Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Email from [email protected]:

Dear Olive,

Hope you’rewell.

I am writing regarding the phone call you made to your brother and I in the early hours of this morning. It was unfair of you to get in touch at daft o’clock, merely because you wanted to talk to your brother on your timeline and notours.

Alex already worries enough about you. Of course he always will – you are his baby sister after all. But I think he – we – expected that as the years went on there would be less of the baby and that you would be able to take care of yourself.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that you were upset about something, but it isn’t Alex’s or my place to fix things for you. We told you we thought it was a bad idea for you to fly to a new country on a whim, when your experience of new situations is, well, less than stellar. But you went, and while we are soooo proud of you for doing something new, we are not at your beck and call when things fall out of your control and you become upset.

I know you are back soon, but I wanted to say this now before my upset dissipates and I decide that the best course of action would be to say nothing at all for the sake of tension.

With truth, care andlove,

Donna

By Monday morning,I’ve managed to convince myself that no one will know that the Watch Me Piddle sketch was based on me. And even if people in the UK see it on the internet today, beyond the Joans, Birdie and Alex and Donna, I don’t really know many other people who would recognise me. There’s nothing I can do about it now and even though I am generally embarrassed and mad as hell at that stupid Seth Hartman, being consumed with my own humiliation will only take my mind off the task at hand. Which is to get to Wall Street and give Birdie’s letter to Chuck.

As I leave the apartment building, it immediately starts drizzling. I open the little umbrella I brought with me, congratulating myself on being so resourceful. See? It was worth bringing two types of umbrella for my trip – one compact one that will fit in my bumbag and a bigger one for when I’m carrying my over the shoulder handbag!

Despite the drizzle, Manhattan is in full flow. I say hello and goodbye to Lloyd the doorman and make my way down Riverside Drive. My plan this morning is for a quick breakfast at a deli Birdie has recommended, post Mrs Ramirez’s postcards and, from there, head right back to Chimes Investment in Wall Street and get this letter to Chuck Allen.

It only takes me a few minutes to reach the deli, which is called Zabar’s, and before I’ve opened the big glass doors, I’m salivating at the delicious bakery smell wafting out. I take down my brolly, shake it off and wander inside.

Wow, it’s enormous in here! Not only is it a place for breakfast, but a grocery store too! It’s already busy with people filling up trolleys full of artisanal cheeses and fresh bread and meats.

I head over to a small seating area, delighted to find that one of the few tables is miraculously free. Perfect! Maybe today is going to be a success!

As I take a seat, I notice a young woman nearby staring at me. For a moment, I wonder if my hair is tangled, or if I have toothpaste on my boob – both things that happen to me more regularly than is necessary. And then see exactly where she’s looking. Right at my pink bumbag!

Does… does she recognise me? No. Only people who know me would know that the Olivia character on Sunday Night Live was based on me, surely? Apart from the curly hair and bumbag, the actress didn’t look at all like me… She must just be admiring the lovely bright shade ofpink.

I turn my chair away from the staring woman and pick up my menu. As I do, a waitress in a crisp white shirt and a black checked skirt approaches. ‘Good morning! May I take your order?’

‘Ooh, I haven’t had time to look at the menu properly yet! Can I have another few minutes?’

As I speak, I notice even more people in the cafe start to look atme.

The waitress narrows her eyes slightly. ‘Do I… know you?’ sheasks.

I shake my head. ‘No, I don’t thinkso.’

‘Are you sure you haven’t been here before?’

‘I am pretty sure I haven’t. This is my first time in Manhattan, actually!’

The waitress frowns, her eyes flicking down to my bumbag. Then she shrieks. Really loudly. ‘Watch me piddle!’ she cries. ‘That’s it! Watch me piddle!’

Ohshit.

She shouts so loud that all surrounding noise comes to a halt and everyone in the place turns around to stare. One person even lifts up the phone to take a picture ofme.

Noooooo!

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I lie immediately, trying to act casual. ‘Ooh, the smoked salmon on bagel sounds amazing. Can I have that please? Thankyou!’

The waitress shakes her pretty blonde head in confusion. ‘But… you sound like the piddle woman and you look like the piddle woman and your pink fanny pack is identical.’

‘Actually mine has this cool sunshine hologram on it,’ I point out, realising a split second too late that I sound like an absolutenerd.

‘Oh, it’s definitely you!’ a hipstery-looking bloke says from the table opposite, beaming with pleasure. ‘You are exactly the same as the piddle woman. Did you really make someone watch you pee on a plane? Why would you do that? Is it a sexual thing?’

