“You made me believe.”
“In what?” I ask him.
“In love.”
I have been to New York before. I came with Alex two years ago.
We saw the city from the top of the Empire State Building.
We took the ferry over to Liberty Island, climbed up the Statue of Liberty and looked out at the skyline through her crown.
We saw Times Square – by day and by night. We ate lunch at the Carnegie Deli, a New York landmark where the sandwiches are as big as your arm.
We visited Greenwich Village. And Little Italy. And SoHo.
And I remember thinking, ‘this is not how I imagined it would be.’ I don’t think I meant being in New York. I think I meant being in New York with Alex.
I feel like Carrie Bradshaw, only not as glamorous, obviously. And I’m not a successful sex columnist (ask me again in six months – you never know). And my best friends don’t include a nymphomaniac, a lawyer and a hopeless romantic. And I’m not on the side of a bus.
Okay, so I’m nothing like Carrie Bradshaw. But, hey, I’m in New York!
We are staying at the Hilton near Times Square. In room 2812. On the 28th floor.
As James tips the bellboy I rush over to the window.
“Oh my god, I can see Central Park,” I shriek.
The park is dotted with people baking in the June sun. Lying on the grass with friends, roller-blading, sitting side-by-side on park benches.
Alex and I came in the winter. We went ice-skating on the rink in Central Park. I was hopeless. I think Alex was embarrassed to be seen with me. He skated off at top speed, leaving me wobbling like a Weeble every time anyone so much as brushed past me.
Our room is fabulous. It has a king-size bed with crisp white linen and big fat feather pillows that look like they’d be great in a pillow-fight.
The bathroom is white too – with a marble sink and chrome fittings and thick fluffy white towels. And a bath that’s definitely big enough for two.
“It’s a good job I brought a lot of stuff,” I tell James, unzipping my suitcase. “I need to look my best in New York! I could have taken you at your word and packed nothing but my toothbrush and a spare pair of knickers.”
“That’s impossible. No woman can ever go away anywhere without at least three changes of outfit. I knew you’d be okay.”
“Oi, cheeky!”
After I have swapped my jeans and t-shirt for a pair of white cut-off trousers and a floral halter-neck top we take the lift down to the lobby and walk out into the sunshine.
Our first stop is Central Park. I want to sit on a park bench with James. I want to know what it feels like.
It feels good. It feels right. It feels like I’ve been doing it all my life.
“You okay?” he asks, as we eat sandwiches we picked up from Starbucks and sip cans of lemonade through straws.
“I’m more than okay,” I say.
“And this is what you want to do, is it?” he grins. “Sit here on a park bench, holding my hand?”
“Yes,” I say. “I do.”
And I could do this forever, I think to myself.
But of course, we’re in New York. So we can’t spend too long just sitting on a park bench.
“Let’s go shop!” James says, tossing the sandwich wrappers and lemonade cans in the bin. He pulls his sunglasses down from his head and grabs my hand.
“If we must,” I laugh.
I’ve never been big on designer labels, but hey, we’re in New York, so I drag James to all the best shops. We don’t buy anything, we just step inside, breathing in the scent of a different world, before rejoining the rest of the plebs on the city streets. Prada, Armani, Dolce & Gabbana, Manolo Blahnik – ‘that’s where Carrie buys her shoes,’ I tell James, who pretends to be suitably impressed. We go into them all. We look. We touch. We do not buy.
I think I catch one of the sales assistants looking at us with the same disdain with which they look at Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she turns up with safety pins holding up her boots looking for a new frock.
I’d love to go back, my arms laden with bags, and tell them how they made a ‘big mistake – huge’. Sadly the only bags I will be going back with so far are plastic carrier bags from CVS Pharmacy containing sun tan lotion, Twizzlers and souvenir pencils with yellow taxis on the end.
When we have seen everything we can’t afford to buy we head to Bloomingdale’s, where I buy a wedding card for Katie and Matt, just so I can have one of their ‘little brown bags.’ And then we go to Macy’s – ‘The World’s Largest Department Store.’
