Chapter Eleven
Highline Park might not be a hidden gem for New Yorkers, but I thought it was a gem, hidden or otherwise. A wonder of nature, art and architecture, it’s a place meant for lingering. You can take a guided tour, or simply wander as we did, checking out the views of the city, finding art installations, or merely watching the bees buzz around the flowers. One could fall in love in the span of an afternoon here, I think – if not with another person, then at least with the city itself.
– Excerpt from Swanning About
Sophie spent the next few days working, pottering about the apartment, walking Manny’s dog and spending time with Tom and Marisa. She tried very hard to not think about Mike, but it wasn’t working. First, because she’d been reading comments on the posts from their day at the Shed and his unfortunate spicy pepper incident. She’d assumed he’d want her to leave it out of the post – there was no way Andrew would have let her post anything that didn’t cast him in the best light – but he’d only shrugged and said his misery might as well make a few people laugh.
Even if she’d avoided her posts, he was always texting her. He’d had some long days ahead of him at work, so she hadn’t expected him to message her at all. From the way he’d talked about it, he was very focused, often forgetting to take breaks or eat on those days unless one of his kids messaged him.
So she was surprised when she started getting texts randomly throughout his day. Sometimes it was him sending her pictures of interesting things he saw at work. Other times, it was simply him asking her how her day was going. Normal things, she supposed, but what surprised her was not only the ease of their conversation, but the breadth of it.
Mike: You really should go to the Empire State Building, you know. All work and no play, etc. etc.
Sophie: Says the guy who’s working right now.
Mike: You’re dodging the subject. We could go, you know.
Sophie: You’ve already been – surely you don’t feel the need to go again.
Mike: Empire State Building, the views from the Staten Island Ferry – these are iconic for a reason. Classics don’t get old. But if I can’t tempt you, let me at least tempt you with a visit to the Guggenheim. I can give you a two-minute spiel about the impact of Frank Lloyd Wright’s mid-century masterpiece that you could use for your blog, then a longer rant about how museums should organize paintings in order of whether or not the artist was a terrible human being . . . which you probably shouldn’t use for your blog at all.
Sophie: What happened to separating the art from the artist?
Mike: Gauguin cut off Van Gogh’s ear and had child brides and Picasso referred to women as ‘machines for suffering’.
Sophie: Maybe we should avoid the Guggenheim, then?
Mike: No, ignore me, I’m in a bad mood. My laptop just crashed and I lost an hour’s worth of work.
On the second day, Mike’s mood had clearly improved, because he spent the whole day texting her silly questions.
Mike: Who would win in a fight, Betty White or Bea Arthur from The Golden Girls ?
Sophie: Why are you even thinking about that?
Mike: I’m a man, Sophie. I spend at least half of my waking hours thinking about these things.
Sophie: Why were you even watching The Golden Girls ?
Mike: I couldn’t sleep last night and it was on the telly. Answer the question.
Sophie: Fine, Betty White, because I think she would fight dirty and I respect that about her.
Mike: Would you rather eat a gallon of dill pickle ice cream or get stuck in the tube for two hours?
Sophie: Pickle ice cream. Wait, is it peak hours on the tube?
Mike: Peak.
Sophie: Ice cream. What’s worse than getting packed into a sweaty metal tube with annoyed people for two hours?
Mike: Getting packed into a sweaty metal tube with annoyed people for two hours and really having to pee the entire time?
Sophie: That’s just mean.
Mike: Do you think Barney misses me?
Sophie: Do I think the plant you’ve never met misses you?
Mike: Yes.
Sophie: Who wouldn’t miss you?
The third day was philosophical.
Mike: What I love most about Manhattan is the light. In the morning it’s all shards of golden and white reflecting on the buildings. It gives everything a dreamlike quality. I feel as though at any moment someone could bump into me, and I’d wake up back in London.
Sophie: I’ve felt like I’ve been on a movie set since I got here. This city is like sensory overload, but in a good way.
On the fourth day, she got an invite.
Mike: Do you have plans tomorrow?
She didn’t. She’d been spending a lot of time with her family, and she was sure Marisa could use some time to herself. There was a fine line between being there and being supportive, and smothering someone with attention. She tapped out a reply: Not really, no.
