Before me, the sun bursts right out into the blue sky as if to say ‘Here I am!’ It’s glorious.
Imagine if I had missed this.
Imagine if I had never got to see this because I wanted to stay in my safe little world.
Even from the other side of the earth, Birdie’s making my life better.
I bite the corner of my lip, take my phone out of my pocket and FaceTime her.
Her face flashes up on the screen, bright and happy. ‘Hello, my Brewster. What is happening? Ooh, where are you? Wait – why are you not on the plane?’
I swallow hard and take a deep breath.
‘I have some bad news and some good news.’
Birdie nods, eyes widening. ‘Go on.’
‘Right. Well the bad news is that the man at Chimes Investment was not Chuck Allen. It was Chuck Ellen. With an E. Oh, and also I got arrested, spent the night in jail and missed my plane.’
Birdie’s eyebrows shoot up so high they almost disappear into her hair. ‘What the fuck? Olive! Oh my god. How? Why? WHAT?’
I tell her everything, unable to believe what is coming out of my mouth, that any of it actually happened. When I’m done, Birdie runs a hand through her cropped hair.
‘Okay. That’s enough, Olive. Come home immediately. Come home. Get a flight. I will book it now. Get here. Shit. I’m so sorry for sending you over there! It’s my fault you’ve gone through all this. I thought that—’
‘Hush!’ I interrupt her. ‘You haven’t heard the good news yet.’
‘What? What is it?’
I grin, my heart lifting. ‘Number one, I am on the roof. And you were right. It is amazing. Scary, but not as scary as I thought. In fact, nothing that’s happened has been worse than what I’ve imagined in my head. And number two, I’m going to find that elusive motherfucking Chuck Allen.’
Birdie shakes her head. ‘Olive, listen, seriously, don’t worry about it – we can—’
‘NO. I said I was going to do it. I promised. And I’m going to do it. I just need a few more days. And I will back before your surgery, okay?’
Birdie looks panicked. ‘But you got arrested? Your eyes look all wild and glinty. What about work? What about—’
‘Don’t worry!’ I say with a laugh. ‘Unclench, why don’t you!’
Birdie presses her lips together, a delighted smile in her eyes.
‘You’re a nutcase, Brewster.’
‘I fucking love you, Birdie.’
‘I fucking love you too.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
‘Good.’
‘Stop saying “Good” and go find that elusive motherfucking Chuck Allen already!’
‘On it.’
Ending the call, I run down the stairs instead of taking the lift and burst into Mrs Ramirez’s flat, where she’s sitting in a chair looking very happy while Anders brushes her hair.
I put my hands on my hips.
‘Right! I have no earthly idea where he is and I don’t have long until Birdie goes for her big surgery and I have to be back in England. But I am finding Chuck Allen and you two are going to help me. I hope. Please?’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
@ElissaJohnson
I just spoke with the police. They caught the woman who stole my key. The Menace of Manhattan. And they let her go!!!!! Not enough evidence, low priority apparently.
@ElissaJohnson
This is #outrageous. My word is not good enough evidence? This is not a #lowpriority to me.
@ElissaJohnson
They say she is on her way back to the UK and I will not have to worry about her anymore. But where is my key? What about my trauma?
@ElissaJohnson
I have not slept a wink since I caught her caressing herself right in front of me in #broaddaylight
@ElissaJohnson
Please RT this thread for awareness. Private NY parks should be peaceful, protected #safespaces for parkside residents. So, so important!
@ElissaJohnson
Why are people unfollowing me?
Within thirty minutes of making my grand statement, it occurs to me that the adrenaline kick I got from being on the rooftop has made me slightly delirious – because while my intent to find Chuck Allen holds true, my usual nature of thinking of all the logistics has failed me. What about my job? Where will I stay? How will I afford to get a later flight back? What about the fact that Birdie and I were supposed to do the Harry Potter Marathon this weekend? And what will Donna and Alex say?