‘NO!’ I yell, my throat starting to tighten as everyone looks my way. ‘I don’t know what any of you are talking about! I just want to have some breakfast!’ I look at the waitress. ‘I just want a bagel with some smoked salmon!’

‘Whether you know or not, you were definitely impersonated on Sunday Night Live last night,’ hipstery bloke’s female companion says. ‘I would watch it if I wereyou…’

‘Definitely,’ the waitress adds, completely ignoring my order.

This is so very awkward. I don’t think I’ve ever had this many people looking at me at the same time! I feel my brow start to get sweaty. I want to just spiral down onto the floor so they all stop staring. Does everyone in New York watch Sunday Night Live? Argh!

A few other customers of the deli start to approach the area to ogle at me. One requests an autograph and a selfie. Another asks me if I want to accompany them to the nearest public bathroom.

And that’s when I decide that enough is enough.

Face flaming, I jump up from the table, chair screeching across the floor. I jog out of Zabar’s and into the street. My stomach rumbles at my missed bagel, my whole body smarts with embarrassment.

I put up my umbrella and stand dumbly in the middle of the street, feeling completely exposed. I can’t go through the rest of my day likethis!

Across the road I notice a grocery store. A little plan forms in my mind. I go in and ask them for a paper bag. Back outside, on the street, I unclip my pink bumbag and stuff it in the paper bag like it is some sort of contraband.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I love that bumbag, but thanks to horrible Seth Hartman, it is now a major identifiable feature of the piddle woman. I really loved wearing that as well. Right. I definitely need to hide my curls too. They made a big deal about how big my hair was in the sketch. And with the water quality here in New York they’re looking even more poofty than usual. I spot a chunky middle-aged man striding in my direction. He’s wearing a black beret.

‘Excuse me?’ I call, jumping in front of him to get his attention.

‘I ain’t interested, whatever it is!’ he grumbles, stompingpast.

Damn. I need a hat right away. I need thathat!

‘Please, sir!’ I yell after him. ‘I want to buy yourhat!’

The man stops walking and spins around. He takes a closer look at me under my umbrella. ‘You wanna buy this?’ he points at his head, eyebrows shooting up. ‘Howmuch?’

I shrug and lift my chin. ‘How much youwant?’

‘Fifty dollars.’

‘Ten dollars,’ I counter-offer, folding myarms.

The man’s scowling face breaks into a warm smile. He takes the beret off his head and hands it to me. ‘It cost me five bucks from a thrift store. It’s not even my favourite beret.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I say, giving him his money and taking the beret.

‘Hey,’ his eyes glint with recognition. ‘Don’t I knowyou?’

Poop. Another Sunday Night Live fan. ‘No. It’s not me. I was not on Sunday Night Live. Goodbye. All the best toyou.’

I back away, shielding my face from the man. He’s calling after me, something about the New York Daily paper, I think. But I ignore him, spin around and hurry off down the street, pulling on the beret as I do and tucking as many of my curls as I can up intoit.

Securing my umbrella underneath my chin, I take out my phone and turn the camera on to check if I’m still recognisable.

Aha! My disguise worked. Without my mass of mad curls, I just look like any other girl in New York, casually wearing a beret like I’m the kind of person who can pull it off! No one will recognise me now. I feel sweet relief sweep over me. Now I can get back to myday.

But before I do, I pout into the camera, snap a pic and immediately send it to Birdie with atext.

Who would have guessed I would suit a beret so much? I feel like maybe this is who I truly am. Do you likeit?

Within 30 secondsshe sends a reply.

You look like Samuel L Jackson.

I lift my chin defiantly.

I will choose to take that as a compliment.

* * *

Using trusty old Google,I find that the nearest mailbox isn’t too far away on 106th Street and West End Avenue.

As I approach it, I pull the bumbag out of the grocery bag and unzip the back pocket to find Mrs Ramirez’s postcards, and as I do I hear a vaguely familiar voice.

Huh? I don’t know anyone in New York? Ooh, is it someone famous? I turn my head around to follow the sound of the voice and… Oh. My. Goodness.

What thehell?

Standing under a red bar canopy, waiting out the rainfall and chatting casually to a beautiful strawberry blonde woman with the kind of good skin that comes only from a true dedication to expensive face masks, is that absoluteturd.

Seth Hartman.

The dirty, rotten queue-jumping identity thief.