Mike: The project I’m working on, you know how I said it was to be a sort of take on the teahouse? I found a few local places that do tea. Thought it might be good to check out how the locals do it. Would you like to go?
Sophie didn’t hesitate. That sounds wonderful. I brought my own, but I’m homesick for a good cuppa.
Mike: Me too. I’ll send you the details. Looking forward to it.
And so was she . . . and not just because of the tea.
‘This is . . . not what I expected,’ Mike said. He was eyeing the atmosphere with a politely neutral expression on his face.
Sophie could admit that it wasn’t quite what she first thought of when she thought of teatime, but she liked new things. This just seemed like an odd assortment of things. The multicoloured tablecloths had pompoms, but also proper place settings. ‘Is it the jungle fronds? The fancy hats? The gold cutlery?’
Mike tilted his head. ‘All of it?’
Sophie laughed, causing him to smile faintly at her. He looked handsome today – he looked handsome every day, really. The shirt he was wearing brought out the green in his eyes, and the sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and a silver watch. Not a smart watch, but a regular watch. Sophie wasn’t quite sure why that was attractive to her, but it was.
‘It’s only . . .’ Mike hesitated here, once again taking in the unexpectedly tropical atmosphere of the place. ‘That I have misgivings .’
Sophie could admit that she, too, was feeling the first faint pangs of misgivings. She considered herself to be a fairly adventurous person. She enjoyed trying new things. And yet . . .
‘I’m concerned about our order,’ she admitted.
‘It made sense at the time.’ Mike’s tone was an odd cocktail of defensive and bewildered. ‘If you want to get a sense of a place, you ask for the most popular option. The items that they’re known for.’
‘I quite agree,’ Sophie said soothingly. ‘Normally.’
‘But that was before the full impact of the place set in.’ Mike’s eyes were wide as he took in their surroundings. ‘I think I might have been in shock.’
‘Was that before or after you saw the terrarium with the live snake?’
‘There’s a live snake?’ Mike’s head whipped round, his body following. ‘I saw the caged birds. The skinny fellow with the violin. I even saw the woman with the balloon animals on her hat. I missed the live snake.’
Sophie tented her fingers and pressed them to her chin, a subconscious prayer for patience in this strange new landscape. ‘I’m wondering if you saw the menu.’
Mike blinked at her. ‘It’s tea. It might be a bit posh and a bit strange, but it’s tea. Scones. Little sandwiches. PG Tips. A variation on the theme, but the theme remains.’
‘I will acknowledge,’ Sophie said, ‘that there’s a lot I don’t know about America. You’ve been here more than me, obviously, but they’re a bit notorious for, well, slaughtering a good cuppa.’
Mike dropped his face into his hands. ‘What have I done?’
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Even to Sophie’s ears, her tone sounded overly bright, like the neon flash of a false statement.
‘I once watched an American put a tea bag into a mug, add cold water and microwave it .’ Mike slowly dragged his fingertips down his face. ‘How could I have forgotten that?’
‘That was just one person,’ Sophie said, her own hands now fluttering about anxiously. ‘This is a restaurant. A restaurant known for tea. Obviously they’re not going to do that.’
But as the waiter returned, wheeling their order over on a cart, her doubts not only returned but increased exponentially. The man was all limbs, lanky in floral shirt and trousers. His curly red hair stood out like someone had been pulling at it and his eyes were wide as dinner plates. He unloaded their teapot, along with lemon slices, cream, orange slices and, for some reason, a small dish of cherries that were a bright, improbable red. He also set down a tiered serving tray full of small treats and then bowed, sweeping his arms out to the sides.
‘Thank you,’ Mike said.
The waiter didn’t move.
Sophie tried again. ‘Thank you?’
After a long, strange pause, the waiter straightened up with a snap. His smile was wide, but oddly fixed, as he nodded at them. Then he darted away, forgetting his cart.
‘Well,’ Sophie said slowly. ‘That was . . .’
‘Odd,’ Mike finished. ‘Decidedly odd.’ He peered at the tray, hand hovering in indecision.
A small smile curled the corners of her mouth. ‘Can’t decide what you want first?’
‘Can’t decide what anything is ,’ Mike said. ‘I think this has caviar? And there’s some kind of green . . . mousse in that one.’
She picked up one of the strange sandwiches and sniffed it. She couldn’t smell much beyond the bread, so she took a tentative bite. ‘I think it’s cucumber?’
