A Girl's Best Friend

by Lindsey Kelk

  ‘I’m actually going to Tiffany to look at china patterns,’ he confided. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t get married years ago, it’s wonderful. All you have to do is throw a party and people buy you obscenely expensive presents.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to babysit me,’ I told them, a wave of exhaustion rolling over me. ‘I made a list of things I want to see on the plane and I can get started on my own.’

  ‘Of course you made a list!’ Amy clamped her arm through mine. ‘Just when I thought you’d really changed.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I told her sweetly. ‘I was researching courses and exhibitions and stuff, to see if there was anything I could do while I was here, and there’s a thing I want to enter. It’s a photography exhibition in a Manhattan gallery but they have a new-photographer type thing that’s open to anyone and the winner gets an apprenticeship with a working photographer. I’m going to enter.’

  ‘And win,’ Amy replied. ‘Are you going to enter a photo of me?’

  I looked at her, smiling sweetly up at me, framed by red velvet, blue fur and a shimmering background of sequins.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said, glancing over at Kekipi and his impeccably groomed and impressively raised eyebrow.

  The double doors of the airport slid open and a blast of cold air slammed into me, turning every inch of exposed skin to fire and then to ice. My fingertips burned as I tried to hide my hands inside the sleeves of my jumper and my eyes began to water immediately.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I gasped, the wind catching in my throat. ‘Oh my God, it’s cold.’

  ‘Winter is coming,’ Amy said in an ominous voice. ‘Sorry, I should have told you to bring a proper coat.’

  ‘You should have told me not to come,’ I corrected her through chattering teeth. ‘It’s freezing! Amy, it’s so cold.’

  ‘Tess hates the cold,’ she told Kekipi as she breezed along towards a line of yellow taxis as though it was the middle of a sunny Tuesday in June. ‘She’s such a baby about it.’

  ‘I’m not being a baby!’ I protested, excited about the taxis but still wondering whether or not my nose had fallen off. ‘It’s about a million degrees below freezing!’

  ‘Not yet,’ Kekipi said, hustling me across the road. ‘But it will be tomorrow.’

  I paused and looked up at a plane screeching above us.

  ‘Is it too late to go back?’ I asked.

  ‘Get in the taxi, you twatknacker,’ Amy instructed. ‘We’ll get you a proper coat tomorrow.’

  ‘A coat, a cocktail and a big handsome man to keep you warm at night,’ Kekipi added. ‘Something in a blond, maybe? With a beard for added warmth?’

  ‘Don’t get her excited,’ Amy told him as a taxi driver hopped out of his cab and popped the boot for my suitcase. ‘We’ve got to share a bed.’

  ‘I’m very glad you’re here,’ Kekipi said, wrapping me in a bear hug while the taxi driver screamed at Amy as she tried to force the remaining balloons into the back of the taxi. ‘We’ve missed your civilizing influence.’

  ‘And the scary part is,’ I said, watching as the driver began popping the balloons with a lit cigarette faster than Amy could get them in the car, ‘I’ve really missed her.’

  For the third time in three days, I woke up without a clue as to where I was. Rubbing my eyes, I looked around the room. It wasn’t Charlie’s living room and it definitely wasn’t the departures lounge in Amsterdam. Thick cream carpets and heavy matching drapes made it look like the inside of a very swanky igloo, although it was considerably warmer than that, thank God. Turning over on my white pillow, underneath the white duvet, I saw Amy, flat on her back and snoring with her mouth wide open.

  ‘Amy,’ I whispered. ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘No,’ she replied, snorting twice and then rolling across the bed. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. A quick glance at the clock showed it was 6 a.m. I’d only been in bed for five hours and I was wide awake. The wonders of jetlag. ‘Wake up!’

  ‘I am awake,’ she said, pulling the thick, fluffy duvet over her head. ‘I might not reply but I’m definitely awake and I’m definitely listening.’

  I shuffled upright for a better look at the bedroom. I’d always imagined homes in New York to be either poky little shoe boxes or huge industrial loft spaces but I really should have known better than to expect any of that from one of Al’s homes. Amy’s room was huge, the bed taking up more space than her entire bedroom in London. The furniture was simple, with clean modern lines that made it look as though it had been brought in from the set of some sixties TV show, and huge, long swathes of heavy fabric hung all the way from the ceiling down to the carpets. Pin-thin lines of a brightening dawn ran all the way around them, promising a world outside these four walls.

