The Girl Next Door (21 page)

So she didn’t see Jackson.

It was Raoul who’d told him she was doing it. The New York City Triathlon. He’d sidled up to him in the lobby a few nights ago, and delivered the information in an elaborate stage whisper, like some bumbling spy. He’d Googled the event, not daring to ask her directly. He could guess what she might say, if he asked if he could come and support her. He knew what a triathlon was, but until he read about it on Wikipedia, he’d had no idea of the distances involved. Now he was seriously impressed, and embarrassed at the memory of his own attempts on the racing bike. And thinking, not for the first time, that he was really fighting above his weight when it came to Emily Mikanowski.

He didn’t know who’d be there for her. Legions of Emily fans, he presumed. But he had to try.

She came out of the water sooner than he’d thought. It had to have been less than half an hour, he reckoned. Wow. She emerged like Ursula Andress in a wetsuit, and he saw her straight away, pulling her swimming cap off, her platinum ponytail tumbling to her shoulders. And ran right past him. Shit. That hadn’t been the plan.

Next leg then.

Except that spectators and supporters weren’t allowed on the West Side highway – it was deemed by the organizers to be dangerous. So he couldn’t catch the end of the cycle ride. He would have to wait for ninety minutes or more, until the end of the third leg, the run. He headed over straight away, determined to bag a place at the front. The road race would wind its way through the park, ending up near the 72nd Street transverse, at the Bandshell. There was already quite a crowd, and a festival atmosphere. A steel band was playing. He wondered if he’d been stupid to come. There had to be hundreds of people here, if not thousands. And she wasn’t expecting to see anyone – she wouldn’t be looking out for him.

The organizers had set up a zone for finishers. There was a water station, and someone handing out silver blankets. Medical‐looking people. A long row of people in triathlon T‐shirts held hundreds of medals on ribbons. Once you’d passed the finish line, had your number taken, picked up what you needed, and collected your medal, you filtered out of that zone and you were loose in the park. That was where Jackson waited. He’d miss her actual finish, but he stood a better chance of spotting her here, where the crowd was thinner.

And then, there she was. Looking pretty fresh and strong. She chatted for a moment with the guy who put the medal around her neck, laughing at something he said, and the triumph of the moment. She didn’t look around at the crowd. Maybe there wasn’t anyone there for her. Except for him. She didn’t seem to be expecting anyone or anything. She looked so beautiful. Like an Amazon.

And then she saw him. At that point he was hard to miss. Because he was wearing a neon yellow T‐shirt, on which he had had printed, in huge pink letters

GO

EMILY!

It clashed beautifully with the red baseball cap bearing the same legend. He’d had them made up in one of those dodgy‐looking printing shops near Times Square.

Now he stood with his arms wide and his chest out, smiling.

And Emily smiled back, a smile especially for him. And he felt rewarded. She walked towards him, and the blue eyes sparkled. ‘You’re an idiot.’

‘You’re my hero.’

She laughed. Charlotte was going to swoon, when she got back. Actually swoon. It was pretty nice. It probably constituted fuss. But it was pretty nice.

‘I thought about balloons.’

‘I hate balloons.’

‘Or flowers.’

‘They’d have wilted. It’s hot out here.’

‘Exactly. I’ve wilted, too, but it isn’t so obvious.’

They stood about two feet apart and looked at each other.

‘Are you okay? I mean, how do you feel? I can’t imagine…’

‘I’m great. Feel fantastic. I’ll be sore later. And I’ll sleep like the dead. But right now… I’m golden.’

‘You look golden.’ She did.

‘Can I walk you home?’ She surely couldn’t object to that, could she?

‘That’d be nice.’

It was lovely to be with her. Strangers congratulated her, a few kids raising their palms for a high five. New Yorkers loved an athlete. People probably thought they were a couple, Jackson thought, and he liked how it felt.

She was quiet, but it was comfortable quiet. Not like dinner had been. Maybe she was just exhausted. But either way, he liked how it felt.

When they got back to the apartment, she turned to him and gave a funny little bow. ‘Thank you, Trip. That was very sweet.’

‘You’re very welcome.’

She nodded shyly. ‘Now I’m going to go upstairs and get in a bath.’

‘Okay.’

