Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
New Year’s Eve.
Was it worth it?
Leah lit some candles, poured herself a large glass of red wine, and switched the TV over to Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve show. If she cranked her head enough to the left she would be able to see a decent amount of fireworks in the warmth and comfort of her own home—perfect.
She didn’t feel like venturing out, despite the invitation from her father, a work colleague who took pity on her, and Grace’s offer to spend New Year’s with her in Michigan.
All of which would provide her with a unique experience, but none of which would take away the ache in her chest and the overwhelming need to be alone in her desolate state.
She considered a boat cruise on the Hudson River, the skyline of Manhattan bright with colourful firework displays that could be perfectly admired whilst sipping a glass of champagne, but alone?
There was no way she could stoop to such woeful levels.
At least if she remained in her apartment, nobody else would witness her misery, she could pretend she had friends over, she could pretend she saw the New Year in with a bang, countless bottles of bubbly, and an epic firework display from the top of her apartment building that Gregory from across the hall spent all year planning—according to the building concierge anyone was welcome.
Leah didn’t know Gregory. She occasionally passed him in the hall; he held the elevator door open for her once, he wished her a Merry Christmas, he seemed like a sweet guy.
Apparently, the fireworks display started as a way to entertain his family and friends in an evening of remembrance after his wife passed away from cancer eight years earlier.
The building residents loved it so much that it became a staple event.
The pre-drinks started in Linda and Judith’s apartment, and the after-party continued in Gregory’s apartment.
There was, of course, the offer from her father.
A long-standing business partner had invited him and his girlfriend to a swanky New York apartment in Tribeca.
It was a low-key black-tie event, the invitation wasn’t categorized as that, but the calibre of people in attendance and the extravagance of the venue made it so.
She considered going, but what would she wear?
She mentally ran through a series of outfits, using her camera roll as an itinerary.
She surprised herself sometimes—her fashion sense had taken years to curate.
Now she looked back at pictures and found them inspiring.
Sometimes, she even envied her own outfits.
The idea of removing herself from the comfort of her sofa on a night with sub-zero wind chills and an imminent blizzard warning didn’t exactly have her running for the shower.
She turned the channel over, hoping some NBC correspondent would tell her that “tonight was a night to stay home.” At least then she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out.
The forewarning of a potential snow storm gave her the perfect excuse to confidently say no to her dad, leaving her no choice but to drown her sorrows with the latest romance novel from the pitiful sapphic section of her local bookstore, whilst listening to the wonderful sound of Nina Simone pouring from her newly purchased record player.
Sorry, dad, I can’t come tonight, I have to stay indoors, the weather report is not favourable—at all.
There was no way around it. No way for him to make her feel guilty for not going.
No way to make her feel like she was committing some sort of cardinal sin by not going out on NYE, and not spending the valuable time with her father, or in this case the man she saw every day at work.
She loved him, copious amounts, but still, she believed there was such a thing as spending too much time with your parents.
Just as she watched the final drip fall from the wine glass to the tip of her tongue, her almost wine-hazed bliss was shattered.
She considered sending it to voicemail through sheer avoidance, but the last time she ignored more than one phone call from her dad, he flew out to Michigan in the suit he wore for work that day, laptop in hand and a paper bag from the local grocery store filled with ice cream, chocolate, wine and grapes—he was prepared for all eventualities. He could be intense.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he chimed.
“Hi, dad.”
“Have you thought about what you might wear tonight?”
“I told you already, dad, I just don’t think I feel up to it.” Leah flicked to another channel, come on, there must be a severe weather warning somewhere.
“Oh, honey, come on, it’ll be good fun. Lionel is a wealthy guy, if anything just come for the expensive booze and the ridiculously fancy food.”
The expensive booze was a factor that swayed her more since she was officially in the post, post-breakup phase—whatever that meant.
“Will there be marmalade-glazed pork belly squares?” Leah mumbled.
“I don’t know,” Douglas laughed.
“That could be a deal breaker.”
“Come on, kiddo! What else are you going to do tonight?”
“Stuff.” Leah said, unconvincingly.
