Starlight in New York

Further along the boardwalk, tight clusters of tourists dotted the shoreline. A bronzed, bare-chested twenty-something lifted his girlfriend in a way not dissimilar to how Jack had, without any effort, lifted me the day before. I sighed. Despite my efforts to shut him out, the actor had sauntered into my thoughts. And not for the first time. Watching those young lovers, I felt again his hands, firm and secure around my waist, and an unfamiliar warmth stirred just beneath the skin.

Oh Esther, don’t be drawn. How could you so soon forget what men do?

No. I hadn’t forgotten. Jack was just the first handsome face to take an interest since… since…

I shook my head. That’s all these thoughts were. A raw, physical reaction to the tone of his arms.

What rippled beneath that smooth surface, Esther?

More than just muscle. A savage. Unless he had a medical note for that weird, wall-punching tic. A brute. Another one.

Overcome by both the heat and the odd cocktail of emotions, I sheltered in the shadow cast by a billboard for Nathan’s hot dogs. The beach stretched out along the peninsula as far as I could make out. Sandwiched between the blue waters of the Atlantic and the jubilant roar of the amusements. Looming tall above all else was the derelict Parachute Jump ride: a fearsome, steel skeleton that mushroomed into the sky. The fact people once thought it prudent to launch themselves off the top of it was incredible. Even more incredible was that it’d achieved status as a New York City landmark, preventing developers from demolishing it and building condos. The only other obelisks on the skyline were apartment blocks, which stood in military procession beyond multi-coloured parasols and rows of refreshment bars. They’d been built in a brick that was meant to be in sympathy with the sand but were too muddy a brown and thus looked as awkward as I felt against the otherwise jaunty palate of the sea front.

Recovered from the heat, and more than aware that a two-minute stint in the shade wouldn’t cure my permanent sense of being somehow dislodged, I ambled out along the pier. There, I planned to sit out and read the copy of Homage to Catalonia I had stowed in my satchel. Though my life had taken a disturbing turn in the last few years, I clung to the comfort I found in books. Orwell, in particular, was an author who set me at ease. He wrote like he was speaking just to me, as though he was sitting in some nearby corner recounting his many philosophies and adventures, and there was an intimacy about that I found solace in. I felt close to this man I’d never known. It was the sole intimacy I allowed myself.

Spare seats on the pier were scarce but after a minute I clocked one on a wooden bench next to an old black man with long, curly hair. He sang to himself. A huge golden Labrador sat at his side. His singing ceased as I settled onto the bench. We remained in silence for a few minutes before the dog edged towards me for some fuss. I obliged, rubbing him behind the ears.

‘He botherin’ you?’ the man asked, looking first at the dog and then at me.

‘Not at all. I love dogs. In fact, I’m quite suspicious of people who don’t.’ I smiled at him before returning my attentions to the mutt.

‘I hear ya.’ At this, the man started singing again. I nodded my head in time and he noticed my approval.

‘That’s a good song,’ he said, still tapping one foot to the rhythm floating around in his head.

I nodded, patting the dog. ‘It is. It’s Wilson Pickett, isn’t it? Or were you singing the Tina Turner version?’

‘Right first time.’ He looked surprised and then a little closer at me. ‘You’re a bit young to know ’bout Wilson Pickett, ain’t you?’

‘Ha. Well, I’m not that young but thank you,’ I said, a touch of shyness creeping in at the compliment.

‘You can’t be older than thirty.’ He stared harder, trying to gauge my age.

‘I’m thirty-three.’ I gave him a flimsy smile. ‘But my Dad liked those songs. They were a big part of my childhood.’

‘Your Dad has good taste.’ The man gave a weighty nod, and pressed his lips together.

‘I always thought so,’ I said. ‘At least when it came to music.’

The man chuckled. ‘Well, daughters and fathers need only see eye to eye on the things that matter, and to my mind music comes somewhere near the top of that list.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, stroking the dog’s ears and massaging his neck under the collar. ‘It’s of little relevance now though, Dad died when I was eleven.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and gave me a look I’d seen a hundred times from a hundred different people. Nobody knows how to deal with the topic of mortality. The old man’s tack was to sidestep the subject: ‘You got kids yourself?’

