Chapter 27

Chapter Twenty-Seven

@ElissaJohnson

I just spoke with the police. They caught the woman who stole my key. The Menace of Manhattan. And they let her go!!!!! Not enough evidence, low priority apparently.

@ElissaJohnson

This is #outrageous. My word is not good enough evidence? This is not a #lowpriority tome.

@ElissaJohnson

They say she is on her way back to the UK and I will not have to worry about her anymore. But where is my key? What about my trauma?

@ElissaJohnson

I have not slept a wink since I caught her caressing herself right in front of me in #broaddaylight

@ElissaJohnson

Please RT this thread for awareness. Private NY parks should be peaceful, protected #safespaces for parkside residents. So, so important!

@ElissaJohnson

Why are people unfollowingme?

Within thirty minutesof making my grand statement, it occurs to me that the adrenaline kick I got from being on the rooftop has made me slightly delirious – because while my intent to find Chuck Allen holds true, my usual nature of thinking of all the logistics has failed me. What about my job? Where will I stay? How will I afford to get a later flight back? What about the fact that Birdie and I were supposed to do the Harry Potter Marathon this weekend? And what will Donna and Alexsay?

‘I have never met anyone who frets so much!’ Mrs Ramirez says from where she’s sitting in the front of the cab. At Anders’ insistence, we’re in another taxi, whizzing our way to his house to hold a planning meeting because he couldn’t bear to be in a room the size of his shoe closet any longer. Mrs Ramirez agreed that moving to Anders’ house was a very good idea, especially since her poorly knee had kept her indoors for weeks and she was desperate to getout.

‘I am learning to be more relaxed,’ I point out from my place in the back seat beside Anders. ‘But these are genuine logistical points!’

‘Everything can be fixed,’ Anderssays.

‘Birdie can’t,’ I say sadly.

‘Most things can be fixed.’

‘Where will Istay?’

‘Withme!’

‘I can’t do that!’ I get a vision of waking up in the night to find Anders standing over me with a bottle of Olaplex and some high-end cutting razor.

‘It’s no problem!’ he drawls, as if my protest is out of politeness rather thanfear.

‘And I can’t afford a flight back. Shit.’

‘I have air miles!’ Mrs Ramirez shouts out from her place in the front. ‘I have travelled all over the world. Now I am too old, I have so many air miles saved that I can longeruse!’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, leaning forward towards her seat in the front. ‘That’s too generous. I can’t possibly!’

Mrs Ramirez waves away my protest. ‘What else am I gonna do with them? I go on a flight these days and my knee joint swells up to the size of a Santa Claus melon!’

‘Thank you! Okay… well… what about myjob?’

The Joans have been so good to me, but they’re not going to let me have time off indefinitely, after all, I am the best fish filleter in the Greater Manchesterarea.

‘Just call them up, ask them for some moretime!’

‘But…’ I start. My mind is so used to coming up with potential problems and worries that it feels weird not to have one immediately athand.

Huh.

I take out my phone and call Taller Joan’s mobile.

‘Hello Joan’s FreshFish.’

‘Joan, it’s Olive!’ Isay.

‘Olive! It’s Olive,’ I hear her repeat, presumably to Tall Joan. ‘We miss you! We can’t wait to see you tomorrow and hear all about the Big Apple. Did you have a fabulous time? Did you meet anyone interesting?’

‘Well, that’s the thing… I’m kind of… stillhere.’

There’s silence on the other end for a moment. Shit. She’s mad. They’re going to fire me and hire someone else. Someone with the name Joan who will fit in way better than I everdid.

‘Ah…Is everything okay, Olive?’

‘Yes,’ I lie. ‘I just… would you be really mad if I took another four or fivedays?’

I expect Joan to at least fuss a little, to verbally try to figure out how they’ll manage, what cover they’ll have, how they will cope without me. But instead, to my great surprise, she answers immediately.

‘Of course, love! Take as long as you want! If you need to stay longer, youcan!’

‘Well Birdie’s surgery is next Monday so I’ll definitely be back bythen.’

‘Great!’ Joan says brightly. ‘No worries at all, mylove.’

‘Are you sure? I mean… Won’t you struggle withoutme?’

‘It must be costing you a fortune to call from Manhattan!’ Joan says, seeming to avoid my question. ‘Give us a bell when you get back, won’tyou?’

‘Okay… See you then, I guess.’

‘Yes. Yes. Must go, there’s a customer. Byelove!’

Joan ends thecall.

‘You fixed it?’ Anders asks as I stare at my blank phone screen.

‘Yeah.’ I reply with a slight frown. ‘It was all… very simple.’

Somehow, a little too simple.

* * *

At Anders’house, we sit down in his grand living room, while his housekeeper, Jan, makes us all breakfast. I go for toast and hot coffee, Anders sips on a strong Bloody Mary and Mrs Ramirez – who cannot stop marveling at the size of Anders’ place – opts for a stack of pancakes with bacon, maple syrup, and scrambledeggs.

