Page 83 of I’m Dreaming of a New York Christmas

Mum:

I don’t know what’s happened between you and Anneka, nor do I want to. I think some space might do you both some good tonight (she said you are probably in Brooklyn?), but I want to go up the Empire State Building tomorrow and I would like both my daughters to be there with me. Let’s meet at the entrance at 2 p.m. Please confirm that you’re alive (if you hadn’t already guessed, I still am).

I sighed as I read her message. Of course she didn’t want to fucking know. That would involve her actually having to confront stuff.

Flora:

I’m also alive. See you tomorrow.

I zipped up my coat all the way and stepped out into the rain, mentally counting the blocks and turns until the entranceway to the subway was within sight. The very much closed entranceway. I growled, rooted to the spot, missing the sanctuary of my noise-cancelling headphones and having to decide my next move against the clashing sounds of heavy rain, beeping traffic and two people experiencing homelessness arguing about a cardboard box a few metres away. I leaned against the nearest structure, which happened to be a street vent, taking it all in. This precise scene was the real New York, wasn’t it? A messy, noisy collision of heartache and chaos and the sheer unfairness of the lottery of life, while nature drenched us to reassert its uncompromising supremacy.

I couldn’t help feeling like the fates were trying to force me back to the hotel – which was just a ten-minute stroll away by now – instead of easing my passage over the river to Brooklyn. But Mum had essentially told me to stay away, and Ethan was waiting for me. I hailed a cab, and settled in for the ride.

Ethan opened the door to his apartment and I kissed him before I was forced to tell even more lies. We tumbled, entwined, into the room, Ethan kicking the front door shut with one of his feet.

We fell into his apartment, enjoying the freshly discovered familiarity of each other’s bodies on the sofa, safe in the knowledge we’d get no parent-based surprises this time.

‘I can’t believe your shoes are all wet again,’ he murmured afterwards, looking at my feet. I hadn’t even taken them off yet. I did so now, putting them in their usual spot next to the heater and pulling my dungarees back up to preserve any microbes of modesty that remained.

‘I only brought one pair to New York so I didn’t have to put any baggage in the hold,’ I explained. ‘Anyway, I bought another pair today.’

I pointed to the department store bag – almost disintegrated, now – which Ethan extracted the box from.

‘Can I take a look?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

He removed the lid. ‘Ha! These are the most Flora Bell shoes I’ve ever seen. They’re spectacular.’

‘Right?’ I smiled – how did this man know me so well already? ‘I was thinking I could… wear them to the wedding?’

I still didn’t know whether any plans had been made to go to a show the day after tomorrow, but Anneka had said it would likely be a matinee.

Ethan beamed. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. If you’ll still have me?’

‘You’re kidding? Of course I will.’ He bundled me into his arms and kissed me slowly. ‘I’m gonna let Rick and Sinead know I’ll be bringing a plus one – they’ve been hassling me about the table plan.’ He grabbed his phone from the coffee table and started tapping out a message.

While he did so, a speck of anxiety began to grow in my tummy. For some reason, I’d always pictured this wedding as a dimly lit affair, with canapés to nibble on from passing platters and plenty of corners to hide – and kiss – in. But now I was envisioning a sit-down dinner with white tablecloths and gleaming cutlery, gaggles of whispering New Yorkers wondering aloud who the hell I was.

‘Mind if I hop in the shower? I’ve been out in the rain most of the afternoon.’

‘Go for it; I’ll leave some PJs out for you again. You’re staying over?’

‘If that’s okay?’

‘More than okay.’

I smiled in gratitude but, as soon as I closed the bathroom door behind me, my grin slipped off my face. I switched on the shower, allowing the water to heat up while I peeled off my clothes and inspected my reflection in the mirror before it steamed up.

I looked exhausted. I felt exhausted. And I also felt something else that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. As I stepped into the cubicle – wincing at, but not adjusting, the ever-so-slightly-too-hot water – I realised the feeling was guilt.

I was so mean to Anneka.

And I’ve been bullshitting Ethan.

The version of Flora Bell he knew and liked wasn’t really me at all, was it? It was a version of myself I’d created to temporarily wheedle my way into his life out of selfishness. The raw truth was this: if I was watching a rom-com in which a man was treating a woman the way I was treating Ethan – lying out of their arse to blag a bed for the night – he’d be the antagonist of the movie, not the hero: the guy the audience would be encouraged to despise for being a bad’un.