'What's it to you?'
'I just wondered, as a woman, if you ever got scared driving a cab late at night.'
'Scared? Me?'
She suddenly screeches to a halt mid street. It's empty.
'Crikey!' I say absurdly.
Alan throws an arm protectively over Ollie's slumbering form.
Our driver ducks down under the front seat, turns round and through the metal grill points a gun directly at me. For a second I'm too shocked to move. Alan appears white and frozen. In a split second she lowers the barrel and breaks into a huge grin.
'Hey listen, lady, I'm from Jamaica and I know how to deal with trouble. No one's ever gonna mess with me.'
With a heavy thud she hurls it back under the seat and roars off.
'Now where was it you folks said you was going?'
Monday 12 p.m., the Fountain Terrace, Bryant Park
Under a pale blue sky, the New York Public Library, its Beaux-arts, white facade bleached in sunlight, jostles for space in the concrete jungle. Mobbed by towering, lean and mean skyscrapers, it sits elegantly, like a learned professor, on the edge of Bryant Park, enjoying the attention it garners from the city's academics, students and visitors alike. Nestling behind this grand old boy is the park itself, an idyllic oasis in the cut and thrust of city life. It is here, the scene of many a fashion and PR event, that Greedy George has chosen to preview his new pet fashion range, Hot Dogs and Even Cooler Cats. It seems almost impossible to believe that only yesterday this was the very place from which I set off to compete in the marathon. Today, it's as if it was all just a dream. There are no banners, no jolly officials with loud hailers, no crowds of men and women in numbered bibs, no rows of coaches forming one long, illuminated caterpillar under the uncompromising gaze of Gertrude Stein.
In front of me, in agitated mode, is Greedy George, pacing about the lawn with his mobile glued to his ear.
'No, Alfonso, you listen to me,' he yells in his affected sarf London accent. 'I want the delivery by tonight or I'll stick peas up your nostrils, capiche?'
He snaps the phone shut and shoves it sulkily into his pocket.
'Peas?' I enquire.
'Whatever. It gave him a turn. And don't give me one of those looks.'
'I think we should get back to the guests. We'll just tell the press that there's been a short delay in availability.'
'Yeah, but on the press release we said all the stuff would be in the store today. That lazy skunk should have a good hiding.'
I grab his arm. 'George, just concentrate on the show. Alfonso's cocked up and that's the end of it.'
He strides, with a thunderous look on his face, across the grass towards the distant fountain terrace. This is the third time Alfonso Mario has failed to deliver Havana products to the store on time and Greedy George is not amused. Excited New Yorkers will now have to wait until tomorrow to purchase their pet trinkets from the shop. I walk stiffly behind Greedy George. My legs still feel bruised and battered like a pair of badly damaged bananas, but with the flexibility of dried concrete. Milling about the circular terrace which runs in a giant loop around the spectacular pink granite fountain at its heart, I see a throng of a hundred or more media guests. Most are sipping at cocktails and glancing at press material while a curious few examine, with some bemusement, the bright vermillion carpet that runs around the fountain. This is the official 'catwalk' on which Havana's new pet range will be modelled by various spoilt and well-trained pooches and moggies. A wooden reception desk has been set up, manned by five staff from George's New York PR company. Sweetly and with sickly smiles, they tick off names and hand out press packs and goody bags. George snaps into happy chappie mode as soon as he's approached by the event organiser.
'Everything on cue, Barbara?'
A tiny crisp of a woman in salmon pink chiffon and a helmet of peroxide, she prods at his big right paw with bony, insistent fingers.
'Another fifteen minutes, George,' she squeals. 'We've had a little problem with Roxanne the rotweiller, but she's shaping up.'
'What kind of problem?'
'Oh, nothing serious. She keeps shaking off the dog bolero and cape, but her agent and trainer are on the case.'
'Christ, diva dogs, that's all we need, guv.'
I notice Barbara's unsmiling and intense aspect and smother a grin.
'But the rehearsal was a dream. The guests are going to go wild, trust me.' She clasps her hands together in paroxysms of pure joy.
'They're not getting very wild on those fruit cocktails. Dreary lot. Come on guv, let's get a glass of bubbly and show these Yanks what's what.'
Barbara gives a little gasp as George whisks up two glasses and pushes one in my hand. She slips away, presumably to calm the stage nerves of her furry protégés.
'Your Barbara seemed a bit disapproving about our drinking champagne at this hour.'
George waves a hand in the air. 'Oh, bugger that. Bloody Puritans. These Yanks don't know how to live, guv.'
'How's your dodgy leg today?' he barks.
'Still dodgy. Can't you tell?'
'Thought you always walked like the Tin Man.'
'Ho ho ho. Anyway, where's old Bryan?'
It's a while since I've seen my client, Bryan Patterson. I'm rather hoping he hasn't brought Tootsie, his pet bunny, along to this event.
George points rudely over to the other side of the fountain.
'There he is with Rachel and your vampire mate, Dannie.'
I stare across. Rachel is rolling her head back and laughing politely. I'd love to know what they're discussing.