Mike’s response was a horrified whisper. ‘What have they done to it?’
She didn’t particularly want to keep chewing – the texture was decidedly strange – but she also didn’t want to spit it into her napkin. Tea, the answer was tea. What problem couldn’t be solved by a good cup of tea?
She quickly poured herself one, surprised when it came out in a stream of blue. She clutched her water glass, washing down the unpleasant bite of sandwich. ‘I’m not sure what they’ve done,’ Sophie finally rasped, ‘but I’m certain it’s illegal.’
Mike stared at her cup. ‘Why is the tea blue? Did I take drugs? Am I on drugs? What is happening?’
‘It probably has butterfly pea flower in it. Edie bought some tea like that once.’ Sophie picked up the tongs, selected a slice of lemon and put it into her cup. ‘It changes colour when you add lemon.’
‘It’s very pretty,’ Mike said. ‘And I’m sure I should be intrigued by the science behind it, but I want – I need – a cup of tea. Not . . . blue.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s my fault. I didn’t read the menu.’ He turned in his seat, looking for the waiter. ‘I’ll order another pot.’
Sophie eyed the tiered tray for a long moment before taking what appeared to be a tiny quiche in a filo pastry cup. ‘I haven’t seen our waiter since he bowed away. You might need to make your peace with drinking blue for now.’ She stared at the quiche with trepidation after the cucumber foam, but it looked innocent enough. Steeling herself, she popped it into her mouth and chewed, relieved to discover caramelized onion and some kind of smoky cheese. ‘The quiche is safe.’
Mike didn’t question her, just reached for one and popped it into his mouth. His shoulders, which had been slowly inching up, relaxed down to their normal position. ‘That’s quite nice.’
‘Maybe if we avoid the cucumber foam, we’ll be fine?’ Her tone conveyed it as the optimistic question that her statement actually was.
Mike seemed sceptical about this, but gamely placed a few other items neatly on his plate. Then he sighed and poured himself a cup of the blue tea. He added a slice of lemon, smiling a little as the tea changed slightly in tone, becoming more of a purple. ‘It really is very pretty.’ He sipped it, his mouth twitching down before taking another small, tentative swallow.
‘You don’t like it?’ Sophie asked, feeling the question was a little unnecessary, but asking it anyway.
He sighed. ‘It’s not that I don’t like it.’
‘You just want a cup of proper tea,’ she said sympathetically, because she, too, wanted a cuppa.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I really do.’ He leaned back in his chair, once again searching fruitlessly for the waiter.
She plucked an innocuous-looking raspberry pink tart up with delicate fingers and bit into it – but instead of the sweetness she had been expecting, the taste was decidedly fishy, the texture disturbingly silky. To her mortification, she spat it immediately back out, only barely getting her napkin up in time.
Mike’s lips twitched into a smile. ‘That bad?’
Sophie whimpered and gulped her tea.
He scoffed, reaching across to take the offending tart from her plate. ‘It can’t be worse than the cucumber.’ He put the rest of the tart into his mouth.
Chewed once.
Froze.
Colour drained from his face.
Sophie carefully handed him his napkin. Mike held it up to his face, his jaw working.
He set the napkin back down and drained his teacup. ‘That was an affront to nature,’ he said, his voice tinged with horror and awe. ‘What was it? What did they do to it?’
Sophie shook her head, pouring herself another cup of tea. She picked up one of the orange slices and bit into it, hoping it would cleanse her palate. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me we’d just eaten people. It felt that wrong. Cannibalism-level wrong.’
‘Like we’d committed a mortal sin against nature, just by taking a bite,’ Mike said, his voice ominous. ‘An abomination.’
‘I thought it was going to be sweet.’ Sophie had the urge to scrape at her own tongue with her fingers. ‘Was it fish?’
Mike shuddered. ‘Ham, maybe? Is there such a thing as a ham-fish? Because if there is, they made a tart out of it.’ He gave a long blink. ‘That was the worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.’
She gave him a faint smile. ‘Worse than what happened at the noodle place?’
‘Yes,’ he said fervently. ‘At least the noodles tasted good. Even coming back up they tasted better than that.’ He eyed the rest of the things on the tray with trepidation. ‘I would rather get a handful of peppers stuffed into my sinuses than eat anything off that tray.’
