Ice Creams at Carrington’s (15 page)
‘Oh Dad, you didn’t?’ I say, shocked, amused and perplexed. I just can’t imagine him, or Nancy come to think of it, skinny-dipping in a French lake. And it’s an image I definitely don’t want inside my head. Who would have thought it? Such a far cry from his more formal shirt, tie and trousers attire at all times, even when lounging at home watching those gardening programmes that he likes.
‘I absolutely did. Mind you, I have got a bit of a raspy chest today.’ He coughs in that way people always do when describing their symptoms. ‘Don’t think I’ll be rushing into the water again in a hurry. Georgie, it was perishing.’
‘Good, then take that as a warning,’ I say, firmly. ‘Honestly, Dad, you really must be careful. Have you been keeping up with your tablets?’
‘Of course, sweetheart. I wish you would stop worrying. That’s my job as a parent.’ A short silence follows. ‘I know I didn’t do a very good job of it when you were growing up, so at least let me make up for it now.’
‘Oh Dad! Please, you did what you could,’ I say, remembering the birthday and Christmas cards every year that always arrived on time – albeit with the prison postmark on, but he never forgot. ‘Anyway, it’s all in the past,’ I add to change the subject.
‘Right you are. So, have you packed your camera? You must take lots of snaps for us to see,’ he says, back in his usual jovial voice now.
‘I don’t have a camera, Dad, I’ll just use my iPhone.’
‘Ahh, yes, so much easier. Well, I’d better go, must keep an eye on the bill. I’ve heard these roaming charges can go stratospheric if you’re not careful, so have a wonderful trip, love, and do look after yourself.’
‘I will, thanks Dad. You too.’
‘Thank you, sweetheart. I love you, Georgie.’
‘And I love you too.’ And I do. My heart lifts. And in an instant, I realise that I can’t remember the last time we told each other … Certainly not since he came back into my life, and that must be at least two years now. I’m shocked. It must be back when I was a child, before he went to prison. I have to rectify this. I make a vow to tell him more often, as soon as he gets back.
I press to end the call, and slot my phone into my pocket.
‘Is everything OK?’ Tom asks, placing an arm around me. ‘You look sad.’
‘Yes, yes I’m fine. Sorry, I, it … I don’t know, it just seems a bit weird, with Dad being so far away, and now I’m going to put even more distance between us.’
‘Hey, come here.’ Tom pulls me into him, and gently rubs my arm. ‘It is OK for you to go away, you know.’
‘Oh I know. And ignore me; I’m just being silly – getting overemotional, that’s all. I feel like a fool now,’ I say, quickly brushing a stray tear away. I can’t believe I’m actually crying. What on earth is wrong with me? I wanted to travel – my wish has come true and I’m ruining it by getting all silly and sentimental.
‘You’re not a fool. It’s a big thing being far away from your loved ones … I should know, I spent the best part of my life parted from my family.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I squeeze his hand, having never really thought about his past in this way, but he’s right, and I guess our backgrounds aren’t so dissimilar after all, except he got to feel lonely surrounded by luxury, whereas I didn’t, but it’s still the same feeling when it comes down to it.
‘Oh don’t be. I got used to it years ago – my parents were always off globetrotting, and then I was away at school or uni. Which reminds me, Isabella can’t wait to join us for the regatta. She said to tell you that she’s really looking forward to seeing what you’ve come up with.’ He smiles, but I can’t help wondering if there was an innuendo, a mixed message in her words. Oh God. Now I’m being paranoid, or am I? Blimey, I’m not even sure.
‘Great.’ I keep my smile in place. ‘You did point out that it’s not just me organising it all – that there’s a big committee?’ I ask, thinking of Meredith and the others, who were actually surprisingly OK with me taking two weeks out. ‘I’m really only overseeing a smallish part of it.’ Help. I don’t want Isabella blaming me if the whole thing is a disaster.
‘Oh she knows. But she’s mostly interested in the Carrington’s contribution, of course!’ He beams obliviously as my worst fear is confirmed – he has no idea what she’s really like. ‘They’re going to moor up in the marina so they can stay for the duration.’
‘Lovely.’ I gulp.
‘Right. Close your eyes,’ Tom says, rubbing his hands together and changing topic.
‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’ I tentatively do as I’m told.
‘OK, you can open them now.’ And I do. On the table in front of me is a gold envelope. I pick it up and turn it over before going to open it. ‘Ahem. Not until your birthday!’
