CLAUDIA CARROLL
In A New York Minute
Copyright
Avon
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2015
Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008139827
Version: 2015–01–28
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
In A New York Minute
Keep Reading
About the Author
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
In A New York Minute
Did you ever see the movie Sleepless in Seattle? Well, there’s a bit in it towards the end where Meg Ryan is sitting in a fancy restaurant at the top of a skyscraper close to the Empire State Building in Manhattan. And it’s Valentine’s night. Anyway, she’s having dinner with the guy she’s engaged to, but has come to realize he just isn’t the man she’s meant to end up with at all.
Instead, she’s spent the whole movie with this mental fixation about her soulmate-to-be, who is actually, tonight, just a few streets away at the top of the Empire State, waiting for her. Course, this being a Nora Ephron movie, the only slight catch is that she hasn’t actually met the soulmate guy as of yet; she’s only ever heard his voice on the radio via one of those confessional call-in shows, which actually sounds quite stalker-ish when you come to think about it. But that turns out to be a minor detail because when Meg Ryan eventually dumps the nice-but-dull fiancé and legs it over to the Empire State, she finds that he’s none other than … *spoiler alert* … Tom Hanks. Cue swelling orchestra finale and cut to the credits.
So that’ll give you a rough idea of how I was planning on tonight working out.
*
How the date should have gone …
Well for starters, Jake might have actually have had the decency to look a bit like his profile picture. i.e., a thirty-something, on-his-merry-way-to-being uber-wealthy Johnny Corporate type. Wait till you see, he’ll turn up wearing a suit, I thought and will have to constantly fend off texts and emails about multi-million-dollar deals on his mobile – sorry, cellphone. (I’m a bit new to Manhattan, so you’ll forgive the odd European reference slipping in.)
Then of course, being the perfect gentleman, Jake would eventually switch the bloody thing off so he and I could really get to know one another properly. In my little fantasy, I figured that after an hour or so of animated chat, we’d would discover we had even more in common that we thought we had online, so he’d eventually suggest we maybe head on somewhere for a bite to eat.
Of course, part two of my dream-date daydream involved him whisking me off to a fabulously bijou little restaurant, totally non-touristy, the kind of place you only ever saw Gwyneth Paltrow and Madonna hanging out in. Like the Monkey Bar, which I was always reading about in Vanity Fair, thinking it the epicenter of New York City gorgeous glamour. We’d have cocktails there and gaily regale each other with stories about life at the coalface of online dating. We’d giggle an unseemly amount at each other’s gags and start accidentally touching each other, so much so that other unfortunate punters on crap dates would throw envious eye darts my way and think, ‘see her over there? Now that is one lucky bitch.’
Naturally this would lead onto Jake suggesting dinner and absolutely insisting on paying the bill, with none of your let’s-each just-pay-for-what-we-ordered-and-by-the-way-I-didn’t-have-a-starter carry on. And after that he’d politely escort me to a cab, before kissing me lightly yet teasingly on the lips, movie-style. And of course he’d take my number, saying he’d call – then, shock horror, actually stick to his word and do it.
Oh, and one last addendum to my fantasy date? We’d have arranged to meet somewhere glamorous and chic, in the corner café at Bloomingdales for instance, or the Magnolia café in SoHo.
Not here.
Most definitely not here. Not in coffee shop/convenience store on the corner of 92nd West St and Battery Park. Mind you, I’m only a newcomer to Manhattan and the whole East/West thing still has me completely confuddled. But my sister Rachel, who I’m staying with and who’s been living here for years assures me that this is most definitely not somewhere you want to meet on a first date, albeit a quick coffee date.
‘He wants to meet you on 92nd West St and Battery Park?’ she said in disbelief when I told her. ‘What’s this guy planning anyway – to mug you? Worse luck is that I can’t even go with you to hang out somewhere close by, I’ll be stuck in meetings all day. So please just take my advice Amy and run while you still can, or else at the very least, cancel and rearrange for a weekend when I can come along to keep an eye on you. And, if you do insist on going, then keep your cell phone on at all times, with cab fare handy in your back pocket. Trust me, you might need it!’
*
How the date actually panned out.
The Sunshine Café had clearly been named ironically, as it turned out to be absolutely anything but. This place was dingy and dark with plastic tablecloths so manky they actually stuck to your hand if you accidentally grazed them. Shame I couldn’t order anything alcoholic, I thought, when my coffee eventually arrived. At least it might have cancelled out the bacteria on the rim of the chipped mug that was unceremoniously plonked down in front of me without even the normal touristy courtesy, ‘enjoy,’ or else ‘Have a nice day.’
And Mr. ‘Johnny Corporate’ himself? Arrived a good ten minutes late, but instead of apologizing brusquely told me, ‘well, you’re a visitor to the city, so I knew waiting wouldn’t be an issue for you. It never is for tourists.’
