The English American (18 page)

A
FTER MY SLEEPLESS NIGHT
,
the drive into Manhattan toward the man who has sustained me over the last few months feels like a dream. I wonder how much he’s changed in the seven years since I’ve actually seen him. I wonder, too, if our physical attraction will have grown too strong to resist.

My heart’s beating extra fast as I walk down the promenade off Fifth Avenue toward the ice rink where Walt and Billie skated together nearly thirty years before. I’m wearing the Chanel suit a hopeful Charlotte sneaked into my suitcase, with a note attached saying “just in case.” The silk lining feels soft against my legs. At Billie’s insistence, I’m also wearing makeup, a gold necklace, and a pair of Billie’s high-heeled shoes, which click on the marble ground past Botticelli, L’Occitane, and Le Chocolatier.

Nick told me once that he loves expensive chocolates wrapped in gold foil. “They remind me of a beautifully dressed woman,” he said. “They need to be undressed before they can be tasted.” Personally I’d prefer a Kit Kat, but they’re not for me, so I go into the chocolate shop to buy him some.

“La plus délicieuse femme à New York se trouve ici dans mon magasin de chocolats!”
The man behind the counter is smiling at me.

“Merci,”
I say.

“Une americaine qui parle français?”

Not quite American.

I walk over the circle where they put New York’s most famous Christmas tree and head toward the ice rink. Flags from different nations standing proudly around it make me think of the UN, which Dad calls “our one true hope for world peace” and Walt calls “a bunch of mewling foreigners.”

Billie’s pointy shoes are slightly too small. I’m wishing we’d agreed to meet somewhere I could wear sneakers and am feeling as disturbed as I always do at the thought of people spending hundreds of dollars on a pair of shoes just because they can, when I see Nick walking toward me. He’s looking impossibly elegant in a dark green Versace suit.

I’d forgotten how beautiful Nick is. He’s Omar-Sharif-when-he-was-young beautiful. That beautiful.

When he reaches me, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he simply looks at me. Intense. Serious. I return his gaze. We don’t speak.

He’s wearing the sort of aftershave that makes me want to make love with him immediately. Certain aftershaves have this effect on me. If I knew how to seduce a man—which I don’t, because that would require making the first move, which would involve the risk of rejection—I’d happily seduce any man wearing this particular aftershave. Just about anywhere.

I wish, suddenly, that I were the sort of woman who could smile enigmatically, take him by the hand without saying a word, and lead him to the nearest hotel. But I’m not. So I break the silence, kiss him on both cheeks, and say, “Hallo, Nick.” And then, “Here, I bought you some chocolates.”

Nick takes the chocolates, places his hand in the small of my back, and leads me toward the elevator that takes us down to the Sea Grill.

We order a deluxe plate of sushi for two. Our table looks out onto the ice rink and the magnificent golden statue of Prometheus that seems to fly above the skaters whirling in the cold winter air.

“You’re staring at that statue as if you recognize it,” Nick says, finally.

“I’m thinking about what it stands for,” I say, turning back to him. “It makes me think of you, breathing life into your wonderful paintings.” My heart is beating extra fast. I’m going to have to tell him.

We’re looking into each other’s eyes again. His are almost black. I’m about to begin, when Nick says, “I had a fascinating talk with your mother. She sees you, you know,” he says. “The real you.”

“I know.”

“And she’s terribly proud of you. I adore her for that,” he says. “And also because she told me how much she loves my work,” he says, smiling. Then, “It’s like a dream come true, all of this. You—and the fact that the woman who discovered Marfil sent my work to Dwight Edelman.”

I can’t bear it any longer.

“Edelman can’t take you on, Nick.” I finally manage to blurt it out. “I’m so, so sorry.”

One of my chopsticks falls on the floor. I bend down to pick it up, aware that I am blushing, which never looks good on a redhead.

A waiter arrives at our table at lightning speed, bringing me a new set of chopsticks. Nick hasn’t moved. Nick and I are so alike, I know the rejection is killing him. He’ll hide it, of course, as well as I do.

“He—he thinks you’re brilliantly talented and absolutely loved your work, but he just can’t take any new clients on right now.”

The kind people on earth—like the polite people—are liars.

“You mustn’t let this discourage you, Nick. You need to paint, it’s part of who you are, you mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t let this stop you painting!”

His gold watch and white shirt seem to shine in the reflected light. I’ve finally run out of words.

“Have you finished?”

“I think so.” I can’t look away. Nick takes my hand across the table. It’s cool and strong against mine. I want to lift his hand to my face and kiss his palm.

“It’s all right, darling,” he says. “Billie told me everything.”

I look at him carefully. He’s not smiling bravely to cover anything up. He’s genuinely amused. Relief fills me instantly.

“And you’re okay with it?”

