Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

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Chuck Allen’s family owns, like, an entire block in Gramercy Park. His parents, him and even a cousin lived there! Unless they’ve sold the block (which I highly doubt because Manhattan real estate tends to stay in families for hundreds of years), he will be living in one of the luxury apartments. And if not, his parents or some elite who knows him will be there and they can tell you his whereabouts. I doubt he’ll be too far away – the Allens are to Gramercy Park what Serena van der Woodsen and Blair Waldorf are to The Upper East Side. XOXO GOSSIPGIRL ;)

The next morning,after a long and patchy sleep, I squeeze myself into the world’s narrowest shower cubicle and have a good old scrub, bruising my elbows in the process. I dry my hair as gently as possible so that it doesn’t explode into its usual wild halo, but it’s no use. Something in the water here has made it look even bigger than usual. I wouldn’t mind – voluminous hair is lovely on most people – but I have quite a small head and a short body, so the effect is one of complete disproportion. I pull the disobedient chestnut waves back into a ponytail and get dressed into a navy blue T-shirt dress, maroon tights, long knitted cardi, black pumps and a turquoise cotton scarf on account of the mild weather.

I double, triple and quadruple-check that I have Birdie’s letter to Chuck, my phone, dollars, Rescue Remedy and blister plasters (which, one of the apps tells me, is a must for walking around NYC) in my bumbag, make sure it is securely tied around my waist and leave the studio apartment.

Outside the building, the sweet doorman Lloyd starts chatting to me about the weather. Most people find talking about the weather to be dull. But I like it! I like having a fair idea of what the temperature will be and what kind of clothes I’ll need. Lloyd seems to enjoy it too, although he suggests that the weather in New York can be somewhat capricious, which isn’t great to hear. He’s just recommending that I go and see the cherry blossom blooming at the Botanical Gardens (which sounds like a much more pleasant activity than standing on rooftops) when my phone beeps with a reminder.

Shit! According to the schedule I planned out on the travel planner app this morning, I should be arriving at the subway station in three minutes because the train is insix!

‘I have to go!’ I tell Lloyd, zooming into the map on my phone. ‘Sorry, Lloyd! I need to catch my train, stat!’

‘Yes! Go! Enjoy New York City! Have a wonderful day!’ Lloyd cheerily calls after me as I scuttleoff.

I wave goodbye and once I’ve rounded the corner of the street, I look at my watch and start to full-on sprint in order to make it to the subway station on time. I’m not particularly fond of running, and I’m not very good at it, but I definitely do not want to miss my planned train. If I miss it then all the connecting trains I planned for get thrown out of whack and everything messes up. It basically turns into the butterfly effect and the next thing I know I’m Ashton Kutcher waking up with noarms.

Or something.

Fortunately, I make it just in time, my freshly washed hair now sticky with sweat and my nice maroon tights – that I am now realising are just that tad bit small for me – rolling down my belly and hanging low at the crotch. The subway is crowded and awkward, but it’s on the ground and there are no bouncy castle slides and judgey air hostesses so, you know, I’m not complaining.

Thanks to my collection of apps and their various alarms and notifications that inform me when I’m supposed to switch stations, I manage to change my subways without any major upsets.

As I step out onto the pavement at 23rd Street station, I’m struck by just how huge everything is here. The roads are so wide! Triple the size of British roads. The buildings are gigantic, even the windows are bigger than athome.

It’s busy, as I expected it would be on a weekend, but not so busy as to cause me any hassle. Not Manchester Arndale on Christmas Eve busy. I did that once – a dire mistake that I will never make again.

Squinting down at my phone, I follow the map towards Chuck’s last known address on East 18th street. I turn a corner and it’s almost as if I’m in an entirely different place. Gone are the Starbucks and Radio Shacks, lines of yellow cabs and super-fast walkers. That’s all been replaced with beautiful, majestic, old red-brick buildings with sophisticated facades, steps leading up to glossy front doors, all shaded by trees in full foliage. It’s absolutely gorgeous!

As I get further down the street, I notice an elegant row of about four brownstones, the first and biggest of them covered with climbing ivy. I look at the email. This is the house! It looks like something from a movie! Wow.

I step onto the first stair leading up to the door and notice that there are lamps lit inside, glittering through the window. Someone is in. Maybe Chuck Allen is inside there right now. I wonder what he’s like? If Birdie’s past flings are any indicator, he’ll be unbearably handsome, athletic and just a little bitdumb.

My stomach flips with nerves that I’m actually here. At how crazy this entire thing is. How is Chuck going to feel when he finds out I’ve been sent here by Birdie? Is her letter going to make him sad? Or will he pleased to know that she still holds a candle for him after all these years? Happy that she forgives him for being a douchebag and going to Princeton instead of Manchester Uni? Either way, it’s pretty nerve-wracking to be the person bearing news of this magnitude.

I ascend the last four steps up to the sleek navy blue front door and grab hold of the brass knocker, knocking three times.

Eeeeeeek.

I wait for someone to answer, biting my thumbnail as I do so. Ooh! There’s a shadow behind the door! Someone’s coming!

Heregoes!

I take a deep breath as the door is pulled open by a man wearing a haughty expression. He’s around my age, very tall, very thin and icy blonde with long pale lashes. He’s wearing a black linen shirt with extravagant ruffles at the sleeves. He’s very striking in a way that’s so symmetrical it’s almost not real. He looks a bit like a villain in a movie set in the future. A handsome CGI villain. Not at all what I’d expect to be Birdie’s type. But then she’s been known to surprise me in thepast…

This can’t be Chuck Allen, canit?

‘Hiya!’ I say uncertainly. ‘My name is Olive.’

The guy just stares at me, so I clear my throat and try again.

‘Are… is your name Chuck Allen atall?’

‘Who wants toknow?’

‘I’m Olive Brewster. I have a message from Birdie. Chuck’s, um… teenage sweetheart?’

He nods slowly, looking me up anddown.

‘Yes, comein.’

Bingo!