The Other Half

  Inside was a plane ticket. To New York. Leaving the following evening (Shit! She’d have to leave work early on her last day at Babe—Jean would be even more cross) and returning a week—a whole week—later.

  She screamed in excitement.

  “What?” asked Patsy.

  “Oh, er, nothing,” said Chloë.

  Patsy clearly didn’t believe her. “What nothing? You’re just screaming out of the blue?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” Chloë knew this would drive Patsy nuts.

  “Tell me, tell me, tell me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s confidential.” Chloë thought quickly. “To do with this new magazine. Vanessa would kill me if I disclosed it.”

  “Oh.” Patsy pouted.

  “When I can say, I promise you’ll be the first to know.” Chloë simultaneously clicked Reply on her e-mail.

  she typed in 72 point font, and then smaller

  That is the best surprise I have ever had!

  And before Patsy saw what she was doing, she pressed Send.

  15

  That evening Jamie got home from squash earlier than he had recently, yet he bolted his supper without asking Maggie how her day had been. Mindful of their argument, she waited until he had finished both courses before clearing his dishes, but he didn’t notice, simply racing upstairs to pack, leaving Maggie standing in the kitchen, reeling.

  What is going on? she thought. Is something up—something serious? It’s not just a question of day-to-day niggles—after nearly ten years, I suppose they’re only to be expected. It’s more than that, though I can’t put my finger on it.

  She cast her mind back to the incident with the hall closet. At times Jamie can be downright immature, she thought, although maybe he has a point. People do say I can be a bit serious sometimes, and we are very different … I’m nowhere near as gregarious—Jamie seems socially at ease almost anywhere. And I’ve always been more radical politically, more passionate about aesthetics, but aren’t those differences what make our relationship work? We complement one another, surely.

  Certainly the idea of being with someone who was exactly like her didn’t appeal to Maggie—Alex had also been different from her in many ways. As for the prospect of two people together like Jamie … She shuddered. What an overwhelming duo they would be!

  Nonetheless, we aren’t spending enough time together; Jamie seems to be working harder than ever—and though that’s to be expected with this new role, recently he’s been very quick to criticize me. She frowned, assessing; yes, he seems most critical of those things where my behavior differs most sharply from his own. It’s not just my tidiness that seems to irk him, it’s the way I treat Nathan. What was it he said a few days ago? “You’re so damn traditional—can’t you be a bit spontaneous for once?” Only this morning he said, “Why don’t you branch out and do something more exciting? You’ve been doing the same sort of articles for years,” when he’d been getting dressed. “Thanks for the insight,” she’d replied, cross because she was depressed by the style of features she wrote already. No wonder it had provoked another argument. Jamie was even critical of my clothes, she remembered, and on a day when I thought I looked particularly nice! Again, he suggested Maggie try something new and bold, “sexier” was how he put it. Yet when she’d tried dressing up in that way on the night of the dinner party, he didn’t even realize she’d had the basque on.

  And now he’s going away on business for a week, she thought. Being thousands of miles apart is the last thing we need.

  However desperately she wanted to go with him, Maggie couldn’t: she had to stay and take Nathan to school. I wouldn’t want him to feel that his mum and dad would rather be off gallivanting together than with him, would I? she reminded herself.

  She leaned against the kitchen sink, gazing out of the window into the dusk, recalling the visions she’d once had of her future. I used to think I’d be running a chain of health-food shops by now, she thought. Alex used to joke I’d be “the queen of green cuisine,” with a string of eco-friendly cookbooks to my name. I’m not even a proper vegetarian anymore—these days I eat fish and chicken, albeit free-range. Worst of all, I seem to have ended up a walking cliché—a bored, sexually frustrated housewife in Surrey. How has that happened? Who is to blame?

  Tears pricked behind her eyes; she blinked them away and mounted the stairs after her husband. Jamie had just finished packing when she entered the room.