“More than okay,” Nick says. “I adore you for trying to protect me. But I know it’s a numbers game, and so does your mother.”

“Is that what she said?”

“Yes! And she also told me that she would hook me up with someone else who she is sure will take me on.”

“Really! Who?”

“You, my love.”

“Me?”

“When I called yesterday, Billie started raving about you. You’re a genius, apparently, capable of anything you set your mind to—you do, after all, have her DNA. She was exactly your age when she got Marfil his first break. She’s sure that if anyone can get me my first break in today’s market, it’ll be you.”

“But…”

“Come on, Pip! Billie knows, I know, and you know that you were the top salesperson when you sold advertising in London. You’re gorgeous, frighteningly intelligent, charming, as English as the fucking queen—and you know how they love that over here. You need money. I need an agent. If you get me an exhibition, I’ll pay you twenty percent commission out of my take. On everything.”

“But I don’t know anyone in the art world.”

“Pippa, your mother is Billie Parnell!
Carpe diem!
It’s a chance for both of us. Come on, love. You’ll blow them away, I know you will. Tell me you’ll do it. Say yes.”

A feeling of warmth and excitement swims into the heart of my being.

Of course! It’s part of the plan. It’s part of our destiny.

“Yes,” I say, finally.

“Say yes again,” Nick says softly. “Say yes to all of it. Say yes to me.”

It’s time for Nick to leave to catch his plane, so we head back out onto the busy New York street.

I can hide the fact that the air has gone out of my lungs. I can hide the fact that I want him to kiss me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I can’t hide the fact that my hands are shaking.

When he sees this, Nick takes me by both wrists, his fingers curling tightly around them, like a bracelet that’s slightly too tight, and pulls me closer toward him. We stare at each other, not saying a word. We dare not kiss. If we start, we won’t be able to stop.

In my mind’s eye we’re naked on a bed together, somewhere far away. Crumpled white sheets. Sunlight peeking through the shutters. A plate of half-eaten fruit by the bed.

And then we’re back on Fifth Avenue.

“Soon,” Nick whispers.

“Yes,” I whisper back.

“Good-bye, darling,” he says finally. Then he kisses me on the cheek and disappears into a cab. The cab is quickly swallowed up by the traffic. I stand on tiptoe trying to keep my eye on it, but within moments he is gone.

Later that evening, as we’re playing a late-night game of Scrabble, Billie says, “You know, a part of me feels a little jealous.”

“Of what?”

Billie laughs gently.

“Oh honey. You have no idea, have you? Of your youth, honey. Of your talent. Of your prospects. Of this wonderful opportunity you have to represent Nick.”

“Billie, if you want to represent Nick, that’s completely fine by me!” All that matters to me is that Nick gets the exhibition he so richly deserves. I think of The Gold Room and the act I’m starting to develop. “I’ve got lots of other things to do. And you’re much more qualified than I am.”

“Honey,” Billie says, “I love you. And I’m happy that Nick wants you to do this. Really I am. You’ll get him an exhibition eventually, I just know it. And then both you and Nick Devang will be made.”

B
ILLIE WANTS ME TO GO
and visit her sister Marcie, who is back in the mental hospital. The thought terrifies me. If I don’t go and see Marcie, I can continue to tell myself that Billie is exaggerating and that really the aunt I met at Earl’s funeral is absolutely fine. So I tell Billie I’ve got too much work to do and can’t go. Billie is not pleased.

“You can’t escape the family mood disorder just because you were raised somewhere else,” she says, putting fake tanning lotion on her face without looking in the mirror. “You can’t escape the addictions either. You have got to stop this
thing
you have with denial. Your daddy’s an alcoholic, I’m an alcoholic, and my daddy was an alcoholic. Which makes you an alcoholic.”

“But I don’t drink,” I say.

“It’s the combination of the addictive personality and the mood swings that cause things like Marcie’s psychotic breakdown,” she says, ignoring me. “You can self-medicate the family mood swings by taking half an antidepressant just before bed. I’ll give you some of mine.”

Coming from a “pull yourself together, stiff upper lip, don’t make a fuss” culture, I’m disturbed by the thought of taking any sort of prescription drug, let alone without a prescription. So I flush the pills down the loo.

The tanning lotion has been absorbed by now, and Billie’s face looks lightly tanned, apart from the inch nearest her hairline, which has turned orange.

I’ve never thought of myself as suffering from “mood swings” or depression. Except when there’s something real to be depressed about. And then—well, isn’t sometimes feeling low part of being human?

I try not to think too much about the things Billie says these days. Instead I try to think about Nick, work on my act, and find myself reading Mum’s letters with a wistfulness that’s brand-new.

Some New York art galleries are ostentatiously modern and sparsely furnished. Some are a hundred years old and sparsely furnished. All have beautifully dressed receptionists who look at me with absolute superiority and say, “I suppose if you really want to, you could leave your card.”

