I sit down on one of the red painted benches. Seth stands right at the bow, facing into the wind, like this is the Titanic and he is Leonardo DiCaprio.
As the ferry sets off, it rolls from side to side and I try not to think too much about all of the deep murky water beneath us and all the terrible things that could happen if the ferry crashed, or the captain had a heart attack, or the wind became really strong and flipped us over, or if I got sea sick and just started puking and some of the puke got on people’s shoes.
And then I notice that there’s a little cabin full of life jackets. With wobbly legs, I head over and grab one. I look around. No one else is wearing one. Not even the six-year-old twins taking the ferry with their elderly grandpa.
I pull it on and tie the straps as tightly as they can go. It’s not comfortable. Plus, the neck bit is really high and makes me look neckless. I look like a berk, I’m sure. But at least I’m a safe berk!
I take my seat again, my fists clenched, willing this journey to hurry up. Seth turns around from where he’s standing. His face lights up as he takes in my life jacket. Then he purses his lips and I get the feeling he is trying very hard not to take the piss.
I ignore him, and focus on staring at the floor and not puking.
My phone dings with a text. It’s from Colin! I smile as I open it, trying not think of him being flaccid in my dream, and also trying not to be perturbed by the fact that he said the thing that makes him laugh the most is The Lad Bible. Out of all the great comedy out there!
I am at a beach party. We are drinking punch. None of the girls here are as pretty as you. Or as sexy. ;)
I laugh. Our text conversations have been pretty staid so far. He must be tipsy!
I immediately type back.
Wish I was there! I am on a boat in the rain.
I pause and consider what I should type next.
I think you are sexy too.
I send it quickly, before I can change my mind. He said I was sexy. It’s nice to return the compliment. And I think it’s true. I like his sideburns. And texting with him is pleasant. And maybe, if we did start dating, I could wean him off The Lad Bible and
introduce him to some real comedy…
Seth comes back to sit beside me. He fiddles with the cuff of his hoodie. ‘Don’t fret, it’s only another twenty minutes until we get there.’
‘I’m fine, Seth!’ I say again.
‘I can hear your dry heaves.’
My cheeks warm. Maaan. I thought I was doing a really good job of keeping them under wraps!
‘Stand up,’ Seth instructs me.
‘Sorry?’
‘Stand up!’ Seth repeats, taking my arm and pulling me up from my bench. Argh!
He points into the distance.
‘Look!’ he says.
Oh wow.
Wow.
It’s Manhattan. Looking like a postcard. An eerie postcard with dark skies and ominous clouds, but a postcard nonetheless.
It’s pretty spectacular.
‘Woah,’ I say.
It almost doesn’t look real.
‘That’s the reason you should always take the ferry to Staten Island,’ Seth says, gazing ahead in wonder. ‘The view of Lower Manhattan never disappoints.’
I hold my phone up and snap a picture. Not just for Birdie, this time, but for myself too. Seth’s right. It’s out of this world!
Behind us, a couple of teenagers pass by and point at me in my life jacket, laughing at what a dork I am.
I stick my tongue out at them, only thankful that I straightened my hair and they don’t recognise me from the TV too.
And then, to my surprise Seth strides over to the life jacket booth, gets one and pulls it on.
He looks like even more of a berk than me.
And then, without a word he comes and stands back next to me.
‘Yo, take a picture, maybe it’ll last longer!’ he yells to the cocky teenagers. They laugh and point at him then, instead of me.
And I get the feeling that was very much his intention.
Chapter Twenty
Email from [email protected]:
OMG. Doctor BJ heard you talking about his peen! I had to turn my phone off, so I couldn’t text back last night but I am mortified! He came in, his voice all stuttery and his face all red. He said: ‘Do you have something you wish to discuss, Birdie.’ And so I just told him that my friend – you – has a major crush on him. I know you’ve never even seen him, but he doesn’t know that. I’m sorry, Brewster. I had to throw you under the bus to save myself!! I apologise for being glib about you feeling so embarrassed re. Sunday Night Live. I have had a taste of my own medicine fo sho!!! Argh! Good luck getting Chuck’s letter back today!
As I step off the ferry with wobbly legs, I stand for a moment with closed eyes, feeling immensely grateful to be back on solid ground.
I follow Seth as he walks confidently out of the large bright terminal and purposely down the street, not even looking at a map on his phone.
‘You know this place well?’ I ask, walking quickly to keep up with his long-legged strides.
‘I grew up here, actually.’
As an ominous roll of thunder booms above us, the rain starts pelting down once more. I put up my umbrella and quicken my walking speed.
‘Can I get under there with you?’ Seth asks, crouching down.
‘Seriously? It’s been raining for two days straight. How do you not have an umbrella of your own?’
Seth shrugs. ‘I forgot, I guess.’
I wonder how someone can just go through life not being prepared for anything. I bet he thinks he can just charm his way out of any trouble he might get himself into. Jumping queues because he didn’t charge his laptop, getting under other people’s umbrellas in the rain, avoiding getting kicked in the goolies by women he publicly humiliated for a laugh.
Above us a huge roll of thunder booms out of the sky. I decide to be generous.
‘Well, you’ll be no use to me with hypothermia,’ I say, handing the umbrella to Seth so he doesn’t have to crouch, and getting under it with him.
‘We’re about five minutes away from the Post Office,’ Seth shouts over the sounds of the rain spattering onto the brolly above us.