‘No.’ My gaze drifted out to sea and I locked my expression in a state of indifference which I could only hope looked casual. It was the threat of bearing a child, his child, that’d created this whole predicament.

‘Well, you got time for that yet.’

‘Mmm. Relationships are…they’re complex.’ I shrugged. Complex. Is there anything so complex about doing everything you’re told? That was always Mrs Delaney’s method. ‘How about you? Do you have family?’

‘Three girls, but they’re pretty much grown up. There’s just me and the wife now. Lived in Brooklyn our whole lives and not really been much further than Coney.’ He fumbled in his wallet and produced a picture. Three little girls grinned back at me, stood in a row according to height like real-life Russian dolls. Behind them stood their mother. She had her arms draped around the kids and wore what I’m sure had once been a vibrant red dress. The photo had faded however, making it more of a soft rose colour.

‘They’re beautiful. All that time together.’ I forced my mouth to turn up at the corners.

‘Yes. I’m a lucky man, it’s true. Didn’t always feel like it; raising three women ain’t what you call inexpensive. But I’ve always tried to remember how fortunate I am at the end of the day.’ He looked over at me. ‘You got family back home?’

‘Just my mother. Back in England. I write to her when I can but it’s a long way to go and visit all the time.’ I thought about how long it’d been since I’d written Mum a letter and dipped my head in shame once I’d done the sums. God. Poor Mum. Back in England by herself. I meant to write more often but sometimes it was hard. So hard to remember, everything.

‘Yep. Sure is a long distance to put between yourself and home.’ The man gazed out at the view in front of him.

‘I suppose it is.’ I looked at the ground. If only he knew that in so many respects it didn’t feel far enough away from all that had happened. That sometimes the smell of tea brewing at the diner or the twinkling of the city lights at night made it seem like I was back there again. Back in London, living with the ghost of the man and wife I never talked about.

‘Do you miss it?’

‘What? Who?’ My breath quickened.

‘Home…’ My companion raised the eyebrow nearest me but didn’t look in my direction.

‘Oh, yes. Sometimes but it’s…it’s…’

‘Let me guess: it’s complicated,’ he said.

‘You could say that.’

‘Hmmm.’ The man joined me in stroking the dog, who was revelling in the extra affection. Pawing at our knees for more whenever we paused for thought. ‘Well, I don’t know you of course. And you can tell me to mind my business. But if you’ll let me, can I tell you something?’

‘Please, do.’ At a guess all the Zoltar machine would tell me was that I’d meet a tall, handsome stranger. As I’d already had that encounter yesterday I wasn’t willing to count that as a psychic prediction. If this old man had any advice on stepping out from the shadowland I’d been living in, it was prudent to at least hear him out.

‘When you get older, old as me, which you will do one day, what you appreciate more than anything else is time with the people you love.’ He looked out over the water. His voice deepened. ‘You see, it’s not like when you’re a kid, when you’ve got an eternity stretching out before you. Time is limited. You know you’ve only got so many more times to see the people who mean the world to you.’ I took a deep breath. Time was limited. But in moments of suffering time was elastic. In the company of Mr Delaney, seven years seemed like seventy.

‘What if…’ I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. Somehow, the man’s lack of connection with my life made it easier. ‘What if you’re frightened?’ The dog, sensing my distress, nuzzled his head into my leg.

‘Frightened of what?’

‘That someone will hurt you. I mean, really hurt you …’ I trailed off not knowing what else to say without saying too much.

‘Well –’ the man rubbed his stubbly beard ‘– in my experience there’s nothing scarier in this world than being all alone.’

I stared at my feet. Was that true? Was being lonely worse than an iron hand clamped around your neck? Worse than his body, greased with last night’s sweat, slithering against yours?

‘I don’t know,’ I said, answering my own questions out loud.

‘Listen. I don’t pretend to know everything, although I’m sure my daughters would tell you otherwise, but I do know this: if you close yourself off to people, take yourself out of their equation, it’s true they can’t hurt you,’ he hesitated, weighing up if he should say what he was about to say next, ‘but they can’t love you either. Not if you won’t let them.’ We both took a deep breath of the salt air which was fresher at the end of the pier.

