Chapter 19
There’s a certain kind of bar that only really exists in New York City – well, if TV shows and movies are anything to go by.
Super sexy. Candlelit within an inch of its life.
Moody even. Like you could be here for an illicit affair with a married man or a cop in need of a post-work whisky – or maybe even both.
It’s a real one-size-fits-all sort of place.
Why am I here? Well, neither of the above reasons, that’s for sure. I’m here because I need to be somewhere, because Jordan clearly has no work for me to do, and because I’m going a little crazy on my own.
‘Another?’ the barman asks me, nodding towards my empty glass.
My plan was to try a few different cocktails, but with so many to choose from – and given that I’m in New York – I defaulted to a Cosmopolitan and, to be honest with you, it’s just easy to get another.
‘Yes, please,’ I reply.
I know, I’m very much at risk of being asked: why the long face? But nothing feels like it’s going to plan.
I take my phone from my bag to pay and notice I have a message from Paige.
Paige
Is it done yet?
Liberty
Not yet.
Paige
Liberty, come on. This is important. I need you to pick up the pace.
She must realise I’m trying? Does she think I’m just sitting around sipping cocktails? Okay, yeah, fair enough, I am right now, but I really have been trying my best.
Liberty
I know, but I can’t risk getting caught, and he’s not making it easy for me to get close to him.
Paige
Please try harder. If you can confirm he has the right version, I’ll step in and press him to sign. But I’m not reaching out until I know he’s seen it, otherwise he might sign the wrong one and we’re screwed.
What can I say?
Liberty
I’ll try.
Paige
Try harder.
Oof. I am so very clearly displeasing the boss – so that makes both of them – but wow.
She must realise what an impossible job she’s tasked me with.
I would love to see anyone do a better job, because: how?
How is a person supposed to do this? Short of stealing a housekeeping uniform, and a keycard, and then waiting until he’s out to slip in and make the swap – obviously I’m not going to do anything illegal for a job. Is Paige really expecting me to?
‘Here we are, ma’am,’ the barman says as he sets my drink down in front of me.
‘Thanks so much,’ I reply.
‘I can tell you’re not a New Yorker,’ a man says as he takes the seat next to me.
I glance sideways. A man with way-too-white teeth, a blazer that’s just slightly too tight on the biceps, and hair that says ‘I woke up like this’ but definitely involved a diffuser and three separate products.
‘I’m from the UK,’ I say politely.
‘I knew it. I knew you were British,’ he replies. ‘I’ve got a good ear for accents. I love an English accent. Where are you from? Are you Scottish?’
‘The north of England,’ I tell him.
‘That’s Scotland, right?’
It’s really not.
‘No, below Scotland, in Yorkshire – in England,’ I correct him.
Perhaps I should have just said yes.
‘You sound kinda funny,’ he says – rather rudely, in my opinion.
‘Oh, yeah?’ I reply, not at all interested, but what’s a girl supposed to say in response to that?
‘Yeah… sorta… I don’t know.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘I love England. I love The Crown , Downton Abbey , Kate Middleton, Posh Spice. Your accent doesn’t sound the same…’
Hilariously he sounds almost suspicious.
‘Ahh, well, I’m not from where Posh Spice is from,’ I tell him. ‘I’m actually from where Scary Spice is from.’
‘I see,’ is all he says. ‘I like the posh accent. Like, Emma Watson posh. Have you seen the Harry Potter movies?’
‘Erm, no,’ I say, not giving him anything to work with. Turns out he doesn’t need it.
‘I just love all things British,’ he continues. ‘I’ve just always had a thing for Brits, you know? It’s the accent. Not yours, the proper one.’
‘Right.’
‘Don’t get me wrong, you still sound British,’ he reassures me as he waves over the barman. ‘Can I get a beer?’
‘Sure,’ the barman replies.
‘Would I be drinking lager, if I was in the UK?’ he asks me.
‘Do you like lager?’ I reply.
‘I like British things,’ he says. ‘I have tried Carlsberg.’
I don’t have the heart to tell him that’s from Denmark. Actually, I do, but I really want this conversation to end.
‘So.’ He leans forward. ‘Do you live in London?’
‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘Near the Queen?’
I wonder if he knows we have a king now too. Honestly, I’m not even going to go there…
‘No.’
‘I love London. Black cabs, red buses, Big Ben…’
‘Yep.’
‘Man, your culture is so classy,’ he continues. ‘And I love the way you guys say, like, al-yoo-min-ee-um. And choo-na, when you have it on baked potatoes with beans from a tin. It looks so gross, but you eat like wartime stuff, right?’
Does this man really think I’m sitting in my manor house, next door to the Queen, where she’s eating tuna and beans in a jacket potato, with Posh Spice, while Big Ben bongs in the background? I’m starting to think he really does.
‘Do you live in a cottage?’ he asks.
‘A flat.’
‘A flat,’ he replies, trying to copy my voice. ‘Do you watch The Great British Baking Show ? You guys call it Bake Off though, don’t you?’
What is this? What’s going on here? He’s turned up, low-key offended me, he’s interrogating me about Britain generally, like it’s all one big London. Is he serious?
‘I dated this girl, Sarah, from Clapham,’ he tells me, although he pronounces it clap-ham. ‘And Donna, I don’t remember where she was from, but she worked for a company that made crumpets.’
Every now and then his accent slips into what I would imagine is supposed to be an ‘English’ one, but he sounds more Bean than he does Bond.
‘We had an intern who was English, but she wasn’t interested…’
‘Do you only date English girls?’ I joke.
‘Basically,’ he replies.
Wait, what? I know this isn’t a date, I don’t even know this man’s name, but I’m going to call it. Here is it. Here comes the ick.
‘Yeah!’ he says proudly. ‘It’s just my type. The accent. The attitude. So posh but feisty, you know? Like classy but could also tell you to sod off if you burn the bangers and mash.’
I have no words.
‘Say something British,’ he prompts me.
I don’t.
‘What are you, one of those Beefeaters?’ he teases. ‘Come on, say something, anything. Tell me about how you make cups of tea or how you guys all love Boris Johnson? He is so funny…’
‘Right, I’m off,’ I tell him, knocking back the last of my drink.
‘I’m off,’ he says to himself. ‘I haven’t heard that one before.’
‘No, I’m actually off – I’m going,’ I tell him.
‘Was it something I said?’ he replies.
‘It was literally everything you said,’ I point out.
I grab my bag to leave. As I’m walking away, I swear I hear him say ‘bloody hell’ in the most exaggerated accent.
Well, that’s a first. I’ve never been interesting just for being English before. Not that I liked it – being treated like a souvenir or something.
Perhaps going out drinking alone isn’t for me. Plus, I’ve got a job to do, and if I don’t get it done soon, Paige will be furious. I’ll be ‘brown bread’. And I really don’t want that.