The Other Half (13 page)

“Now, lecture over.” Rob’s tone brightened. “Let’s decide what the girl’s to wear! You’ll need this.” He reached for the Spunky dress. “Perfect for when you want to hang out in those SoHo coffee bars. You’d better take this,” he picked out the Whistles suit, “because you never know when you might have to attend some smart business lunch, though I rather doubt he’s gonna be parading you in front of his colleagues. Come to that, are you planning on doing some networking of your own while you’re there?”

“I hadn’t thought of that—it’s a good idea. You never know who I might meet.”

“And you’ll need this, this, this, and this,” Rob continued, rapidly selecting two floaty dresses, a knee-length lace skirt, a short suede mini, some faded jeans, half a dozen tops, and a couple of scarves, including her favorite black-and-red satin one. Finally, he darted off to his room, and returned, proudly brandishing a feather boa. “From day…” he said, campily wrapping it around his neck, “to evening!”

Chloë laughed.

“I’ll leave you to sort out the most important thing in private.” He turned to go.

“What’s that?”

“Your underwear,” he replied, and shut the door.

*   *   *

They had little chance to speak until they met at the airport, and they weren’t able to chat much on the plane either, because James was traveling business class, which, when he came to book Chloë’s ticket, was full. It was economy or nothing—naturally he’d opted for economy, but he’d said he was worried she’d think he was mean. Chloë couldn’t care less: she was far too excited to have a single negative thought. And while it meant no canoodling during the flight, at least they could both get a little sleep.

“Chloë?”

She woke with a start. James had to stand in the aisle and lean over two other passengers to talk to her. “Ye-es,” she said, gradually coming to.

“We’re nearly there. The plane’s in a holding pattern. Look.”

Out of the window, she could see it.

Manhattan.

Teeny weenie from their height, nevertheless enormous compared to the panoramic urban sprawl and dense highways that surrounded it. There was the Empire State, the Chrysler Building, and now she could see Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty … Configured from a thousand movies and TV shows, symbol of her passions and dreams, it was a familiar silhouette—Chloë’s Oz. Yet even though the baby-pink clouds of sunset made it look more fairy tale than ever, it was somehow different from what she’d expected.

She prodded herself. Yes, that was why: because this
wasn’t
a movie or a dream, it was real. Finally, at twenty-nine years of age, she was arriving in New York. Or rather, and better still, she was being taken to New York by a man who she fancied and liked more by the minute. She was so overwhelmed she thought she would burst.

No picture can do it justice, she observed, as the plane continued to descend. The reduced scale can’t convey the magnitude of the place in 3-D. And that Manhattan is an island is somehow unexpected too. It seems larger as we’re getting closer—and if the buildings seem big from this height, they must be
huge
! Coming into Heathrow compared to this, I mean
puh-lease.

For a second, carried away by the view through the window, Chloë forgot James was still standing in the aisle. Yet she wanted to share how she was feeling, so struggled to put it into words. “It makes London look so wimpy,” was all she could manage.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the steward, tapping him on the shoulder, “could you return to your seat and fasten your seat belt for landing?”

*   *   *

What might have been the drag of immigration and customs was fun because at last they could be together. Then there was more mythology made real—the exhilaration of Chloë’s first New York taxi ride.

“Can you open the trunk?” he asked the driver, immediately adapting his vocabulary to the environment. How worldly, thought Chloë. “Here’s where we’re going.” He handed the driver the address, who nodded in response. From the outset James had refused to tell Chloë where they were staying. “I want to surprise you,” he’d said.

Inside, an unsmiling passport-sized photograph of the driver, accompanied by his ID number, was taped crudely on the dirty glass partition in front of them; the seating was functional plastic. It was a far cry from the spacious luxury of a London cab, but Chloë loved that; it had the echo of De Niro danger that a black taxi never could.