‘Well actually, I’m technically not a visitor as such …’ I tried to say, but it was too late, he’d already whipped his phone out of his pocket to take a call. He muttered away while I eyed him up and down, the way you do on any first date.
For starters: the way he was dressed? Nothing like I’d figured. My first giveaway should have been him turning up in trainers, a hoodie and actual lycra cycling shorts – when it’s February, by the way, and the temperatures are sub-zero – like he’d just come from the gym. I’d deflated a bit when I clocked him coming in but then decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, I thought, doesn’t Mark Zuckerberg famously only ever turn up in jeans and a T-shirt to work? So who am I to judge, etc.
Anyway, my date then spent the next quarter of an hour checking his phone constantly, coming out with utter shite like, ‘you know how it is, you got to stay on top of things. In my game, you snooze, you lose.’
‘So, you said you worked on Wall. St.?’ I asked, naively thinking this whole date might yet tur
n around for me and that the scintillating conversation I’d hoped for would surely follow.
‘Yup.’
‘For which company?’
‘Ehh … what do you mean, company?’
‘Well, it’s just that my sister is a hedge fund manager over at Morgan Klein and she and I were wondering, that’s all.’
‘I don’t actually work in Wall St. per se …’ he said, ‘more like, I work around the Wall St. area.’
‘I’m sorry?’
But he’d broken off again to take a call.
‘Yup, Ok, I’m on it,’ he muttered into the phone, ‘be there in five, buddy.’ Then he turned back to me with a dismissive shrug and said, ‘Sorry Amy, gotta cut this one short. Work calls. Another time, yeah?’
We split the bill for the lukewarm dishwater that passed for coffee here and it was only when I went outside and saw his bike that the truth eventually dawned on me. Mainly because it was one of those bikes that’s actually more like a tricycle, with room for two passengers in the back and a rainproof canopy over the roof. The kind you only ever get into if you’re with mates and either too drunk to stagger from bar to nightclub, or else your high heels are at you.
‘You’re a taxi bike?’ I called after him in disbelief as he strapped on a safety helmet and jumped on.
‘You told me you were a Wall St. broker!’
‘I clearly did not! Like I said, I told you I worked on Wall St., which technically I do.’
‘Excuse me, that’s not the same thing at all!’
But it was no use; he’d already zipped off into the downtown traffic and was gone.
‘Bad date, huh?’ said a guy selling hotdogs and pretzels on the street corner.
‘You don’t want to know,’ I groaned back at him.
*
‘Welcome to Manhattan, babes,’ Rachel said, shrugging, as soon as I got back to the flat – sorry, apartment – that we’re sharing and I filled her in. ‘Trust me, they’re all either married, multi-dating or else they’ve sexed up their whole lives so much that they’re virtually unrecognizable from reality. When will you wise up and realize that when you go online dating, all the guys you meet invariably lie?’
But I refuse to believe her. Because, after all, this is Manhattan. Everyone knows it’s nigh on impossible to bump into any semi-eligible fella randomly and out of a clear blue sky. No, you’ve got to work at it. You’ve got to put in the effort even here.
Thing is, I’m new to the city, you see; I just arrived here ten days ago. I work for an online recruitment agency and they’ve relocated me here – at my insistence – for a full year. Well, I was beside myself with excitement to spend a whole year in the city that never sleeps. Who wouldn’t be? And the fact that Rachel was already living here and that I could stay with her in her fabulous midtown apartment just sealed the deal for me.
And I love, love, love Manhattan. The buzz, the energy, that indescribable 24-hour round-the-clock feel to a city that seems as if it runs on caffeine and overdrive. It may sound clichéd but, from the very minute I stepped off the flight I felt right at home. There’s nothing about this city that I don’t adore; my new job is a dream and my colleagues have been so warm and welcoming, I immediately felt right at home.
And then there’s the sheer high of just living here; walking down the maze of streets and avenues, figuring my way around all the different neighborhoods, from the high-octane glamour of the Upper East side to the gorgeous village-y feel you get around SoHo with all its dinky boutiques and cosy coffee shops. I love wandering around drinking in everything from the breathtaking skyscrapers and the stunning sight that is the winter sunlight beating off the Chrysler Building, to way the steam rises through the gutters from the subway beneath, catching you unaware every time.
If every city has its own unique smell, the New York’s has to be the gorgeous aroma of freshly brewed coffee that drifts out from the myriad of coffee houses, mixed with the sweet smell of challah bread that drifts from the vendor’s stall on each and every corner of the city. I’m like Alice in Wonderland here, savouring each new experience, storing up every single New York moment.
But into every tub of ointment, a fly must fall and we all know it’s an unwritten universal law that when one aspect of your life is going swimmingly, another will surely fall apart. Which brings me neatly to my one and only problem with Manhattan; namely: the whole dating scene.