It’s the end of March and the day starts off relatively warm, so I leave Adler-on-Hudson for New York City in a short skirt and jacket, with the photographs of Nick’s paintings. I’m hoping that dressing like a real New York businesswoman will help me get past the “perhaps if you leave your card” stage.

But March weather in New York can be as unpredictable as the weather in England—well, anytime. The difference being the extent to which the weather changes. In England the weather will go from sunny, to cloudy, to raining several times a day. But the temperature won’t change at all. And the British rain, like British bathroom showers, rarely comes down much harder than a drizzle.

But when the temperature drops in America, it really drops. By two o’clock, the New York City sky is spitting ice and I feel like I’m being shot at. I’ve no money for a taxi, my car’s half a mile away, and I’m so cold my legs feel like popsicles.

Realizing I’m close to Jack’s building, I walk down Seventh Avenue to Twenty-second Street and ring Jack’s bell.

“Hallo?” I say.

“Who is it?”

“Pippa.”

“My favorite British redneck? Come on in.”

Jack buzzes me in and I carry my sopping-wet handbag through his lobby, which is warm and quiet and smells of polished wood. As I enter apartment 1B, I leave my handbag to drip-dry next to his umbrella rack. The tiny studio apartment is tidy and peaceful and dark. In the center of the room is a big bed, with a forest green quilt and forest green pillowcases to go with it. Opposite the bed are three tall oak bookcases, neatly stacked with hundreds of books and videos.

There’s a fireplace with a hand-carved mantelpiece above it. On the mantelpiece are a few photographs—of Jack and his parents, it seems. And a silver urn, which Jack later tells me contains the ashes of his dead dog. Against the other wall is a comfortable-looking couch, also forest green. In the far corner of the room, next to a window with dark green blinds, is a small kitchenette. And Jack.

I am intrigued to note that Jack is ironing a sheet.

“Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Oh—no—thank you—I’ve got to run,” I say. “I just wanted to warm up for a bit.”

There are burglar bars on the windows, behind the blinds. They don’t go up and down. Instead they curve elegantly outward, to make room for an air conditioner.

Jack puts down his iron and looks at me. I couldn’t get into New York for last week’s open mike because of the weather, and I haven’t seen him in two weeks.

“You’ve lost weight,” he says bluntly. “Too much, as a matter of fact. You look like a freezing-wet ferret.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Let me rephrase that. You look like a beautiful, freezing-wet ferret.”

“Thanks,” I say, laughing. “I think.”

Jack unfolds a hand towel and gives it to me.

“For your hair,” he says.

I dry my hair with the towel, which, not surprisingly, is forest green.

“I was just wondering if I could borrow a pair of trousers,” I say.

In the manner of a man who gets this kind of request every day, Jack walks to his cupboard and takes out a pair of neatly folded jeans with a crease down the center of each leg.

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll go into the bathroom while you change.”

“No—I can use the bathroom.”

“It’s no problem, Pippa,” he says and disappears behind a dark green door.

Looking around the walls of his immaculate studio apartment I see posters of some very familiar faces: Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, Monty Python, even Reginald Perrin.

“No Benny Hill?” I call out, relieved.

“Can’t stand Benny Hill,” he says, out of the bathroom now. “But I love John Cleese. My uncle introduced me to British comedy when I was a kid. I’ve been hooked ever since. Ricky Gervais really cracks me up.”

I’m standing in the middle of his sitting room, holding his jeans around my waist. They’re far too big. Jack takes off his belt, threads it through the hooks, and does it up on the tightest hole. It’s still not tight enough, so he folds the top of the jeans over. I can feel the tension that has been gnawing at me for the last few weeks leave my body. I like the way he smells. But he’s definitely gay. He irons his sheets.

I’m about to leave when I see an electric keyboard in the large cupboard in the corner of the room.

“Try it out,” Jack says.

I sit down at the stool and play a few chords. I’ve always loved the way piano keys feel against my skin. Smooth and hard and part of me.

“So, Pippa, why are you wandering around Chelsea in an ice storm in a short skirt and high heels?”

I play another chord and start to sing.

I went into three art galleries in Manhattan,

It was bloomin’ cold, and I didn’t have my hat on.

Jack laughs. “You still got the hat I gave you?”

“Yes, but it didn’t really go with my outfit.”

“You looked cute in that hat. Like a very sexy bee.”

I smile. Gay men and fashion. I play a couple more chords:

My buddy thinks I look

Like a very sexy bee,

Ah—baby—let me tell ya—

A-what you mean to me

Allyoop. Allyoop.

Jack laughs.

I’m warm and relaxed and at ease in Jack’s home. Soon I’m singing a rock-and-rollish sort of chorus, thanking Jack for lending me his clothes, riffing on ice, snow, cold, tights, and freezing legs. Some of it’s good, some of it’s definitely second-rate, but Jack joins in, and we end up playing like lunatics. His hair flops over his face in time to the music.

