She’d come round a little since the other day, once she’d had a chance to get used to the idea of his leaving the firm and going out on his own. In truth, it was Greg’s own fault for landing such a huge change on her completely out of the blue. Who could blame her for being concerned? But she needn’t worry for long: Greg wasn’t one for sitting around, and today he was going to get out there and start work. It might not be paying work just yet, but everyone needed to start somewhere.
He let the chemicals do their thing and, once he had everything pinned up to dry, he slipped out the door to wait.
He noticed the answer-machine light was blinking. He’d been so absorbed in his work that he hadn't even heard the phone ring. He pressed play on the machine – it was Karen.
‘Hey babe, just wrapping things up here on Further – back in town later.’
She was at a staff team-building exercise in the Hamptons. The event management crew had just finished with the Macy’s parade, and were now knee-deep in planning the January promotions.
Her boss Bradley’s’ house was on Further Road in East Hampton, and Karen always joked, ‘You never know, if we push a little “further”, we could wind up there.’
She was in love with the idea of a summer place, like so many other New Yorkers, but Greg couldn’t really understand it. His parents never had a summer place: if they wanted to go out of town they usually rented.
And they were right, Greg thought, the simpler the better. Owning multiple properties would surely turn into a full-time job and, besides, with his reduction in pay, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. He grabbed his phone and texted Karen, ‘Got your message. See you later, let me know when you’re back.’
He returned to the darkroom to check on his photos; they were developing nicely. He studied the one he’d taken the week before in Queens of the girl who had suffered the asthma attack. She and her mother were sitting on the front steps of their brownstone with paramedics in various states of work around them. They were oblivious to anyone, and looking with joy into each other’s eyes, as if to say: ‘We got through it.’
The mother’s grey knit cap stood out like ash against the dark stone behind her. Apparently she had run out of the building holding her near-unconscious daughter in her arms. There was no phone in the building and she had no cell – hard to believe in this day and age, Greg thought. So she’d run out into the street, screaming for help, and a cabbie had radioed it in to his call centre, from where they had called 911. After the incident, Greg had asked one of the police officers if there was any way to arrange a cell phone for her. The officer, older and seasoned, had wagged his finger over the steering wheel as they had driven away. ‘You’re just an observer, man. You take your pictures, and that's it, don't even think about getting involved.’ Greg later learned that most of the officers carried cards from city social workers that they would hand out, and it was a shot in the dark as to who would call wanting the help and who didn't.
Was there a huge stretch between want and need? Greg wondered.
Then, satisfied that the other shots were also coming up well, he stretched and looked around.
He felt restless, and was itching to get out and about in the city again – now that he was master of his own destiny. All those years cooped up in that cubbyhole … he was anxious to make up for lost time. Greg eyed his bike standing guard near the front door. Maybe he should take it out and about today, and see where he ended up?
He might pay a visit to his mate Rob, who worked at the New York Times. He hadn't even told him yet that he had quit. Digging around in his pocket for his phone again, he sent Rob a text saying he'd be in the area later, then slipped into sneakers and a sweatshirt, before grabbing his camera and a new roll of film.
As he rode, his calves burned; he had to get used to biking again – no more cabs. In any case, it was also the best way to see the city. As the cold air filled his lungs, he was again struck by how free he felt, how in sync with everything.
He manoeuvred his way through the busy streets, avoiding collisions with cabs and other bikers, and as he passed The Metropolitan Museum of Art, he felt a pang of guilt. Usually he gave a big donation every year; now, with this new career change, he wouldn't be able to.
He took out his camera and took a few quick shots of the steps. It was cold so there were relatively few people hanging out on them. In the summer, Greg loved to walk on the other side of the street and watch the tourist and art students piling in and out of the doors. He glanced up at the banner – advertising the highlight of a forthcoming gala evening in February. Greg stopped in his tracks. The gala …
As a patron of the museum he was always given two tickets, and Karen adored such events. Well, she was bound to be a little disappointed about missing it this time, but what was a fancy dinner compared to a lifelong dream?
Greg continued whistling a little under his breath.
