Before long, the suitcases are loaded and we’re rolling out of the airport, along snow-lined freeways, through suburbs, past houses, shops, industrial estates. I sit with my face practically squashed against the window. This is my first real taste of the United States, and I’m determined to make the most of it.
‘Fucking hell, Maya! Look at that!’ Lucy taps me on the arm and points out of her own window. ‘There it is!’
I lean over, as far as I can, sensing the first pin-pricks of excitement. In the distance, I make out the jagged skyline of Manhattan, a forest of skyscrapers wrestling for supremacy, sharp-edged against a cold November sky. Squinting a little, I locate the unmistakable silhouette of the Empire State Building but as soon as it appears, it’s gone again, hidden behind a jumble of buildings. I’d carry on searching for it but the limousine dips into a tunnel and anxiety sparks into life, playing havoc with my heart rate until daylight greets us again, and we emerge onto the streets of Manhattan.
Suddenly, the world’s transformed.
I’ve seen it plenty of times in films, but I’m stunned by the reality of the city. With our limousine bouncing along uneven roads, I watch as New York slips by in the late afternoon sun. At first, it’s a blur, an attack on my senses, one iconic image instantly replaced by the next: a swarm of yellow taxis, steam rising from manhole covers, a subway entrance. Down-at-heel tenements give way to brownstone townhouses, up-market office blocks and a jumble of shop fronts. I begin to make sense of it now, quite inevitably looking up and taking in the mishmash of architecture, an intricate patchwork – stone, brick, steel, glass – a crazy collection of angles and heights, an eclectic mixture of styles, the new squeezed in next to the old, every possible space filled, everything reaching skywards. Nothing seems to match, but in amongst all the clutter and confusion, everything seems to fit. Finally, with an aching neck, I focus on the busy sidewalks. Swathed in thick scarves and hats, New Yorkers go about their daily business, apparently oblivious the magnificence around them … but I’m mesmerised by it all.
Before long, the road widens out. Skirting a roundabout, we join the traffic at the edge of a park. Beyond the railings, a thick white blanket lies heavy on the ground, and there’s not a soul around. Too cold, the driver tells us. Minus sixteen with the wind chill. Anyone with a scrap of sense has stayed inside. We take another left, pulling up outside a hotel, clearly a cut above with its darkened glass doors, gold embossed signage and black canopy. Gordon’s made absolutely sure we’re in the lap of luxury.
‘Where are we?’ Lucy asks.
‘Central Park, ma’am. East Side.’
‘Bloody hell …’ Clasping her palms to her cheeks, she’s in a state of shock.
While the chauffeur collects the luggage from the boot, a doorman steps forward and opens Lucy’s door. We climb out into icy temperatures, catching a blast of wind that rolls in from the park. It steals my breath for a split second, almost freezing me on the spot. Fortunately, we’re ushered straight inside by the doorman, leaving a bell-boy to deal with the cases. While Lucy checks in, I marvel at the marbled entrance hall, soaking up an overdose of Art Deco magnificence before we’re guided to our suite on the twelfth floor.
‘Jesus,’ Lucy cries as the door swings open and we step inside. ‘I feel like the Queen. I’ve died and gone to heaven.’
Well, I’m pretty sure heaven’s not quite as sumptuous as this. Even after my time with Dan, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this level of opulence. While the bell-boy offloads our luggage in the bedrooms, I explore the suite with Lucy: two bedrooms, two en suites and a sitting room the size of a football pitch. Forgetting to tip the bell-boy, we’re lost in a daze, admiring massive sofas and chunky furniture, appreciating gigantic beds and luxurious soft furnishings, exchanging numerous ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ over twinkling chandeliers and expensive art work. Finally, we stand together by the window in the sitting room.
‘This is weird.’ I gaze out over a snow-covered Central Park. ‘Are we really here?’
Lucy pinches me. ‘Yep. It’s all real.’ She surveys the scene. ‘A marathon journey, but definitely worth it.’
‘Definitely.’
‘We’re living the dream, Maya. And well done, you. Only one panic attack.’
Yes, just the one. Shortly after take-off, I lost control of my breathing and burst into a fit of tears. But never mind. Digging my head into Lucy’s chest for a good half an hour got me back on a fairly even keel.
‘Are you okay?’ She examines me closely. ‘I mean, you know … what with the Dan thing.’
‘Of course.’
But I’m not entirely sure about that. It’s going to take a whole lot longer than a week to get over the man. And so far, I think it’s safe to say I’ve made a complete pig’s ear of the process. Spending the last few days locked away in Camden, I’ve cried an ocean, carried out the inevitable post-mortem, and come to the only conclusion I can – I’ve fucked up on a grand scale, and lost the only man I ever really loved.
‘We’ve got an hour.’
‘I know.’
As if I need a reminder. In his wisdom, Gordon’s shipped us over on the very same day as the exhibition.