Sophie silently agreed, turning the tray until she found a toast triangle covered in what she fervently hoped were salmon and dill.
‘You have to be kidding me,’ Mike hissed. ‘Don’t touch it, Sophie – that tray is obviously cursed. We’ve angered a witch.’ He stared ominously at his napkin. ‘Possibly an entire coven.’
Her hand hovered over the tray, her expression etched with misery. ‘But I’m hungry.’
‘No one is that hungry,’ Mike said, his brows furrowed. ‘The ham-fish tart might not even be the worst thing on there. You don’t know what other culinary atrocities await.’
She blinked at him. ‘I’m not sure my mind can conjure something worse than that.’
‘Good,’ Mike said. ‘Leave it that way.’
It was at that moment that the waiter came back. He was still smiling, and Sophie thought that even for an American, he smiled a great deal. His face was also shiny with sweat, like he’d been glazed with something before coming back out.
‘How is everything?’
Mike cleared his throat. ‘We were wondering if we could get . . .’ His voice trailed off, his face pinched with concern as he watched the waiter staring fixedly at their tablecloth. ‘Are you all right?’
The waiter laughed, the sound high and strangled.
Mike looked at Sophie.
Sophie widened her eyes in what she was hoping came across as a ‘I have no idea what’s going on’ kind of expression.
Mike tried again. ‘Is something amiss?’
The waiter blinked, giggled, then blew out a long breath. ‘I’m going to be honest with you, dude.’
For a long, drawn-out moment they waited for the waiter to say something else. When he didn’t, Sophie stepped in. ‘You’re going to be honest with us?’
The waiter gave another long, slow blink. ‘I am?’
‘Yes,’ Mike said. ‘You were. About something being amiss?’
The waiter nodded, absently scratching one of his arms. ‘My roommate told me to try microdosing.’
‘Microdosing what exactly?’ Mike asked, his tone neutral, like he was worried that if he spoke too sharply, the waiter would bolt like a startled horse.
‘Mushrooms.’ The waiter drew his arm over his face, using his shirtsleeve to wipe away the sheen of sweat.
‘Oh,’ Sophie said. ‘I see.’ She wasn’t entirely sure she did, but it seemed like the right thing to say.
‘Only, the scale was off,’ the waiter added. He laughed again, high and strained.
‘That sounds . . . not good.’ Mike’s voice maintained that delicately even tone. ‘How far off was it?’
The waiter picked up Mike’s mostly full teacup and took a long drink. ‘A lot.’ He blinked. ‘Is this tea supposed to be purple?’
Mike opted to not say anything about the tea. ‘So you’re not so much microdosing as you are regular dosing?’
‘I am ripped out of my gourd right now.’ The waiter set down Mike’s teacup. ‘Just high as fucking balls.’
‘I think,’ Mike said casually, ‘that you should tell your boss that you’re sick and go home.’ He pursed his lips, thinking. ‘How are you getting home?’
The waiter thought about this for a long moment before getting distracted by some of the jungle greenery. ‘I feel bad for the snake. Do you think we should set him free? He’s a living creature. He should be free. In the wild.’
‘I’m not sure even a snake would consider New York to be “the wild”,’ Sophie said. ‘Let’s leave the snake for now. What’s your name?’
‘Lee.’ The waiter shifted nervously. ‘You’re sure about the snake?’
‘I am,’ Sophie said firmly. ‘That snake loves his home. He’s safe there. It’s his favourite place.’
Lee relaxed. ‘Oh, good.’
Mike sighed. ‘Here’s the plan, Lee. You’re going to bring us our bill. Then after we pay, you’re going to go home sick. Sophie and I are going to help you get home, okay?’
‘You are?’ Lee smiled at this. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Go and get the bill, Lee,’ Sophie reminded him. The waiter darted away, hopefully to return soon with their bill.
Mike slumped in his chair. ‘I’m beginning to think that we shouldn’t be allowed out together. Things always go wrong.’
Sophie watched as Lee came back out, pausing in front of the terrarium. She pushed her chair out and stood. ‘Well, for Lee’s sake, I think it’s probably very good that we did.’
Mike followed her gaze and cursed. ‘He’s going to free that bloody snake and lose his job.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘We’d better hurry.’