59. Natalie

59

NATALIE

M ax may have swept Darcy and Dex off to the Aman, which I’m sure is all modern gorgeousness and understated luxury and neutral palates, but my boyfriend knows me well, it seems. I suspect he’s not surprised by my reaction to The Pierre, where he’s booked us a suite.

Whenever I’ve dreamed of New York in the past, this is what I’ve imagined. The Pierre feels old world and old money and decadent, with its frescoed rotunda and well-heeled patrons and huge bowls of pink and white flowers everywhere.

Oooh—I wonder if we’ll see Tory Burch? She’s a major idol of mine, and I’m pretty sure she lives here.

But none of this has anything on our suite, which is incredible and absolutely massive. It features platinum-coloured silk on the panelled walls and low grey sofas and even a mahogany dining table. Our bedroom is almost as palatial as Adam’s is back home, but my absolute favourite part is the terrace that lies beyond the smart French doors.

Not only is it chic as hell with its wrought-iron furniture, but it has a gobsmacking view straight onto Central Park. Granted, late November is not the best time to hang out on a high Manhattan terrace, but I’m determined to cosy up under some blankets later and enjoy the view.

Adam takes me out for a late lunch and a wander around the neighbourhood. I fall fast and hard for the Upper East Side. It’s every bit as iconic as I’ve dreamed of, with its chic boutiques and art galleries. I particularly love the leafy side streets off Madison, their brownstones to die for.

It’s on one of these streets in the seventies that we sit for a late lunch of moules marinières and obscenely good fries at a charming little bistro with starched white tablecloths and rickety wooden chairs. I’m in heaven. I thought I’d be feeling worse, but the magical concoction Dr Dyson gave us and the plane nap Adam insisted on in an actual double bed have me fighting fit and raring to go.

It feels good to be here, to put some physical distance between me and not only my brother but my unpaid invoices and long hours. I’ve only seen a tiny part of Manhattan, but so far it’s delivering precisely the shot of inspiration and wellbeing that I’ve always suspected it would.

It’s not until my phone lights up with a voice note from my brother towards the end of lunch that I allow myself to consider the real world. Why would I? I’m in a dreamy bubble with the kindest, most handsome, most attentive man I’ve ever, ever met, and I’m not sure I’m ready to reenter the real world. I eye my phone suspiciously. I’m afraid that if I listen, and he goes off on some slut-shaming, disappointed rant again, my precious little bubble will burst.

I put my phone in my bag. Once we’re in Central Park, and Adam’s fetching us hot chocolates from a kiosk with stern instructions to me to adjust my insulin first, I put in an ear bud and settle back on a cold bench and press play.

Hey. My brother’s awkward greeting fills my ear. There’s a pause, and then he starts talking. Jesus. Look, I know you’re in New York—with him—so I didn’t want to call and disturb you. I wanted to say… I had a long, long chat with Mum and Dad, and my brain’s a bit all over the place, to be honest, but what’s very clear is that I owe you an apology. You definitely caught me off guard the other night, but I was a total shithead, and I’m sorry.

There’s a huge sigh. You have more integrity in your little finger than anyone I know, so I should never have said those things to you, and I’m so sorry, Natster. Obviously, I don’t think you’re a slut—that was a horrific thing to say to my little sister. I was just so fucking shocked.

I shift on the bench. The cold is seeping through the thick wool of my coat and chilling my bum, but the sky is clear and blue, and the park ridiculously picture-perfect, flanked as it is by elegant uptown skyscrapers. I cross my arms tightly over my chest to keep my boobs warm and sigh as I keep listening, my breath a cotton-wool cloud in the crisp air. In the distance, a busker is singing Coldplay very well indeed.

But look, my brother continues. It seems there’s a lot of shit that I wasn’t aware of and have never wanted to be made aware of. I don’t know if you remember this, but I didn’t even go to the trial, except to give evidence. Mum and Dad thought I was too fragile. So I honestly didn’t know anything about Adam’s circumstances, and frankly, I was horrified. I mean, Jesus Christ, what that family went through was beyond horrific.

He gives a little laugh. It’s funny how black and white things seem when you’re young, isn’t it? We’re so incapable of accommodating shades of grey. Obviously, there couldn’t have been more than one victim. Obviously, I was the only victim. But Mum was pretty bloody adamant tonight. Not sure I’ve seen her so militant before. She’s very, very clear that he was a victim of circumstances as much as I was, and that he’s a seriously good guy these days.

I mean— he exhales heavily through his nostrils— I’m not sure I’m ready to buddy up to him, you know? I’ve lived with this narrative, I suppose, for want of a better word, for a long, long time. But I’d like to think I’m evolved enough to make an effort to see the good in someone if people whose judgement I trust, like you and Mum, really believe it’s there.

I let out a little sob, because God knows I needed to hear this. I needed to know that my brother might, eventually, come around to accepting the idea of his sister being with the man he’s always hated.

The same man who’s walking towards me now in the golden New York winter sunlight in his beautiful black cashmere coat, his face tight with concern for me.

The man whose face is my absolute favourite face in the world.

Look, my brother says as Adam sits down next to me, taking the lid off my hot chocolate to let it cool down, the only thing I care about is whether he’s good for you. At the end of the day, all that matters is that he’s not a violent man these days and he’ll look after you the way you deserve. And Mum seems ready to join the Church of Adam Wright, so that gives me some comfort, I suppose. So have a good trip, yeah? I’m sorry again. And maybe we can—I dunno—all meet up and have a beer or something over Christmas. Love you.

‘Are you okay?’ Adam asks me, putting his free arm carefully around me as he hands me my hot chocolate.

I remove my ear bud as I look up at him and smile. ‘ Yeah.’ I nod, drinking in his face, his eyes. His everything. ‘It sounds like he’s coming around to the idea.’

‘Really?’ he asks. His voice is strained, like he can’t quite believe it.

‘Really,’ I tell him. ‘My mother can be very persuasive when she wants to be.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

I lay my head on his shoulder, the strains of Yellow and the scent of roasting chestnuts floating around us.