‘You only have one life to live!’ she says, patting her stomach happily.

After breakfast, another coffee and a long, soul-cleansing shower in Anders’ luxurious wet room, the three of us gather at the dining table. Mrs Ramirez is holding a notepad and pen. Anders is poised over his laptop, wearing a headset. I’m not sure the headset is even switched on, I think it’s just forshow.

We spend the next hour or so coming up with plans to get the word out about Chuck. All of Mrs Ramirez’s ideas are small and sweet – hold a raffle, send out leaflets, put a notice up in the window of her local deli, she can email her online friends and see if anyone knows anything. All of Anders’ ideas are outlandish and ridiculous – hire every billboard in times square and put up a picture of Chuck with the words ‘Where are you Chuck?’ or pay for a Kardashian to do a sponsored Instagram post asking for people to just ‘keep an eyeout’.

‘Oh! You can get in touch with the man from Sunday Night Live,’ Mrs Ramirez says. ‘He has access to the biggest show in America. He must be able tohelp.’

‘I don’t think he has that much power there,’ I say. ‘He’s a behind the scenes person.’

At the thought of Seth my stomach flips happily. I wonder how his audition went? I wonder if he’s upset that I never turned up to his show last night? Is that why he hasn’t texted? He thinks that I stood him up without any notice? Shit, he probably thinks I’m back in theUK!

‘Surely he’ll know some PR people, darling?’ Anders says. ‘The kind of people who know exactly what it takes to hire every billboard in Times Square.’

That’s true – the Times Square thing is clearly ridiculous – nobody could organise that – but Seth might have some good contacts in publicity… People who can get the word out about Chuck in a large-scale way that’s also affordable and efficient.

And… I should definitely call him anyway. I don’t like the idea of him thinking I just ignored his invitation. Even it was because I was briefly incarcerated!

I quickly pick up my phone from the table and press Seth’s number. There’s no answer. And, of course, he doesn’t have voicemail.

‘No answer,’ I grumble. ‘He must bebusy’

‘Or he saw you were calling and decided to ignore it,’ Anders points out with a sniff. ‘People do that, youknow?’

‘He must be upset that you stood him up,’ Mrs Ramirez adds. ‘Being stood up for a date is terrible. It happened to me once. Back in nineteen ninety-two. I was backpacking Brazil and I was supposed to be having a date with a man I’d met. Marco, his name was. I’d met him that morning at the market. And when he didn’t turn up I was devastated. I’d dressed up in a beautiful blue dress—’

‘How was your hair styled?’ Anders interrupts.

‘Loose. It was even longer backthen.’

Anders nods with approval, a nostalgic smile on his face, almost as if he’d been there in Brazil with Mrs Ramirez.

‘Anyway, I waited. And I waited. I sat at the bar feeling sadder and sadder. I was humiliated.’

‘That’s awful,’ I say. ‘Oh man. I hope Seth didn’t feel like that.’ I dial his number again. ‘I was in jail. And it wasn’t a date. It was just a casual invite to see his improv troupe.’

‘Do you know that forsure…’

‘Well yeah. I live in England. He lives in New York. He stitched me up on television. He… he jumps queues. It can’t have been an actual properdate…’

But thatkiss…

‘I haven’t had a date in ten years.’ Anders says wistfully.

‘Outrageous,’ Mrs Ramirez says. ‘But you are so handsome.’

‘I know,’ Anders responds. ‘Maybe too handsome.’

I stare at the pair of them, suppressing a giggle, and stand up. ‘Guys, I’m going to go to Seth’swork.’

‘Aaah!’ Mrs Ramirez sings with a smile. ‘Good girl. Life is too short.’

‘No. I mean… just… for the PR thing. Like you said, he probably has great… contacts.’

Anders and Mrs Ramirez stare at me like they don’t believe a word I’m saying.

Fair enough.

I don’t believe me either.

* * *

After a speedy Google tofind out where the Sunday Night Live studios are located, I hail a cab and whizz my way to the famous Rockefeller Center in midtown Manhattan. It’s one good-looking skyscraper. I recognise it from so many of my favourite TV shows and movies.

The area outside the entrance is teeming with tourists excitedly taking pictures.

‘Tourists, right?’ a woman in jeans and a leather jacket says to me, as we both try to push past the crowd in a bid to get to the entrance.

She thinks I’m a New Yorker? A little spark of pride flares in my chest.

‘Right?’ I reply with an eye-roll. ‘Totally!’

I finally reach the entrance and push through the doors into a large, glossy lobby. I look up at the ceiling – it’s painted with a giant elaborate image of some beefy naked guys holding up the ceiling. Wow. This place is cool! I’m impressed that Seth works here. It feels like the centre of something exciting.

I march over to the main lobby desk and inform the young man behind it that I’d like to see Seth Hartman at Sunday NightLive.

The man looks me up and down. In a positive way or a negative way, I do not know. I think I look quite nice today, though, in blue jeans and a soft navy blouse with a little bow at the collar. ‘Is he expectingyou?’