“Oh, yeah, like what?” Douglas teased.
“I have options.” She scoffed.
“Is one of them to sit looking out of your apartment window, balancing a glass of wine over the edge of the sofa, wrapped in that green patterned throw your mother got you for your birthday whilst hoping the incoming storm suddenly casts a blizzard over New York cancelling all New Year’s plans?”
“No . . .”
How did he know that?
“Wait, are you here?” She hung off the edge of the sofa, looking underneath for dramatic effect.
“No, but I take it I’m right?” He laughed.
“Am I that predictable?”
“Only to me, but I have known you your whole life. After thirty-five years you get to know a little bit about the person.”
“Just FYI I don’t wish for all plans to be cancelled, that’s mean, just enough that it makes me look less boring.”
“Why don’t you come for an hour? I can send a car to collect you whenever you’re ready. You can show your face, have a few drinks, see the New Year in with your old man and then go home. No obligations to stay for the party after the party.”
“You mean the after party?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“One hour?” Leah asked.
“Arrive at 11, leave at 12.” Douglas said in a cheery tone.
“It’s a lot of preparation for one hour.”
“Come for two then.”
“You’re pushing it.” Leah sighed. “Will I even know anyone there?”
“Sure, you know Frank, my old business partner, and his wife. You know Helen from the office, and her husband Paul. There’ll be a few familiar faces.”
“Anyone that was born in the early 90s?”
“Well, sure, there’s you, and erm . . .did I say you?”
“Dad! Please tell me there’ll be someone my age—that doesn’t include the bar staff.”
“You’re more than welcome to invite a friend if it’ll make you feel more comfortable.”
Next joke.
“Okay, I guess that gives me three hours to find a friend.” Leah joked.
“Does that mean you’ll come?”
“Yes, but on one condition—” Leah paused. “If I want to go home early, there’ll be no judgement.”
“None whatsoever, total judge-free zone over here.”
“When have you ever said judge-free zone?” Leah chuckled.
“Apparently, the new girl in charge of PR for the business said I need to be more . . .” he searched for the right word.
“Hip?” Leah smirked.
“No . . .”
“Cool?”
“No . . .more Gen Z–ish or something along those lines. I didn’t know what that meant, but apparently social media is full of the Gen Z–ish kind, so in order to fit in I have to wear less ties to work and more trainers.”
“Why do you need to fit in with Gen Z’s? Our average client is forty-seven years old.”
“Yes, but Claudia made a good point, the Gen Zs are the ones with the influence these days, they’re so conspiracy theory driven and focused on the impending doom of the world that they encourage their parents to see a financial advisor and voilà.”
“Voilà? That’s new.”
“Too much?” Douglas said.
“No, I don’t mind it. So, Claudia is pimping you out to the Gen Zs, that’s interesting.”
“You think it’s a bad idea?”
“No, I think it could work. Most people in the industry are dinosaurs like you and I get the need to modernise,” Leah teased.
“Hey! I may be a dinosaur, but I can still run a 10k quicker than you.”
“Fair.”
She hadn’t run since track in high school, and her dad liked to remind her.
It’s not like she needed to, the elevator in the building at work broke down every other week which meant at least one or two days a month she took the stairs.
Not to mention the occasional jog home from work when the rain started to pour on her freshly washed hair and her trusty umbrella sat unused in her drawer at work.
She hated that.
Leah believed there were two things in life that meant you really had your shit together as a human being, one of them was never forgetting your umbrella, the other—noting down your passwords for everything.
Despite the pain of having to go through numerous levels of security that even the FBI would struggle to breach, she still forgot to write them down.
“I’ll go and get changed.” Leah said.
“Don’t sound too excited about it.” Douglas teased.
“Bye, dad.”
The apartment was extraordinary. High atop the skyline, a penthouse as impressive as any Leah had seen on the real estate programs she binged.
She entered through the private elevator into a sitting room with soaring twenty-foot ceilings wrapped in what she could only describe as a pristine glass wall.
Other guests admired the 360-degree views from multiple outdoor spaces.
Her eye carried immediately to the Hudson River.
Is that a pool? Leah whispered.