Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof (31 page)

  Somehow, as we curled into Upper East Side, the pain had numbed to a dull nagging sensation, but now, with just a mile to go, it has become intolerable. I look at my watch and see that I have been running for three hours and forty-nine minutes. The face of Manuel Ramirez floats before me.
You will run in under four hours, a second over
and you fail me.

  My elderly companion cocks his head towards me. 'You OK?'

  'No. My leg is on fire.'

  He pulls the baseball cap from his head and wipes his brow. 'We've gotta keep on trucking. Let's finish together. I'm Barney by the way.'

  I feel my eyes moisten. This man has become my last hope. I nod and tell him my name.

  'Sorry to be a wimp.'

  'Recognising your own frailties is a sign of strength,' he says determinedly.

  I find myself giggling. 'Kind of you, but I'm actually just a wimp.'

  'Come on! There's the finish line. We're gonna make it.'

  He grasps my fingers and pulls me forward. His frail, mottled hand is, like mine, slimy with sweat. I want to laugh and cry in helpless relief when I see in the far distance balloons and banners with the words, 'FINISH'. We are now in Central Park and the massive swell of spectators on either side of us are yelling 'RUN! RUN!' Tears are coursing down my face and there, bobbing up behind bunting and scores of spectators on the right side of the course, is Ollie with Alan at his side. They are screaming and punching the air and giving me the thumbs up. So very un-British. In a split second I can see Ollie's puzzlement that I am running with an old man, hand in hand. I begin laughing uncontrollably. Maybe it's the effect of the pain killers. Barney lets go of my hand and throws his arms up in joy as we practically throw ourselves over the finish line. He surveys his watch.

  'Nice going, partner. Three hours and fifty-nine minutes.'

  I give him a hug. Medals are thrust at us and soon I find myself wrapped in a metal foil sheet and caught in a tight embrace with Alan and Ollie. Barney is carried off on a wave of jubilant runners and the park is seething with foil-clad heroes and doting friends and relatives.

  'You looked as if you were really suffering,' says Alan quietly.

  'I can't begin to describe the pain.'

  Ollie presses my hand. 'But you did it!'

  'Did Ed make it?' I ask.

  'He came, saw the crowds and bowed out gracefully,' says the Scotsman wryly. He leads me across the grass and towards one of the park's entrances.

  'Right, do you want the good news or the bad news?'

  'Go on,' I say, limping between them.

  'The good news is that you've won Manuel's bet and there's some cold bubbly in the hotel fridge. The bad news is that we've got to walk all the way back there.'

  I shrug my shoulders. 'A girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.'

  Leaning heavily on Alan's arm, with Ollie dancing at my side, we head off along the street, the lure of iced champagne, a hot bath and a massage quickening my pace with every step.

'Are we lost?'

  'Of course not! It's just that we've walked further from the subway than I thought.'

  Following a recuperative bath and massage at the hotel, I venture out with Alan and Ollie to try a restaurant recommended by a London journalist friend. We manage to find our way around the subway and even locate the restaurant and have dinner, but now it is late and cold and a taxi seems like the best option to whisk us back to the hotel.

  'I think we're only about fifteen minutes away from the subway.'

  I give Alan a warning look as he squints at a street map.

  'Ah, maybe not a good idea. Probably your legs are feeling it a bit.'

  Ollie tuts. 'Let's just get a cab.'

  We lurk by one of the main intersections until a yellow cab finally rolls up.

  'Hello, I wonder if you could take us to –' Alan's words are cut short.

  'Get in.'

  The door slams and we're off, skidding round corners and eating up 7 Avenue as if it's a hot dog. I catch the eye of the driver in the darkness and am startled to see that it's a warrior of a woman. A metal grill separates us, for which I'm grateful.

  'Erm, we're going midtown to the Millennium Broadway Hotel.'

  'Where? Never heard of it,' she barks at me.

  'Do you know Times Square?' I say helplessly.

  'She says do I know Times Square!'

