Chapter 3 #3
“Thank you, love,” he replies with a warm smile.
His accent is Irish. He’s quite good-looking, around forty, fair-haired, chiseled jaw, with one blue eye and one green.
I wonder what path he took that caused him to end up there.
And what other versions of him may exist in other realities, perhaps in better circumstances.
I imagine him in a suit, on Wall Street, and smile back at him before walking away.
“And how about your number, too?” he calls after me. I glance back with a laugh but keep walking.
Mum and Laura are already in the café, ordering three ham and Swiss on rye.
Mum gives me an assessing look. “You seem cheerier, darling.”
“I was hit on by a hot panhandler.” I hand my trench to the server.
“Josie! Really!” Mum mock-scolds.
“Well, he made me smile. How was your morning?”
“Fine,” replies Mum. “Discussing next steps for the next few days. Laura and I have to fly home on Tuesday.”
“Oh. Of course.” Any cheerfulness dissolves. They’re leaving me here?
“Sorry, Bosie,” says Laura, “I’ve got to get back. It’s tough on Adam taking care of Theo alone. And I’ve used up my Christmas holiday leave to be here.”
“And I’ve got my art students,” adds Mum. “The studio isn’t going to run itself.”
“Of course. You must go home. I’m fine, and this . . . confusion might take a while to sort out.” I don’t want them to go, but I can feel their anxiety. I put on a brave face. “Anyway, Rob will look after me.” Although I’m not sure how I feel about that.
“Exactly. Even if it takes time to remember him, he’ll take good care of you, you needn’t worry.” My mother examines my face.
I smile. “It’s all good.”
My sandwich arrives and I pick at it, barely able to join their conversation about little Theo.
I will probably never be able to talk to Mum and Laura about my real life again.
They won’t accept it — it’s not their truth.
I’ll have to keep pretending this is genuine amnesia. Who would believe anything else?
After lunch, I pay the check. “I guess I can afford it,” I tell them.
“You need a distraction,” Laura muses. “How about MoMA? We have a couple of days left and I want to do some New York things.”
“Sounds great. I don’t want to go back to the apartment yet.”
“You two go,” Mum says. “I’ll go back and read. Rob’s catching up on work, but I can give him space.”
I kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mum.”
An afternoon strolling around MoMA is, as Laura predicted, just what I needed.
Here, among all this art and artifice, is some semblance of real life.
This is something she and I would do if she were on a regular visit to New York.
For a moment, I let myself imagine I’m back in my own reality, where we’ll get the subway home to Brooklyn and she’ll sleep on the futon in my tiny second bedroom.
That’s not what happens, of course. After a cup of tea at the crowded café, we get back on the subway to Union Square. The train is packed, and I struggle to hang onto the rail with my left hand while attempting to protect my injured arm.
Laura looks irritated as someone bashes me. “You realize you can afford cabs and cars everywhere, don’t you? We don’t have to rough it anymore.”
“I don’t care how rich Rob is,” I reply. “It’s not my money to waste, it’s his.”
“Actually, you can afford cabs all by your lonesome,” Laura points out. “Your job is very well paid. If that helps.”
Yes, it does. A bit. If I’m stuck here, at least I can work and get my own place. I can recreate my normal life. But there would still be no David. No Peter. Unless, perhaps, I rejoin choir. Now, there’s a thought.
I smile at my sister so she doesn’t guess what I’m thinking. “Thanks, but I suppose if I want to live in that penthouse, I’ll have to keep relying on Rob.”
“Yes,” she replies with a wry grin. “You poor thing.”
We enter the apartment to delicious cooking smells.
“Roast chicken for my girls,” Mum calls from the kitchen as we remove our coats. It’s a comforting aroma, and it’s heartwarming to see her cooking in this glamorous kitchen. Rob is nowhere in sight.
“Is there wine?” I ask, finding a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, my favorite, in the refrigerator. I hold it up.
“Ooh, please,” Mum says.
“And me!” Laura calls from the bedroom.
“Where’s Rob?”
“In the den. See if he wants a drink, darling.” Mum frowns when I hesitate, so I acquiesce.
I take the corridor to the right of the kitchen. Several more pieces of artwork adorn the walls, two of which I recognize as belonging to me. So some things have crossed over to this new reality. How does that work?
Maybe it’s just stuff from before I supposedly met Rob. All the paintings here that are mine, the vase for my thirtieth, my bike helmet, are all from my Murray Hill days. I suppose that’s what I would’ve brought with me into this marriage, if I’d met him back then.
At the door to the den, I can hear strains of a jazz piano piece being played. I knock. “Rob?”
The music abruptly stops. “Come in.”
I open the door and find a generous but cozy den entirely painted in the same dramatic blue as the art wall in my bedroom.
Next to the double-sided fireplace, which adjoins the living room, is an open pullout sofa.
My sister’s suitcase is lying open on top, clothes draped everywhere, as usual.
Rob is sitting at a baby grand piano near the window.
He looks up at me and smiles tiredly. “Josie. How was your day?”
“Not bad, thanks. I feel better. After last night . . .” I stop. I don’t want to think about David. About him not being here.
He nods solemnly. “I’m glad.” He stands, looking uncertain. “Dinner smells amazing. I’d forgotten your Mum is quite the cook.”
“I wondered if you’d like some wine. We’ve got the Sauvignon Blanc open.”
“Thanks, yes, but I’ll have red. There’s some Shiraz left. I’ll come out in a moment.”
“I’ll get a glass out for you.” I hesitate, glancing around the den once more.
“Do you like this room?” Rob sounds curious, as if the answer is important.
“It’s lovely. It’s the first time I’ve seen this one.” I pause, blushing as I realize what I’ve said, how odd it must sound. “I went into the master suite when you were out, but I missed this one. It’s a bonus room, almost hidden.”
“I designed it that way. But you picked the color.” He half-smiles. “I said you were crazy choosing dark blue for a smaller room, but you were right. It looks so beautiful with the piano.”
“I heard you playing.” I should go, but something makes me linger. “Mum said that’s how we met.”
“Yeah, in the W Hotel lobby. I learned the jazz classics as a kid. That’s what my dad is into. Mum never had stuff like piano lessons growing up, so she wanted me to have it. I was lucky.”
“Nice.” I nod, not sure what to say next. “Well . . . See you in a bit.”
I leave quickly, somewhat flustered. Any man who can play jazz piano like that is extremely attractive, at least to me. That’s possibly even sexier than Peter’s guitar skills. It’s not surprising Other Me fell for Rob so hard.
But this is her husband. Not mine.
Over dinner, though, it’s hard not to be distracted by Rob’s presence as he skillfully carves the roast chicken.
My imagination wanders to what it must’ve been like for Other Me, lounging in the den, singing along while Rob played Gershwin.
I take frequent sips of the wine, trying to concentrate on the meal and conversation, but my eyes keep sliding to Rob’s plate, his hands, his generous mouth.
Okay, so this guy is hot. There’s no denying it.
I realize I may be tipsy, and I’m ashamed at myself for thinking about someone else’s husband in that way, when Peter and I are just starting out. That’s what I’ve wanted for so long. Isn’t it?
My head throbs and I excuse myself after dinner, retiring to my room with a Kate Atkinson novel, a cup of mint tea, and my painkillers. Dosing myself, the drugs eventually kick in, and I sleep.
I dream of a huge grand piano inside MoMA. I keep trying to play, except I hit the wrong keys every time. There’s nothing but discord.