  “I’m whacked,” he said. “I should go to bed—I’ve a long day ahead in the morning.”

  “Yes.” Maggie was able to read the signs all too clearly. “We’d better go straight to sleep, hadn’t we?”

  16

  “Oh my good God! He’s taking you to New York?”

  “Yes.” Chloë was frantically emptying the contents of her wardrobe onto the bed while Rob stood by.

  “For how long?”

  “Just over a week.”

  “A week! A whole week? Why isn’t his wife going?”

  “She has to stay and look after his son.”

  “Poor cow,” said Rob.

  Chloë felt a sharp stab of guilt.

  “Did it occur to you to say no?”

  “Are you mad? Turn down an invitation to the place I’ve wanted to visit my entire adult life?”

  “You’re right. You absolutely have to go. It’s a one in a million chance. So I take it this is a business trip. All expenses paid?”

  “Yeah,” said Chloë. “He’s going to the annual conference at US Magazines. We’ll be back next weekend.”

  “He needs to be there over a week? And has to go on a Friday?”

  “It runs Monday to Thursday, but, hey, I’m hardly going to argue, am I?”

  “I guess not. Still, if I was his wife, I’d be a mite suspicious.”

  “He said he hated being jet-lagged for meetings so he likes to arrive a day or two early to recover.”

  “And shag you.”

  “If you must put it like that, yes. Though he was going anyway—I’m just coming along for the ride.”

  “Some ride!” Rob laughed. “Well, firstly, I’m jealous as hell—’cause you know I love, love, love that city, and September’s a fabulous time to go. Secondly, let me help you decide what to take ’cause I know the scene and you obviously haven’t a clue, and thirdly, allow me to give you one piece of advice.”

  “What’s that?” Chloë was sure she wasn’t going to like it.

  “Don’t, whatever you do, ask him if he is going to leave his wife.”

  “What makes you think I would?” Chloë had studiously avoided anything too heavy so far.

  “Because I know you, Chloë. You’ve been seeing each other—what? Once a week for a month, roughly? So far, it’s been great fun. But it’s been mainly about sex—”

  “It hasn’t!”

  “Aw, c’mon, hon—have you ever seen him without shagging?”

  “No…”

  “Right. Which means it’s still at that rampant stage, but when you go away, you’ll be entering a different phase. You’ll talk more, do things together, just the two of you … You’ll develop your own set of romantic memories … You’ll get closer … Then, wham! You’ll fall in love with him.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Chloë, but she knew she was already more involved than she was prepared to acknowledge.

  “Because all the ingredients are there. Only remember what your dear friend Rob said to you: you’re a long way from home, you’re also a long way from reality. Back here, this man has a wife and kid. Whatever you feel while you’re out there, this is where you live, where your work is, where your friends are but, more important, it’s where his commitments are.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Chloë, feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

  “And remember, if it goes hideously wrong, I’m on the end of a phone for you.”

  I wish he hadn’t said that, she thought. It’s not going to go wrong. There’s nothing to go
wrong. It will be fine. Nonetheless she said, “I’ll remember,” just the same.

  “Now, lecture over.” Rob’s tone brightened. “Let’s decide what the girl’s to wear! You’ll need this.” He reached for the Spunky dress. “Perfect for when you want to hang out in those SoHo coffee bars. You’d better take this,” he picked out the Whistles suit, “because you never know when you might have to attend some smart business lunch, though I rather doubt he’s gonna be parading you in front of his colleagues. Come to that, are you planning on doing some networking of your own while you’re there?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that—it’s a good idea. You never know who I might meet.”

  “And you’ll need this, this, this, and this,” Rob continued, rapidly selecting two floaty dresses, a knee-length lace skirt, a short suede mini, some faded jeans, half a dozen tops, and a couple of scarves, including her favorite black-and-red satin one. Finally, he darted off to his room, and returned, proudly brandishing a feather boa. “From day…” he said, campily wrapping it around his neck, “to evening!”