‘Ohhhh,’ I say, sticking my bottom lip out like a petulant child. I’m dying to know what’s inside.
‘The day before, to be precise. Promise me you won’t open it until then?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Nope, you must promise,’ he insists, his velvety-brown eyes all sparkly and twinkling, his voice full of boyish excitement. And my heart flutters – I love seeing this side of him; he spends far too much time in business mode, being serious. It’s wonderful seeing him relaxed and looking like he’s actually having fun.
‘Then I promise. Thank you.’ I lean over to kiss him before slipping the card inside my handbag. I can’t wait to open it. And then a little voice pops inside my head:
You could take a peek on the aeroplane
.
He’ll never know.
Nooo, no no no, it’s plain wrong. Besides, I’ll know … and all that. Plus I promised! Eeek. I inhale sharply before breathing out. I’m not even going to think about it. I have willpower. I do. I sooo do. A bit. I bite my bottom lip.
‘Stop it.’
‘Whaaaat?’
‘Thinking about the envelope.’
‘I’m not.’ And my damn cheeks let me down by flaming immediately.
‘I shall know, you know, if you open it before the designated day,’ Tom laughs. But before I can respond with a suitable comeback, he lifts my hair and whispers teasingly into my ear. ‘But you can open this envelope now, if you really want to …’ He slides another, much smaller, white envelope towards me. It has the Hilton hotel logo on it. ‘Come on.’ He pauses to check the time on his watch before reaching under the table for my carry-on case. ‘We’ve got three hours to have ridiculously filthy sex!’ He grabs my hand and kisses me hard on the lips. Oh my God. Show me the way. And my pulse is practically at fever pitch as we jump up and run, giggling like hormone-fuelled teenagers, towards the Hilton sign.
O
MG. Oh my actual God! You want to see the apartment I’m staying in. In fact, scrap that, it’s not really an apartment
at all
. Well, not like one I’ve ever been in – no, this is a proper bona fide Manhattan mansion. It has a concierge, with a man called Larry, who was waiting in a black uniform with gold trim and pristine white gloves on his hands, as my driver (the actual driver that Gaspard’s PA has allocated to me for the duration of my stay, wahey!) pulled up right outside the green canopied entrance, where my luggage was swiftly dealt with as I was swept up to the top floor, the penthouse. And, the best bit of all – I have my own lift. Just like Edward’s penthouse palace in that
Pretty Woman
film, the doors slide open directly into my hallway – the hallway that’s bigger than my whole flat at home! In fact, right now, I actually feel like I’m starring in a film, where the pretty but very quaint little seaside town of Mulberry-On-Sea is a trillion miles away.
I drop my handbag on the hall table, kick off my wedges and run the length of the hall and into the bedroom. And gasp. The super-king-sized bed is set up on a platform, so high that I literally have to fling myself up onto it. It’s ridiculous. The mattress must be at least three foot deep and I’m not even joking. It’s a proper princess-and-the-pea bed. I fall backwards, my body cushioned by the extra-plump duvet and pillow mountain, before letting out a little gasp. Above me is a brocade canopy, with curtains making a four-poster bed. God, I wish Tom was here – the fun we could have. My legs are still aching from our marathon session at the Hilton, which started in the lift. Tom’s magnificent body pressed up hard against mine, his hand up underneath my top, fingers teasing inside my bra as his other hand tugged my hair, tilting my head back while his lips caressed my neck. It was all I could do to keep it together until we made it into the actual hotel room. Where he kicked the door shut behind us, pushed up my skirt and delivered on his promise of gloriously filthy sex, right there on the floor, before fireman-lifting me into the bedroom to do it all over again. Multiple orgasms sure are the best thing ever. And Tom is an expert. Sweet Jesus. I’m tingling from head to toe just thinking about it. I close my eyes for a moment and savour the exquisite memory for a while longer.
There’s a terrace leading from the bedroom, so I leap off the bed and fling open the glass doors. The warm evening air envelops me as I walk outside – it’s stifling hot, suffocating almost, but I don’t care, I’m in the most exciting city in the whole world, or so it seems. Glorious. Iconic yellow taxis, honking their horns, fill the street below, weaving in and out of the traffic. Illuminated shop windows span both sides of the street, a drugstore, a dog grooming parlour, dry cleaner’s, a Chinese restaurant with Hello Kitty tablecloths and paper lanterns – it’s all here, and they’re open like it’s the middle of the day. New York really is the city that never sleeps – I can’t imagine ever dropping my dry cleaning off at 9 p.m. back home in Mulberry-On-Sea. It would never happen and, even if it got mooted as a possibility, the residents’ association would certainly have something to say about it.
