Page 82 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

‘I’m not asking for perfection, I’m asking for just a tiny bit of understanding or empathy from either of you. It feels like I’ve spent my whole life playing along with yours and Mum’s shenanigans. But what’s the point of it all? Foraging in Central Park, for fuck’s sake? It just feels like distraction after distraction so none of us ever has to have a meaningful conversation with each other. It’s exhausting. I’m exhausted. Why can’t our family just be fucking normal?’

Anneka’s face burned with emotion. ‘Oh, I’m, so sorry that we’re not normal enough for you. Honestly, you know fuck all about all the sacrifices I’ve made for you over the years. Like, did you know I turned down a place at theatre school in London so I could help Mum look after you?’

The fuck?

‘I—’

She wouldn’t let me speak. ‘And don’t get me started on all the shit Mum’s been through that you have absolutely no idea about. Sure, you might not have asked to come on this trip, but I didn’t ask to become your co-parent less than a year after my dad died!’

‘At least you know who your dad was!’

I knew my words were the equivalent of pulling a pin out of a hand grenade, but I couldn’t stop them exploding out of my mouth like shrapnel. I turned on my heel outside the department store and started walking – to where I didn’t know. I just needed to not be looking at Anneka.

The longer I walked, the more the snow falling from the sky morphed into harsh, freezing rain. Any remaining whiteness that clung to the surfaces of the city gradually gave way to New York’s regular hues of grey. I took shelter in one of the countless ‘sidewalk sheds’ that Ethan had told me about yesterday – apparently they were the cheapest way to ensure falling debris from unmaintained building facades didn’t injure people. They were incredibly ugly structures.

I leaned against one of the scaffolding poles to catch my breath, glancing in the direction I’d just walked from, expecting to see Anneka.

But she was gone.

Chapter 18

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly around Midtown getting gradually drenched, my soggy brown paper bag containing my new shoes a stark reminder of all the good, the bad and the glittery that had gone down with Anneka. I deliberately avoided connecting to any Wi-Fi so I didn’t have to confront any messages from her but, as dimness began to claim the skies, I was faced with a choice:

Go back to the hotel.

Or go back to Ethan’s.

The latter choice felt way easier, so I ducked inside the nearest coffee shop not far from Ethan’s office, ordered a hot chocolate and found an internet connection.

Flora:

Sorry to ask, but can I come over? I can help with your speech etc.

Ethan:

Hello! I’m liking the sound of ‘etc.’ – is everything okay?

No, everything’s fucked up and you can help me forget.

Flora:

The Airbnb’s heating has stopped working. Someone is coming round to fix it… tomorrow.

The ease at which my fingers tapped out the untruths took me by surprise.

Ethan:

Oh no! You remember how to get here?

Flora:

Yep. See you in an hour or so. Thank you.

There were no messages from Anneka.

Had I overstepped during our row? Without a doubt. But she and Mum had been understepping when it came to communication for my whole life. Today was the first time I’d been completely honest with either of them about how this void of emotional connection made me feel, giving life to words that had yearned to be said aloud for decades. Sure, I wish I hadn’t spoken them in an unfamiliar country while strangers watched on – but I didn’t regret the essence of my outburst.

While the barista decanted my hot chocolate into a takeaway cup, I received a message from Mum: