The Girl Next Door (5 page)

The new furniture, the things she’d ordered on that trip to America, arrived first, of course. The apartment looked like an ad when she’d arranged it all – like it, too, had been ‘staged for viewing’, rather than living. Although she loved how it looked, she knew that she hadn’t relaxed, properly relaxed, until the things from England arrived. She worked all day to unpack and arrange everything. Ed committed the cardinal sin of not noticing until he’d been in for five minutes that evening, making an exhausted Eve tearful and resentful. She’d wanted it to be a surprise. The surprise was that he was oblivious to it. Immediately contrite, he’d taken her for supper at the restaurant on the corner of the block, and ordered champagne. They’d taken, very quickly, to eating out three or four times a week. Thai, sushi, steak, Italian. Almost anything she could think of was on this block, or the next one. It was quick and easy and not all that expensive and there was no washing up. Easy habit to fall into.

He was buzzing. He had been ever since they’d arrived.

Eve felt a bit left behind. ‘You’re really happy, aren’t you?’

‘I love it.’ He looked like a kid, and she so wanted that enthusiasm to be contagious. She wanted him to make her catch it.

‘Tell me why? What is it that’s making you so happy?’

Ed thought for a moment, leaning forward across the table. ‘I don’t know. Actually, that’s not true… I do. I’m just not sure how to say it. I feel like, for the first time, I live somewhere that moves at the same speed as me. It suits me. I love the pace, and the buzz and the tempo. I feel… at home here. Does that make sense?’

Eve nodded. ‘Yeah, I think so.’ She knew what he meant. Ed had always been a bit faster than everyone else, at home. She was always walking fast to keep up with him, on the pavement. He spoke fast, he thought quickly. It did suit him, this city. He ate fast, too. He’d finished already.

‘What about you?’

Eve shrugged, and smiled, then looked down at her salad.

Ed took her hand under the table. ‘A bit different, hey?’

She was shocked to feel tears welling in her eyes. ‘A bit.’ It didn’t suit her, she realized. Not yet. It made her feel slow, and ungainly, and like she didn’t know anything about anything. She wasn’t used to the feeling.

Ed’s face was full of concern. He put his face down to her hands on the table, squeezed them with his own, and kissed her knuckles. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. Am I being a pig?’

Eve wiped away the tear that had spilled on to her cheek. ‘No. Course not. I’m really, really happy that you’re happy. And I’m really, really happy with you, Ed – none of that’s changed. I’m just… I’m just a bit lonely. That’s it, I expect. I’m not used to being lonely, and it is weird and a bit awful. I can go days without talking to anyone except the doorman and people in shops. Except you.’

‘What about the phone?’

‘Of course, the phone and the email. I have that, I know. But it isn’t quite the same, you know? I don’t have any friends here, Ed. And talking on the phone and emailing, well, it makes me realize how far away the friends I have got actually are.’

‘I know. I know, Evie. Of course I do. I want to help. What can I do?’

‘It’s not for you to fix, Ed.’ Every man she had ever known had been obsessed by fixing things. Not just in the DIY way.

‘Do you want me to go back to them about you working?’ They’d investigated the possibility, before they left England. A work visa wasn’t so easy to get any more – before 9/11 a wife or husband whose partner had a work visa would automatically get one, but it wasn’t that straightforward or automatic now. And anyway, her qualifications wouldn’t translate. It would probably be hard to do the same thing she’d done in England. They’d known, when they came, that it was unlikely. Ed had been happy enough to give up on it, and Eve thought she had been, too. Still, there were days when she thought it needn’t be teaching; she wouldn’t mind working behind the till at Banana Republic. At least she’d be surrounded by people all day…

‘No. I don’t think so. You can’t fix it, I don’t think. Although I adore you for wanting to. I need to shake myself by the shoulders a bit. Get out there, and do all the things you’re supposed to do. Moving to New York shouldn’t essentially be any different to moving to Manchester. You’ve got to start again, haven’t you? Get involved and put yourself out there. Isn’t that what they say? Join a gym,’ she snorted, ‘neighbourhood watch, that kind of thing.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Yeah.’ Did it? ‘I just need to get on with it. Now the apartment’s sorted, I’ve run out of excuses.’

‘Cath’s coming in a couple of weeks.’

‘I know. I can’t wait. We’re going to be tourists. And shoppers, I suspect.’