A familiar twinge strained in my chest. The force of everything I held back every day rammed against my ribcage, clawing through my membrane. Trying to break through. Keen to shake the feeling that I was acting out some grisly, cut scene from a David Cronenberg movie, I closed my eyes and took another deep breath, exhaling in the hope of relieving tension.

It didn’t work.

I wanted to tell this man more but dared not. What could he say, anyway? About that woman. Mrs Delaney, that spineless, friendless tramp who learnt how to nod too often. His whore.

‘This is… pretty heavy for seaside chat,’ I said, trying hard to fight back tears that, despite my best efforts, still threatened to fall.

‘Well, I hate small talk, and I refuse to become one of those old people who spends all their time telling young people how much better and cheaper things used to be. What do you care if the subway used to cost five cents? It don’t anymore.’ The man shook his head. I managed to laugh.

‘Old people aren’t forced to talk about rising prices,’ I said. ‘There’s the weather too, and baseball, don’t forget.’

‘Not sure I know you well enough to have a conversation about somethin’ as serious as baseball,’ said the man. I smiled over at him. He reached a bony hand across, squeezed my shoulder. I put my hand on top of his and sighed.

Looking back out to sea, I wondered. Where did I go? The day Mr and Mrs Delaney married, I disappeared. But where to? Did he hide me behind his ear like a silver coin in a cheap magic trick you show your cousin? Or maybe I was banished to his back trouser pocket, folded up somewhere in the hoard of expense receipts for black cabs and Japanese restaurants in Soho. All I know is for seven years I checked out. My body repossessed by his new wife. And now they were dead. And I had my life back. But even in death, his steel grip strangled.

The old man was right.

What good was a life you were too afraid to live?

Chapter Three

It was 11:50pm, ten minutes till closing, and I was sweeping the diner floor when the bell hanging over the doorway chimed. I sighed, propped the broom up against the counter and turned to see him: Jack Faber. It was raining outside and he was soaked. Breathing heavy. Staring hard.

I stared straight back at him. At this time of night there was no escape. No diversion. No distraction. Besides Lucia, who was out back clearing the mess Bernie had made during his shift on the grill earlier that day, the place was deserted.

‘Can I…help you, sir?’ I heard a waver in my voice I tried hard to correct. Under no circumstances must he guess he’d been in my thoughts for a considerable chunk of the day.

‘Yes.’ He took a couple of steps towards me, casting a long shadow across the shiny lino. ‘You can call me Jack rather than sir.’

‘Alright.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘Can I help you, Jack?’

‘I think…I need some coffee.’ He shuffled closer.

‘Take a seat. I’ll bring some over.’ I gestured to a table but he disregarded this and sat in the same stool he’d taken at the counter the previous morning. I glared at him behind his back. Why was he making this so difficult? He was going to force another conversation even though I’d made it clear I wasn’t interested. I walked over to the coffee machine, pushed at the thin, black frames on my glasses, nudging them a little further up the bridge of my nose, poured his drink and delivered it as quick as possible.

My plan was to hide out in the kitchen with Lucia until he got bored and went home but as I was setting down the cup his hand brushed against the back of mine. This time, to my surprise, I didn’t recoil like the other day. Like every other time anyone who might be considered an eligible boyfriend came within reach. Instead, I looked down at our hands sitting on the counter, just an inch apart. His fingers drew nearer and touched the tips of mine. Keeping my hand still, neither accepting nor spurning his advance, I looked back up at him.

With the exception of my friend Ryan back in England, who didn’t really count, the actor was the first man to touch me in two years. I’d forgotten what it felt like: the spark that shoots through your body when someone you want makes it clear they want you back. His touch was softer than the last I’d known. A warm dream rather than the clinical stranglehold I’d learnt to pretend to adore.

‘That’s enough,’ I said, snatching back my hand, trying to work out if that was longing surging through me, or panic. He eyed me for a moment, taking in the effect he’d had on me. I took a pointed step backward.

‘Did I do something to offend you?’ he asked with a noticeable slur.

‘Are you drunk?’ I looked harder at him and tilted my head to one side.

‘Pffft,’ he almost snorted. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘The stench of whiskey is a bit of a clue.’

At this, his eyes fell to the counter. He sat up straighter in his chair and ran a hand through his hair which was still damp from the rain.