A loud banging sound breaks the moment, and I instantly dash back inside. It takes a few seconds to get my bearings and work out where the noise is coming from. I quickly smooth my hair and straighten my top as I leg it back down the hallway towards what I think must be the front door – I’m sure this is where I stepped out of the lift. I tentatively pull open the heavy, gold-handled door.
‘Good evening, Miss Hart. These just arrived.’ It’s Larry with the biggest basket of flowers I have ever seen – he needs both gloved hands just to lift it.
‘
Wow!
’
‘Shall I bring it in?’
‘Um, yes. Yes please.’ I step aside and Larry heaves the basket up onto the hall table. I take the card and see that the flowers are from Tom.
Hope you arrived safely.
Chat soon
Love Mr Carrington xoxoxo
Ahh, so lovely. I miss him already.
‘Are you settling in OK?’ Larry asks.
‘I so am. It’s amazing – but can you tell me where I can find the nearest place to get food, please?’ I’m starving, even though my body is saying it’s two o’clock in the morning and I should be asleep, I can’t, it’s only nine in the evening here. And I’m sure I read somewhere that the fastest way to get over jetlag is to adapt to the local time right away. Anyway, there’s no time to sleep – being here in the actual Big Apple is way too exciting for that.
‘Sure. What would you like to eat?’ he says, in a proper New Yorker accent.
‘Oooh, what is there? Apart from the Chinese restaurant opposite?’ I ask, figuring I can eat Chinese food anytime (for my shame, they know me by name in the Wing Hong takeaway at the end of my street back home). ‘I’m thinking something more … American!’ Larry throws his head back and lets out a big belly laugh.
‘Lady, this is America: you can have whatever you like, whenever you like.’
‘Really? In that case I’d love a proper American cheeseburger in an authentic American diner that I can walk to.’ (I want to soak up the New York atmosphere from the ground floor, as it were.) ‘Like the one in
Grease
where Rizzo chucks pink milkshake over Kenickie and says, “To you from me, Pinky Lee”,’ I say, optimistically, putting his bold statement to the test, but then instantly wondering if he’s actually seen the film. Hmm, on second thoughts, he’s bound to – hasn’t everyone?
‘No problem!’ he confirms, not missing a beat. ‘Go out of the building, take a right, go half a block and you’ll see the red stripe canopy and the blue neon window sign. Ask for Don, he’ll take care of you. He’s my cousin!’ And with that, Larry does a little salute before turning on his heel and heading back into the lift.
Twenty minutes later, I’m swinging my legs on a well-worn black leather bar stool, soaking up the buzzy, vibrant atmosphere and chatting to Don as he fries delicious-smelling onions, hot dogs and hunks of steak on a huge hotplate, in between taking slurps of the thickest, yummiest cherry milkshake I’ve ever tasted! Mm-mmm. I take a picture with my phone, thinking I must show this to Sam. I wonder if Don will let me have the recipe, her café customers would love it. And, like Larry said he would, Don has taken care of me; from the moment I stepped inside this epitome of American culture – with the chrome-legged square red tables to the banquette booths, to the black-and-white checked tiles to the waft of cinnamon, maple syrup and pancakes. There’s even a giant jukebox in the corner belting out classic Fifties rock-and-roll tunes. Heavenly. It’s so warm and cosy, and everyone seems very friendly. Even the two uniformed cops sitting at the bar next to me – who look like characters straight from
CSI:NY
central casting, as they tuck into giant hot dogs smothered in curly swirls of yellow mustard – gave me the once-over before saying, ‘How you doing, ma’am?’
Instinctively, I go to text the picture to Sam, but stop just in time. I need to talk to her first – I can’t be sending her pictures of milkshakes from American diners when we haven’t even had a proper heart-to-heart about the whole Christy thing. It’s weird, because whenever something major has happened in the past, we’ve always been in it together, rock solid, supporting each other. If I’m honest, I’m a bit surprised she hasn’t returned my calls; she must have got my message about coming to New York. Maybe she just needs time to get her head around having Christy back in her life. I’ll call her again, not now – with the time difference it’s the middle of the night at home, and I daren’t risk waking the girls – but as soon as I can.