The Perfect Girlfriend(25)

It’s such a shame that, although Nate and I are both here, we cannot go out exploring together.

I take care whilst checking in at reception to keep an eye out, and I ask to see a flight crew list. Nate is on floor twenty-seven.

In my fifth-floor room, whilst awaiting delivery of my suitcase, I stare out the window at the office block opposite. I tap the hotel Wi-Fi code into my phone. Nate hasn’t posted anything about what he intends to do here. The safest bet is that he will go for a jog early tomorrow morning. But until then, I am free.

I take a look at Bella’s blog. I feel sick. Even though I was prepared – thanks to Stephanie – even though I knew it was coming, it still gives me heart-sink. And fills me with envy. Bella and Miles have announced their engagement. I check Stephanie’s Facebook page. The phrase ‘Cheshire Cat’ comes to mind. Bella’s ring is a diamond rock, set in platinum.

Congratulations, Bella and Miles.

Wonderful news.

So happy.

Perfect couple.

Blah bloody blah.

The last comment is written by Nate: Wishing you every happiness, and welcome to the family, Miles. Hope you know what you’re letting yourself in for! Only joking. X

I was careful, very careful to ensure that Nate and I had nothing to do with his family whilst we were together. It wasn’t that difficult, given how often he was out of the country, and I kept him busy during his days off. I couldn’t take the risk that Bella would make up lies about me and poison Nate’s mind. She adores her older brother and is protective of him. The only way that I can be officially reintroduced to her is as a fait accompli, a legal wife and sister-in-law. I’d love to beat her up the aisle, to have her forced attendance at my wedding, sporting a brave face, but meanwhile realizing that she’ll have no choice but to be nice to me from now on.

I go for a walk. Block after block I stride, but too many things remind me of weddings: jewellers, department stores, hotels, bridal shops and even a passing white limo.

I am forced to invent endless ways to keep busy. I drink coffee. I wait and bloody wait.

Back in my room, I can’t settle to anything or sleep. I channel-hop, but my mind can’t concentrate, so I find myself watching half-hour-long promotions. A smiley woman with a silver bouffant demonstrates a swanky vegetable chopper. Special offers flash across the screen multiple times. I stare. Perhaps it will come in useful once I am back at Nate’s. He does appreciate my cooking. And I’ve always hated the way the stink of onions permeates my fingers, long after I’ve washed my hands over and over.

Jet lag has started to play tricks on my mind.

At 6 a.m., I head for the lobby, dressed in running gear. I settle down on a corner sofa and conceal myself behind a copy of the New York Post. My eyes fix on an article which I read over and over. Every time the lift bell chimes, my heart thuds. Quite a few crew are up and about already – which is not surprising, given that it’s late morning back home.

Perhaps I got it wrong?

Maybe Nate went to the gym. He won’t stay in the hotel all day, so I’m prepared to wait this out.

Ten past bloody seven. The lift bell jingles. I just know, can just sense it, before the doors even part, that it’s going to be him. My chest pounds. I hold my breath. It is! Nate is in jogging gear, clutching a bottle of water, with his earphones in. He exits through the sliding doors and turns right.

Pulling my hood down low, I follow. Conditions are perfect. The work crowds are busy enough, but not so thick as to be a hindrance.

One block, two blocks.

Past delis advertising coffee, bagels and doughnuts. Car horns toot. Sirens screech in the distance. At each road crossing, I hang back until the pedestrian warning is about to change to the stop signal.

Nate speeds up.

I quicken my pace.

Across the road I spot horse-drawn carriages. Behind the carriage wheels and canopies are open space and greenery.

Central Park.

I get bolder, so much so that I am now merely two paces behind Nate. He stops at the entrance to set the timer on his watch. I hang back, inhaling the smell of horse shit. Keen tourists already line the pavements. A poster pinned to a nearby railing advertises Memorial Day services on the last Monday of May, in a few days’ time.

Nate breaks into a jog.

So do I.

Skyscrapers look down on us. He leaves the main road at the first opportunity and sticks to the paths – as do other runners – which is perfect. Shadows from blossom-laden trees form clusters of shaded grass dotted with pale petals. My breath quickens. There is a flaw in this plan – which is that I am not as fit as him. I hope that he is not going for too long a run because I know that the park is massive. I inhale the scent of lilac. We cross over a bridge and into a burst of azaleas.

Amelia would have loved Central Park, she would have talked me through every plant and flower name. Will would have been happy too. We’d have kicked off our shoes and run across the grass.

I am thirsty and hot.

Nate stops suddenly. His T-shirt sticks to his sweaty back. He bends over, places his hands on his thighs, then takes a long sip of water. I want to run over and snatch it from him.

I breathe as quietly as I can. He stands still.

The sun is deceitfully hot for this hour; I naively assumed that it would be as cool as it is back home. Nate heads for a nearby bench. Shit, he will be facing me.

I jog on, until I am behind him. I stand, leaning against a tree, and catch my breath properly.