‘And then?’

‘And then I’ll sort myself out. Promise. I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t want to put a downer on everything.’

‘Don’t be daft. You’re my wife. Of course I’m going to worry about you. I’ll be better, I promise. I know I haven’t been around that much, and that you’ve been left on your own a bit too often. I can fix that much, at least. We’ll get some stuff going with the guys at work. They’ve mostly got wives and girlfriends. We’ll go out.’

‘Sounds great.’ It sounded terrifying, actually, but Eve didn’t want to make him feel worse than she patently already had.

‘I’m sorry, Evie.’ He tried to squeeze her hands again, but she pulled them out from under his and slapped them on top. He did the same, and they played a familiar game for a moment. She wanted to lighten the mood. ‘I feel like I’ve been selfish. I’ve been so busy… and…’

‘Hey.’ She smiled broadly at him, determined to move them past this conversation she had never really meant to start. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

She really hoped it was.

Charlotte

When she watched reality television, which was often, every night pretty much, Charlotte Murphy told herself that the problem with her was not actually with her, but with the city she lived in. In the rest of America, she wouldn’t be plain, or overweight, or badly dressed, or dull. She’d be normal. It was only here, in this place, where she was all of those things. She should move to Ohio, or Kentucky, or… to anywhere else. New York wasn’t America. It was a republic to itself. Full of beautiful, perfect, unreal people like Madison Cavanagh. Everything would be okay if she was somewhere else.

This was merely a variation on her other theory – the one she had held dear for years – that everything would be okay if she was
someone
else.

She forgot, or simply refused to remember, that she’d grown up outside of this city, but that she had always felt this way.

Ugly Betty
was her favourite show. Except that America Ferrera wasn’t at all ugly. They made her look weird and geeky with those clothes, but you knew that by season three or four they were going to do a ‘My, Miss Jones’ makeover on her, and the swan would emerge, glamorous and attractive. When you saw the actress in
People
magazine or on
The Insider
, she really was quite lovely. Not a size zero or anything, but a pretty girl. There was no such swan lurking inside Charlotte Murphy – she was quite sure of that.

When she wasn’t watching television (or listening to Madison, her neighbour), Charlotte read romance novels – everything from the literary heavyweights through Georgette Heyer to slim Silhouette Romances with Fabio on the cover. And then, when she lay in her single bed at night, she replayed the storylines, casting herself, a slimmer, prettier, easier Charlotte, in the heroine’s role. The hero was sometimes Che, the doorman, sometimes Brian, the guy from the second floor. Sometimes a fireman she’d seen once answering a call at the subway station at work. Mostly, it was Che. She’d known him for three years, ever since she’d moved to the city. But she’d never said more than four words to him, and they were always the same four – ‘Hello. How are you?’ She knew nothing about him. She didn’t know where he went when he wasn’t working at the building. She’d sort of followed him once, last summer, as far as the subway steps, so she knew he went north, but she hadn’t had the nerve to get on the train and see where he got off. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, and his taste in clothes, when he wasn’t in the building’s uniform, was dreadful, so she didn’t think there was a woman in his life. No wife or girlfriend would let him leave home dressed like that. And sometimes, when he didn’t see her approaching, and was staring into space, he looked sad and full of longing to her. She made up a backstory for him. A beautiful girl back in Cuba. A broken heart. And she spent many long nights imagining mending it for him. Things always faded to black, after their first kiss.

Between them, even Madison and Georgette hadn’t managed to make her imagine what might happen then…

Jackson

He had milk, but he needed Cheerios. He had the serious munchies. The maid wasn’t due until tomorrow, and he couldn’t wait that long for Cheerios. Jackson looked at the clock, vaguely surprised to find himself wide awake and starving hungry at 7.30 a.m. That almost never happened. Damn.

He rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweats and sneakers that were lying by the bed, covering his Bowie ‘Life on Mars’ T‐shirt with a grey sweat top. Passing the mirror he peered at himself, pulling down his bottom eyelids to inspect the redness of his eyeballs, and sticking out his tongue. He wasn’t sure about this facial hair. Too lazy to shave, but not sufficiently testosterone‐y to grow something amusingly yeti‐ish. That goatee might have to go. Although his mother’s aggravation at it during her last visit had been quite funny. Martha said men with facial hair had something to hide. Like weak top lips or crooked teeth. She viewed his as unnecessary. His straight teeth had cost $10,000.