As they sped along the freeway through suburban New Jersey, Chloë was struck by the sheer
otherness
of it all. Not only were they on the wrong side of the road surrounded by cars much wider and more angular than their rounded European counterparts, but the hoardings were bigger, brighter, brasher too. NEED THERAPY? screamed one in thirty-foot scarlet letters followed by a 1–800 number. Only in America, thought Chloë. Though the way I’m living at the moment, Rob would say I should give them a call.

They’d missed rush hour, so although the roads were busy with people coming into the city for the evening, they made it through the Lincoln Tunnel and up into Manhattan in little over half an hour.

James tapped the partition. “Could we make a detour via Sixth Avenue, please?” He turned to Chloë. “Then we can see a bit more before we get there.”

“So where are we?” she asked, gazing in awe up, up at the buildings.

“Midtown. This is Forty-Second Street.”

We’re not
watching
a movie, thought Chloë, we’re
in
a musical.

“Previously I’ve tended to stay downtown,” James explained. “It’s where Beth used to live so I know it better. It’s more our scene really.”
Our
scene. He’d said “our scene”! Linking them together, as an item, an “us” … “But I wanted to be well away from the rest of the UK Magazines crowd—far as I’m aware, they’re all staying in SoHo. I’ve somewhere very special booked for us, plus it’s nearer the conference venue, so we can spend more time just me and you.”

She glanced over at him. Already he appears more relaxed, far freer than he is in London, she thought. Seeing him like this, I can picture him as a small boy—so eager and enthusiastic.

She pushed the down arrow to open the window. The warm wind in her hair was exhilarating and Chloë felt high.

The city even smells different from home, she realized. The combination of steam from the subway, the plethora of restaurants, and so many people tightly wedged together makes it sweeter, more intense. And the crossings really do have signs that say W
ALK/
D
ON’T
W
ALK
, every building really does have a fire escape on the outside, vendors really do sell anything and everything on every corner, sirens really do scream all the time …

At that moment—oh wow! A razzle-dazzle of pulsating neon lights.

“Times Square!” Chloë grabbed James’s arm as if he’d never seen it before.

He grinned, clearly enjoying her reaction.

Presently the taxi pulled up on Forty-sixth Street.

“We’re here,” he said and handed the driver his fare as Chloë got out.

On the sidewalk, Chloë scanned for a hotel sign, but there was nothing to indicate where they were; only a smart coffee shop to their right and a dark bar filled with hip-looking people sipping cocktails to their left.

Surely if we were somewhere that legendary it would be advertising its presence in giant letters and bright lights? she thought, deflated.

Yet James picked up both suitcases and swept through the doors with confidence. Chloë followed him.

“Oh,” she said, once inside—she was so gobsmacked, it was all she could manage.

As a magazine journalist, Chloë had been to almost every landmark hotel London had to offer—launch party at the Dorchester, tea at the Ritz, drinks at Claridge’s, and more—but this lobby was like nothing she’d seen before.

An architectural showpiece with the ambience of a nightclub, she needed several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting so she could take everything in. The checkered carpet resembled a giant chessboard on which a bizarre collection of seating had been assembled by a playful curator. Chairs upholstered in mixed materials and jewel colors jostled alongside rotund ethnic stools and comfortable colonial-style sofas, even a chaise longue. A stone staircase swept in a crescent down into the atrium; in the candlelight it appeared suspended in midair.

“Welcome to the Paramount,” said James.

“Ah, of course.” Chloë loved it: how could she ever have doubted him?

They lugged their cases over to reception, and James gave all his details to the nice-looking man behind the marble-topped counter. Then they took the elevator up to the fourth floor and made their way along the corridor, checking for their room number. Finally, James inserted the card into the lock and opened the door.

“Phew,” he said, dropping the suitcases. “At bloody last.”

The room was not huge—this is New York after all, thought Chloë, space is at a premium—but it was decorated in white throughout, which ensured the few features created real impact. There was an asymmetrically designed marble-topped desk and a huge double bed, and where one would expect the headboard to be, Vermeer’s
The Lacemaker
stared knowingly out of the corner of her eye onto the covers, as if defying Chloë and James to shock her with their antics. The bathroom was similarly compact, but on the cone-shaped chrome sink with its swordlike point was a single bloodred rose, creating a distinct S & M air.

