Chapter 6
I awoke to the unmistakable feelings of horror and confusion.
Where the hell was I? For at least two-and-a-half seconds, I wondered if I’d been kidnapped and bundled into a car boot, which would explain the pain in my right hip and shoulder, both of which were pressing into a hard and vaguely curved surface.
But then I remembered that the situation – and location – I currently found myself in was somehow even stranger.
I was in Manhattan. Lying in a bathtub.
After about three hours of failing to sleep while Mum and Anneka had snored in spooky unison beside me, I’d given up and clambered over all the luggage on the floor space around the bed to go for my sixth anxiety wee.
And that’s when I’d noticed where the most amount of square footage existed in the hotel room for me to lie in relative peace: the bath.
I’d grabbed my pillow, a couple of discarded decorative cushions, every towel, a blanket from the top of the wardrobe – and even some jumpers from my suitcase for good measure – and, at about four o’clock in the morning, had piled it all into the tub, aiming to create some kind of vaguely soft nest in which I could attempt to get some sleep.
Was it comfortable? Not in the slightest. But was it better than trying to fall asleep on six inches of available mattress width while a drilling-like noise bored into my skull?
Marginally so. At least in the bath I was able to untense my muscles, safe in the knowledge I couldn’t roll out and break a bone in a foreign country.
So, that’s what I did. And it must have worked, kind of, because now there was an unmistakable crack of daylight seeping under the door, illuminating the windowless bathroom in a slowly intensifying golden glow.
I checked my phone on the cistern of the toilet next to my head and groaned.
It was only just gone eight o’clock. Four hours of sleep after the assault-course-like events of the journey here was nowhere near enough.
And I hadn’t even been able to claim my prize of a bed to lie down on at the end of it.
My only hope was that Mum and Anneka would wake up soon and go off on some breakfast-scavenging adventure, leaving me to catch up on rest with the double bed all to myself.
I climbed out of the tub, every joint audibly creaking and clicking as I did so.
I took an agonising stretch before peeking into the bedroom.
Mum and Anneka had absorbed the newly available space created by my departure.
They were no longer snoring in a single rhythm, but one after the other, creating a continuous, vibrating drone of sound.
I pulled the door closed again and sat on the toilet.
I felt shellshocked, as if I’d been instantly teleported to this overseas bathroom the moment I’d fallen into a peaceful slumber on my sofa after I’d ordered my sushi.
I groaned out loud. I should be at home watching Meg Ryan fake orgasm, not sitting on an unfamiliar loo surveying the crumpled, sweaty aftermath of a makeshift bathtub bed.
But then I had a thought. The iconic Washington Square Arch that featured so pivotally in that movie and that I’d always wanted to see with my actual eyes?
I had a blurry memory of driving past it in the cab last night as we approached the hotel. I could… go and find it?
Temporarily energised by my micro-target, I emptied the bathtub of fabric and turned on the shower. As much as I usually loved a bath, I’d spent quite enough time lying in it already, thank you very much.
After brushing my teeth and pulling on a random combination of clothes – the beauty of wearing more or less the same outfit every day was that everything matched – I found a pad of cheap paper and a pen in the desk drawer and wrote a quick note for Mum and Anneka.
Morning! Have gone for a wander. And to find caffeine. Connect to the hotel Wi-Fi and then we can WhatsApp each other to figure out a plan.
I left it propped up on the closed toilet seat, deducing that would be the only place they’d be guaranteed to see it.
I grabbed my backpack – still unpacked from the flight, but figuring that all the important stuff I’d need would be in it somewhere – and stepped into the corridor of the hotel.
I strategically hooked the ‘do not disturb’ sign onto the handle after pulling the door closed so Mum and Anneka were less likely to get themselves into trouble through any human interactions.
The hotel reception was humming with a not-unpleasant atmosphere that had been absent late last night, with a couple of new arrivals checking in, and a few others queuing to leave their luggage with a smartly dressed older fellow.
If the efficiency of his analogue luggage labelling system was anything to go by – and his friendliness with various guests with whom he appeared to be on first-name terms – he seemed to be something of a stalwart figure.