  I observe the silhouette of her shoulders heaving, her mahogany paws manipulating the steering wheel. She gives a hoot of laughter. Alan shifts around his seat ignoring us both while Ollie drops off to sleep.

  'You guys from outta town?'

  'London, England,' I say.

  'That figures.'

  She gives a coarse cackle. We're coming up to some lights.

  'Do you often drive late at night?'

  Her black eyes glower at me in the driver's mirror.

  'What's it to you?'

  'I just wondered, as a woman, if you ever got scared driving a cab late at night.'

  'Scared?
Me?'

  She suddenly screeches to a halt mid street. It's empty.

  'Crikey!' I say absurdly.

  Alan throws an arm protectively over Ollie's slumbering form.

  Our driver ducks down under the front seat, turns round and through the metal grill points a gun directly at me. For a second I'm too shocked to move. Alan appears white and frozen. In a split second she lowers the barrel and breaks into a huge grin.

  'Hey listen, lady, I'm from Jamaica and I know how to deal with trouble. No one's ever gonna mess with me.'

  With a heavy thud she hurls it back under the seat and roars off.

  'Now where was it you folks said you was going?'

Under a pale blue sky, the New York Public Library, its Beaux-arts, white facade bleached in sunlight, jostles for space in the concrete jungle. Mobbed by towering, lean and mean skyscrapers, it sits elegantly, like a learned professor, on the edge of Bryant Park, enjoying the attention it garners from the city's academics, students and visitors alike. Nestling behind this grand old boy is the park itself, an idyllic oasis in the cut and thrust of city life. It is here, the scene of many a fashion and PR event, that Greedy George has chosen to preview his new pet fashion range, Hot Dogs and Even Cooler Cats. It seems almost impossible to believe that only yesterday this was the very place from which I set off to compete in the marathon. Today, it's as if it was all just a dream. There are no banners, no jolly officials with loud hailers, no crowds of men and women in numbered bibs, no rows of coaches forming one long, illuminated caterpillar under the uncompromising gaze of Gertrude Stein.

  In front of me, in agitated mode, is Greedy George, pacing about the lawn with his mobile glued to his ear.

  'No, Alfonso, you listen to me,' he yells in his affected
sarf
London accent. 'I want the delivery by tonight or I'll stick peas up your nostrils,
capiche
?'

  He snaps the phone shut and shoves it sulkily into his pocket.

  'Peas?' I enquire.

  'Whatever. It gave him a turn. And don't give me one of those looks.'

  'I think we should get back to the guests. We'll just tell the press that there's been a short delay in availability.'

  'Yeah, but on the press release we said all the stuff would be in the store today. That lazy skunk should have a good hiding.'

  I grab his arm. 'George, just concentrate on the show. Alfonso's cocked up and that's the end of it.'

  He strides, with a thunderous look on his face, across the grass towards the distant fountain terrace. This is the third time Alfonso Mario has failed to deliver Havana products to the store on time and Greedy George is not amused. Excited New Yorkers will now have to wait until tomorrow to purchase their pet trinkets from the shop. I walk stiffly behind Greedy George. My legs still feel bruised and battered like a pair of badly damaged bananas, but with the flexibility of dried concrete. Milling about the circular terrace which runs in a giant loop around the spectacular pink granite fountain at its heart, I see a throng of a hundred or more media guests. Most are sipping at cocktails and glancing at press material while a curious few examine, with some bemusement, the bright vermillion carpet that runs around the fountain. This is the official 'catwalk' on which Havana's new pet range will be modelled by various spoilt and well-trained pooches and moggies. A wooden reception desk has been set up, manned by five staff from George's New York PR company. Sweetly and with sickly smiles, they tick off names and hand out press packs and goody bags. George snaps into happy chappie mode as soon as he's approached by the event organiser.

  'Everything on cue, Barbara?'

  A tiny crisp of a woman in salmon pink chiffon and a helmet of peroxide, she prods at his big right paw with bony, insistent fingers.

  'Another fifteen minutes, George,' she squeals. 'We've had a little problem with Roxanne the rotweiller, but she's shaping up.'