He reached the NYT building about half an hour later, chained his bike, and went inside. Rob was a writer for the travel section of the paper, and he and Greg had met when they were both attending Columbia. Jeff was the nearest thing Greg had to a brother and, no matter what was happening, they had always managed to stay in touch all these years. He gave his name at the reception desk and was motioned through metal detectors to the elevator bank.
Getting out of the elevator, he admired the office. It was a totally open space with no walls or cubicles. People worked side by side on long, deep desks while perched on rolling chairs. There were coffee and snack areas with fresh fruit in each of the four corners of the room. Multiple flat-screen TVs were scattered about, some on, some not. When Greg had first seen Rob’s office, he’d queried as to how he could work amongst such commotion, and his friend had taken him to one corner of the office and sat him down at one of the long desks. It was calm and quiet, the huge ceiling and expanse of the room basically sucked the noise up and out.
‘Pretty cool,’ Greg had said, thinking of his own depressing cubicle on Vesey Street. He’d always felt faintly jealous of Rob, who’d pursued his dream of writing, while Greg had followed in his father’s footsteps and gone into trading because he wasn't sure what he wanted to do, wasn't confident enough of making a living as a photographer. But now things had changed. He scanned the room looking for his friend and saw Rob waving at him from one of the rolling chairs.
When Greg reached his friend’s desk, he saw the naked surprise on Rob’s face. ‘How come you’re out and about in the land of the living?’
Greg shrugged modestly. ‘I did it,’ he said.
‘Did what?’
‘Quit. My J-O-B.’ Greg spelled out slowly.
. ‘So you’re finally gonna give the photography a proper shot?’ Rob chuckled. ‘Excuse the pun.’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘That's amazing, man, and about time too.’ Then Greg noticed his friend was looking distractedly past him to someone who had just come off the elevator.
‘Hey,’ Rob called out waving. ‘Hey Billy, over here!’
Greg stood up. ‘Look man, if you're busy we can always hook up later … ’ He felt confused and somewhat hurt by his friend’s reaction.
‘Just hold on a second.’
A short man with a square head and body lumbered over to them, a huge folder balanced on his hands.
‘Billy,’ Rob began. ‘I want you to meet Greg Matthews – remember I told you about him? He’s a good friend of mine, a photographer … been documenting the city since … ’ He glanced questioningly at Greg who felt oddly proud about being introduced as a photographer.
‘Since I was about ten,’ Greg replied, sticking out his hand.
‘This is Billy Harrington, he's one of our photo editors here at the paper.’ Rob grinned at Greg's look of surprise.
Billy tried to manoeuvre the folder he was holding so he could shake Greg’s hand but gave up. Both men laughed. ‘Yeah, Rob talked about you before, said you were really good,’ Billy said. ‘Hav
e him give you my number, and I'll take a look at your portfolio.’
Greg was stunned. ‘That would be … great, thanks … ’
Billy scurried away and Greg looked gratefully at Rob. ‘Wow, thanks man, I really, really appreciate that.’
‘Hey,’ Rob held his hands up. ‘It's just an introduction, you gotta bring the gold, OK? Get some of that stuff together you did with the Flatiron, and maybe some of those neighbourhood pieces you were talking about, and I reckon he might offer you at least a trial contract position.’ He shrugged. ‘Pay’s not great but … ’
‘That would be incredible,’ Greg said, hardly able to believe his luck. Never mind the pay, the experience would be invaluable. The New York Times!
‘Well, let’s meet up for a beer or two soon and we can talk some more about it – it’s already been too long.’ He glanced at his computer screen. ‘Wish I could talk more now but I’m kind of on a deadline.’
‘No problem, I'll get out of your hair – or at least what's left of it,’ he joked to his friend.
As Greg made his way back to the elevator, he turned around to take a look at the office one more time. He couldn't believe this opportunity. Granted, as a contractor, and a trial one at that, he'd be making very little money, but it would still be worth it. Being in charge of his own schedule, being creative. He felt like jumping in the air and doing a fist pump.