‘So I’ll see you sometime, hey?’

What was that? He’d hoped for a bit more. But something told him not to push. Let her think about it for a while. Think about him. He was in no hurry, he realized. Emily Mikanowski was worth waiting for.

The following Sunday afternoon Jackson’s elevator and his heart stopped on Emily’s floor. He crossed his fingers and prayed to someone that it would be Emily, not the Asian guy or grumpy Arthur, waiting to get in, and someone rewarded him. Emily was wearing a cobalt‐blue strapless jersey sundress, and carrying a laundry basket, on top of which were bottles of laundry detergent and fabric softener.

‘Hi.’ She smiled warmly at him, then tilted her head downwards, towards the plastic basket. ‘Laundry.’

‘Let me help?’ He took the basket before she could argue.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. How are the muscles?’

‘Fine!’

On the ground floor, she tried to take the laundry from him, but he kept going, walking to the back of the building, where the service elevator took them down the last floor into the basement.

‘You really don’t need to.’

‘It’s nothing. Listen. No more grand gestures. I promise. I can see that isn’t your kind of thing. But how about a coffee? Just while you wait for your laundry? What is that, anyway? Twenty minutes, half an hour tops. Don’t tell me you had anything better to do…’

She reached into the basket, and pulled out
People
magazine. ‘Just this!’

‘I rest my case…’

He bought them two iced lattes, and carried them into the park where they sat on a bench near the 72nd street entrance. The park was crowded with people already. New York out to enjoy the stunning weekend weather.

‘I think we got off to a rotten start, Emily.’

‘Jackson…’ she tried to interrupt him.

‘No, no, please just listen to me, for a minute.’ He raised a hand, and she sat back.

‘I haven’t been honest with you, not entirely. About who I am… I admit, I don’t have a job. I live off my parents, effectively, who are either patient enough, or stupid enough, to let me, while they wait to see if I’m going to turn out to be any good at all. I drink too much, I smoke the occasional joint. I keep owl hours, and I never make my own bed. I have been to bed with more girls than I should have done, and most of them I didn’t really care for. I’m not fit – can’t run for a bus. I’m all of that. I’m almost certainly not good enough for you, and I don’t claim to be.

‘You’re beautiful and smart and an athlete and everything. You’re… you’re lovely. I was trying to play it cool, and handing you a line, simply because I felt less cool than I ever had in my life before when I was around you. Still do. But here’s the thing, Emily. I felt something. I felt something I’m pretty sure I never have before. You’ve made me think about things differently, and that has really,
really
shaken me.

‘And the other thing is, I think you felt it, too. Just a bit, maybe. But I think you did. And so, I just wanted to bring you out here, and buy you a coffee, and… and tell you. Just in case you think it might be possible for you not to judge me on who you think I am, or who I was, maybe. But maybe a little more on who I could be. Who I want to be.

‘And if that doesn’t sound like an outrageous suggestion, whether you might consider possibly going out with me for dinner again. Starting over.’

He was a funny one, this one. He was right. About a couple of things. She had judged him. She knew she had. And she
had
felt something, in spite of him, and in spite of herself. And now this diatribe.

‘Dinner?’

‘Just dinner.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Or lunch. Or brunch. Breakfast, even…’

‘So long as there’s food, right?’

‘There doesn’t have to be food. We can go bowling if you like.’

Now she laughed. ‘I hate bowling.’

‘Thank God. I’m crap at bowling. And cycling.’

‘Okay, so lunch.’

‘Lunch. Lunch sounds great. Lunch sounds epic. When?’

‘One day. Soon. Maybe.’

‘So I make my big speech, and you’re still playing it cool…’

She smiled. ‘Have to make the most of my advantage, don’t I?’