  ‘Amy?’

  My best friend snored in response.

  Wired and tired and generally suffering from my impromptu long distance flight, I rolled out of bed and headed for what I assumed was the bathroom. The mattress didn’t even dip and Amy’s delicate snorts kept on coming.

  ‘Definitely awake, my arse,’ I mumbled, tiptoeing into the bathroom and shutting the door as quietly as I could.

  The sun had only just begun to rise when I stumbled out onto Fifth Avenue, big sunglasses and an even bigger smile on my face. Bumbling towards a zebra crossing in the dawn light, snow seeping in through my Converse, my knees bound together by a floor-length sleeping bag of a coat I had borrowed from a wardrobe by the front door, I was cold, uncomfortable and ridiculously happy.

  ‘I’m in New York,’ I whispered to myself, not caring whether or not anyone could hear me. It felt so improbable. I was finally here, walking around a city I had dreamed of visiting for so long, just as though it was a perfectly normal thing to do. It was all I could do not to grab hold of passers-by, just to explain to them how excited I was.

  Even though it was still early, not even seven, there were already so many people on the street. I sensed a certain solidarity in our matching coats and gave a small, smug nod to everyone I passed, feeling like such an insider. No touristy, inappropriate-but-visually-appealing jacket for me. Less than twelve hours in and I was practically a born-again New Yorker as I stopped at the edge of the pavement, waiting for the little white man to tell me it was safe to walk.

  ‘Hey! Watch it, lady!’

  A tall man in a black version of my blue coat bashed into me, phone in one hand, coffee in the other, a frustrated look on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ I spluttered, starting left then right as he tried to get around me. ‘I was waiting for the light to change.’

  ‘There’s no cars,’ he replied, waving his phone hand down the street before he stepped right into the street. ‘You need me to hold your hand? Watch where you’re walking.’

  ‘I’m walking here,’ I whispered, delighted as he walked off, giving me a surly look as he went. ‘Fugeddaboutit.’

  I couldn’t think of another time when I’d felt this excited just to be in a place. Hawaii was paradise, Milan was beautiful but New York was electric. The green street signs, the slightly off spellings, the threat of parking tickets and towing fines in dollar signs all made my heart beat slightly faster. I held my camera in my freezing cold fingers and clicked away at everything I saw.

  Without any idea where I was going, I started walking south along the park, following the flow of people and letting my mind begin to wander. How many times had Amy walked down this street since she got here? And Al? I knew Jane had chosen their house in Milan because it faced the park – had she picked this place for the same reason? I wondered how things had changed since they’d moved to New York in the sixties and how much was the same. Everything in my life seemed temporary at the moment; twenty-seven years of the same followed by six months of madness. It was so hard to know what I was supposed to do now. Carry on down this road of not knowing or go back to my old life with my tail between my legs? A partnership in an advertising agency with on
e of my best friends shouldn’t have felt like second prize but I couldn’t shake the feeling that accepting that would be settling.

  And try as I might, I couldn’t stop my eyes from searching the crowds for his face. I stopped for a moment, reaching into my handbag to rest my hand on my passport, to find his note. It was strange sometimes, the thought of Nick was always there in the back of my mind but every now and then it popped up to say hello, punch me in the stomach and stop me dead in my tracks.

  Nick lived here. I was in Nick’s city.

  But New York was a big place, wasn’t it? I wasn’t about to bump into him on the street, even if I wanted to. I didn’t know which area he lived in, but I couldn’t see him rubbing elbows with Upper Eastsiders. That said, I could absolutely imagine him running up here. Every few minutes, a Lycra-clad jogger whizzed by me and disappeared into the park, like a lululemon-sponsored ninja. And in that moment, he was real again. He wasn’t a fading holiday hangover memory, he wasn’t the super human I’d built him up to be. He was just Nick, a man who might go running around the park of a morning. A man who walked and talked and breathed and ate and did everything the same as everyone else, here in this city. And all the arguments I’d had with myself, all the reasons I’d come up with not to call, suddenly seemed silly.