“Aaah!” said Chloë, flinging herself onto the bed. “Do you know what? My senses have gone into utter overload. For once, I’m not sure I’m up to a shag.”

“Thank God for that.” James laughed. “Because I’m not up for anything until I’ve had a nap.”

*   *   *

“Hey, James,” whispered Chloë the next morning, kissing the dip between his shoulder-blades. “This is your rude awakening…”

He rolled over to face her. For a moment he looked confused, then he seemed to realize where he was, and—unless she was mistaken—who
she
was.

“Hi.” He smiled. They’d been curled up together throughout the night, although James had said that he wasn’t normally comfortable sleeping spoons-style. But they had both been out for the count for hours, so Chloë concluded that he didn’t seem to have a problem with this kind of closeness where she was concerned.

Nor did he seem to have a problem getting aroused, and they made love slowly and sensually, enjoying the luxury of it being their first morning together and not having to rush.

“That was lovely,” sighed Chloë, when they’d finished. Maybe it’s because I’m still getting to know him, she thought, but, I feel incredibly liberated sexually with James—and this is just the start of our stay.

As she got up he gave her bottom a mischievous smack. “Let’s go paint this town red.”

They made their way down for breakfast. Tables in alcoves overlooking the lobby allowed Chloë and James to watch as other guests headed off to work while they ate. Nonetheless the dimly lit dining area was disconcerting first thing in the morning, and tucking into coffee and croissants in a Gothic setting left Chloë even more confused about the time difference than she already was. The choice of food was lavish—everything was topped with a single strawberry: the yogurts, the fruit cocktails, the grapefruit halves, the pastries … It was such a heady concoction that Chloë felt quite intoxicated before they’d even left the building.

*   *   *

First stop was the pier at West Forty-second Street to catch a boat tour around Manhattan.

“The Circle Line is the one touristy thing we’re going to do,” said James. “It will help you get your bearings, so when you’re on your own in the city you’ll know where you are.”

It was a warm, crisp day with clear blue skies and a light breeze. Inevitably, the boat was full of tourists, but to Chloë’s surprise, many New Yorkers too. They sat out on the deck as the boat circumnavigated the island, down the Hudson River, past the West Village and Tribeca to the Financial District. They passed Ground Zero and the constructions being erected where the World Trade once was, and Chloe sensed a shiver go up her spine. They went around the Statue of Liberty and back to Battery Park City, then up the East River and under the bridges—Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg. Chloë took photos of them all. They glimpsed millionaires’ mansions with vast gardens leading down to the water and poor tenement blocks; the dominating presence of the United Nations alongside the Chrysler building glinting in the sun; even a prison and a monastery, and throughout were kept amused by the anecdotes of a very ironic guide.

“So that’s why the natives do it,” she said to James when the boat docked three hours later. “It was the best touristy thing I’ve ever done. Though I’d like to persuade you to make one more exception to your rule—it’s only a few blocks from our hotel according to this map…”

And so they went up the Empire State. At 102 floors up, Manhattan stretched out on all sides below; now Chloë could see the rectangle of Central Park, the gridded regularity of the streets, the varying heights, shapes, and architectural styles of the buildings. Momentarily she felt as if she could reach for the skies, achieve anything, be anyone she wanted to be.

But back at the hotel the receptionist brought them down to earth with a bump. “You had a message while you were out,” he said, handing over a slip of paper.

James unfolded it and paled. “Shit! Maggie!” he said. “I never phoned her to say I’d arrived safely.” He glanced nervously at Chloë. The receptionist looked away—doubtless he’d seen worse indiscretions.

“Why don’t I stay down here and you give her a call from the room?” she offered.

“Thanks,” said James. He charged off in the direction of the elevator, leaving Chloë unsure what to do with herself. In the end she made her way up the floating staircase to the bar and ordered a double espresso. Then she took a seat overlooking reception as they had at breakfast, and tried not to think about James sitting on their bed talking to his wife, and to focus instead on the people coming and going below.