Meg snorted her laughter at the memory of Guy’s behaviour the previous week. After a particularly stressful couple of days, he’d run out of live yeast before baking had finished for the day and had broken down in tears, weeping and waving his hanky. Meg had sat him down and given him a cup of strong, sugary tea before calling their suppliers and arranging for more to be delivered by courier, pronto.
‘I wouldn’t ask, love, if it wasn’t important, but I think things are going a bit tits-up over there and we can’t have one of our sites crashing before they’ve even opened.’
‘I know.’ Meg put her hands on her hips, thinking about the logistics of such a trip.
‘I could ask Pru if she and Chris would nip over…’ Milly let this hang in the air. Pru and Chris, at seventy and seventy-two, were still living like newlyweds, enjoying the South Devon coast and settling into semi-retirement, he from public life as a politician and she from running Plum Patisserie.
Since Milly had taken the reins and Meg’s role and responsibilities had increased, it was an unspoken agreement that they would not bother Pru, who was loath to leave her cottage in Salcombe. She was entirely content to potter in the garden or sit on the terrace watching the comings and goings on the estuary. They didn’t want to disturb her new-found domestic bliss, and they also wanted to prove that they could cope without having to call on her to bail them out, tempting though that was.
‘No, I’ll go. It’s not fair on Juno to expect her to deal with it alone.’ Meg gave Milly her brightest false smile. ‘Anyway, it’ll only be for couple of days, as you said.’
‘That’s my girl.’ Milly clapped her hands together. ‘I’ll give the airline a call.’
‘Are you sure I can manage it?’ Meg chewed on her thumbnail.
‘What have I told you?’ Milly scolded. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to. Of course you can handle it!’
Lucas ran into the kitchen. ‘I’m hungee!’
‘I know, little one. I’m just heating supper up now.’ Meg bent down and gathered her son into her chest. ‘I love you, Lucas.’
She stood with him in her arms and squeezed him tight, inhaling the scent of him and already dreading their separation. She remembered what it had been like saying goodbye to her own mum. The thought of leaving him made her miss him already.
The plane touched down at John F. Kennedy Airport, where winter had arrived in force. Meg had been unsure what to pack, torn between the weather forecast, which had predicted minus temperatures, and fantasies about living the high life in Manhattan, which according to
Sex and the City
meant a large selection of heels and floaty tops. She wished her planning had been a little more considered as she hauled her large suitcase along on its wheels with her hand luggage bumping against her hip.
Oh God, I wish I could just jump on a plane and go straight home. I can’t do this! Why did you think you could, Meg
?
Meg dug deep and straightened her back as she took her place in the taxi queue. Milly’s assurance that all Meg needed was the address of her hotel and a credit card challenged the nerves that bubbled in her stomach. Milly was a smart woman and if she had faith in her abilities then maybe Meg should too.
‘Where to?’ the taxi-queue man asked. Meg noted his padded navy bomber jacket, stiff peaked hat and the truncheon-like stick dangling by his side. Having read all about how dangerous New York could be, she gulped at the thought that even the taxi-rank man had to carry a deterrent.
‘It’s Greenwich Village.’ She hoped she had pronounced it right and that it wasn’t ‘Green-Witch’, as she had once heard an American refer to ‘Dull-Witch’ in south London. Her titter in the train station all those years ago now felt horribly misplaced.
‘Sure thing. Just hop into the next cab that pulls up. Have a great day.’ He smiled. Meg felt a pulse of excitement; he sounded exactly like every character in every movie she had ever seen.
I’m in New York! I am actually in New York!
Despite the eight-hour flight, her fatigue evaporated.
Meg felt her limbs jump and her skin prickle as the bitter wind and driving snow slashed at every patch of exposed skin. She dipped her chin into her coat, trying to muster some warmth.
A taxi pulled into the pick-up lane and the driver popped the boot. ‘Too cold!’ He rubbed his hands together.
She nodded, slightly disappointed by his Eastern European accent. She had been hoping for someone who sounded like Robert De Niro in
Taxi Driver
.
