The Girl Next Door (15 page)

‘Did you label that bike, Mr Grayling?’

‘Did I hell? I hope the damn thing gets stolen.’

The bruises and scabs from the cycling debacle healed quickly enough, but he couldn’t stop scratching the itch that was Emily Mikanowski. He hadn’t pursued a girl like this since… since never. The girls normally did the pursuing. Trouble was, he didn’t think she had the first idea he was pursuing her – most of the chasing had happened in his imagination. The doormen were really the only ones in on it. They were the cataloguers of his experiments with physical fitness, and they knew exactly what he was up to. Jesus told him to stop being such a wimp. ‘Ask the girl out. Just ask her.’ Jesus dispensed these pearls of wisdom infrequently enough, and only when he wasn’t trying to listen secretly to a baseball or football match in the cupboard.

‘I can’t do that, man. For one thing, I never see her. Secondly, I
am
a wimp. I just don’t take rejection well.’ Jesus gave the derisory snort of someone too familiar with rejection.

‘Write her a letter then. Chicks love that.’

And so, in the end, he went for conventional methods, clinging to the advice of a single middle‐aged doorman as though he were Deepak Chopra himself. He put a note under her door.

Dear Emily,

You don’t know me, but I’m your neighbour. I live upstairs, in 5A. My name is Jackson Grayling, but most people call me Trip. We met once – in the elevator.

This may seem strange, but I would love to take you to dinner sometime. Any place you like. Any night is good for me.

I never do this, so tread softly on my dreams.

Call me. Please. 555 0172.

Trip

He hadn’t been sure whether or not to mention the elevator encounter. It was ages ago. It might not have left the most favourable impression. Worse still, it might have left no impression at all (hard for the ego, but a distinct possibility – Trip was well aware that Emily’s apparent complete indifference towards him was a big part of her attraction). But in the end, he reasoned that referring to it made him sound less like a stalker, more like a friendly neighbour and potential love interest.

The Yeats was a stroke of genius, if he said so himself. He’d found it printed in the order of service for a wedding he’d been to in February. Girls liked poetry. They thought it made guys soulful and deep and sensitive.

Emily

Emily felt like an idiot, sitting in her own foyer dressed up like this. Raoul was smiling at her as though he knew what was going on, and it was making her uncomfortable. The elevator pinged, and Todd and Greg got out with Ulysses.

‘You look sweet, honey!’

‘You do! Lucky guy?’

She shrugged uncomfortably.

Todd squeezed her shoulder. ‘Hope he’s taking you somewhere nice, looking like that!’

‘I just hope he’s taking you somewhere with air conditioning.’

‘Amen to that.’ Eve had just come in, with two Gristedes carrier bags. She looked shiny and sweaty and hot. ‘It is deeply unpleasant out there.’

A roof terrace conversation ensued. Emily nodded and smiled and interjected briefly where appropriate, and hoped they would all get lost before Trip came down.

The elevator doors opened, but it was Arthur. She smiled at him, but he ignored her like he always did, scowling sideways at Todd and Greg as he shuffled past – conspicuously as far from them as he could get. Raoul held the door, and said, ‘Good evening, Mr Alexander,’ but Arthur just grunted something incomprehensible at him.

Eve grimaced at Todd and Greg.

‘You know, that man makes me want to kiss the face off you, every time I see him!’ Todd exclaimed, hands on hips.

‘I’m sure he’d be thrilled to hear that.’ Greg rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll invite him to Gay Pride next weekend, shall we?’

Eve giggled.

Emily felt a bit sorry for the old man. He reminded her of her grandfather, a little. Too old, maybe, and too set in his ways, to accept change. This new world must be a bewildering place.

When Trip did come down, she almost didn’t recognize him as the same guy who’d bumped into her in the elevator a few weeks ago. This guy was clean‐shaven. And he’d had a haircut. And he was wearing a suit, not baggy sweats. Well.