He caught me looking at him and tipped an imaginary hat at me, causing me to blush and grin.
As I passed the reception desk, which was no longer manned by the exhausted night manager but a young, smartly dressed woman, the last guest checking in moved towards the lifts, and I wondered if I should take this opportunity to ask for—
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
I looked over my shoulder but the grinning receptionist was definitely speaking to me. I swallowed and walked towards the desk.
‘Oh! Yes please, if that’s okay. I’m staying in room 316 – we arrived late last night – and I wondered if we could get some extra towels and blankets?’
I needed as much softness as possible if that bath was to become my bed for the next few nights.
She glanced down at her computer screen without saying anything and tapped her keyboard at an impressively speedy rate.
Let me guess: ‘computer says no’?
‘Absolutely, Ms Bell, I’ve left a note for housekeeping. Can I help you with anything else?’
I smiled at her formal familiarity, remembering how much I liked my surname – perhaps the only upside of my engagement to Will imploding at the eleventh hour was that I no longer had to pretend to be chill about taking his surname: Grewcock.
‘Umm, would you recommend anywhere nearby for coffee?’
‘Sure, our sister restaurant is right next door and serves coffee and food all day.’ She looked around furtively before leaning in closer and saying in a much quieter voice, ‘But for the good stuff, head to Corner Brew, a block over on West 8th.’
I laughed, feeling unexpectedly at ease. ‘Thanks, I definitely need the good stuff. Oh, and where can I find the Washington Square Arch?’
The receptionist’s forehead creased in confusion. ‘Ms Bell, it’s… right there.’
She gestured towards the wooden revolving door and, lo and behold, the white arch glowed brightly in the near distance. I thanked the receptionist, wrapped my scarf around the lower half of my face and stepped out into the crisp December morning.
Despite the early-ish hour, Washington Square Park was surprisingly bustling with tourists, couriers on bikes using the park as a Friday morning cut-through, smartly dressed workers on their way to their respective offices and early-bird skaters practising their moves around the grand fountain; the textured rumblings of their wheels against the various concrete ridges sounded – felt – surprisingly soothing.
I heard a squeakier set of wheels and turned to identify the source.
It was a guy about Mum’s age, pushing a full-size upright piano along a paved path.
He stopped at a spot directly in line with the arch and stretched, unfolded a portable stool that had been balancing on top of his instrument, sat down at the piano and, wearing fingerless gloves, began to play.
I perched on the edge on the nearest bench, taking in the melodic sounds and accompanying sights, allowing my face to drink in the sunlight that had managed to peek through the clouds in an apparent act of defiance against the bitter cold.
A man with a newspaper tucked under his arm tossed a few coins onto the pianist’s jacket, which he’d laid out next to his instrument.
I made a mental note to do the same once I’d got my hands on some currency – hopefully my debit card would get me through any purchases until then.
An older couple wearing puffa jackets and backpacks – perhaps in the city on holiday – set down their coffees and began to swing-dance to the music, their footwork deft, their smiles wide.
Overseeing the scene was the beautiful Washington Square Arch – much cleaner and grander than I’d imagined it to be – complete with an elegant Christmas tree framed perfectly by the structure’s curved void.
The gridded streets of Manhattan stretched north from the arch’s mouth, the honks and hisses of the city only just audible through the pianist’s tune.
I couldn’t deny it – the entire situation looked like the opening shot of a Nora Ephron movie.
Mum and Anneka might have unleashed this trip on me out of nowhere, but perhaps they’d known that it was the only way to get me here?
Regardless of whether they’d plotted their ploy to perfection, or had simply fallen on their feet as usual, I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with New York’s winter air, exhaling slowly.
It was the longest, deepest breath I’d taken in months.
It didn’t take me long to find the coffee shop the hotel receptionist had recommended thanks to the satisfyingly logical numbered street system.
Corner Brew looked warm and welcoming from the outside, its position at the bottom of a red-bricked tenement building making it closely resemble Central Perk in Friends.