I hold James’ hand. If I let go I’m sure to lose him forever. I wouldn’t want that. I think I love him.
There are a thousand floors. Okay, not a thousand, but a lot. I lead James straight to women’s clothing.
He marvels at how easily a woman can get lost despite following a meticulously marked road map and yet can find the women’s clothing section of any department store blindfolded.
“Charlotte did actually attempt to navigate her way around a department store blindfolded in Sex & The City,” I tell him, with a little grin. “Carrie was supposed to be her guide, but she got distracted by the shoes.”
Quite by chance we are right by the shoes as I share this little bit of trivia with him.
“I need some shoes to go with my bridesmaid dress,” I tell James, picking up a pair of black knee-high boots.
“You’re not thinking of wearing those, I hope?” he laughs. And then he frowns suddenly.
“Will I be coming to the wedding?” he asks me.
I didn’t want to mention it. It’s in September. I didn’t want to scare him off by looking too far ahead.
“Do you want to come?” I say.
I think it would be the first wedding I have ever been to with a guy who isn’t Alex.
“Do you want me to come?” He asks.
“I’d love you to come. If you don’t mind spending half the day with my friends while I’m on bridesmaid duty, that is.”
“In that case I’m going to need a new suit.”
“This is just a ploy to get me away from the shoes and into the men’s department, isn’t it?” I laugh, putting the boot back on its perch.
“I can be crafty when I want to be,” he grins, wrapping his arm round my waist and pulling me towards him.
It’s getting dark when we leave Macy’s an hour and a half later with five bags between us. A new suit and tie for James, a pair of shoes for me, toys and clothes for the kids and some silly souvenirs to take home.
On the way home we stop for dinner at a little Italian restaurant, with red and white chequered tablecloths and pictures of old fashioned pasta makers on the walls and a waiter who over-pronounces his s’s. He brings us bread and olive oil and runs through the ‘ssspecials’ – ‘ssspaghetti with oysssters and mussscles, tagliatelli with ssspicy sssausssage and Ssscicilian pizza’.
I tear off a piece of bread and dip it in the olive oil. The waiter returns with our wine and pours a small amount in my glass.
I taste it and nod my approval, though I’d probably nod enthusiastically at any wine. I hope James isn’t disappointed.
“Having fun?” he says.
“The best ever.” I reach across the table for his hand, bring it to my lips, kiss it.
“I still can’t believe you’ve brought me here. It must have cost you a fortune.”
“You’re worth it,” he says. “And I can afford it. Business is booming! I should know – I’m the accountant!”
“How is Dan getting on with Fiona’s sign?”
He bites off a piece of bread and chews it quickly.
“Great. He’s been working on some designs. I think they’re meeting this weekend to go through them.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What are they like? Tell me! What’s the point in being your girlfriend if it doesn’t get me a bit of inside info?”
“I c
ouldn’t possibly,” he laughs. “I’m sworn to secrecy! Fiona’s orders!”
“Ooh, the sly fox!”
I brush the breadcrumbs into a neat little mound in front of me and stifle a yawn.
James looks at his watch. “It’s almost one o’clock in the morning at home. It’s been a long day.”
“It’s been a fabulous day. I’m having such an amazing time.”
“Well, I have one more surprise for you yet,” he says.
He leans forward and takes his wallet out of his back pocket. He looks really pleased with himself.
He takes two tickets out and places them on the table.
Tickets for the Sex & The City tour.
“No way!” I shriek. The couple on the table next to us look over.
“No way!” I whisper. “You are just the best boyfriend in the world!”
“I do my best,” he smiles.
It’s just all too good to be true. I turn down a marriage proposal, leave my well-paid job and move from one end of the country to the other. I move in with my best friend, get a job where I get to be painted from top to toe every day for free and land a commission with what is currently one of the most popular magazines in the country. And then I just happen to stumble upon the best boyfriend in the world – who not only brings me to New York, to stay in a swanky hotel with fluffy white towels and chocolates on the pillows, but also buys me tickets for the Sex & The City tour.