‘I have never met anyone who frets so much!’ Mrs Ramirez says from where she’s sitting in the front of the cab. At Anders’ insistence, we’re in another taxi, whizzing our way to his house to hold a planning meeting because he couldn’t bear to be in a room the size of his shoe closet any longer. Mrs Ramirez agreed that moving to Anders’ house was a very good idea, especially since her poorly knee had kept her indoors for weeks and she was desperate to get out.
‘I am learning to be more relaxed,’ I point out from my place in the back seat beside Anders. ‘But these are genuine logistical points!’
‘Everything can be fixed,’ Anders says.
‘Birdie can’t,’ I say sadly.
‘Most things can be fixed.’
‘Where will I stay?’
‘With me!’
‘I can’t do that!’ I get a vision of waking up in the night to find Anders standing over me with a bottle of Olaplex and some high-end cutting razor.
‘It’s no problem!’ he drawls, as if my protest is out of politeness rather than fear.
‘And I can’t afford a flight back. Shit.’
‘I have air miles!’ Mrs Ramirez shouts out from her place in the front. ‘I have travelled all over the world. Now I am too old, I have so many air miles saved that I can longer use!’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask, leaning forward towards her seat in the front. ‘That’s too generous. I can’t possibly!’
Mrs Ramirez waves away my protest. ‘What else am I gonna do with them? I go on a flight these days and my knee joint swells up to the size of a Santa Claus melon!’
‘Thank you! Okay… well… what about my job?’
The Joans have been so good to me, but they’re not going to let me have time off indefinitely, after all, I am the best fish filleter in the Greater Manchester area.
‘Just call them up, ask them for some more time!’
‘But…’ I start. My mind is so used to coming up with potential problems and worries that it feels weird not to have one immediately at hand.
Huh.
I take out my phone and call Taller Joan’s mobile.
‘Hello Joan’s Fresh Fish.’
‘Joan, it’s Olive!’ I say.
‘Olive! It’s Olive,’ I hear her repeat, presumably to Tall Joan. ‘We miss you! We can’t wait to see you tomorrow and hear all about the Big Apple. Did you have a fabulous time? Did you meet anyone interesting?’
‘Well, that’s the thing… I’m kind of… still here.’
There’s silence on the other end for a moment. Shit. She’s mad. They’re going to fire me and hire someone else. Someone with the name Joan who will fit in way better than I ever did.
‘Ah…Is everything okay, Olive?’
‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I just… would you be really mad if I took another four or five days?’
I expect Joan to at least fuss a little, to verbally try to figure out how they’ll manage, what cover they’ll have, how they will cope without me. But instead, to my great surprise, she answers immediately.
‘Of course, love! Take as long as you want! If you need to stay longer, you can!’
‘Well Birdie’s surgery is next Monday so I’ll definitely be back by then.’
‘Great!’ Joan says brightly. ‘No worries at all, my love.’
‘Are you sure? I mean… Won’t you struggle without me?’
‘It must be costing you a fortune to call from Manhattan!’ Joan says, seeming to avoi
d my question. ‘Give us a bell when you get back, won’t you?’
‘Okay… See you then, I guess.’
‘Yes. Yes. Must go, there’s a customer. Bye love!’
Joan ends the call.
‘You fixed it?’ Anders asks as I stare at my blank phone screen.
‘Yeah.’ I reply with a slight frown. ‘It was all… very simple.’
Somehow, a little too simple.
At Anders’ house, we sit down in his grand living room, while his housekeeper, Jan, makes us all breakfast. I go for toast and hot coffee, Anders sips on a strong Bloody Mary and Mrs Ramirez – who cannot stop marveling at the size of Anders’ place – opts for a stack of pancakes with bacon, maple syrup, and scrambled eggs.
‘You only have one life to live!’ she says, patting her stomach happily.
After breakfast, another coffee and a long, soul-cleansing shower in Anders’ luxurious wet room, the three of us gather at the dining table. Mrs Ramirez is holding a notepad and pen. Anders is poised over his laptop, wearing a headset. I’m not sure the headset is even switched on, I think it’s just for show.