Now bear in mind I come from a country where if you even dared used the phrase ‘dating scene,’ you’d be met with puzzled looks and much scratching of heads. But then in Ireland, we have a culture of ‘last man standing,’ i.e., if you are interested in a fella, then your best chance of nabbing him is to gamely pitch up in whichever watering hole he and his mates hang out, then try your best to outlast every other woman there, so at the end of the night he has no choice but to notice you. This, mark you, will only ever happen either when it’s closing time or else all the drink has run out.
But, I naïvely thought, wait till you see. Ha! My very long losing streak when it comes to men will completely change when I get to Manhattan. Because everyone knows that this is an island where men actually ask women out regularly and in the oddest places. For God’s sake, Rachel met her longterm boyfriend in the supermarket aisle at the famous Dean and Deluca deli! Apparently he asked her about a particular brand of rapeseed oil and they bonded over a mutual love of shitake mushrooms.
So here I am determined to give it my best shot. I’ve got one year here and I’m absolutely resolved to date right, left and centre. And OK, so I many have got off to a bad start with biker-dude, but I’m out there and I’m doing this and I’m not prepared to give up. Because my Manhattan romance is out there and just waiting for me. Just like in the movies.
Which neatly brings me to …
*
#Date Number Two.
Did you ever see the movie When Harry Met Sally? Anyway there’s a bit in it where Meg Ryan meets up with her best friend, played by Carrie Fisher, and they decide they’re going to set each other up on mutual blind dates. Which of course, this being a rom-com, turn out to be mutually disastrous. Anyway, the ladies meet in the boathouse in Central Park and that, I decided, would be where I’d have a first meeting with the next guy I met online. What could be more quintessentially New York than a gorgeously long, lingering lunch in a famous restaurant overlooking Central Park lake? And if the date went well, maybe a stroll through the park afterwards in the crisp wintry sunshine?
And my latest online dalliance seemed to be well up for it. We met via a Manhattan-based site called newtotown.com, which I figured was tailor-made for someone like me, newbie to the city that I am.
And this one really did sound like he had potential. At thirty-two, Greg was exactly my age and in his profile shot he looked gorgeous. Classically tall and dark, with warm brown eyes that just seemed to scream, ‘trust me! I’m a genuine guy!’ Anyway, we started messaging each other via the website and in no time at all, messaging turned to texting and then the phone calls started. And he’d call me at the oddest times too, like when I was just about to head into a meeting in work, or on my lunch breaks.
Well this is it, I figured. This is my Manhattan fling and now all we have to do is set up that critical first meeting. Which we did for Saturday, at one pm on the dot. So of course I spent the whole morning in a whirlwind of trying on one outfit after another and running in and out of Rachel’s bedroom screeching at her, ‘Well? Is this the perfect outfit to meet him in?’
‘You’re trying WAY too hard,’ she shrugged, sipping on a freshly brewed cappuccino courtesy of the Starbucks right outside our building and flicking through Saturday’s New York Times magazine supplement.
‘How do you mean?’ I asked her, puzzled.
‘You look great, but like you made too much of an effort. Chill out a bit, Amy. Remember this is just a casual Saturday afternoon lunch date and nothing more. Jeans and a good warm jumper, trust me, that’s the way to go. Pr
eferably in black. New York women love black, it’s kind of like our off-duty uniform here.’
So heeding her advice, I peeled off the cute little dress I’d bought in this un-be-fecking-lievable discount store I’d stumbled across downtown called Century 21, right by the Freedom Tower. I’d actually been down there having a gawp at the 911 memorial, but it was so bitingly cold that I’d slipped into Century 21 almost by accident, purely just to thaw out a bit. And, of course, I staggered out of there hours later and three hundred dollars poorer, but with bagloads of stunning outfits to go with my whole new Manhattenite image.
I eventually settled on a pair of boyfriend jeans with warm boots as it’s sub-zero outside, along with a cute little black cashmere sweater and a warm woolly coat.
‘Wish me luck!’ I yelled at Rachel on my way out the door. ‘This could be the day I meet my future husband!’
First sign that things mightn’t go according to plan? When I got downstairs to the lobby and went to step outside my heart stopped. Because while it had been raining a little earlier in the morning, it was properly lashing down in torrential sheets by now. Nor was this wasn’t your normal rain shower either, this was rain of almost biblical proportions. Not a cab in sight, and even standing under the building’s outdoor canopy got me soaked to the skin.
‘When it rains in New York City, it really rains,’ said a man’s voice behind me, instantly making me jump. I turned around to see a tall-ish, fair-haired guy about my own age dressed head to toe in a smart navy uniform with a peaked cap. He was holding out a giant sized golf umbrella and automatically handed it over to me so I could stay dry.
‘You’re Rachel’s little sister, right?’ he asked lightly.
‘Emm, yes, but how did you know?’
‘Kinda my job to know who’s coming in and out of the building regularly. I’m Charlie,’ he said smiling and holding his hand out to shake mine.
‘Lovely to meet you. I’m Amy,’ I smiled back, grateful for the shelter of this guy’s umbrella, whoever he turned out to be.
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