‘No. Um. Can you just tell him it’s Olive. And that I really need to talk tohim.’

‘Well, we don’t usually…’ Then the guy blinks, his mouth slowly dropping open. ‘Oh my god, it’s you. You’re here? Oh wow!’ He starts to laugh and clap his hands together gleefully.

The daftest thing about this scenario is that I can’t be sure where this guy recognises me from: Sunday Night Live or the fact that I’ve been a running story in the New York Daily News. Dammit. I should have remembered to wear the beret!

‘Wow. I’ll call Hartman now,’ the young man says, enthusiastically. ‘It’s the main writing day today so he might not have much time to see you, if any at all. But I willtry!’

‘I don’t needlong.’

‘Wow.’ He clasps his hands to his chest. ‘How lucky you are to have been immortalised in a New York institution like Sunday Night Live. What a tale to tell, right?’

I smile and nod, a little thrown that this young person clearly thinks that being impersonated on TV is a good thing. Something I should be happy about. Even if it’s as a nutter with a fetish for bathroom voyeurism. Huh.

The guy calls Seth and within five minutes he’s there in the lobby. Standing right in front of me. My breath catches in my throat.

God. How did I not realise right away how sexy he is? He is very, verysexy.

‘Hello!’ I say, my heart already beating a drum through my wholebody.

‘Olive. I thought you’d be back in the UK bynow?’

‘Nope. Stillhere.’

After an odd pause in which we just stare at each other’s faces really intently, Seth shrugs. ‘Uh, is there anything I can helpwith?’

He sounds oddly formal. Professional. Peeved?

‘I didn’t stand you up!’ I blast out. ‘I mean, you probably didn’t even notice my absence at your show, either way, I’m—’

‘I noticed, Olive,’ Seth murmurs in a low voice, looking me directly in the eye in a way that makes my mouth salivate.

‘Oh. Well, I have a good excuse.’

‘You do?’ He asks, curious, despite himself.

‘Yeah. Yeah I do. I was arrested!’

Seth’s eyes go all round. ‘That’s a pretty good excuse. I guess they caughtyou!’

‘Wait… you know about the whole New York menace thing?’

Seth starts laughing, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. ‘We get sent the papers every week to use for our sketches. I saw all the articles yesterday morning. I was gonna show you last night, help you come up with an escape plan, but—’

‘They caught me. And, for your information, I was not masturbating in GramercyPark.’

‘Shame.’

My body goes instantly hot. I get a vision of Seth in the Atonement library. I try my very best to act normal.

‘I did steal a key, though.’ I say coolly. ‘And they found Phyllis’s joint in my satchel.’

‘And now you’ve missed your flight.’

A ghost of a smile flits across hisface.

‘Yep.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’ve decided to stay for a few more days. They guy at the bank turned out to be the wrong Chuck.’

‘Another Chuck? That’s crazy.’

‘I know. I lost my shit. I confessed that I wasn’t really a billionaire looking to invest and they made a barricade and wouldn’t let me leave. It was not cool. Anyway, I’m still hunting the real Chuck down. And I came here to ask you for your help with something.’

Seth looks up at the giant ornate clock on the lobbywall.

He smiles at me, all formality gone. ‘Are you free for lunch now? We’d have to eat it in my office, but…’

‘Yes!’ I almost shout. ‘Yes,’ I repeat at a more reasonable volume.

Seth leads me across the enormous lobby, grabbing me a guest pass from the receptiondesk.

‘I thought you’d stood me up.’ He laughs as we head over to the lifts. ‘I’m sorry you were arrested but, as excuses go, that’s a pretty stellarone.’

The lift door opens and we step in. A large group of tourists shuffle in behind, squeezing us all up against each other like sardines.

Seth does a loud spluttery cough. ‘Three days of this virus and no sign of it going anywhere!’ Then he gives a huge, fake cough and then a really over the top fake sneeze. ‘And a rash too! It itches! It burns!’

The cluster of tourists give Seth a horrified glance before hurrying right back out of the elevator and into the lobby. One even covers their nose and mouth in an effort to avoid his ‘germs’.

I can’t help but laugh as the lift doors close and Seth gives the tourists a friendly goodbyewave.

Now it’s just me and him here in thelift.

Alone.

Seth takes a step towardsme.

‘Fuck, I’m really glad to see you again,’ he says, his voice so low I can barely hearhim.

And before I can respond that I’m glad to see him again too, he’s kissing me, his hands lacing up into my hair, his nose pressing against mine, my hand under his T-shirt running across the smooth hot skin of his broad upperback.

I don’t have much experience of kissing, but with Seth, it feels like I’m doing it exactly right. Like I’m an expert kisser. Like if there were an annual convention of kissing, I would be appearing on a panel of some sort to instruct other people how to do it this perfectly.

My body zings with nerves and emotions and feelings, every hair on my body stands on end. I can’t control it. Not one little bit. And right at this moment, that’s absolutely fine byme.