We spend the next hour or so coming up with plans to get the word out about Chuck. All of Mrs Ramirez’s ideas are small and sweet – hold a raffle, send out leaflets, put a notice up in the window of her local deli, she can email her online friends and see if anyone knows anything. All of Anders’ ideas are outlandish and ridiculous – hire every billboard in times square and put up a picture of Chuck with the words ‘Where are you Chuck?’ or pay for a Kardashian to do a sponsored Instagram post asking for people to just ‘keep an eye out’.
‘Oh! You can get in touch with the man from Sunday Night Live,’ Mrs Ramirez says. ‘He has access to the biggest show in America. He must be able to help.’
‘I don’t think he has that much power there,’ I say. ‘He’s a behind the scenes person.’
At the thought of Seth my stomach flips happily. I wonder how his audition went? I wonder if he’s upset that I never turned up to his show last night? Is that why he hasn’t texted? He thinks that I stood him up without any notice? Shit, he probably thinks I’m back in the UK!
‘Surely he’ll know some PR people, darling?’ Anders says. ‘The kind of people who know exactly what it takes to hire every billboard in Times Square.’
That’s true – the Times Square thing is clearly ridiculous – nobody could organise that – but Seth might have some good contacts in publicity… People who can get the word out about Chuck in a large-scale way that’s also affordable and efficient.
And… I should definitely call him anyway. I don’t like the idea of him thinking I just ignored his invitation. Even it was because I was briefly incarcerated!
I quickly pick up my phone from the table and press Seth’s number. There’s no answer. And, of course, he doesn’t have voicemail.
‘No answer,’ I grumble. ‘He must be busy’
‘Or he saw you were calling and decided to ignore it,’ Anders points out with a sniff. ‘People do that, you know?’
‘He must be upset that you stood him up,’ Mrs Ramirez adds. ‘Being stood up for a date is terrible. It happened to me once. Back in nineteen ninety-two. I was backpacking Brazil and I was supposed to be having a date with a man I’d met. Marco, his name was. I’d met him that morning at the market. And when he didn’t turn up I was devastated. I’d dressed up in a beautiful blue dress—’
‘How was your hair styled?’ Anders interrupts.
‘Loose. It was even longer back then.’
Anders nods with approval, a nostalgic smile on his face, almost as if he’d been there in Brazil with Mrs Ramirez.
‘Anyway, I waited. And I waited. I sat at the bar feeling sadder and sadder. I was humiliated.’
‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Oh man. I hope Seth didn’t feel like that.’ I dial his number again. ‘I was in jail. And it wasn’t a date. It was just a casual invite to see his improv troupe.’
‘Do you know that for sure…’
‘Well yeah. I live in England. He lives in New York. He stitched me up on television. He… he jumps queues. It can’t have been an actual proper date…’
But that kiss…
‘I haven’t had a date in ten years.’ Anders says wistfully.
‘Outrageous,’ Mrs Ramirez says. ‘But you are so handsome.’
‘I know,’ Anders responds. ‘Maybe too handsome.’
I stare at the pair of them, suppressing a giggle, and stand up. ‘Guys, I’m going to go to Seth’s work.’
‘Aaah!’ Mrs Ramirez sings with a smile. ‘Good girl. Life is too short.’
‘No. I mean… just… for the PR thing. Like you said, he probably has great… contacts.’
Anders and Mrs Ramirez stare at me like they don’t believe a word I’m saying.
Fair enough.
I don’t believe me either.
After a speedy Google to find out where the Sunday Night Live studios are located, I hail a cab and whizz my way to the famous Rockefeller Center in midtown Manhattan. It’s one good-looking skyscraper. I recognise it from so many of my favourite TV shows and movies.
The area outside the entrance is teeming with tourists excitedly taking pictures.
‘Tourists, right?’ a woman in jeans and a leather jacket says to me, as we both try to push past the crowd in a bid to get to the entrance.