  ‘I could call him,’ I whispered, my fingertips finding my phone in my pocket. ‘I could send him a text to let him know I’m here.’

  Before I could act, my Nick-induced trance was broken by a loud snuffling and heavy breathing around my shins. I looked down to see a huge, smiling golden retriever wearing a purple puffa jacket and slobbering on my jeans.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, bending over as far as my coat would allow to pat his happy head. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Don’t touch my dog!’ His owner, wearing his very matching purple puffa jacket, yanked on the dog’s lead and pulled him away down the street.

  ‘So friendly,’ I muttered as the dog made eyes at me over his shoulder.

  I stared at the phone in my hand but the moment was gone. I wasn’t ready. What if he didn’t want to see me, or speak to me? I didn’t want to ruin my first day in New York. I’d call him later.

  With my phone safely zipped away, I carried on my march along Central Park, washing away thoughts of Nick Miller by filling my brain with a million new memories. Across the street I saw tall men in grey coats and top hats, hurrying in and out of buildings with snow-covered green awnings, opening the doors of long black cars for women wearing floor-length furs and sunglasses, and on my side, men in jeans and two pairs of gloves were setting up shiny steel food carts as far as the eye could see.

  The carts looked so out of place, all bright colours and unappetizing photos of greasy doner kebabs hanging from them, right in the middle of the elegant, icy neighbourhood. It would make a great picture, I thought, as I watched one of the men blow into his hands while he watched out for a customer.

  ‘Excuse me …’ I sidled up to one of the carts and gave the sullen-looking owner my brightest, non-teeth-chattering smile. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hot dog?’ he replied. ‘Two dollar.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do want a hot dog,’ I said, pulling my camera out from inside my coat where it was safely nestled in my armpit. ‘And a coffee—’

  ‘Three dollar,’ he said before grabbing the handle on a silver lid to reveal a bucket of hot dog sausages, resting in an inch of unpleasant-smelling hot dog juice. ‘Onion?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ I waved my hands madly as he started fishing for a limp sausage with a bun in the other hand. ‘If it’s all right, I want to take your photo first?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Me, take photo?’ I pointed at my camera and held it up to my face, making clicky noises. ‘Photo of you?’

  ‘You wanna take my picture?’ he asked, dropping the hot dog back in the grey water with a splash. ‘Sorry, it’s early, I didn’t get ya’ right away. No worries, hun, snap away. This is my best side.’

  Shamefaced, I kept the camera in front of my burning cheeks and nodded. I hadn’t only turned into Amy; I was also morphing into my mother. The man straightened his baseball cap, put on his biggest smile and puffed out his chest.

  ‘I was actually thinking something a bit more natural?’ I said as his cheeks began to vibrate with the effort of his smile. ‘Like, as if you were just going about your day.’

  Crestfallen, he pulled his thumbs out of his lapels and went about his business.

  ‘Oh, gotcha,’ he said. ‘All natural, like.’

  Taking a step backwards, directly into a cold, filthy puddle, I crouched down, looking for the perfect angle. The early morning light streamed through the trees above, bouncing off the hot dog cart, making it shine like solid silver. Ice-white puffs of air came out of the man’s mouth as he worked, frying up onions and fishing for hot dogs. Sensing he was losing patience, I took as many pictures as my stiff, frozen fingers would allow.

  ‘You still want the hot dog and the coffee?’ he asked, ending the session with an impatient glare directly into my lens.

  ‘Absolutely,’ I replied, fishing around in my pocket for the small bills I’d stashed in there. Anything over a twenty was strapped around my body, underneath my coat. You could take the girl out of Yorkshire … ‘Three dollars, you said?’

  ‘Twenty,’ he replied, holding out a limp wiener. ‘For the photos. And the hot dog’s on the house.’

  Grudgingly, I handed over a twenty and took the hot dog in one hand and the blessed paper cup filled with scorching hot coffee in the other.

  ‘Nice doing business with you,’ he said as I pumped bright red ketchup and bright yellow mustard all over the hot dog. ‘Have a nice day.’