'Bryan's rabbit's in the show.'
'Tootsie? Please tell me you're joking?'
He gives a little whinny. 'I thought he could be the parting shot. I made him this cutesy little kid jacket and leather baseball cap which his ears hang through.'
I shake my head. 'Thank God I live in Mallorca.'
He wallops my arm. 'You love all this tosh as much as I do. How else do people like you and me get our kicks?'
'These days I'm finding new avenues.'
He breaks into silly giggles. 'Come on guv, let's go and upset some press.'
A tall, painfully thin woman in shades, a semi-transparent blouse and minuscule miniskirt is snacking on some snap peas from a plastic sandwich bag.
'Hi Francine. Forgot your skirt?'
She pats her concave chest nervously. 'Oh George, darling! Don't be so uncouth.'
I extend my hand which she holds limply like a dead fish.
'Oh, I am SO happy to meet you! Let me give you my card. I'm with Vogue USA.'
'Fabulous,' I gush.
George waits until she's ferreting in her voluminous Prada handbag, then opens his mouth and pokes his finger towards his throat. This is his unique way of conveying that he finds someone a) irritating, b) insipid, c) tedious or possibly all three. I bare my teeth at him. Francine hands me a card.
'Isn't George just fantastic? He's like the new tsar of fashion around here.'
'And do you have a pet?' I ask.
She takes a sip of water and gives a little cough. 'Oh, absolutely. I have a chihuahua named Lucy Belle. Like George, I am a great dog lover.'
He stands nodding with a beatific smile on his ample chops. A gaggle of women join us, all from top New York glossies. They introduce themselves graciously, only showing genuine fear and bad humour when a waiter approaches with a tray of canapés.
'Do the British still offer liquor at daytime press events?' asks a sweet girl from Jayne magazine.
'Well, yes it's normal in London to offer champagne or wine.'
She gives a loud tut. 'Really? Oh my Gad that's terrible! It's so unhealthy and besides it makes you put on so much weight.'
I'm about to reply, but am swooped on by Rachel. Given that she only flew in during the early hours of the morning, she's looking remarkably perky and bright eyed. She smiles indulgently at the small coterie of press and pulls me aside.
'I've schmoozed Dann
ie to death, but Bryan's in a flap about Tootsie's debut on the catwalk. God, I need a drink.'
I beckon a waiter over and with delight he passes her a glass.
'Well done, you. Now, once this is over, we'd better get over to H Hotel in Tribeca pronto to help out before tonight's event.'
'What have you done with Alan and Ollie?'
'They're having a ball at F. A. O. Schwarz and Central Park Zoo.'
'It's all right for some. I don't know if I can face Manuel tonight.'
'All I care is that he gives me my two thousand dollars.'
She reaches out for some canapés from a bored waiter. 'Just shadow us.'
He shrugs and hangs about, relieved that he's found an enthusiastic taker.
'Do you think your legs will hold out tonight?'
'If I zap them with enough champagne.'
Barbara is now welcoming us all from a small platform, her voice piercing through a crackly sound system on the terrace. Greedy George has wandered over and stands at her side.
'So, finally, let us have a few words from the maestro himself.'
Guests gather closer, surrounding the circular red catwalk.
'Great to see you all in your lunchtime glad rags,' booms George. 'And welcome to our presentation, Hot Dogs and Even Cooler Cats. [polite titters] If any of you fancy buying any of the models, we'll be selling them off after the show [gasps of surprise]. Only kidding [more titters]. And now without more ado, let the show begin.'
There's enthusiastic applause as from all sides as tall, skeletal women in black Lycra stroll down the terraces and onto the red carpet, each dangling a dog or cat from diamante red leads. Rachel watches in a trance as Afghan hounds, chihuahuas, terriers, pugs, Great Danes and slinky cats of all colours and breeds kitted out in minute leather apparel strut their stuff around the catwalk. In a mad moment I could swear I see Zack the Korat in a billowing red leather cape, swirling elegantly along the length of the red carpet.
I grip Rachel's arm. 'I think I know that Korat!'
'That WHAT?'
I call out his name.
She eyes me coolly. 'You really need help!'
For a fleeting moment the Korat turns his head in my direction, nose tilted to the wind. I wave enthusiastically as he strolls on by. A woman next to me does a subtle little side step to distance herself but I take no notice. I feel sudden pride. Perhaps Zack made it. This could be his big debut in the heart of New York and here I am to witness it. Rachel is shaking with laughter.
'You really are a complete headcase.'
I shrug in agreement. A cheer goes up as a British bulldog makes his appearance wearing a Union Jack on his leather jacket. I am transfixed when, at the end of the show, a young fair-haired girl dressed as a fairy in a white floaty dress and translucent wings appears holding Tootsie. His big, floppy white ears emerge from holes in the black baseball cap, and he surveys the assembled throng in some bewilderment. Guests begin whooping and camera lights flash. Greedy George is looking pleased as punch and revelling in the applause. He is soon surrounded by adoring photographers. Rachel steadies herself on my arm.