Eve

At 6.30 p.m. on a Tuesday, in mid July, the lights went out all over Manhattan. The subways stopped in their tracks. The air‐conditioning units that had been cooling apartments and offices and stores across the city went quiet. The televisions, blaring out the early evening news, were suddenly silent. It was the first major power blackout of the summer. The six million or so residents of the small island had brought the ancient, complicated system to its knees, and it had protested, faltered, and given up. Con Edison, the power company that handled most of the grid in New York, swung into action, but the spokesman who gave interviews to the radio reporters said it would take at least eight hours to restore power to most people, and that residents should expect to be in darkness well into the night. People were supposed to have kits ready – at least one of the five boroughs had a power out each summer. The last great city‐wide blackout had been in 2003. People still told stories about it. Eve had got talking to a jolly woman in a shop on Amsterdam, only the week before, and she’d told her that she’d walked from Amsterdam in the 80s all the way home to Queens that day, with her toddler in a stroller. Somewhere in the 60s they’d met a woman carrying her own toddler, and so they’d shared the stroller, all the way back. Been great friends ever since. The woman said New Yorkers had been changed overnight on 9/11, and that they’d been changed again that night. A common enemy, she said – that was all you needed. Al Qaeda, or Con Ed – it made no difference, really.

Ed was in Chicago with work. Eve busied herself while it was still light, feeling a little excited – and a little irritated –
Grey’s Anatomy
was on tonight. Television in general, and her favourite programmes in particular, had taken on a disproportionate importance in her life over the recent months. Sometimes she talked to Ed about characters as though they were real (because she almost thought of them that way), and he shook his head at her, smiling that half laugh. She found the flash‐light she’d bought at Bed Bath & Beyond only a couple of weeks earlier, after she’d heard the blackout stories. She put tiny votive candles intended for intimate dinners and romantic seductions along the window sill in the living room, and in the kitchen. She filled the kettle, and a couple of saucepans. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed like a good idea. She wondered about the contents of the fridge freezer, and realized there was nothing she could do about them. Bugger – she regretted the big shop she’d done at the weekend. She’d bought as many bags of frozen fruit as she thought she could fit in – raspberries and strawberries and mangoes, vowing to juice and smoothie herself and the baby daily. She had no idea how long it would take for stuff to thaw and get ruined, but she hoped the power wouldn’t be off all night – she was a bit of a scaredy cat. She usually kept the telly or the radio on all night when Ed was away, and it was going to get awfully dark and awfully quiet later on, without power. Her cellphone rang, and Ed’s name flashed on the screen.

‘Hello, power cut central here.’

‘Oh, God. No, really?’

‘Really. Trust you to miss the first one.’

He was instantly defensive. ‘It isn’t like I planned it this way.’

‘I wasn’t serious.’ This was happening too much lately – they seemed to get three sentences into a conversation before it turned sour. She knew she was touchy. But he was crabby, too.

‘You sounded serious.’ There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘I just hate that you aren’t here.’

All she wanted was comfort. To be verbally stroked down the phone. For him to commiserate with her, just for a moment. He was right – it was no big deal. If he’d done that, she’d have been fine.

He didn’t.

‘God, Eve, it’s just a power cut, for Chrissake. Light a damn candle. Go to bed – you’re asleep the whole time anyway.’

‘That’s not fair.’ He left by 7 a.m. every morning – who the hell wasn’t asleep then? And if she dozed off on the sofa in the evening, waiting for him to come home, then… so what – she was pregnant.

‘I just don’t understand why you’re making so much fuss.’

She threw the phone down. She’d never done that to him, ended a call in anger, not in all the years they’d been together. Her hand shook, and tears sprang into her eyes.

The phone rang again, and Ed’s name flashed up. She let it go to voicemail.

When she checked, he hadn’t left a message.

She thought he might have rung to apologize, but she’d forgotten how stubborn he could be. There would be no appeasement tonight.

Charlotte

Charlotte was the happiest woman in the city at this moment. She couldn’t wait to tell Emily. This was the kind of thing that happened in her novels. And in her dreams. Not in real life. But here she was. The elevator had stopped. Somewhere between the first and second floors. To think, she’d contemplated taking the stairs – she’d been reading an article at lunchtime on ways to get fitter in your everyday life, and it said you should climb more stairs, but it was so damn hot, and she was tired. So she’d taken the elevator for one floor. And now it was stuck. She wasn’t in the least bit scared. Not, at least, about the elevator. There was an emergency light – it had flickered on almost as soon as the elevator had juddered to a stop. The alarm had been sounded, so people – the right people – knew what had happened, but the power out was city wide, and it might take the firemen hours to get to the building. Firemen would be coming. To rescue her. But she hoped it took all them all night to get here. Let them rescue every other person in the city first.