Climbing into the back of the yellow cab was a moment she wouldn’t forget. Despite the plastic screen separating her from the driver, the slightly funky smell of dirty carpet and the fact that she could only make out every other word of the driver’s heavily accented commentary over the clatter of the engine, it was a huge thrill to be travelling for the first time in such an iconic vehicle. As the car cruised the expressway from JFK, Meg craned her neck to follow the spires of the skyscrapers in the distance and made a plan to photograph the signs that read ‘Brooklyn Bridge’ and ‘Walk. Don’t Walk’. She couldn’t wait to show them to Lucas. She also planned to eat a hot dog from a street cart and to visit the coffee shop that featured in
Friends
.
A feeling of loneliness washed over her as she contemplated exploring the city alone. This was one of the places Bill had spoken about very fondly, promising to bring her here. Like so many of his promises, it lay unfulfilled.
Oh, Bill.
Meg realised that she thought of him less and less now. The all-consuming grief in the immediate aftermath of his death had eventually given way to flares of distress before fading to a constant hum of yearning. It now felt closer to anger, something she would never dream of confessing to his mother, Isabel. She was angry that he had left her without the future that they had planned and angry that he’d left Lucas without a dad; she was angry that she had been forced to spend time with Piers who she hadn’t really loved, but primarily she was mad that he had cheated on her, lied to her, been about to marry another woman.
Meg shook her head. ‘I can really pick ’em.’ She spoke to the view of the New York skyline with the Statue of Liberty looking diminutive in the distance, far smaller than she had envisaged and further away from the city than she had imagined.
The taxi trundled along the potholed roads into Manhattan, the driver muttering as his chassis jarred against the uneven tarmac. Meg felt a swell of childlike excitement as she stared at the shop windows full of elaborate Christmas displays, the curls of twinkling lights and the be-ribboned doors. It was December the eighth and retailers were on the big festive countdown. The pavements were heaving with New Yorkers and tourists, all muffled up in coats and scarves and weighed down with large fancy carrier bags. Those who were in a hurry stepped into the road, keeping close to the kerb and tutting as wheels bounced into rain- and sleet-filled holes, sending showers over their shiny shoes and greatcoats. Horns honked in chorus as cars jerked forward, unconcerned if they blocked others in the process. Bike couriers in balaclavas and layers of lycra weaved in and out of the stationary traffic at alarming speeds, bumping over gratings that hissed steam from the depths.
Meg tilted her head to take in the looming skyscrapers which all but blocked the last of the day’s light from the streets. New York, she decided, made her feel very small. A street-cart vendor with an apron over his padded coat and an ‘NYPD’ beanie pulled over his ears stood on the corner of Church and Canal selling fat, soft pretzels with a choice of sweet mustard or sourcream dip. Meg’s tastebuds prickled and her stomach groaned; she wanted one. She smiled. New York looked and sounded like nowhere else she’d ever been and she wanted to experience it all.
Oblivious to the beeps and shouts from the cars behind him, the taxi driver suddenly swung the cab into West 11th, Greenwich Village and pulled up outside a tall, slim brownstone building with black window frames, one of several identical terraces. This was the Inn on 11th, where she was to stay. As Milly had pointed out, it would be far more congenial than a faceless chain hotel and hopefully the ‘suite-style’ bedroom would be spacious enough to make her feel at home. Plus it was a couple of blocks from the new Plum Patisserie.
Meg paid the driver from her stash of dollars, counting the unfamiliar currency slowly from her palm before watching as he roared away, leaving a plume of smoke in his wake. She took a deep breath and walked backwards up the steps that led to the front door, bumping her suitcase up with her arms stretched out in front of her. At the top she gripped the freezing scrolled-iron railing for support and pushed the tarnished brass bell on the black front door. She was nose to nose with a vast and tawdry wreath, its red plastic berries and spiky green fronds covered in fake frosting, its tartan ribbon distinctly faded. She hoped this wasn’t a clue as to what lay within.
The front door opened eventually to reveal an elderly, miserable-looking man, whose gold name-badge read ‘Salvatore’. He gave a long sigh and appeared to be in no hurry. ‘My wife and I are happy to welcome you to the Inn on 11th.’ He looked past her to the middle distance and held out his upturned palm before letting it fall to his thigh. He sounded anything but happy.
‘Thank you! It’s good to be here, finally. Bit of a long journey, exciting though.’ Meg stamped her boots on the thick coconut mat inlaid on the hallway floor, trying to restore some feeling to her toes. ‘It’s so cold!’
