‘I saw your booking a few days ago. It’s our pleasure to welcome you here, Meg. I was in London in 1963, stayed in Earls Court. Had the time of my life! My first time away from my parents and I saw the Beatles at the Palladium. Couldn’t hear a thing apart from the girls screaming – they were going crazy. But I was as close to them as I am to you. Paul looked right at me, I swear. It was amazing! I hooked up with a guy called Joe, an East London Jew. He was adorable.’ She let both hands flop over at the wrist. ‘I was in love, of course, but his parents soon put a stop to that!’
Meg smiled, wondering if Salvatore’s quiet reticence was a reaction to his wife’s over-sharing.
‘It was before I met Sali.’ She waved dismissively in his general direction. ‘Joe was ten years older than me, swept me off my feet. It was a whirlwind thing, the kind that’s good for your soul but has no future. He was the most beautiful dancer I have ever seen – we waltzed in Trafalgar Square, one of the best nights of my entire life!’ she shouted.
‘Ah, how lovely!’ Meg said tentatively. She wasn’t sure of the correct response and felt a little awkward discussing Elene’s illicit love in front of her husband.
‘And I hear you are involved in the new store that’s opening? Plum’s, isn’t it?’ Meg smiled at Elene’s pronunciation –
stawwerr
. ‘I peep in when I walk past, looks real fancy. If a little dark.’ She nodded.
‘Yes, that’s the one. This’ll be the first time I’ve seen it. It’s very exciting.’ Meg didn’t want any negativity around the project leaking out into the community and was under no illusion that if anyone were good at leaking information, it would be Elene.
‘Well, make sure I’m invited to the grand opening. I’ll bring my friends, especially Stella. If anyone knows patisserie, it’s her.’ She raised her index finger as if giving a lesson. ‘She’s ninety but I swear doesn’t look a day over seventy-five. She lived in Montmartre after the war.’ She winked at Meg, as though this information were code for something far more risqué. ‘I might even bring Sali if he promises to behave!’ This she bellowed at Salvatore. Who ignored her, muttering under his breath.
‘Will do. It’d be lovely to see you there.’ Meg collected her case, not sure if Plum’s was even considering a grand opening.
‘Do you have supper plans, honey?’ Elene was equal parts motherly and nosy.
‘No. Think I might just nip out, grab something and eat in my room. It’s been a very long day.’ Meg sighed and felt the familiar ache at the memory of kissing Lucas goodbye twelve hours earlier. She glanced at her watch. He’d be tucked up now, sound asleep, if Milly hadn’t let him stay up and play superhero pirates, which was entirely possible.
‘Try the Greenwich Avenue Deli. It’s the best in the Village! Say Elene sent you.’ She winked again. ‘Go out the door, turn right, walk forward a block and a half and you can’t miss it.’
Meg nodded her thanks.
She let herself into her room with its view of the garden. The outside space was no more than a ten-foot square crammed full of ornate statues and with a rather elaborate fountain in the middle that she suspected was switched on very rarely. It sat on a small patch of faux grass that reminded her of Astro Turf. Various plant pots in once bright colours sat in faded piles, their contents long since shrivelled to dust. She had expected an Italianate courtyard as per the description; this was more back yard of the local pub, out of season.
Meg liked the spacious room, which was old-fashioned, fussy and a little dusty. The faded gold velvet curtains and pelmet were both fringed with maroon tassels. The bathroom was large, tiled in white, with greying grout and an orangey imprint on the white floor where countless feet had alighted from the tub. Vintage brass taps graced the tub and wide china sink. Burgundy towels with appliqué flowers were folded over the heated towel rail.
Meg heaved her suitcase up on to the luggage stand and flipped it open. She unpacked her clothes into the tall walnut wardrobe but hung her shirts and trousers on the back of the bathroom door. The steam from her shower would help the creases drop – a neat trick she had learnt from Pru. The wide, soft bed with its quilted jade-coloured counterpane and matching headboard was calling to her, but Meg knew that if she crawled between the starched white sheets and succumbed to sleep at 5 p.m. she would then be up in the early hours, pacing the floor, only to be thoroughly exhausted by 3 p.m. the next day. She had to adapt to the local time zone the moment she arrived. The rule was to go to bed when everyone else did – Pru’s husband Christopher had taught her
that
.