  'What kind of problem?'

  'Oh, nothing serious. She keeps shaking off the dog bolero and cape, but her agent and trainer are on the case.'

  'Christ, diva dogs, that's all we need, guv.'

  I notice Barbara's unsmiling and intense aspect and smother a grin.

  'But the rehearsal was a dream. The guests are going to go wild, trust me.' She clasps her hands together in paroxysms of pure joy.

  'They're not getting very wild on those fruit cocktails. Dreary lot. Come on guv, let's get a glass of bubbly and show these Yanks what's what.'

  Barbara gives a little gasp as George whisks up two glasses and pushes one in my hand. She slips away, presumably to calm the stage nerves of her furry protégés.

  'Your Barbara seemed a bit disapproving about our drinking champagne at this hour.'

  George waves a hand in the air. 'Oh, bugger that. Bloody Puritans. These Yanks don't know how to live, guv.'

  'How's your dodgy leg today?' he barks.

  'Still dodgy. Can't you tell?'

  'Thought you always walked like the Tin Man.'

  'Ho ho ho. Anyway, where's old Bryan?'

  It's a while since I've seen my client, Bryan Patterson. I'm rather hoping he hasn't brought Tootsie, his pet bunny, along to this event.

  George points rudely over to the other side of the fountain.

  'There he is with Rachel and your vampire mate, Dannie.'

  I stare across. Rachel is rolling her head back and laughing politely. I'd love to know what they're discussing.

  'Bryan's rabbit's in the show.'

  'Tootsie? Please tell me you're joking?'

  He gives a little whinny. 'I thought he could be the parting shot. I made him this cutesy little kid jacket and leather baseball cap which his ears hang through.'

  I shake my head. 'Thank God I live in Mallorca.'

  He wallops my arm. 'You love all this tosh as much as I do. How else do people like you and me get our kicks?'

  'These days I'm finding new avenues.'

  He breaks into silly giggles. 'Come on guv, let's go and upset some press.'

  A tall, painfully thin woman in shades, a semi-transparent blouse and minuscule miniskirt is snacking on some snap peas from a plastic sandwich bag.

  'Hi Francine. Forgot your skirt?'

  She pats her concave chest nervously. 'Oh George, darling! Don't be so uncouth.'

  I extend my hand which she holds limply like a dead fish.

  'Oh, I am SO happy to meet you! Let me give you my card. I'm with
Vogue
USA.'

  'Fabulous,' I gush.

  George waits until she's ferreting in her voluminous Prada handbag, then opens his mouth and pokes his finger towards his throat. This is his unique way of conveying that he finds someone a) irritating, b) insipid, c) tedious or possibly all three. I bare my teeth at him. Francine hands me a card.

  'Isn't George just fantastic? He's like the new tsar of fashion around here.'

  'And do you have a pet?' I ask.

  She takes a sip of water and gives a little cough. 'Oh, absolutely. I have a chihuahua named Lucy Belle. Like George, I am a great dog lover.'

  He stands nodding with a beatific smile on his ample chops. A gaggle of women join us, all from top New York glossies. They introduce themselves graciously, only showing genuine fear and bad humour when a waiter approaches with a tray of canapés.

  'Do the British still offer liquor at daytime press events?' asks a sweet girl from
Jayne
magazine.

  'Well, yes it's normal in London to offer champagne or wine.'

  She gives a loud tut. 'Really? Oh my Gad that's terrible! It's so unhealthy and besides it makes you put on so much weight.'

  I'm about to reply, but am swooped on by Rachel. Given that she only flew in during the early hours of the morning, she's looking remarkably perky and bright eyed. She smiles indulgently at the small coterie of press and pulls me aside.

  'I've schmoozed Dannie to death, but Bryan's in a flap about Tootsie's debut on the catwalk. God, I need a drink.'

  I beckon a waiter over and with delight he passes her a glass.

  'Well done, you. Now, once this is over, we'd better get over to H Hotel in Tribeca pronto to help out before tonight's event.'

  'What have you done with Alan and Ollie?'