He couldn’t wait to get home and start gathering together what he wanted to show to the photo editor.
Outside on the street, as he unlocked his bike, a text came in from Karen. I’m back. A few of us just popped to The Oyster Bar – can you meet me there?
He paused, surprised by his automatic, unenthusiastic reaction.
As much as he wanted to see Karen, he didn't fancy socialising just then; he wanted to go home and work. It was a new feeling. But, seeing as she was being so understanding about the changes in their life, Greg replied telling her that he would meet her there, but to start without him. Then he hopped back on his bike and peddled as fast as he could through the Times Square traffic towards Midtown.
The Oyster Bar was located in Grand Central Terminal and was reasonably fancy, but not so much so that anyone would raise an eyebrow at Greg's casual attire of jeans and fleece pullover. The knit cap had to go, though. Greg slipped it over the seat of the bike he had anchored on the street outside and, going inside the cavernous building, he headed for the subterranean restaurant area.
Inside the restaurant, he hastily combed his hair with his fingers as he spotted Karen at a table with a few of her co-workers. She was wearing a black suit with a short skirt and a red cashmere scarf peeking out of the neckline. Her long legs were elegantly crossed at the ankle and her black alpaca coat was slung neatly on the chair next to her. She had on a pair of black Louboutin shoes and the red soles coordinated perfectly with the rest of her outfit. Seeing Greg approach, she waved and stood up to greet him.
‘Hello sweetie, glad you could make it,’ she enthused before making introductions to people he was sure he’d never met before. ‘This is Blake,’ she gestured to a short, balding man in an Armani suit, who stood and pumped Greg's arm up and down, ‘and this is Stacy.’ Stacy did not get up, but looked at Greg with interest as he sat down. Stacy was also in Armani.
‘They work in the advertising department,’ Karen added brightly.
The Armani couple looked vaguely interested as Greg tried to work out why Karen had invited him to what seemed like a work confab. The four of them regarded each other silently for a moment, and then Stacy took a swig of her almost empty wineglass and gestured at the waiter for another.
‘So you are a photographer,’ she said to Greg, her voice the tiniest bit slurred.
‘Well, yeah … ’ he replied hesitantly, still trying to get used to this new job description.
‘Karen's been chatting you up a storm. Says you’re the greatest thing since Mapplethorpe.’
Karen squeezed Greg's knee and looked at him proudly.
‘I was an art major, did you know that?’ Stacy said.
Greg shook his head, how could he know? They had just met. He looked quickly at Blake who was looking bored into his own wineglass. The waiter came back with Stacy's wine and a glass of iced water for Greg.
‘Yep. Really good too, I even showed downtown once. Oils.’ She took another gigantic gulp of wine. ‘But of course, I needed to eat … ’ She chuckled. ‘I needed money. So here I am, Artistic Director for Macy's Department Store.’
‘Sounds … impressive,’ Greg said, stiffening a little.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not.’
Karen tried to rope Blake into the conversation. ‘Blake is in charge of layouts for the store circulars. They are always looking for new talent, aren’t you, Blake?’
He nodded. ‘Absolutely, and Karen says you’re good – really, really good. We could always use a fresh eye, you know, and the pay is pretty OK too.’
Greg simply nodded, his lips pressed into a firm, thin line.
‘So, if you have a – ’ Blake stumbled, a bit thrown by Greg's lack of enthusiasm – ‘portfolio, or something you can show us … ’
Greg shook his head, ‘No, I don't, but thanks for the offer. Maybe I can get your card,’ he added politely as he felt Karen's hand slip off his knee.
‘Yep, good call there, Greg.’ Stacy was busy ordering another glass of wine. ‘Stick to the arts, don't fall into the corporate trap.’
Karen stared down at the table, refusing to meet Greg’s eyes. Soon after, they asked for the bill, and Blake carefully navigated Stacy out of her chair as they said their goodbyes.
When they were gone, Karen turned to him. ‘Well, you can't blame a girl for trying,’ she said, her dark gaze penetrating his.
