‘Hey! I’m not homeless!’ I called out at his departing back. ‘I have protested on behalf of this place! Mister! I AM NOT HOMELESS!’ Two women looked up from their quiet conversation, one raising an eyebrow.
And then it occurred to me: I was.
22
Dear Ma,
Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve been in contact. We’re working round the clock on this Chinese deal here, and I’m often up all night coping with different time zones. If I sound a bit jaded, it’s because I feel it. I got the bonus, which was nice (am sending Georgina a chunk so she can buy that car she wants), but over the last few weeks I’ve realized ultimately I’m not really feeling it here any more.
It’s not that I don’t like the lifestyle – and you know I’ve never been afraid of hard work. I just miss so many things about England. I miss the humour. I miss Sunday lunch. I miss hearing English accents, at least the non-phoney kind (you would not believe how many people end up plummier than Her Maj). I like being able to pop across for weekends in Paris or Barcelona or Rome. And the expat thing is pretty tedious. In the goldfish bowl of finance here you just end up running into the same faces whether you’re in Nantucket or Manhattan. I know you think I have a type, but here it’s almost comical: blonde hair, size zero, identikit wardrobes, off to the same Pilates classes …
So here’s the thing: do you remember Rupe? My old friend from Churchill’s? He says there’s an opening at his firm. His boss is flying out in a couple of weeks and wants to meet me. If all goes well I might be back in England sooner than you think.
I’ve loved New York. But everything has its time, and I think I’ve had mine.
Love, W x
Over the next few days I rang up about numerous jobs on Craigslist, but the nice-sounding woman with the nanny job put the phone down on me when she heard I had no references, and the food-server jobs were already gone by the time I called. The shoe-shop assistant position was still available but the man I spoke to told me the wage would be two dollars an hour lower than advertised because of my lack of relevant retail experience, and I calculated that would barely leave me enough for travel. I spent my mornings in the diner, my afternoons in the library at Washington Heights, which was quiet and warm and, apart from that one security guard, nobody eyed me like they were waiting for me to start singing drunkenly or pee in a corner.
I would meet Josh for lunch in the noodle bar by his office every couple of days, update him on my job-hunting activities and try to ignore that, next to his immaculately dressed, go-getting presence, I felt increasingly like a grubby, sofa-hopping loser. ‘You’re going to be fine, Louisa. Just hang in there,’ he would say, and kiss me as he left, like somehow we had already agreed to be boyfriend and girlfriend. I couldn’t think about the significance of this along with everything else I had to think about so I just figured that it was not actually a bad thing, like so much in my life was, and could therefore be parked for now. Besides, he always tasted pleasingly minty.
I couldn’t stay in Nathan’s room much longer. The previous morning I had woken with his big arm slung over me and something hard pressing into the small of my back. The cushion wall had apparently gone awry, migrating to a chaotic heap at our feet. I froze, attempted to wriggle discreetly out of his sleeping grasp and he had opened his eyes, looked at me, then leapt out of bed as if he had been stung, a pillow clutched in front of his groin. ‘Mate. I didn’t mean – I wasn’t trying to –’
‘No idea what you’re talking about!’ I insisted, pulling a sweatshirt over my head. I couldn’t look at him in case it –
He hopped from foot to foot. ‘I was just – I didn’t realize I … Ah, mate. Ah, Jeez.’
‘It’s fine! I needed to get up anyway!’ I bolted and hid in the tiny bathroom for ten minutes, my cheeks burning, while I listened to him crashing around and getting dressed. He was gone before I came out.
What was the point in trying to stay after all? I could only sleep in Nathan’s room for a night or two more at most. It looked like the best I could expect elsewhere, even if I was lucky enough to find alternative employment, was a minimum-wage job and a cockroach- and bedbug-infested flat-share. At least if I went home I could sleep on my own sofa. Perhaps Treen and Eddie were besotted enough with each other that they would move in together and then I could have my flat back. I tried not to think about how that would feel – the empty rooms and the return to where I had been six months earlier, not to mention the proximity to Sam’s workplace. Every siren I heard passing would be a bitter reminder of what I had lost.
It had started to rain, but I slowed as I approached the building and glanced up at the Gopniks’ windows from under my woollen hat, registering that the lights were still on, even though Nathan had told me they were out at some gala event. Life had moved on for them as smoothly as if I had never existed. Perhaps Ilaria was up there now, vacuuming, or tutting at Agnes’s magazines scattered over the sofa cushions. The Gopniks – and this city – had sucked me in and spat me right out. Despite all her fond words, Agnes had discarded me as comprehensively and completely as a lizard sheds its skin – and not cast a backward look.
If I had never come, I thought angrily, I might still have a home. And a job.
If I had never come, I would still have Sam.
The thought caused my mood to darken further and I hunched my shoulders and thrust my freezing hands into my pockets, prepared to head back to my temporary accommodation, a room I had to sneak into, and a bed I had to share with someone who was terrified of touching me. My life had become ridiculous, a looping bad joke. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the cold rain on my skin. I would book my ticket tonight and I would go home on the next available flight. I would suck it up and start again. I didn’t really have a choice.
Everything has its time.
It was then that I spotted Dean Martin. He was standing on the covered carpet that led up to the apartment building, shivering without his coat on and glancing around as if deciding where to go next. I took a step closer, peering into the lobby, but the night man was busy sorting through some packages and hadn’t seen him. I couldn’t see Mrs De Witt anywhere. I moved swiftly, leant down and scooped him up before he had time to grasp what I was doing. Holding his wriggling body at arms’ length, I ran in and swiftly up the back stairs to take him back to her, nodding at the night man as I went.
It was a valid reason for being there, but I emerged from the stairs onto the Gopniks’ corridor with trepidation: if they returned unexpectedly and saw me, would Mr Gopnik conclude I was up to no good? Would he accuse me of trespass? Did it count if I was on their corridor? These questions buzzed around my head as Dean Martin writhed furiously and snapped at my arms.
‘Mrs De Witt?’ I called softly, peering behind me. Her front door was ajar again and I stepped inside, lifting my voice. ‘Mrs De Witt? Your dog got out again.’ I could hear the television blaring down the corridor and took a few steps further inside.
‘Mrs De Witt?’
When no answer came, I closed the door gently behind me and put Dean Martin on the floor, keen not to hold him for any longer than I had to. He immediately trotted off towards the living room.
‘Mrs De Witt?’
I saw her leg first, sticking out on the floor beside the upright chair. It took me a second to register what I was seeing. Then I ran round to the front of the chair and threw myself to the floor, my ear to her mouth. ‘Mrs De Witt?’ I said. ‘Can you hear me?’