‘I might have had one or two glasses with a friend. But drunk? Of course not.’ He gave me an oversized smile in an attempt to make a joke of the fact that he was somewhat squiffy.

‘Is that the truth or are you just acting sober?’

He smiled. ‘Oh, so you know who I am now?’

‘Not remotely –’ I leant back on the work surface behind me, crossing my arms ‘– but my colleagues tell me you are some form of minor celebrity.’

‘Minor?’ The skin around his eyes wrinkled as he narrowed them.

‘Yep. Minor.’ If I was borderline obnoxious to him for long enough maybe he’d take the hint and give up this unwelcome plight to get to know me. He sat there with his mouth half-open. Groping for his next words.

‘Well, your colleagues are an informative bunch. Especially Mona. When I came in this morning she told me you were working later tonight.’

‘Did she? How helpful of her.’ I made a mental note to spend a good ten minutes giving Mona my Death Look the following morning. ‘Well, she further informed me you’re starring in some sappy-sounding movie about a girl with amnesia.’

‘It’s not sappy. It’s a very heartfelt script.’ He paused to stir a fifth consecutive sugar packet into his coffee. ‘But it doesn’t surprise me that romance isn’t your favourite genre.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yeah. You seem a touch too level-headed for that.’ He sipped his coffee, watching me over the rim of his cup.

‘I see. Any other dazzling insights? I mean, please, therapy is expensive over here so do go on.’

‘You pretend to be angrier than you really are.’ He pointed a playful finger as he spoke but I wasn’t to be drawn. Turning to the shelves behind me, I started stacking side plates.

‘Well, sorry you get that impression but you don’t know a thing about me.’ I could feel his eyes permeating, even with my back turned. The idea of him looking my body up and down should’ve made me shrivel. But instead, something stirred. An unusual twinge. Desire, simmering just beneath the skin.

‘Maybe that’s true but I’m a fast learner. And you never answered my question, by the way.’

‘Which one?’ I turned to face him. ‘You seem to be full of them.’

‘Did I do something to offend you?’ As he repeated his question the kitchen door creaked open ajar. Lucia had heard his voice from out back and was now, no doubt, enjoying the show.

‘No. It’s impossible for strangers to offend me. Their behaviour has nothing to do with me,’ I replied, wondering yet again what had caused the weird, wall-punching episode.

‘Strangers?’

‘Yeah. Strangers. People who don’t know you. At all.’

‘Well, I must’ve done something. Didn’t see you being so icy with Walt.’ He leant forward as he spoke.

‘Icy?’

‘Icy.’ He took a confident mouthful of coffee, clearly elated that he’d struck a nerve.

‘Do you wish to make a complaint about the service, sir? I can pass your number onto my boss in the morning?’ His eyes darted up and down as he looked at me. Was that aggravation or attraction?

‘Are you asking for my number?’ He leaned forward even further than before and looked, unblinking, into my eyes.

‘In your dreams,’ said my mouth but my face, against my will, moved closer to his. ‘I recommend you find yourself one of those polished and prim girls. You know, the type who think Pretty Woman is a genuinely romantic movie, and have time for manicures and will sit on a bar stool for hours laughing at your jokes. Go find one of them. I’m not about to become a founding member of the Jack Faber fan club.’

‘A woman who likes her movies but hates actors. That’s…that’s novel.’ He looked into my eyes and then down at my lips.

Lucia poked her head further round the kitchen door. ‘Hey Esther, it’s almost twelve. You locked up?’

‘Uh, just about to, Lu.’ I looked at Jack. He had the start of some wrinkles on his forehead that knitted together when there was something he didn’t understand. Attractive and on the brink of movie stardom, I reasoned he was unused to women showing any reluctance. But I was sure the curiosity my foot-dragging had sparked in him was only temporary.

‘Alright. I suppose I’m finished.’ Jack stood and pulled on his sodden suede jacket. Something about the way his hair hung forward as he did so roused an emptiness inside me. Maybe it was his accent reminding me of home or maybe I still had the words from the old man at Coney echoing in my ears but in that moment I wanted to be close to him. If only for one evanescent night. No consequences. No conversations. Just skin against skin. Of course, when I opened my mouth to speak no sound came out.