  ‘I will, thanks,’ I said, walking quickly down the narrowly ploughed pavement and chomping through the world’s most expensive hot dog. Fifteen minutes on the streets of the city and I’d already been grifted by a hot dog vendor.

  Giant coat or no, I was clearly not a New Yorker just quite yet.

  ‘Ms Brookes?’

  Two hours later I was creeping back into the townhouse and stashing my borrowed coat back in the closet when a tall woman in a stylish grey dress appeared out of nowhere. Al’s homes were always staffed by domestic ninjas, invisible housekeepers who kept your room cleaner than your average five star hotel and telepathic cooks who knew exactly what you wanted to eat before you did. Clearly his New York pad was no exception.

  ‘Yes, hi, hello.’ I raised a hand awkwardly, not sure if I was expecting her to shake it or I was just giving a pleasant wave.

  There would never be a time I didn’t feel weird meeting someone’s ‘staff’. Having people work for you was something I just couldn’t get my head around. The one and only time I’d hired a cleaner for my old flat, I ended up spending two hours bottoming the place before she arrived so she wouldn’t judge me for being a scruffy cow. It was pointless: she totally did anyway.

  ‘I’m Genevieve, the housekeeper,’ the woman said, ignoring my proffered hand and gesturing for me to follow her. ‘Mr Bennett will be pleased to see you. He’s dining in the breakfast room.’

  ‘He is?’ I couldn’t hide my excitement and did a little skip as I followed her down through the seemingly never-ending hallways. ‘Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Just eight years,’ she said, as though it was nothing. I’d been in my job for seven and it felt like a lifetime. ‘Before that I worked with the Spencers and moved here with Miss Spencer when she returned from school.’

  ‘Miss Spencer?’ I repeated. ‘This isn’t Al’s house?’

  ‘Delia Spencer,’ Genevieve replied. ‘Mr Bennett’s goddaughter. She lives here, yes.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t really. ‘So, Delia lives here while Al is in Hawaii?’

  ‘Mr Bennett hasn’t been in residence for the past eight years,’ she said. ‘But Miss Spencer is very happy to have him home for the time being.’

  ‘Tess! There you are.’

/>   Al jumped to his feet as I walked in, always the gentleman. His Grateful Dead T-shirt and lime-green board shorts were at complete odds with the gentle greys and pale blues of the breakfast room and his white hair and wiry beard rubbed against my cheek when he hugged me. It made me think of Brillo pads and Father Christmas and home.

  ‘How marvellous that you’re here,’ he said, pulling out a chair and waiting for me to sit. ‘I must say, Amy was over the moon when you called to say you would be joining us. I felt terrible taking her away from her family at Christmas.’

  ‘It’s usually best to take Amy away from her family whenever possible,’ I reassured him while he poured me a steaming cup of tea. ‘But I’m glad I came.’

  And right then and there, I really was. Knowing Al was in the world was a wonderful thing. Sitting across the table from him with a fresh mug of Earl Grey in your paws was another entirely.

  ‘And what can we get you for breakfast, Ms Brookes?’ Genevieve asked. ‘Anything particular you’d like the chef to prepare?’

  ‘She’ll have the works,’ Al answered before I could underorder out of politeness. My tongue had been locked in a battle between my English reserve and my howling stomach: my early morning walk around Central Park had burned off my hot dog snack. ‘She’s a good eater, this one.’

  ‘So you have noticed that I’ve gained some weight?’ I said, patting my stomach. It was really misdirection; actually it was my arse that had ballooned since I’d last seen him. ‘Thanks, Al.’

  ‘Not a single pound where it shouldn’t be,’ he protested. ‘You know I don’t stand for this skinny-minnie nonsense. I’m always starving after I fly and I can’t have you staying at my house without a proper breakfast in your belly.’

  I’d really only put on three or four pounds but I felt like a heifer. It didn’t matter how many compliments your surrogate grandfather threw at you, if you couldn’t fasten your jeans without breathing in, sometimes it was hard to feel good about yourself.

  ‘Now, tell me everything you’ve been up to since you left us,’ he insisted. ‘Where should I be looking for your fabulous photographs?’