She thinks I’m a New Yorker? A little spark of pride flares in my chest.
‘Right?’ I reply with an eye-roll. ‘Totally!’
I finally reach the entrance and push through the doors into a large, glossy lobby. I look up at the ceiling – it’s painted with a giant elaborate image of some beefy naked guys holding up the ceiling. Wow. This place is cool! I’m impressed that Seth works here. It feels like the centre of something exciting.
I march over to the main lobby desk and inform the young man behind it that I’d like to see Seth Hartman at Sunday Night Live.
The man looks me up and down. In a positive way or a negative way, I do not know. I think I look quite nice today, though, in blue jeans and a soft navy blouse with a little bow at the collar. ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No. Um. Can you just tell him it’s Olive. And that I really need to talk to him.’
‘Well, we don’t usually…’ Then the guy blinks, his mouth slowly dropping open. ‘Oh my god, it’s you. You’re here? Oh wow!’ He starts to laugh and clap his hands together gleefully.
The daftest thing about this scenario is that I can’t be sure where this guy recognises me from: Sunday Night Live or the fact that I’ve been a running story in the New York Daily News. Dammit. I should have remembered to wear the beret!
‘Wow. I’ll call Hartman now,’ the young man says, enthusiastically. ‘It’s the main writing day today so he might not have much time to see you, if any at all. But I will try!’
‘I don’t need long.’
‘Wow.’ He clasps his hands to his chest. ‘How lucky you are to have been immortalised in a New York institution like Sunday Night Live. What a tale to tell, right?’
I smile and nod, a little thrown that this young person clearly thinks that being impersonated on TV is a good thing. Something I should be happy about. Even if it’s as a nutter with a fetish for bathroom voyeurism. Huh.
The guy calls Seth and within five minutes he’s there in the lobby. Standing right in front of me. My breath catches in my throat.
God. How did I not realise right away how sexy he is? He is very, very sexy.
‘Hello!’ I say, my heart already beating a drum through my whole body.
‘Olive. I thought you’d be back in the UK by now?’
‘Nope. Still here.’
After an odd pause in which we just stare at each other’s faces really intently, Seth shrugs. ‘Uh, is there anything I can help with?’
He sounds oddly formal. Professional. Peeved?
‘I didn’t stand you up!’ I blast out. ‘I mean, you probably did
n’t even notice my absence at your show, either way, I’m—’
‘I noticed, Olive,’ Seth murmurs in a low voice, looking me directly in the eye in a way that makes my mouth salivate.
‘Oh. Well, I have a good excuse.’
‘You do?’ He asks, curious, despite himself.
‘Yeah. Yeah I do. I was arrested!’
Seth’s eyes go all round. ‘That’s a pretty good excuse. I guess they caught you!’
‘Wait… you know about the whole New York menace thing?’
Seth starts laughing, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. ‘We get sent the papers every week to use for our sketches. I saw all the articles yesterday morning. I was gonna show you last night, help you come up with an escape plan, but—’
‘They caught me. And, for your information, I was not masturbating in Gramercy Park.’
‘Shame.’
My body goes instantly hot. I get a vision of Seth in the Atonement library. I try my very best to act normal.
‘I did steal a key, though.’ I say coolly. ‘And they found Phyllis’s joint in my satchel.’
‘And now you’ve missed your flight.’
A ghost of a smile flits across his face.
‘Yep.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided to stay for a few more days. They guy at the bank turned out to be the wrong Chuck.’
‘Another Chuck? That’s crazy.’
‘I know. I lost my shit. I confessed that I wasn’t really a billionaire looking to invest and they made a barricade and wouldn’t let me leave. It was not cool. Anyway, I’m still hunting the real Chuck down. And I came here to ask you for your help with something.’
Seth looks up at the giant ornate clock on the lobby wall.
He smiles at me, all formality gone. ‘Are you free for lunch now? We’d have to eat it in my office, but…’
Big Sexy Love: The laugh out loud romantic comedy that everyone's raving about! Page 20