Salvatore ignored her pleasantries, clearly in no mood for making small talk. Meg pictured how Milly would have reacted to his welcome; he was what she might describe as a right old smiler! She spoke to the man’s back as he shuffled forward in his shiny black shoes. He was dressed smartly, in navy slacks and a crisp white shirt under a royal-blue V-neck sweater, and still held the echoes of his handsome youth, with his trim figure, good skin and bright, clear eyes. His thick shock of grey hair was cut and combed into a side parting that brought to mind the Rat Pack. It was only his stoop and slightly unstable gait that betrayed his eight decades on the planet.
Meg let her eyes rove over the large, square, open-plan hallway cum sitting room with its flock wallpaper, dark wood floors and oversized green marble fireplace. There was an eclectic mix of antiques and retro pieces: comfy-looking leather chairs with cracks of age on the broad arms, trunks covered in vintage labels, which doubled as tables, and a cast-iron hat-stand from which hung fairy lights. A six-foot fake Christmas tree in a red plastic pot leant against the wall behind the reception desk. Its branches were crammed full of angels, baubles, wooden Santas, snowmen and reindeer, all in a riot of colours. She winced at the lack of uniformity, having learnt a thing or two about display and design during her time at Plum’s. The tree seemed to have been decorated haphazardly, possibly by an impatient or grumpy Salvatore, in the way Lucas might do it, leaving Meg, unable to resist, to put things right after he’d gone to bed. The fairy lights blinked and stuttered. Meg wasn’t sure if this was an effect or the result of an electrical fault; she hoped they didn’t leave them on overnight.
The place looked like a treasure trove and wasn’t what she had expected. It was like entering a portal to the 1950s or 60s. As Salvatore rummaged on the shelf of the bureau that served as the reception desk, she studied the large stag’s head above the door and the kidney-shaped bar with optics hanging on the wall behind it. The clutter of randomly hung pictures above the fireplace looked as if they were fighting for space.
‘I like your pictures.’ Meg pointed at the cluster of crude oils depicting everything from a nude woman reclining on a chaise longue to the obligatory bowl of fruit.
‘My wife’s an artist, apparently. What she lacks in talent she makes up for in productivity. Go figure.’ Salvatore spoke from a stern mouth. Meg couldn’t decide if he was intentionally dry or was simply the most unintentionally hilarious man she had ever met. She smiled at him, either way.
‘What’s your name?’ Salvatore mumbled, turning his attention to the task in hand.
‘It’s Hope, Meg Hope. I’m here for three nights.’
‘You are in the garden room. There is no lift.’ Salvatore eyed her large suitcase before popping on his half-moon specs and slowly opening the red leather guest-book. His licked his fingers and fumbled with the fine gilt-edged pages that seemed to be stuck together. Meg liked his New York–Italian accent; he sounded like a gangster.
‘Yes, thank you. I booked the garden room because it sounded so nice when I checked it out online. I live in a flat in London and so don’t have a garden.’ She tried again to engage him with a smile, which he ignored.
‘Breakfast is served in the library between seven and ten.’ He waved his hand in the general direction of the back of the property. From where Meg stood, it seemed a rather grand term for the single-storey lean-to with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, plethora of tropical plants and mismatched wicker furniture. Nonetheless, it looked like a wonderful room in which to sit drinking coffee and browsing the papers.
‘That’s great, thank you. Although I’m off to work at the bakery – we are opening not too far from here – so I might have breakfast there.’
Salvatore reached under the counter and produced a folded map, which he slid across the top of the bureau with two fingers. ‘This shows the closest subway and places of interest.’
‘Thanks.’ Meg twitched her nose. He clearly didn’t want to chat.
‘Hey, you must be Meg!’ came a voice from the stairs. ‘Hello, hello! I am Elene, co-owner of the Inn on 11th.’ Salvatore’s wife, the prolific artist, swept into the room, resplendent in a leopard-skin-patterned scarf, which was tied at her neck in an elaborate bow. The diminutive innkeeper was immaculate in gold pumps, tailored camel trousers and matching jacket, with a heavy gold ring on her little finger. She wore a generous smudge of kohl around her eyes and a shock of red lipstick that almost sat on her lips. Elene’s make-up was heavy and seemed to have been dabbed on in generally the right areas, suggesting that failing eyesight or an unsteady hand might be to blame. But Meg loved her look.