As soon as I get to work, I call Luke at work and get his assistant, Julia.
“Hi,” I say, “can I speak to Luke?”
“Luke called in sick,” says Julia, sounding surprised. “Didn’t you know?”
I stare at the phone, taken aback. Luke’s taken a sickie? Blimey. Maybe his hangover was even worse than mine.
Shit, and I’ve nearly given the game away.
“Oh, right!” I say quickly. “Yes! Now you mention it… of course I knew! He’s dreadfully sick, actually. He’s got a terrible fever. And his… er… stomach. I just forgot for a moment, that’s all.”
“Well, give him all the best from us.”
“I will!”
As I put the phone down, I realize I might have overreacted a teeny bit. I mean, it’s not like anyone’s going to give Luke the sack, is it? After all, it’s his company.
In fact, I’m pleased he’s having a day off.
But still. Luke getting sick. He never gets sick.
And he never jogs. What’s going on?
I’m supposed to be going out for a drink after work with Erin, but I make an excuse and hurry home instead. When I let myself in, the apartment’s dim, and for a moment I think Luke isn’t back. But then I see him, sitting at the table in the gloom, wearing track pants and an old sweatshirt.
At last. We’ve got the evening to ourselves. OK, this is it. I’m finally going to tell him everything.
“Hi,” I say, sliding into a chair next to him. “Are you feeling better? I called your work and they said you were ill.”
There’s silence.
“I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to go to work,” says Luke at last.
“What did you do all day? Did you really go jogging?”
“I went for a long walk,” says Luke. “And I thought a great deal.”
“About… your mother?” I say tentatively.
“Yes. About my mother. About a lot of other things too.” He turns for the first time and to my surprise I see he hasn’t shaved. Mmm. I quite like him unshaven, actually.
“But you’re OK?”
“That’s the question,” he says after a pause. “Am I?”
“You probably just drank a bit too much last night.” I take off my coat, marshaling my words. “Luke, listen. There’s something really important I need to tell you. I’ve been putting it off for weeks now—”
“Becky, have you ever thought about the grid of Manhattan?” says Luke, interrupting me. “Really thought about it?”
“Er… no,” I say, momentarily halted. “I can’t say I have.”
“It’s like… a metaphor for life. You think you have the freedom to walk anywhere. But in fact…” He draws a line with his finger on the table. “You’re strictly controlled. Up or down. Left or right. No other options.”
“Right,” I say after a pause. “Absolutely. The thing is, Luke—”
“Life should be an open space, Becky. You should be able to walk in whichever direction you choose.”
“I suppose—”
“I walked from one end of the island to the other today.”
“Really?” I stare at him. “Er… why?”
“I looked up at one point, and I was surrounded by office blocks. Sunlight was bouncing off the plate-glass windows. Reflected backward and forward.”
“That sounds nice,” I say inadequately.
“Do you see what I’m saying?” He fixes me with an intense stare, and I suddenly notice the purple shadows beneath his eyes. God, he looks exhausted. “The light enters Manhattan… and becomes trapped. Trapped in its own world, bouncing backward and forward with no escape.”
“Well… yes, I suppose. Except… sometimes it rains, doesn’t it?”
“And people are the same.”
“Are they?”
“This is the world we’re living in now. Self-reflecting. Self-obsessed. Ultimately pointless. Look at that guy in the hospital. Thirty-three years old — and he has a heart attack. What if he’d died? Would he have had a fulfilled life?”
“Er—”
“Have I had a fulfilled life? Be honest, Becky. Look at me, and tell me.”
“Well… um… of course you have!”
“Bullshit.” He picks up a nearby Brandon Communications press release and gazes at it. “This is what my life has been about. Meaningless pieces of information.” To my shock, he starts to rip it up. “Meaningless fucking bits of paper.”
Suddenly I notice he’s tearing up our joint bank statement too.
“Luke! That’s our bank statement!”
“So what? What does it matter? It’s only a few pointless numbers. Who cares?”
“But… but…”
Something is wrong here.
“What does any of it matter?” He scatters the shreds of paper on the floor, and I force myself not to bend down and pick any of them up. “Becky, you’re so right.”
“I’m right?” I say in alarm.
Something is very wrong here.
“We’re all too driven by materialism. With success. With money. With trying to impress people who’ll never be impressed, whatever you…” He breaks off, breathing hard. “It’s humanity that matters. We should know homeless people. We should know Bolivian peasants.”
“Well… yes,” I say after a pause. “But still—”
“Something you said a while back has been going round and round in my head all day. And now I can’t forget it.”
“What was that?” I say nervously.
“You said…” He pauses, as though trying to get the words just right. “You said that we’re on this planet for too short a time. And at the end of the day, what’s more important? Knowing that a few meaningless figures balanced — or knowing that you were the person you wanted to be?”
I gape at him.“But… but that was just stuff I made up! I wasn’t being serious—”
“I’m not the person I want to be, Becky. I don’t think I’ve ever been the person I wanted to be. I’ve been blinkered. I’ve been obsessed by all the wrong things—”
“Come on!” I say, squeezing his hand encouragingly. “You’re Luke Brandon! You’re successful and handsome and rich…”
“I’m not the person I should have become. The trouble is, now I don’t know who that person is. I don’t know who I want to be… what I want to do with my life… which path I want to take…” He slumps forward and buries his head in his hands. “Becky, I need some answers.”
I don’t believe it. At age thirty-four Luke is having a midlife crisis.
SECOND UNION BANK
53 Wall Street
New York, NY 10005
May 23, 2002
Miss Rebecca Bloomwood
Apt. B251 W. 11th Street
New York, NY 10014