  Chloë laughed.

  “I’ll leave you to sort out the most important thing in private.” He turned to go.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your underwear,” he replied, and shut the door.

  * * *

  They had little chance to speak until they met at the airport, and they weren’t able to chat much on the plane either, because James was traveling business class, which, when he came to book Chloë’s ticket, was full. It was economy or nothing—naturally he’d opted for economy, but he’d said he was worried she’d think he was mean. Chloë couldn’t care less: she was far too excited to have a single negative thought. And while it meant no canoodling during the flight, at least they could both get a little sleep.

  “Chloë?”

  She woke with a start. James had to stand in the aisle and lean over two other passengers to talk to her. “Ye-es,” she said, gradually coming to.

  “We’re nearly there. The plane’s in a holding pattern. Look.”

  Out of the window, she could see it.

  Manhattan.

  Teeny weenie from their height, nevertheless enormous compared to the panoramic urban sprawl and dense highways that surrounded it. There was the Empire State, the Chrysler Building, and now she could see Ellis Island, the Statue of Liberty … Configured from a thousand movies and TV shows, symbol of her passions and dreams, it was a familiar silhouette—Chloë’s Oz. Yet even though the baby-pink clouds of sunset made it look more fairy tale than ever, it was somehow different from what she’d expected.

  She prodded herself. Yes, that was why: because this wasn’t a movie or a dream, it was real. Finally, at twenty-nine years of age, she was arriving in New York. Or rather, and better still, she was being taken to New York by a man who she fancied and liked more by the minute. She was so overwhelmed she thought she would burst.

  No picture can do it justice, she observed, as the plane continued to descend. The reduced scale can’t convey the magnitude of the place in 3-D. And that Manhattan is an island is somehow unexpected too. It seems larger as we’re getting closer—and if the buildings seem big from this height, they must be huge! Coming into Heathrow compared to this, I mean puh-lease.

  For a second, carried away by the view through the window, Chloë forgot James was still standing in the aisle. Yet she wanted to share how she was feeling, so struggled to put it into words. “It makes London look so wimpy,” was all she could manage.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the steward, tapping him on the shoulder, “could you return to your seat and fasten your seat belt for landing?”

  * * *

  What might have been the drag of immigration and customs was fun because at last they could be together. Then there was more mythology made real—the exhilaration of Chloë’s first New York taxi ride.

  “Can you open the trunk?” he asked the driver, immediately adapting his vocabulary to the environment. How worldly, thought Chloë. “Here’s where we’re going.” He handed the driver the address, who nodded in response. From the outset James had refused to tell Chloë where they were staying. “I want to surprise you,” he’d said.

  Inside, an unsmiling passport-sized photograph of the driver, accompanied by his ID number, was taped crudely on the dirty glass partition in front of them; the seating was functional plastic. It was a far cry from the spacious luxury of a London cab, but Chloë loved that; it had the echo of De Niro danger that a black taxi never could.

  As they sped along the freeway through suburban New Jersey, Chloë was struck by the sheer otherness of it all. Not only were they on the wrong side of the road surrounded by cars much wider and more angular than their rounded European counterparts, but the hoardings were bigger, brighter, brasher too. NEED THERAPY? screamed one in thirty-foot scarlet letters followed by a 1–800 number. Only in America, thought Chloë. Though the way I’m living at the moment, Rob would say I should give them a call.

  They’d missed rush hour, so although the roads were busy with people coming into the city for the evening, they made it through the Lincoln Tunnel and up into Manhattan in little over half an hour.

  James tapped the partition. “Could we make a detour via Sixth Avenue, please?” He turned to Chloë. “Then we can see a bit more before we get there.”

  “So where are we?” she asked, gazing in awe up, up at the buildings.

  “Midtown. This is Forty-Second Street.”

  We’re not watching a movie, thought Chloë, we’re in a musical.