Jack noticed my attempt and seized on it anyway. ‘Do you want me to wait while you shut up shop and I’ll walk you home?’ His eyes were wider than before. Perhaps with hope or maybe he was just starting to sober.

‘No, but thanks,’ I said in a gentler tone. ‘It wouldn’t be worth your time. I just live around the corner. So…’

‘You say that but you managed to get mugged between here and there in broad daylight.’ He rested his hands on the counter, and flashed his roguish smile at me.

‘I’m not sure I have a sense of humour about that yet.’ I hung my head to one side and pursed my lips.

‘Wait, you have a sense of humour?’

I let out a quiet laugh in spite of myself.

‘So whereabouts do you live?’ he asked, edging towards me with the same caution an animal-control officer might exhibit whilst entrapping a mad dog.

‘If you must know, on Clinton Street.’ I took off my apron and folded it up on the counter. ‘The rent is so pricey I live largely on leftovers from this place but I wanted to be on that street. It’s mentioned in this Leonard Cohen record I’ve always loved.’

‘Oh. “Famous Blue Raincoat”.’

At this, I looked at him and now it was my turn to frown.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that’s right.’

‘It’s a powerful song.’ He smiled – not his charming, glitzy smile but a softer, subtler version that was somehow more appealing.

‘Yes. It, it is. I went through this phase when I was a teenager of listening to it every day. It’s sort of hauntingly beautiful for reasons I’ve never been able to articulate.’ He nodded as though he understood. ‘Anyway…’ I said, remembering myself, and Jack’s fist crashing at the wall just yesterday.

‘You sure you don’t want me to walk you home?’ he asked, and his hands, still resting on the counter, moved closer to mine. ‘I’d be glad of the company.’

‘Look. I … it’s kind of you to offer. But I’m fine.’

‘I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. Just to make sure you get home alright.’

My eyes widened.

He froze, understanding he’d said something he shouldn’t have – though he couldn’t have known what. In a split second the raw throb of all I wanted to forget came screaming back to me and, as a result, I all but screamed at him.

‘I don’t need your help, OK?’ My face had reddened. ‘I don’t need you to be nice to me or walk me home. Allow me to quench your unsolicited curiosity: I’m ordinary, alright? I’m nobody. I just want to do my job and live quietly. That’s all I want. So just… just sod off and leave me alone.’

Jack’s frown evolved into a scowl. He shook his head before pushing an exasperated hand through his hair. ‘Psycho,’ he muttered, his voice glacial. Something dark and unspoken weighed heavy across his brow. Creasing the skin.

I swallowed hard. Psycho was a bit unfair. I wasn’t running the Motel o’ Death, I just couldn’t be entrapped once again by a beautiful face. For all her mistakes, that one was mine. My weakness for a strong jawline was the lightning bolt that had birthed the late Mrs Delaney. I was her Frankenstein; she was my creature.

I opened my mouth to ask if he thought all the women uninterested in dating him were psychos but shame over my outburst kept me quiet. Jack fixed his eyes on the counter, laying down ten dollars in a slow, deliberate manner.

‘Keep the change,’ he said, not even looking at me before storming out into the rain.

Chapter Four

‘See you’re all sunshine and light this mornin’,’ Mona had the audacity to say as she tied her apron strings. I glowered, dolloping vanilla ice cream into the blender to make some kid a milkshake. All night, I’d replayed my clash with Jack, resulting in little shuteye.

‘Well,’ I said, sticking my chin out, ‘I had a certain unwanted customer last night.’

‘Who?’ Mona knew who.

‘Patrick Swayze.’

Mona shrugged as though she still had no idea what I was talking about.

‘Jack. Jack Faber,’ I said, louder than I meant to. A woman in the corner wearing a red, hooded sweater looked over. Even from a distance, her green eyes pierced through me.

Mental note, Esther: lower your voice when ranting about budding actors who won’t take no for an answer.

‘So?’

‘So why’d you tell him I was working the late shift?’

‘All I said is that you was on later. He was a customer and he asked me a question. What you makin’ a big deal outta this for?’ Mona, put a hand on her hip.

‘A big deal? I –’

‘And I didn’t tell him anything,’ Walt piped up out of nowhere.

Turning, I scowled at the old man. ‘Walt? What did you say about me?’ I said, wishing I had something sharper than an ice cream scoop to shake at him.