'Tell me I wasn't dreaming.'
I sink my teeth into a tiny salmon roulade and contemplate the spectacle before us. 'I think we should get out of here before Bryan's reunited with Tootsie.'
We weave through the crowds and gesticulate at Greedy George, trying to get his attention. At last he sees me and gives the thumbs up. See you tonight, I mouth. He nods.
Even Manuel Ramirez can't better this.
3 p.m., somewhere in the subway
The old train screeches and grumbles as we snake round the dark, grimy tunnels. Somehow our adventure on the New York subway hasn't been as successful as planned.
'Rachel, remind me why we're down here?'
She ignores me and continues to scour the subway map in an attempt to find out where we've gone wrong. Around us tight-faced New Yorkers stare ahead, their eyes boring through the windows and murky darkness beyond. I fidget in my plastic seat. I've had enough. Lurching with the movement of the train, I get up and approach a small whippet of a man in a raincoat sitting opposite me. I shout because the hum of the engine and the squeaking of the wheels is deafening.
'Excuse me, can you help us? We're trying to get to Tribeca.'
His nostrils flare and he glances with panicked eyes around the long, bending carriage. We have only seven companions in here aside from the whippet. There's a big, fierce looking, hot mama balancing a plastic shopping bag on her lap, two cool Rasta dudes, a young, pasty faced man with multiple facial studs, a wistful elderly couple and a businessman. The whippet doesn't reply, but instinctively flinches and rises. I watch him scuttle to the far end of the carriage. Rachel gives a snort of laughter and returns to her map, her long hair sweeping the page. The two Rastas are watching me with sly grins on their faces. Dare I? Oh, what the heck. I get up and sway over to them. They nudge each other. Rachel is regarding me with curiosity. I notice a smug little inflexion of the eyebrows.
'Excuse me,' I boom. 'We need a train for Tribeca. I wonder if you'd be sweet enough to…'
They laugh inanely.
'Where you from, lady?' asks the tall one.
'England.'
More laughter. 'You on the train to Brooklyn, man. You want One or Nine.'
I beckon to Rachel who furrows her brow. She stumbles over and plonks herself down next to the skinny, grinning companion.
'Can you show me on my map?'
He pulls it from her and then indicates with his finger where we should catch the train.
'You've been very helpful,' I say.
The skinny guy explodes into giggles. 'Where you learn to speak like that?'
'England?' I suggest.
The train draws into the next station.
'You get off here, girls,' says the tall Rasta. 'And watch yourselves. Don't speak to no one.'
3.45 p.m., Canal Street, Tribeca
With relief we find ourselves in trendy Tribeca, with its huge lofts, cobbled side streets and hot bars. The last time I visited, it seemed more run-down, but with the likes of Robert De Niro moving his studios here and some of the smartest restaurants setting up home, it has taken on a new mantle.
'We just turn left at the next intersection and H Hotel should be halfway down the street.'
'Thank heavens. Let's take a cab next time.'
'Remember it was your idea to get the subway?'
My mobile rings. 'Hello?'
It's Greedy George. 'Fab news! Tootsie escaped in the park and security staff have only just found her.'
'What's good about any of that? Poor Bryan must have been distraught.'
'Great PR though. We should get some diary snippets out of that.'
Rachel leads me across a set of traffic lights. A massive highway unrolls before us with multiple lanes of traffic.
'Anyway, are you still all right to meet at the store tomorrow?'
'Aren't you coming to the launch tonight?' I ask.
George groans. 'Got a lot on. I'll do my best.'
A sudden thought strikes me. 'You didn't plan it, did you?'
'What?'
'The lost bunny thing in the park?'
'Not exactly,' he guffaws. 'What d'you take me for? Remember, I'm an animal lover.'
8 p.m., H Hotel, Tribeca
H Hotel is tucked away down a cobbled street, its exterior anonymous save for a discreet H stamped into a slab of oxidised metal on the left side of its entrance. Sliding glass doors open onto an airy, chocolate, leatherpanelled lobby with a wide rich oak floor, library alcove, and simple reception desk. H Bar, a temple of cool in steel and glass, is located down in the basement while on the upper levels brick-walled loft rooms offer stunning views of the Empire State Building and New York skyline.
Sitting on one of the deep leather sofas in H Bar, Dannie clasps my hands between hers and smiles like a seraph.
'What a glorious day it's been,' she says dreamily. 'George
's show was a triumph and as for Manuel – what a handsome, intelligent man.'
Mary Anne is knocking back a dry martini and eyeing up one of the Latino waiters. I extricate myself from Dannie's grasp.
'It's always good fun putting like-minded people together.'
She nods sagely. 'You waved your wand and Manuel, George and I found each other.'
Rachel coughs wildly and, apologising, makes her way over to a table of press. Dannie grows restless.
'Well, if you'll excuse me, darling, I'll go and talk with the editor from W. She's been waiting so patiently. It's a shame George couldn't make it tonight.'
Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof Page 23