‘No, I suppose you can't,’ he said dully. ‘But Karen, I take pictures of buildings, architecture, people in the city …’
‘Well, I’m sorry for trying to help,’ she replied, her tone defensive. ‘I know what you take pictures of, I am so very sorry that my line of work is not … ’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘ … artistic enough for you.’
Greg put a hand on her arm. ‘That's not what I meant at all. It's just that I’ve only just quit my corporate job, and am starting to get my feet wet, and today I found out that I might be able to get something at the NYT. I’m only just finding my feet, sweetheart, and already I’m loving it. You know I hated the corporate life. So why would you want me to sell out again so soon?’
Karen looked down at his sneakers beneath the table. ‘Because I can’t help but worry about the future – especially in this economy … ’
Greg sighed. ‘I know, I'm sorry. I’ll admit that life is probably not going to be as … comfortable as it was for a while, but we have to give it a little time. And I’ll be happy – I am happy. Surely that counts for something too?’ He waited for her to look up at him again, but she didn't. ‘Karen … ’
He understood that she enjoyed and worked hard to afford the finer things in life. Born and bred on Long Island, she came from a big family, completely different to Greg’s privileged, only child upbringing.
Her parents were great, and were always asking the two of them to come over for dinner, see a show or spend weekends. Karen had three other sisters and one brother, all only a year or two apart in age.
It was just the kind of big, close-knit family that Greg had been envious of his whole life, and he marvelled at how they finished each other’s sentences, how they picked on each other and yet never seemed to get really mad at each other. They had welcomed him into the fold happily, pleased that Karen had met someone so successful, so nice, who treated her so well. Karen herself was the eldest daughter and the most successful out of the whole clan. She had worked her way through college waitressing, and had held off on getting into a serious relationship long after all her brothers and sisters had got married. Her mother, after meeting Greg for the first time, had said, ‘I see why you waited Karen, I
see it perfectly.’
Because of her working-class roots, Greg had thought that she would understand better than most that people can be happy no matter what they had, and even without a regular job, he and Karen were still better off than most. He knew for a plain cold fact after meeting Stacy that he did not want to end up like that. Married to a job he had no passion for, the realisation that you could have made it if you’d just tried harder.
No, he’d done the corporate thing and he was not going back, especially now that he felt that – given a chance – he could be successful at something he truly loved.
Karen finally looked up, a slight smile on her face. ‘I still can’t believe they let you in here with those sneakers.’
Relieved, Greg laughed, and they made their way outside.
‘Do I really have to get used to you never being in a suit again?’ She linked her arm through his. ‘At least at the Met gala you'll be in one – and on the right side of the ropes that night, I hope?’ she teased.
Greg swallowed uncomfortably – now was definitely not the time to tell her the bad news about the Met gala. She could only take one disappointment at a time.
Thinking about it, though, maybe he had been too wrapped up in himself and his own needs lately; maybe he needed to bring the romance back to their relationship.
He thought of his mother and father, of the way his dad brought Cristina sunflowers every Friday, no matter what and for no reason. Of how his mother loved to recount how he had come downtown to find her so many years ago.
She’d been sitting outside her parents’ deli and, according to her, had been wearing her best blue dress that day that she and Greg’s father first met. She didn't know why, but something told her to put it on that morning, as if something special was going to happen. She had taken her post on the chair next to the pickle barrel outside the deli and waited.
‘There he was, striding down the street,’ she would say, her eyes lighting up. ‘Can you imagine, in our little neighbourhood of small-boned people, comes this tall, fair-haired giant. He walked right up to me, as if it were the only reason he had come downtown, and asked what was in the barrel.’ At this point, Greg’s mother would crack up laughing, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Can you believe it? He had never seen a pickle barrel before!’ She would laugh and laugh, and his father would squeeze her arm, the two of them caught up in that moment; the moment they had met and changed each other’s lives forever. Greg never tired of hearing the story even as an adult. But his mother hadn't laughed at his father that day, but had daintily pulled a pickle out of the barrel and handed it to the ‘tall, fair-haired giant’ who would eventually become her husband.
The Charm Bracelet Page 8
