Mrs De Witt stood in front of me, her cane raised as if to strike. I ducked instinctively and then, when she lowered it, straightened, my palms raised. It took me a second to grasp she had simply used it to rap on the door.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Tell her to quit that infernal racket!’ Her tiny etched face was puce with fury.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The masseuse. The mail-order bride. Whatever. I can hear it all the way down the corridor.’ She was wearing a 1970s Pucci-style duster coat with green and pink swirls and an emerald green turban. Even as I bristled at her insults, I was transfixed. ‘Uh, Agnes is actually a trained physical therapist. And it’s Mozart.’
‘I don’t care if it’s Champion the Wonder Horse playing the kazoo with his you-know-what. Tell her to pipe down. She lives in an apartment. She should have some consideration for other residents!’
Dean Martin growled at me, as if in agreement. I was going to say something else but trying to work out which of his eyes was actually looking at me was weirdly distracting. ‘I’ll pass that on, Mrs De Witt,’ I said, my professional smile in place.
‘What do you mean “pass it on”? Don’t just “pass it on”. Make her stop. She drives me crazy with the wretched pianola. Day, night, whenever. This used to be a peaceful building.’
‘But, to be fair, your dog is always bar–’
‘The other one was just as bad. Miserable woman. Always with her quacking friends, quack quack quack in the corridor, clogging up the street with their oversized cars. Ugh. I’m not surprised he traded her in.’
‘I’m not sure Mr Gopnik –’
‘ “Trained physical therapist”. Good Lord, is that what we’re calling it these days? I suppose that makes me chief negotiator at the United Nations.’ She patted her face with a handkerchief.
‘As I understand it, the great joy of America is that you can be whatever you want to be.’ I smiled.
She narrowed her eyes. I held my smile.
‘Are you English?’
‘Yes.’ I sensed a possible softening. ‘Why? Do you have relatives there, Mrs De Witt?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She looked me up and down. ‘I just thought English girls were meant to have style.’ And with that she turned and, with a dismissive wave, hobbled off down the corridor, Dean Martin casting resentful glances behind her.
‘Was that the crazy old witch across the corridor?’ Agnes called, as I closed the door softly. ‘Ugh. No wonder nobody ever comes to see her. She is like horrible dried-up piece of suszony dorsz.’
There was a brief silence. I heard pages being turned.
And then Agnes started a thunderous, cascading piece, her fingers crashing on the keyboard, hitting the pedal so hard that I felt the wood floors vibrate.
I fixed my smile again as I walked across the hallway, and checked my watch with an internal sigh. Only two hours to go.
8
Sam was flying in that day, and staying until Monday evening. He had booked us into a hotel a few blocks from Times Square. Given what Agnes had said about how we shouldn’t be apart, I had asked if she might give me some of the afternoon off. She had said maybe in what I felt was a positive tone, although I got the distinct feeling that Sam coming for the weekend was an irritation to her. Still, I walked to Penn Station, a bounce in my step, and a weekend bag at my heels, and caught the AirTrain to JFK. By the time I got to the airport, slightly ahead of time, I was buzzing with anticipation.
The arrivals board said Sam’s flight had landed and that he was awaiting his luggage so I hurried into the Ladies to check my hair and make-up. A little sweaty from the walk and the packed train, I touched up my mascara and lipstick, and swiped at my hair with a brush. I was wearing turquoise silk culottes with a black polo-neck and black ankle boots. I wanted to look like myself, but also as if I had changed in some indefinable way, perhaps become a little more mysterious. I dodged out of the way of an exhausted-looking woman with an oversized wheelie case, gave myself a little spritz of perfume, then finally judged myself the kind of woman who meets her lover at international airports.
All the same, as I walked out, heart thumping, and peered up at the board, I felt oddly nervous. We had been apart only four weeks. This man had seen me at my worst: broken, panicked, sad, contrary, and still apparently liked me. He was still Sam, I told myself. My Sam. Nothing had changed since the first time he had rung my doorbell and asked me, ham-fistedly, through the intercom, for a date.
The sign still said: ‘AWAITING LUGGAGE’.
I wedged myself into position at the barrier, checked my hair again and trained my eyes on the double doors, smiling involuntarily at the shrieks of happiness as long-separated couples found each other. I thought, That’ll be us in a minute. I took a deep breath, noting that my palms had started to sweat. A trickle of people made their way through, and my face kept settling into what I suspected was a slightly mad-looking rictus of anticipation, eyebrows raised, delighted, like a politician fake-spotting someone in a crowd.
And then, as I rummaged in my bag for a handkerchief, I did a double-take. There, a few yards away from me in the mass of people, stood Sam, a head taller than anyone around him, scanning the crowd, just as I was. I muttered, ‘Excuse me,’ to the person on my right at the barrier, ducked under it, and ran towards him. He turned just as I got to him and promptly whacked me, hard, in the shin with his bag.
‘Oh, shoot. Are you okay? Lou? … Lou?’
I clutched my leg, trying not to swear. Tears had sprung to my eyes and when I spoke it came through a gasp of pain. ‘It said your luggage wasn’t through!’ I said, teeth clenched. ‘I can’t believe I missed our great reunion! I was in the loo!’
‘I came hand luggage only.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Is your leg okay?’
‘But I had it all planned! I had a sign and everything!’ I wrestled it, specially laminated, out of my jacket and straightened, trying to ignore the throbbing in my shin. ‘WORLD’S HANDSOMEST PARAMEDIC’. ‘This was meant to be one of the defining moments of our relationship! One of those moments you look back on and go, “Aah, do you remember that time I met you at JFK?” ’
‘It’s still a great moment,’ he said hopefully. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Good to see me?’
‘Great. It’s great to see you. Sorry. I’m knackered. Didn’t sleep.’
I rubbed my shin. We stared at each other for a minute. ‘It’s no good,’ I said. ‘You have to go again.’
‘Go again?’
‘To the barrier. And then I’ll do what I planned, which is hold up my sign, then run towards you and we kiss and we start it all properly.’
He stared at me. ‘Seriously?’
‘It’ll be worth it. Go on. Please.’
It took him a moment longer to confirm that I wasn’t joking, then he began to walk against the tide of arrivals. Several people turned to stare at him, and somebody tutted.
‘Stop!’ I yelled across the noisy concourse. ‘That’ll do!’
But he didn’t hear me. He kept walking, all the way to the double doors – I had a fleeting fear that he might just jump back on the plane.