The Two Lives of Lydia Bird(87)

‘Wow,’ I say, filling my eyes with the huge moving billboards and Broadway show trailers, stepping backwards to avoid the flow of people as I stand still, look up and gawp.

Freddie looks at me. ‘Okay?’

I nod, remembering it isn’t actually the first time I’ve seen this in this world. ‘It’s amazing every time you see it, isn’t it? So full on.’

‘The city that never sleeps,’ he laughs. ‘Come on, it’s your turn to flag a cab.’

‘It is?’

I’m guessing that I’ve made a thing about wanting to hail one of the famous yellow cabs, but now I’m here I feel clueless. I give myself a shake; how hard can it be? To be fair, it’s not as if I’ve spent much time hailing cabs back home either. If anyone needs a taxi in my day-to-day life, we call the only firm in town and Andrew Fletcher’s mother dispatches one to us, more often than not driven by Andrew himself.

Freddie tugs me by the hand until we’re on the edge of the sidewalk. Traffic and cabs surge past us and I dither about before bobbing my arm out in the general direction of the road. He bursts out laughing.

‘Bloody hell, Lyds, do it like you mean it,’ he says.

I have another go, but it’s as if I’m invisible.

‘Might be better to go for one that’s actually available,’ Freddie says. ‘Just the number illuminated, remember?’

I study the yellow cabs for a few seconds and realize that some of them have ‘Off Duty’ lit up and some of them have nothing lit at all. Others have their number on; they must be the ones I need to target. Right, I think, I’ve got this. I spot the next empty and available cab cruising in our direction and I thrust my whole arm out like I mean business. I’m giddy with success when it slows to a stop. It’s only when the driver peers out at me that I realize I don’t know where we’re headed.

‘Where to?’ I say, turning back to Freddie, my fingers curled around the open window because I’m scared the cab driver will leave.

Freddie leans in. ‘Four Seasons?’

The driver nods and Freddie smiles as he opens the door for me.

I don’t know how on earth we’ve afforded this place. In all of my New York fantasies – and there have been many – we never stayed anywhere as fabulous as the Four Seasons. The marble, the flowers, the gilt, the sheer splendour – it’s all off the scale. I want to imprint every last detail on my brain for ever. I want to remember the exact feeling of walking through the perfumed lobby with Freddie for the rest of my life. This old-school grandeur is so detached from our everyday life that even Freddie must feel as if he’s dreaming. I manage to keep a lid on gasping out loud as we take the elevator up to the eighth floor and Freddie opens the door to our room. Or to our suite, I should say.

‘I’m bursting for the loo,’ he says, ducking into the bathroom.

I’m grateful for his absence because I need a private minute to pull myself together. Our belongings are here so this must be our room, some things I recognize, some new to me. I guess we must have arrived yesterday. I wonder what we did, where we ate, how we marvelled at our luck to be staying in a hotel as swanky as this. I spot a pile of loose change on a side table, amongst it a receipt from last night for cocktails at Bar SixtyFive. I sigh, glad to know I’ve been to the Top of the Rock in this life at least, even if I didn’t get to experience how it felt. One of the hardest parts of falling into this life for hops and catches is trying to find out what I’ve missed and work out what lies ahead.

This room … I look around, blown away. It’s so luxurious, so beyond us really. I stand by the picture windows looking out over the New York cityscape I’ve seen countless times on TV and in photographs; they didn’t even remotely prepare me for the real thing. It’s alive out there, a pulsing sprawl of metal and glass, Central Park an oasis of green.

‘We have a couple of spare hours,’ Freddie says, coming to stand behind me at the window. The smoke in his voice tells me how he’d like to spend that time, the graze of his mouth hot against my ear. I lean into him; I want the same thing. To know the touch of my husband, to make love to him as his wife. What a precious, precious gift.

‘Go on, tell me,’ I wheedle. ‘We’re here now, I’ll be able to look forward to it more if I know.’

I’m lying in the crook of Freddie’s shoulder, warm and blissed-out, the white sheets tangled around our bodies. My efforts at the gym have clearly been paying off: my arms are more toned here, my thighs too. It’s a bit bizarre to look down and see myself altered. It highlights the space between here and there, the subtle and not-so-subtle differences between the two worlds.

‘You really want to know?’

I’m trying to get Freddie to reveal his plans for the next few days so I can work out when to come back, how to wring as much pleasure as possible from our time together. He’s going to tell me; I can see he’s desperate to.

‘MoMA?’ I guess. It’s a bit of a long shot; I’d love to go, but museums are so not Freddie’s thing.

He shakes his head. ‘Closed for a few months. Renovations, I think.’

Disappointment spears me, but now I think about it I do remember reading about the closure. The important fact is that he bothered to check.

‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ I guess again, holding my breath because reservations at The Blue Box Cafe are rarer than hen’s teeth.