Securing her striped scarf around her neck and pulling the matching hat with its large bobble over her ears, she tiptoed back through the reception area. There was no sign of Elene or Salvatore. The hat sat snugly on her thick hair and, according to Milly, made her look like a pixie. She smiled at her reflection; at least she’d be a warm pixie. Reluctantly, she set out into the cold New York evening from which she had only just escaped.
She stood on the pavement and let the chilly evening air filter into her lungs. She stared at the yellow cabs and wide cars that sped by and stood back to allow the smart ladies in belted macs, fashionable spectacles and trainers pass by.
I’m in New York!
Again she felt a rush of excitement. Remembering Elene’s instructions, she made her way to the best deli in the Village. It shone like a glittering beacon in the winter gloom. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled as she caught sight of the salamis and sausages hanging from hooks in the brightly lit windows. She was clearly more hungry than she’d realised. Boxes of panettone, traditional Italian Christmas bread, were lined up just inside the glass. The packaging was cleverly both vintage and festive and made her think of her childhood. A memory came to her, sharp and bittersweet.
It was Christmastime; she couldn’t have been more than seven and was staying with her foster family in Tall Trees Avenue. It had been a long day, traipsing around the shops buying last-minute Christmas ‘bits and bobs’, as Pam had called them. They had gone into town by bus, to avoid having to look for a parking space. Megan liked sitting on the top deck, drawing pictures with her finger on the steamed-up windows. As they waited in the cold shelter for their bus home, neon lights shone on the dark, wet pavements. She watched the bright headlights prowling the streets and illuminating the raindrops. It was quite hypnotic.
When they eventually arrived home, she and Kirsty were sent into the lounge, where a real fire blazed and a fat aunt sat on the sofa. Megan had felt a smile twitch on her lips when she saw that the woman’s husband was very, very thin. The two of them reminded her of Jack Spratt and his wife, from the nursery rhyme they’d learnt in school. She watched as the woman shrugged her wobbly arms from her coat to reveal her Sunday best. The woman tilted her head to one side and spoke to Pam through a half-closed mouth. ‘Who is she again?’ Then, ‘How long have you got her for?’ Everyone took up their places on the sofa or the floor. Conversation flew over Megan’s head and she listened while they all laughed at memories she couldn’t relate to and talked about people she had never heard of. When no one was looking, she placed her small hand against her chest and whispered, ‘Ssssshhh.’
Pam brought in a chocolate-covered Yule log, already cut into slices, and placed it on the table. Even now, standing in front of the deli, Meg could almost smell the thick chocolate from all those years ago, which had melted slightly in the heat of the room.
‘Help yourselves!’ Pam urged.
Kirsty, the fat aunt, her skinny husband and Len all shoved out their hands and grasped fat slices of the sponge, quickly cramming it into their mouths and licking any residue from their fingers. It was only when Megan crept towards the table that she realised there was nothing but crumbs left. She hadn’t meant to cry, but hot tears stung her eyes and clogged her nose nonetheless.
‘We forgot Megan!’ Kirsty mumbled through her last half-chewed mouthful.
‘Oh, Megan!’ they chorused. Their pity was genuine and that somehow made the situation much worse. She wished they weren’t being nice to her, it made her feel even sadder. How could she admit to hating them all just then, when they were being sympathetic?
‘I’ve got something that’ll last much longer than Yule log.’ Pam winked at Megan and left the room, returning with the box the cake had come in. ‘Look, Megan! It’s got a lovely picture on it of holly and berries and it still smells of chocolate.’ Pam smiled as she handed it to her.
Megan had gathered the box to her chest and sniffed its interior. It was torture, only reminding her of what she’d missed out on. Funny she should think of that now.
Meg walked inside the warm, busy deli and inhaled the heady mixture of food, spices and coffee. It was noisy: people shouted greetings and laughed, the till chimed, and Dean Martin crooned ‘White Christmas’ through the speakers on the wall. In front of the counter sat straw panniers full of large red apples and bags of designer vegetable crisps. To the side was a wooden cart loaded with every type of cheese imaginable, from wedges of creamy blue Roquefort to vast wheels of Grana Padano, displayed amid full clusters of red and green grapes. Six dark-haired men stood behind the counters in white tunics with ‘The Greenwich Avenue Deli’ embroidered above the breast pocket. Masters of the sandwich, they swiped at rounds of warm ciabatta, loaves of organic San Francisco sourdough and Cuban batons, depending on the customer’s preference, slitting them with long, sharp knives before loading them up with savouries from the cold counter. They slid and slipped around each other in the small space like dancers with well-choreographed moves, never missing a beat.
