Chapter Thirty-Five
Allie
I have flown and travelled to a lot of strange places in my time as a biologist. But Manhattan. There’s not a call for seabird researchers here, yet here I am.
Twelve hours ago, I was in Norfolk.
Now, I’m in Manhattan.
In the air-conditioned, shiny-floored lobby of the Four Seasons hotel, teetering on heels I can hardly walk in, in a dress that I never thought would suit me, but one I have to admit I couldn’t stop looking at myself in, in my hotel mirror.
This feels wild. It doesn’t even feel like I’m really here.
I’m nothing but a Sim – in fact, that’s exactly how I’ve moved since this morning at the restaurant with Sian.
When I realised I needed to come to New York, we both abandoned our breakfasts, paid and ran to her holiday park.
Sian dashed from caravan to caravan to bloody costume department, collecting things I’d need, while I stood waiting on a cliff, surrounded by cabins with icing-white balconies, and sky-blue slats, gulls circling and crying, and panickily googling my life away.
I googled the Four Seasons. I googled flights.
Then I clicked one that left in three hours’ time, and bought it, passport still in my bag from leaving Norway.
Just like that. Then I checked-in for my flight.
An adventure, contained and executed on a screen on a cliff; my emails, a whole paper trail of everything to come.
And so here I am.
Sleep-deprived. My stomach a bag of snakes, with nerves and excitement.
A tiny suitcase packed hastily, with nothing but jeans, T-shirts and one dress, borrowed from Sian’s show-wardrobe, for when she takes part in the holiday park’s stage productions.
I’ve never worn anything like it. It’s black, satin, a one-shoulder strap – it reminds me of something a bougie Tarzan might wear – and silver designer-dupe heels also borrowed from the holiday camp’s entertainment wardrobe.
I’m pretty sure nobody attending tonight is wearing anything from a holiday camp wardrobe, but it’s something we spent the most time on.
Me, standing in Sian’s cabin bedroom, in front of a mirror, her friends in and out, ducking in, clothes and props and make-up in hand.
It takes a village, apparently, to assemble a red carpet outfit at the drop of a hat.
And we really pulled it off. Jake even drove me to the airport.
He was in his karate instructor gear and his Labradoodle ‘Terrence’ kept burying his nose into the back of my trousers from the back seat.
All I remember about tonight is: Four Seasons, the fourteenth, 4 p.m. And it’s almost four.
I couldn’t get a room here, so I’m staying at a hotel around the corner – two-star, rated high on cleanliness, but low on bed comfortability, and full of Hollywood waxworks that look as though they’ve been caught in a fire for some reason.
I have no idea what to do. I’m hoping Milo will just .
. . materialise somehow. A rush of a team, perhaps, him following.
Is he even staying here? Or is this where everyone meets and gets ready?
I have vague memories of celebrities getting ready for the Met Gala in hotel rooms, their Instagram profiles full of pictures of them squeezing past a king-sized bed and minibar covered in giant feathers, or dressed like a worm, or a walking hot water bottle, or something.
I’m glad this is black tie. Although I’m sure Sian’s holiday camp would’ve had me covered.
Someone there, as I arrived, was dressed as a parsnip.
I approach the reception desk.
A man with long, ear-length curls and the sharpest jaw I’ve ever seen smiles at me. His jaw looks almost sculpted, like someone’s run a scalpel down each side of his chin . . .
‘Good afternoon, ma’am, welcome to the Four Seasons.’
‘Hi,’ I reply. ‘Um, I’m sort of meant to be meeting someone here.
’ Which is the truth in a way, even if Milo doesn’t know that he’s meeting me.
I’ve texted asking Iris for Jameson’s number, so I can then get Milo’s, but she won’t see it until she gets a radio silence break, so for now, it’s just me and ‘all the fours’.
‘Perfect, did you organise meeting here, or in our restaurant, or somewhere specific? And are they a guest here?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I was meant to meet him here for the FA a slow wilt of the corners of his eyes.
‘Allie,’ he begins, then he gestures at me to follow him. He pulls me gently to one side, to the elevators, away from the desk and long line. It’s quiet and carpeted. It smells like scented candles. ‘He isn’t here.’
And the way he says it tells me it’s not that Milo isn’t at the hotel, and he’s somewhere else, and Jameson will take me to meet him. His sagged shoulders tell me it’s something else.
‘He left an hour ago.’
‘To go where?’
He smiles proudly. ‘He didn’t tell me, exactly,’ he laughs. ‘But he’s gone to find you. Passport’s gone. And . . .’ He slips a piece of paper from his jacket. ‘I’ve got the speech. Not allowed to open this. Well. Unless he wins. Until he wins, if you ask me.’
‘Oh my God. Do you think he’s flying to Svalbard?’
Jameson laughs. ‘Yup. I would guess so.’
‘Well, can’t you find out?’
‘I’ve tried calling him. He won’t pick up. I can get you a cab to JFK though?’
Moments later, we’re standing out on the busy sidewalk, beside a coffee cart that smells like melted cheese, hailing down yellow taxis.
‘Just out of interest,’ I say. ‘In case I need to know. What’s his hotel name? So I don’t get treated like a stalker again.’
Jameson smiles. ‘Acer Spark,’ he tells me. ‘His hotel room name is Acer Spark. His childhood pets.’
And I think he finds it weird when I bring my hands to my cheeks. All along, for the last two years, Milo has been there, as one of my most dedicated users, acer_spark, counting birds with me, oceans away.