As if.
I pinch myself. It hurts. And James is still sat opposite me, tucking into Ssspaghetti Carbonara.
Yes, it is true.
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
“Are you ready for sex?”
No, this is not some strange proposition. It’s our tour guide greeting us as we board the Sex & The City tour bus at 11 o’clock the following morning.
We only just make it. We overslept this morning. We both woke up at nine o’clock English time – five o’clock New York time. We were wide-awake, but it was too early to get up. This wasn’t a problem, if you catch my drift. But we were pretty tired by the time we fell asleep again an hour later. And then we didn’t wake up until 10:07. This gave us precisely fifty three minutes to shower, dress, wolf down a bagel with cream cheese and a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice then make our way to the On Location Tours tour bus (and fit in another quickie before the shower if I’m being completely honest.)
Our tour guide is Stephanie Borowsky, an aspiring actress funding acting classes with daily three-hour stints on tour buses, sharing Magnolia Bakery cupcakes and Cosmopolitans with maniacs like me who believe that Carrie Bradshaw is a real person – that she really does live in New York, really is on the side of a bus, and really does love a guy called Mr Big…
“I am your sexpert,” she grins, from the front of the bus.
I link my arm through James’. He’d probably rather stick pins in his eyes than be sat on this bus with a bunch of Sex & The City fans. The fact that he’s here despite that makes me love him even more than I think I already might.
“You will be getting off… the bus,” Stephanie continues, with a dirty laugh.
I think she’s going to be fun. She looks a bit like Carrie actually. She’s tiny, with blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Little dress. High heels.
She ticks us all off her list and signals to the driver to get going, telling us as he pulls away that if we look out of the window to our right we will see the Plaza Hotel, where Carrie asks Mr Big why she wasn’t ‘the one.’ Series three, episode three (yes, I know, it’s tragic.)
As Stephanie plays a clip on the television that hangs from the roof of the bus it occurs to me that all this time I have been asking the same question that every girl wants the answer to.
“Now, who can tell us one of the bloopers in the opening credits,” she says, not expecting any takers, I’m sure.
She’s met her match though. Before I can stop myself my hand shoots into the air. Just call me teacher’s pet.
“The people on the bus,” I shout out.
She looks impressed. So does James. Not that he has a clue what we’re talking about.
Just so that the rest of the class can catch up she plays us the clip.
“Watch the people in the bus,” she instructs, hitting pause so she can point them out.
Thirty-six pairs of eyes are glued to the television, watching as the people on the bus which splashes Carrie in her pink tutu, disappear in the last few seconds of the credits and it becomes an empty bus.
Stephanie explains how when the programme was launched nobody in the cutting room spotted the mistake.
“It appears in every single episode ever made,” she says.
James looks at me and grins. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. Either he’s just realised how sad his girlfriend really is, or he’s marvelling at my expert observation skills. I’d like to think it’s the latter. I am, however, realistic.
We are on our way to the shop where the girls took Charlotte to buy her ‘rabbit,’ Stephanie tells us. We will be able to get off, apparently, and examine the merchandise.
“For those of you in any doubt, it is not a pet shop,” she adds with a big grin.
“It’s a sex shop,” I whisper to James.
“I know,” he whispers back and I feel a bit silly.
A few minutes later all thirty six of us pour into The Pleasure Chest. It’s only a small shop so it’s a bit of a squeeze. The manager looks up from his magazine and nods hello. He’s not phased. Twice a day, every day, he has a busload of people pour into his shop, marvel at the size of the vibrators that fill the shelves, take a few photographs and pour back out again. He must get something out of it, I guess, but there doesn’t seem to be too many people keen on taking a rabbit back onto the bus with them.
“Do you want to get something?” James whispers in my ear. His breath tickles my neck and I wriggle away from him and laugh.
“Do you?” I whisper back.
“I asked first.”
I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure he’s being serious. But then again…
“How about some of this?” I ask, picking up a jar of chocolate body paint.