Maybe Charlotte was right. She and Charlotte had been getting closer, these last weeks. They’d gone out for supper, and watched telly a couple of nights together. Charlotte cooked. She said it made a nice change from cooking for one. She was good, too, so Emily was a very willing guest. Emily enjoyed her company. She’d begun to confide in her – not something she did easily. She’d confided about the note – showed it to her over lasagne one night, just after she found it. Charlotte had read it with one hand cupped over her mouth, and her eyes, when she looked up, sparkled more than Emily had seen before. Maybe he did deserve a chance. Frankly, Charlotte was gone the minute she read the note. She’d begged Emily to call him, threatening to do it herself, pretending to be Emily, if she’d refused (although Emily knew she never would).

‘Don’t tell Madison, though. I think she thinks he’s hers.’

‘Have the two of them dated then?’

‘No. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t in her sights…’

From what Emily had seen of Madison there weren’t many men who weren’t. She’d shrugged. ‘Don’t you think it’s weird – a note out of the blue. I mean, I’ve barely even spoken to the guy. I think it’s a bit creepy.’

‘I think it’s romantic. How much would I love to come home and find a note like that under my door?’

‘Why don’t you go out to dinner with him?’

‘Yeah, right. I’m so his type.’

‘Don’t be so down on yourself all the time, Charlotte. You’re lovely.’

‘And you’re being evasive. Are you going to call him?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘When did you last go on a date, Emily?’

‘I don’t know… not long ago… March…’

‘That’s ridiculous. You’re young, you’re single, you’re stunning. You should be beating them off with a stick.’

‘I promise I’m not.’

‘And he quoted Yeats, Em. Yeats. Do you know how beautiful that poem is in full?’

‘I’m not a poetry kind of girl.’

‘Well, I am. And I’m telling you, that poem is the most romantic thing I can think of. If you say no to this guy, you’re crazy.’ She’d had her hands on her hips. She was almost scary.

Charlotte had worn her down in the end, although she’d felt ridiculous, dialling his number. Thank God she got a machine – she was sure she’d have hung up on a real voice. She’d said she was free this Friday. That she’d meet him in the foyer, unless she heard from him that the date and time didn’t work. Then she hung up, looked at Charlotte and burst out laughing.

‘I can’t believe you made me do that.’

‘I can’t believe you hesitated.’

‘Well, I’ve done it now.’

Now she wondered why she had. He was good looking – Charlotte was right. Much more, without the face fuzz. But it wasn’t about that, was it? That didn’t matter at all. And this felt weird.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi.’ He looked almost as embarrassed as she was. ‘You look stunning.’

‘You look… nice, too.’

Raoul was smiling even more broadly now, like a Cheshire cat, staring at them.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Trip smiled.

‘Cab, Mr Trip, sir?’

‘We’ll walk up to the corner, Raoul, thanks anyway.’

‘Have a good evening.’ Emily was certain he winked.

She wasn’t sure what she was doing here. She didn’t normally do this.

It could be a very long evening.

Emily had never been to this restaurant before. She’d heard of it, though. They’d come downtown, to West 13th. They’d barely spoken in the cab. It was one of those with televisions, and they’d watched the news like they were going to be tested on it later, neither looking at the other, except from the corner of their eye.

It was like high school. Truth was, whatever Charlotte believed, Emily hadn’t had many boyfriends. She was pretty enough to deter a lot of guys who simply assumed she was out of their league. And distant enough to alienate some of the others who might have chanced it. And disinterested enough to refuse a good few offers. She’d had one serious boyfriend – in her senior year at high school – but he’d gone south to college, and things had petered out quickly enough, leaving him more heartbroken than her. Sometimes she worried that she was weird. Most of the time she didn’t think about it. Now, here in this cab, feeling awkward and shy, she remembered why…

It was incredibly hot. More like August than June. Even the slight breeze was warm, like a hairdryer. The whole neighbourhood was alive, as only downtown could be, and throbbing. People spilled out of bars on to the pavements, and live music was coming from several places. Emily felt sort of cool, and she wasn’t really used to that. Spice Market was wonderfully dark and stylish. Trip seemed at home in a place like this. The waiter, dressed like a Buddhist monk, showed them to a rectangular table flanked by two low upholstered Balinese benches, and took a drinks order. Emily ordered a ginger margarita – she had no idea why. Alcohol ought to help, she reasoned. She felt awkward and shy. It seemed that he did, too, since he drank more than half the glass in one gulp when his beer arrived. At the tables all around, everyone chattered and laughed easily with each other, and Emily was self‐conscious. Luckily, the menu was complicated, and deciding what to order, as well as having it all explained to them by their monk‐waiter, killed the next ten minutes. They were to share food, apparently. Maybe that would help.