Meg stood in the queue, watching with fascination as succulent slices of milky mozzarella were laid on top of sundried tomatoes, smoked peppers and salad, before being finished with a rip of fresh basil and a twist of coarsely ground black pepper. The ciabatta was then quickly sealed, wrapped inside waxed paper and handed to a young guy in a grubby baseball cap and black square-framed glasses who was nodding to whatever his earphones were pumping into his head. She decided to have the same. It looked delicious.
The woman in front of her ordered sourdough piled high with peppery rocket, crispy bacon, slices of white chicken meat and a generous dollop of homemade spicy slaw. Meg decided to have that instead.
Suddenly it was her turn. Her indecisiveness made her nervous.
‘What’ll it be, lady?’ The man stood with knife in hand. Every second of hesitation caused his mouth to twitch. His leg jumped as the knife banged against his thigh. He was like every other New Yorker, in a desperate hurry.
‘Oooh… I’m not sure. It all looks so good!’
He didn’t react to her compliment; keen to keep the line moving, conversation would only slow proceedings.
She was about to settle on sourdough cut into thick doorsteps – ‘I think I’ll go for…’ – when a roll of dark German rye caught her eye. She hesitated. ‘Actually, no. I think… erm…’ She tapped her finger against her mouth, unable to decide. The bread was the foundation on which her sandwich would be built; get it wrong and the whole thing could be a disaster. And if there was one thing Meg knew about, it was bread. She let her eyes wander over the crusty batons and seeded loaves. Fatigue was getting the better of her.
A large arm in a blue denim shirt, rolled above the elbow, reached over her shoulder and a voice boomed in her ear. ‘I’ll take a hoagie with pastrami, pickle and sauerkraut, coupla slices of Swiss and tomato, lots of black pepper, hold the mayo.’
Meg turned to face the overbearing New Yorker who had queue-jumped her. ‘Excuse me! I was just about to order!’
The tall auburn-haired man grinned. ‘Ah well, that’s where you went wrong. “Just about to” will never get you anywhere here. You need to pounce, not dally.’
‘You want mustard with that, pal?’
Meg stared at the sandwich guy, complicit in bumping her place in the queue.
‘Sure.’
‘“Dally”?’ Meg was aware that her voice had a squeaky tone to it. ‘I’m not dallying, I’m just very tired!’
The man laughed. ‘Well, hey, Mary Poppins, top tip for ya: try being tired at the back of the queue not the front.’
‘Mary Poppins?’ Meg wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.
‘Yeah, you’ve got that whole spoonful of sugar thing going on there!’ He circled his forefinger in front of his mouth and laughed again.
‘You seem to know a lot about Mary Poppins for a grown man.’ She closed her eyes and turned away.
‘I wasn’t always a grown man. I was born real small and it’s taken thirty years to get to this.’ He ran his open palms down his body, which she couldn’t help but notice was well built and toned. His skin was darker than the type she usually associated with red hair and the freckles that peppered his forearms were darker still.
Angel’s kisses…
That’s what she’d heard her foster mum say to Kirsty, as she’d kissed her little nose and waved her off into the winter’s morning for school. Megan had rather liked the term.
Meg shook her head and turned back to the counter.
‘What’ll it be?’ The next server nodded in her direction, with an expression that was just as impatient as his colleague’s.
‘Erm… I’d like…’ Meg felt flustered all over again.
‘Do you need help there?’ Denim-shirt guy bent low and spoke into her ear.
‘What I
need
is for you to leave me alone,’ she snapped, staring at the array of produce in front of her. ‘I’d like a cheese sandwich please.’
‘On what?’ the server fired back.
‘Brown bread?’ She hated her uncertainty.
Thankfully he grabbed two slices of multigrain from an open bag on the shelf behind him and slapped them down on the counter. ‘Which cheese?’ He ground his teeth together, his lower jaw jutting with impatience. He eyed the queue building up behind this indecisive broad.
‘I’m not sure…’ Meg felt her face colour and considered giving up on the whole thing.
‘We got cream cheese, goat’s cheese, American cheese, Italian cheese, French, Swiss – could you at least narrow it down to a country?’ The man spoke quickly.