First Born(30)

‘Sure.’

We sit in the window of the Pret on West 42nd Street. Mum picks at a granola and fruit salad, and Dad and I both have pastries. Three cups of good, strong coffee. I saw an influencer on YouTube say you should never countenance visiting a chain restaurant in New York City because the one-off authentic places are so incredible here. The finest in the world. But I’m not that person. Mum and Dad are not those people. We lack that adventurous spirit. When Mum’s egg split into two, when it cleaved itself, all that bravery and spontaneity went to KT and left me like this.

Email notification. Eugene Groot apologises and says his schedule is busy until late February. Late February? He expresses his sincere condolences. I write back immediately that I have some important information relating to him and I’d like to discuss it, out of courtesy, before I take it to anyone else. I suggest Midtown or Columbia.

We gather our things together and head back out on to the street. Detective Martinez wants to talk with Mum again, just a formality, or so he says. Dad will take her there and wait outside.

Email notification. Groot says can I meet him at the Harvard Club on West 44th Street at six p.m. I reply that I will be there.

I do some shopping, then I walk alone to Central Park with my eyes peeled for anyone suspicious-looking. I have my hands inside my pockets because it’s a cold, crisp October day, and the guy in front of me is talking to his friend about the upcoming New York marathon. About the inconvenience of it all. The extra street security. His friend says You wait until Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade next month if you want to see inconvenience.

Inside the park an old Chinese man plays some kind of stringed instrument and his music is unlike anything I have ever heard. It is sad and it is beautiful.

I find the rock monoliths close to Inscope Arch, and perch on top, but not too close to the edge.

All around me is life. Layers of activity and noise; impossibly narrow skyscrapers building up behind the treeline like stalagmites in a limestone cave.

I try to wrap my head around KT’s death, and my new role as a surviving twin. How will I cope with that? How will it change my hopes and dreams? We will not have kids at the same age, the way we dreamed of. We will not marry in the same church the way we talked about. We will not holiday together with our husbands and our children in Cornwall as we always imagined we would do, drinking crisp white wine in some sleepy fishing harbour while our children devour their strawberry ice-creams.

My rocky perch overlooks the Wollman ice-rink and it is a menace. In most places this would be serene: skaters swirling and scraping round the ice, left alone for us to all admire. But here each strictly controlled skating session is preceded by a quarter hour of safety messages and legal disclaimers. All sorts of loudspeaker warnings and regulations about when to take photos and in what zone those photos can be taken.

My mind’s a muddle, but being in this little corner of parkland is helping me to order my thoughts. My return flight is booked to leave in a few days. Me and Mum and Dad. And an urn full of ashes. In the meantime I will do everything I can to aid the police and aid Bogart DeLuca. I’ll update him as soon as my dinner with Groot is finished tonight.

I imagine KT sitting on this very rock eating a giant pretzel or flirting with Scott Sbarra. Or she might have even FaceTimed me from this spot before things became awkward. If I could go back in time and change things, I would.

Email notification. It’s from Groot. It says there’s a dress code: no jeans or leggings or T-shirts. I already know I’m going to hate the Harvard Club. If there’s any mingling and small talk I will not perform well. Where did you study? they’ll ask, and I’ll answer that I didn’t, and they’ll ask What do you do? and I’ll say I’m an admin assistant for a paint and wood stain manufacturer and then they’ll smile and nod and move on. The truth is, we can’t all be overachieving academics destined for the UN or a top law firm; some of us are meant to be normal, and there is no shame in that whatsoever.

Back at the hostel I shower and put on black trousers and a black shirt and black shoes.

‘You look smart, dear,’ says Mum.

‘Thank you.’

I step closer to her. Put my hand on her shoulder. ‘If you ever need to come and stay with me in London for a bit, Mum – for whatever reason – you can, you know. I don’t make much, but my job’s safe. If you need to—’

She places her fingertip to her lips for a moment, and then kisses me on my forehead and mouths thank you.

I leave without explaining about Groot because I worry they’ll want to come as well and then I’ll discover absolutely nothing of value. I want to see the professor for myself. Hold his gaze. Assess him.

The walk to the Harvard Club takes less than five minutes but the transformation is dramatic. From the manic Times Square end of Midtown to a string of clubs and expensive-looking hotels. The Algonquin, the Iroquois, the Sofitel. And then the red-brick Harvard Club with its flags, and a doorman in full uniform holding the door open for me.

‘Good evening,’ says the receptionist. ‘Member or guest?’

‘Er, guest. Of Eugene Groot.’

‘Of course, please sign in just here.’

I sign in.

‘Take a seat over there and I’ll let Professor Groot know you’ve arrived.’

She walks away and I feel uncomfortable in this vast room with its serious portraits and plaques and bookcases.