Trip was smiling at her. He had a sexy smile, there was no doubt about it. It definitely stirred something inside her, something usually well buried.

‘You’re very, very pretty.’

That was no way to start a conversation. If that was his best line, he was in trouble. It might work on some girls, but it wouldn’t work on her. Emily felt the blush creeping up over her cheeks.

‘I’m sorry – I’ve made you blush.’

She shrugged, and smiled. ‘Is that why you asked me out?’

‘That’s part of it.’

What else could there be? ‘Tell me something about you. I don’t know anything. It’s strange, isn’t it? We all live on top of each other, and most of us see each other at least once a day, but we never know anything real, do we?’

‘We could start now.’

The waiter arrived with satay and pot stickers. They poked at the food tentatively with chopsticks.

‘So what do you want to know about me?’

‘I don’t know. Something. Where you come from, who your family are, what you do? How about that for a start? And how you got that name.’

He laughed. ‘Trip. Stupid, huh? It’s tradition. I’m the third Jackson Grayling. The second one is Jackson Grayling junior. The third one is Jackson Grayling the Third, or Trip. All the “best families”’ (he drew speech marks in the air with his fingers) ‘have a Trip. Proves you’ve been around – that you’re established. Terrible American snobbery. Shows a ridiculous absence of imagination, I know. I’m from… New York City. I grew up here. On 5th Avenue. Went to Regis. Then to Duke. Sixth generation male in my family to go. No brothers, no sisters. Parents still living, still married, still driving each other and me crazy. They live in West Palm Beach, now, in Florida, most of the time. But they travel a lot, too. My dad retired.’

Emily nodded.

‘How about you?’

‘I grew up in Oregon. My grandparents were Polish.’

He knew that, of course, but he nodded, his eyebrows slightly raised, as if this was a revelation.

‘They left Europe with their parents, after the war, and came to Portland. I was born outside the city. I’m also an only child. I went to college there, and I’m working at NBC right now, in production on the
Today
show – on the day shift, you know, researching segments for the next morning’s show. I came here after I graduated, because here is the place to do what I wanted to do.’

‘Do you have any family in the city at all?’

‘No – everyone is out West.’

‘Go home often?’

‘Once, maybe twice a year. You – do you spend much time in Florida?’

‘God, no. God’s waiting room. I can’t bear it there. Mom comes back to New York a lot, checking up on me.’

Emily smiled. Common ground? Maybe just a little bit. ‘My mum is pretty keen to know what I’m doing. She misses me. Always on the phone. But she doesn’t like the city much, and I haven’t had room to put her up before and so a trip means a hotel, and that costs such a lot – she doesn’t come much. Anyway, she works…’

Trip smiled, remembering his mother’s last visit, and wishing cost and a day job would keep her in the South. ‘What else do you want to know about me?’

Emboldened by the margarita, Emily raised an eyebrow at him. ‘What made you ask me out?’

‘I answered that one already. Very, very pretty. Remember?’

‘That’s all?’

It wasn’t all, not at all. ‘You seemed… interesting.’

She smiled. ‘So… what do you do, Trip Grayling?’

Most of the girls Trip went out with didn’t ask him that. They knew. And if it wasn’t the very reason, it wasn’t usually a problem either. Nothing. He didn’t know how to answer the question. He felt a sudden urge to lie. But Emily wasn’t a girl to lie to. That, he already knew.

‘I’m not working at the moment…’

‘The moment?’

‘No. I’m trying to figure out what I really want to do, actually.’

‘What did you used to do?’ She wasn’t going to let it go.

‘Since college, nothing really specific. I went travelling a bit, after I graduated.’ He hoped that sounded intrepid. If she pushed, he’d have to admit to a long summer in Southern California, instead of a soul‐searching, mind‐expanding adventure in Nepal.

‘Which was when?’

‘Um. 2005.’ Was it hot in here? Trip felt warm. His collar was itching.

‘What was your major then? Safe to say it wasn’t pre‐med, or law, I guess.’

It felt like she was laughing at him.