Money. Money. His wallet was empty except for credit cards. Wandering into the kitchen, he spotted a $10 bill next to the receipt for last night’s Thai take‐out, and grabbed it on his way out of the door.

The elevator smelt of dog. He hated that. Early morning dog walkers. He wasn’t an animal person. Leaning against the wooden panelling, he closed his eyes. When the elevator stopped at 3, he thought it had reached the ground floor, and he flung himself at the doors, straight into the girl trying to get in.

‘Sorry!’

‘That’s okay.’ She looked shocked. He supposed he probably looked pretty shocking. And now that he thought of it, he hadn’t brushed his teeth. Shit. He retreated to the furthest corner of the elevator and looked at his fellow passenger out of the corner of his eye.

Wow. This girl was beautiful. Really stunning. She was dressed for a run, he guessed, in those black Lycra running shorts that showed everything, and a vest with a racer back. Great body. New York was full of great bodies, though. Best reason for taking a latte to a bench in Central Park – best girl‐watching in the city. Ponytails swinging about, great arses that swayed, never wobbled. This girl had a face on her. A Helen of Troy face. That was much harder to find. Her eyes were so blue they were almost turquoise. She was platinum blonde, and the kind that was real, too. And her skin was clear and pale, just a little pink across the cheeks. And her mouth… Wow. Wow.

‘Going for a run?’ Smooth.

She nodded, managing not to look at him like he was an idiot. ‘You?’

She wasn’t to know he was heading to Gristedes for Cheerios, so long as she set off in a different direction.

‘Think so.’

He wanted to say something else. Something funny or clever. But they were on the ground floor now, and she flipped a little ‘See ya’ over her shoulder at him, and was outside straight away, bending and stretching, which ought, he reflected, to be illegal. She didn’t linger – hamstring, calves, arms – then she was off, heading west, towards the park.

Jesus was watching him, an amused expression on his face.

‘Who the hell is that?’

‘Ms Mikanowski. Three A.’

‘First name?’

‘Emily.’

‘Emily Mikanowski. How long has she been here?’

‘Three weeks or so.’ He laughed. ‘You two keep different hours, I think.’

‘Does she do that every day?’

Jesus nodded. ‘Every day. Monday through Friday. Seven thirty. Like a clock. Doesn’t get back until after I’ve gone. Better ask Che what time.’

Jackson went out on to the sidewalk and watched Ms Mikanowski’s ponytail swinging in the distance.

He might have to rethink his schedule slightly.

May

Eve

Eve had spotted the notice pinned to the cork board next to the mailboxes on the ground floor, between the minutes of the last board meeting, the flyer for a new Thai restaurant that had opened on Lexington, and an ad for dog walking, with one of those cut‐off fringes at the bottom. Eve always spent a little longer than necessary hovering around the mailboxes at this time in the afternoon. People might come and check their boxes, and they might talk to her. God, she was getting pathetic. Yesterday, the mailman had talked to her, but she hadn’t really understood his thick Asian accent, so that didn’t count. The note was written in a neat, old‐fashioned hand, in bright violet ink. The scribe had drawn tiny neat flowers in each of the corners. Doodles, really.

Building Beautifying Committee First meeting Wednesday 10th, 8pm, on the roof All residents interested in creating a wonderful space are welcome

Raoul was putting supermarket carrier bags on the luggage rack next to the mailboxes. Someone had braved Fairway. Eve was still vaguely frightened of New York supermarkets. She’d tried them all, desperate to find the Waitrose equivalent, but it didn’t exist. Whole Foods was full of ingredients she didn’t recognize, and was a bit granola and wheatgrass for her. Fairway, like Zabar’s, both across town on the West Side, was legendary. You needed a valium with your morning coffee to face either of them. In Zabar’s you were quite likely to be taken off at the ankle by an old lady, hunched over a shopping trolley with murder in her eyes. They had something like thirty‐five different types of olives at the olive bar in Zabar’s. It wasn’t worth it. Fairway was, to her, the grocery equivalent of the Tower of Babel. She had never come out
with
the ingredients she had gone in for, and
without
a headache. Dean & Deluca she could handle. They might need to start selling body parts to pay for it eventually, but at least she didn’t get an adrenalin rush at the door.