‘Cool,’ I reply, feeling strangely self-conscious as we try to walk in sequence under the umbrella, our arms bumping up against each other.
Eventually we reach the Post Office building – a big tan-coloured structure that looks like it was airlifted in straight from the nineteen-seventies. Seth pushes open the glass door and holds it for me.
The décor inside is beige and drab – a bit like how Donna decorated the living room at our house in Saddleworth. Thankfully it’s pretty quiet and we don’t have to wait too long to see someone. My balloon is popped, though, when I realise that the man assigned to help us is a real jobsworth who doesn’t seem to want to help at all.
‘You posted an unaddressed letter?’ he says for the millionth time.
‘It was an ACCIDENT,’ I reply for the millionth time.
As the man rants and raves about the amount of stupid people in New York who don’t send mail correctly, I make a kind of snarly noise. Beside me, Seth laughs, which doesn’t help at all.
‘Well, of course you will need to submit a formal request in writing,’ Jobsworth says, running his hand up and down his tie. ‘And then that will have to be processed. Could take a week. Could take a month. You never can tell.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Dude, can’t you just go into a back room and search through the lost and found? I only sent it yesterday!’
The man folds his arms. I think he’s getting mad at me.
‘Do you watch Sunday Night Live?’ Seth asks suddenly, leaning his elbows onto the counter and smiling at the man in a chummy way.
I roll my eyes. He’s so arrogant. Expecting that he can just charm his way around any problem, like he did with the check-in assistant at the airport.
‘Of course,’ the man says, as surely as if Seth had just asked him if he had a nose.
Seth lowers his voice. ‘I work on that show.’
The man frowns. ‘I don’t recognise you.’
‘I’m not a cast member – not yet at least – I’m a writer for the show and if you can get me this letter, I have two tickets for you. Front row.’
The man studies us both with an expression of deep distrust. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Seth reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn, childish-looking wallet. It looks like the kind of canvas wallet Alex had when he was about thirteen. Seth slides out a lanyard. I peer at it.
Seth Hartman Senior Writer – Sunday Night Live. Rockefella Centre.
The Post Office man goggles. And immediately disappears into a back room.
Twenty minutes later, he returns brandishing the letter like it’s the golden snitch. I grab it off him and immediately burst into tears, hugging the letter to my chest.
‘Thank God, thank God, thank God!’ I whisper, kissing the letter, my hands shaking. I hadn’t quite realised how terrified I’d been about losing it until now.
‘Thanks to you!’ I say to Post Office guy, reaching up to give him a kiss on the cheek.
‘Thanks to you!’ I say to Seth, not kissing his cheek but holding my hand out to formally shake his again.
Why the floop do I keep doing that?
I know I said I would go to lunch with Seth, but now I have the letter, I just want to get it safely into Chuck Allen’s hands as quickly as possible. Plus it’s only eleven a.m.!
I’m about to suggest we just head straight back to the ferry terminal when Seth casually mentions that he only gets six tickets a year to give away to friends and family. He used two of those to get my letter back? To be fair, it is entirely his fault that I accidentally posted it. But still, it’s another forty-five minutes until the next ferry and he is offering free pizza. I would be a true moron to turn that down.
Following a five-minute walk, the pair of us once more clumsily squished beneath my brolly, we arrive at what looks less like a respectable pizza place and more like a bar. I glance at the flashing neon
pink sign in the window. This place is called ‘Trickys’. No apostrophe!
‘A bar?’
‘I didn’t say it was a pizza restaurant, just that it did the best pizza. Come on!’ Seth beams, showing teeth as white and American as Birdie’s. It occurs to me that it’s the first time he’s properly smiled since I met him. This must be some top-drawer pizza.
I follow him in. Yep. This is a bar. What might be kindly termed a ‘dive’ bar. The floor is dusty, there’s a TV blaring high behind the bar, competing with the sounds of blues music coming from the vintage jukebox. My eyes widen. Never in my life have I been in a place like this. And Greater Manchester is full of dubious pubs!
It’s busier than one would expect, it being pre-lunch on a weekday and all, and everyone in here is drinking beer. Morning beer.
At the back of the room is a pool table being used by a man and a woman in brightly coloured loungewear. The woman’s loungewear has the word ‘sweetcheeks’ written in a cursive script across her backside. I can’t help but admire her confidence and, indeed, her sweet cheeks.
‘This place is…’ I trail off, unable to find just one word to describe this subterranean boozetastic roadhouse. My eyes goggle at the fact that just off that quiet little street, this place exists. And I’m in it. I suppress a giggle thinking about what Donna would make of it.
‘Lil’ Hartman, baby!’
The woman’s voice is very loud – it would have to be to be heard over the hullabaloo.
‘Phyllis!’ Seth yells back, so raucously that it makes me jump. He embraces the extraordinarily skinny woman so tightly I’m afraid she might crack. Her hair is bright red. Not in an elegant ginger way – in an actual crimson red way. It’s piled atop her head in a very high bouffant. Her black eyeliner is expertly smudged heavily around her wrinkled blue eyes and she’s wearing a gold chain with the words ‘fuck you’ written out in an incongruously pretty font. ‘Hey, less of the ‘little, please?’ Seth laughs, kissing her on the cheek.
Big Sexy Love: The laugh out loud romantic comedy that everyone's raving about! Page 14