When we stop playing I sit back and almost fall off the piano stool. I like the feel of Jack’s body next to mine as he catches me. Yes, I like the way he smells.

I have a theory about sexual chemistry. I think if you feel it with someone, then they feel it too. That’s why it’s called chemistry. There’d be no spark if the energy wasn’t coming from two different places.

On this occasion I doubt my theory for the first time. I’m being ridiculous. The man is gay, for goodness sake. And he’s not Nick.

“Hey, that was great!” Jack says. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I say. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“What do you have to do, Pippa Dunn?” Jack’s voice is soft and slow and sexy.

There’s an air of nobility about Jack. And something else. A nurturing quality perhaps that reminds me somehow of Mum.

I can keep charming, witty, handsome, sexy, even dangerous men at a distance. But kindness floors me every time.

And so I put down my bag and sit down on Jack’s green sofa and accept the cup of tea he offers me.

And then, because he asks me about what I have been doing at the art galleries, I tell him about Nick.

Jack’s eyes are soulful, there’s no other word for it. And I am relaxed. And I’ve had a chocolate muffin and half a plate of Fig Newtons. There’s a fire burning in his fireplace. My cup of tea is made with milk and two sugars, just how I like it. And the green tartan throw on his green flowery couch reminds me of home.

Jack is sitting cross-legged at one end of his couch, and I am sitting cross-legged at the other. As I talk to my new friend about Nick, I’m so relaxed, for the first time, I find myself telling another person what being in love has been like for me, for the past ten years. I tell him how every time I fell in love before I met Nick, I was terrified whoever-it-was would leave me.

“And did they ever leave you?” Jack asks.

“No. I left them first.”

“No man in their right mind would ever leave you, Pippa Dunn.”

Silence between us.

“Can I have another Fig Newton?”

“Sure,” says Jack, pushing his plate toward me. “Have mine.”

I start dipping them into my tea.

“Finally, I concluded that the key to dealing with a fear of abandonment is to date people I don’t like, so if they do leave me, it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s funny,” Jack says, writing it down.

“And just when I thought it was all completely hopeless,” I say, happily, “I refound Nick.”

“More tea, dear?” Jack’s fake British accent is surprisingly good.

“Yes, please.” My God. He’s got a Brown Betty teapot. “All that’s missing is the tea cosy,” I say.

Nope. Out comes a tea cosy with a picture of a thatched cottage on it, from the drawer under his sink.

He refills the teapot, puts the tea cosy on the teapot, and pours fresh tea into the cup.

“So, let me get this straight. You figured you’d date Miles because you’d be in control because you were the gorgeous one and he was a dog?” Jack says.

I nod, in shame. “And I was in control! For months! Until I slept with him.”

“It took you months to sleep with him?”

“Well, yes. That way I kept the upper hand.”

“Poor bastard.”

“And then we went to Venice. And I couldn’t resist him anymore, because it’s impossible not to make love in Venice. And then the power shifted, or so I felt, and the panic set in.”

I check to see if Jack is laughing at me. He isn’t.

“And it got really bad. Just like it had with the others. Only this time it was with someone I wasn’t really in love with. I mean I was, in a way. But in another way I wasn’t. It’s hard to explain. We didn’t click. Not really. But then I guess—well, I guess I’m used to loving people with whom I don’t really click.”

“Sounds complicated,” Jack says.

I look for impatience in his face. I don’t see it. Then, softly, he says again, “No one in their right mind would ever leave you, Pippa Dunn.”

We continue sitting together, cross-legged on the sofa, Jack and I, in the silence of his dark green apartment, sipping our tea.

Jack’s feet are long and thin, just like him. He’s wearing a pair of black socks, jeans, and a green T-shirt. And he doesn’t seem to mind anything I’ve just told him.

“But you and this Nick—you feel it’s different, right?”

“Right.”

“You’ve waited long enough. I hope he’s the one for you, Pippa, really I do.”

“He is, Jack.”

Silence in the room again. Peace. I feel as if I’ve just taken off a pair of too-tight shoes that I’ve been wearing for a very long time.

Half an hour later I put on my yellow sweater. Jack reaches into his second drawer and hands me another balaclava.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. “Lots to do.”

“I hope your mother and this incredibly lucky Nick guy are paying you well to do all this work for them,” Jack says.

“Well, not yet, but I’m in training for Billie. And I’m working for Nick on commission. When I sell his paintings I’ll be rich. And then we can be together. Then he’ll give up banking and come and paint here in New York. Probably in a loft or something.”

“Well, bee-girl,” he says, “if that’s what you want, I hope you get it.”

Then Jack crouches down and runs his hands down the side of the pants he’s lent me, and turns up the bottoms.