He licks his lips and raises an eyebrow. “Delicious.”
Twenty minutes later I am licking my own lips, which are covered in the frosting of a vanilla cup cake from the Magnolia Bakery where Carrie told Miranda she had a new crush – this time on Aidan.
We are round the corner from Carrie’s apartment. It turns out she doesn’t live on West 73rd Street, after all. She lives on 9th Avenue and 14th Street. At least, that’s where the filming is done. Whatever…
Finishing off our cupcakes as we walk, we all follow Stephanie to the apartment where we queue up to have our picture taken on Carrie’s stoop.
“Are you enjoying this?” I ask James as we wait for our turn.
“Absolutely!” he laughs, kissing a bit of frosting off my lips.
We reach the front of the queue and I hand Stephanie my camera on our way up the steps.
The real resident of this apartment (it isn’t actually Carrie Bradshaw, you know!) must get sick and tired of people queuing up to have their picture taken on her apartment steps. Thirty-odd Sex & The City fans, a couple of mums and a spattering of boyfriends, twice a day, seven days a week. I think I’d go nuts.
It’s ridiculous really. I’m standing on a pavement in New York, looking up at a bunch of ordinary concrete steps, which lead up to an ordinary front door. Another thirty four people are doing exactly the same thing. And we are all thinking ‘wow, that’s Carrie’s front door’.
But Carrie doesn’t even exist. She is not real. So are we not the saddest bunch of individuals on the planet?
The next stop is SCOUT – Steve and Aidan’s bar – where we wash down our cupcakes with Cosmopolitans. The staff at Onieals Speakeasy (I am disappointed to discover the bar isn’t really named after Steve’s dog) are ready for us – with thirty six pink drinks in cocktail gla
sses lined up on the bar. James and I have a second one each and are feeling a little bit squiffy when we get back on the bus for the rest of the tour.
As we continue to weave our way through the streets of New York City Stephanie points out dozens of locations from the series: Aidan’s furniture shop, The Little Church Around the Corner where Samantha set her sights on Friar Fuck, the ABC Carpet and Home Store where Charlotte and Trey bought their new bed, The Cowgirl Hall of Fame, where Carrie and Miranda bumped into Steve and Aidan with their new girlfriends…
A debate follows. Mr Big fans versus Aidan fans.
We take a vote and the Mr Bigs have it hands down. My own hand is amongst them. Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge Aidan fan, and I will never truly understand how she could ever let him go. But you see, Mr Big is her Mr Right. And that’s the point. Why is he? We don’t know. He just is.
“What’s so special about Aidan anyway?” James asks as we leave the bus at the end of the tour. “Didn’t she have lots of other boyfriends?”
“Oh, you know, he was just lovely,” I say.
I want to tell him that he reminds me a bit of Aidan. Because he’s tall, and incredibly sexy. Because he’s kind, and loving, and reliable.
But I don’t, because I realise he actually reminds me more of Mr Big. Why? Because he might just be Mr Right. Why? I don’t know why.
We spend the rest of the day sightseeing. We go up the Empire State Building and laugh at how the yellow taxis far below us look like toy cars. We go to Times Square and ask a stranger to take a picture of the two of us. We find the best ice cream shop in the world – Cold Stone Creamery – where you pick a flavour and select your fillings and they mix it up for you on cold stone. Or you can choose one of their own concoctions. There are three sizes – ‘like it,’ ‘love it,’ ‘gotta have it.’ I have the Caramel Turtle Temptation – sweet cream ice cream, pecans, fudge and caramel. James has the Mud Pie Mojo – coffee ice cream with Oreos, peanut butter, roasted almonds, fudge and whipped topping. Our eyes are bigger than our bellies and we both order ‘gotta have its.’ So it’s no surprise when we feel sick on the ferry over to the Statue of Liberty where I buy James a foam crown and make him wear it for a photograph in front of the statue. He looks adorable. And I realise that yes, I do love him.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 151