  “Previously I’ve tended to stay downtown,” James explained. “It’s where Beth used to live so I know it better. It’s more our scene really.” Our scene. He’d said “our scene”! Linking them together, as an item, an “us” … “But I wanted to be well away from the rest of the UK Magazines crowd—far as I’m aware, they’re all staying in SoHo. I’ve somewhere very special booked for us, plus it’s nearer the conference venue, so we can spend more time just me and you.”

  She glanced over at him. Already he appears more relaxed, far freer than he is in London, she thought. Seeing him like this, I can picture him as a small boy—so eager and enthusiastic.

  She pushed the down arrow to open the window. The warm wind in her hair was exhilarating and Chloë felt high.

  The city even smells different from home, she realized. The combination of steam from the subway, the plethora of restaurants, and so many people tightly wedged together makes it sweeter, more intense. And the crossings really do have signs that say WALK/DON’T WALK, every building really does have a fire escape on the outside, vendors really do sell anything and everything on every corner, sirens really do scream all the time …

  At that moment—oh wow! A razzle-dazzle of pulsating neon lights.

  “Times Square!” Chloë grabbed James’s arm as if he’d never seen it before.

  He grinned, clearly enjoying her reaction.

  Presently the taxi pulled up on Forty-sixth Street.

  “We’re here,” he said and handed the driver his fare as Chloë got out.

  On the sidewalk, Chloë scanned for a hotel sign, but there was nothing to indicate where they were; only a smart coffee shop to their right and a dark bar filled with hip-looking people sipping cocktails to their left.

  Surely if we were somewhere that legendary it would be advertising its presence in giant letters and bright lights? she thought, deflated.

  Yet James picked up both suitcases and swept through the doors with confidence. Chloë followed him.

  “Oh,” she said, once inside—she was so gobsmacked, it was all she could manage.

  As a magazine journalist, Chloë had been to almost every landmark hotel London had to offer—launch party at the Dorchester, tea at the Ritz, drinks at Claridge’s, and more—but this lobby was like nothing she’d seen before.

  An architectural showpiece with the ambience of a nightclub, she needed several moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim ligh
ting so she could take everything in. The checkered carpet resembled a giant chessboard on which a bizarre collection of seating had been assembled by a playful curator. Chairs upholstered in mixed materials and jewel colors jostled alongside rotund ethnic stools and comfortable colonial-style sofas, even a chaise longue. A stone staircase swept in a crescent down into the atrium; in the candlelight it appeared suspended in midair.

  “Welcome to the Paramount,” said James.

  “Ah, of course.” Chloë loved it: how could she ever have doubted him?

  They lugged their cases over to reception, and James gave all his details to the nice-looking man behind the marble-topped counter. Then they took the elevator up to the fourth floor and made their way along the corridor, checking for their room number. Finally, James inserted the card into the lock and opened the door.

  “Phew,” he said, dropping the suitcases. “At bloody last.”

  The room was not huge—this is New York after all, thought Chloë, space is at a premium—but it was decorated in white throughout, which ensured the few features created real impact. There was an asymmetrically designed marble-topped desk and a huge double bed, and where one would expect the headboard to be, Vermeer’s The Lacemaker stared knowingly out of the corner of her eye onto the covers, as if defying Chloë and James to shock her with their antics. The bathroom was similarly compact, but on the cone-shaped chrome sink with its swordlike point was a single bloodred rose, creating a distinct S & M air.

  “Aaah!” said Chloë, flinging herself onto the bed. “Do you know what? My senses have gone into utter overload. For once, I’m not sure I’m up to a shag.”

  “Thank God for that.” James laughed. “Because I’m not up for anything until I’ve had a nap.”

  * * *

  “Hey, James,” whispered Chloë the next morning, kissing the dip between his shoulder-blades. “This is your rude awakening…”

  He rolled over to face her. For a moment he looked confused, then he seemed to realize where he was, and—unless she was mistaken—who she was.