The last man I slept with? I played by the rulebooks. We didn’t kiss until the third date or sleep together until the sixth. We’d talked about our pasts, our families, took time to get to know each other, or at least I thought that’s what we were doing. But when he disappeared, it turned out not one thing he’d said was true.
I might know nothing about the man still sleeping in that little bed upstairs, but I know enough. And he’s restored my faith in men, first by stopping to help me and later by making me feel. Want and wanted. Desire and desired.
One man made me feel like a deity while the other left me feeling nothing but used.
So shove your judgment, little old lady. I refuse to feel bad.
I’m tired of playing by the rules.
“Bonsoir, madame!” My tone is sunshine personified—fake it until you make it, right?—as I make my way around five feet of attitude in a housecoat and a floral headscarf.
Outside, I can’t stop myself from glancing up at the first floor, a tiny part of me hoping to see him standing there. For him to run after me, to declare his undying desire for me.
A girl can dream, I think, as I make my way barefoot along the cobblestones.
After all, dreams are simply hope.
4
Fee
FIVE YEARS LATER
“Are you sure he won’t mind us staying here?”
“Absolutely.” Rose shoots me a reassuring smile over her shoulder as the key turns, the locking mechanism connecting audibly over the stream of constant questions coming from my four-year-old daughter.
Is this our new house?
Does it have a pool?
How high are we up here?
How far away is my new school?
“Trust me. He won’t even know you’re here.”
“As long as that doesn’t mean you haven’t asked him,” I add warily.
“Yes, because I totally just charmed the doorman into giving me the key.”
“I’m pretty sure you could charm the birds from the trees if you’d half a mind,” I mutter, adding then a little more audibly, “I’m just trying not to tempt fate.” Because if trouble comes in threes, I’d been served two accommodation disasters already today. I’ll do my best to avoid a third, thank you very much.
“You’re not superstitious,” Rose scoffs.
I don’t immediately answer because my move to New York has hardly been auspicious so far. First, the street where I’d arranged an apartment lease was featured on last night’s evening news as the sight of a gangland-style shoot-out. Then this morning, when I’d eventually persuaded Rose, my absolute best friend and my employer, that we should at least check out the apartment if for no other reason that I’d already paid a hefty holding fee, the place turned out to be a total flea pit.
Actually, even fleas would probably turn up their noses at living there.
Do fleas have noses? I’m not sure.
And it had looked so perfect over the internet.
“All I’m saying is you won’t find me walking under ladders or crossing the path of black cats.” At least, not today.
Rose chuckles as the door falls open, but I’m not joking. She pulls the key from the latch and steps into the hallway, her heels audible on the gleaming parquet floor.
“For the record, of course I’ve asked.” She sends me a sly glance over her shoulder. “I just meant this place is so large, he probably wouldn’t notice you were here. But as he’s very rarely in New York, the point is irrelevant.” She turns to take Lulu’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go investigate your new home.”
“This isn’t our new home,” I counter, stepping in after the pair as the scent of beeswax hits my nose. “It’s just a temporary stopgap.”
The sooner we find our own place, the better because from the moment the cab pulled up to the building’s fancy canopied entrance, I’ve been uneasy. I hate that I’ve made such a mess of this. I’m an adult with a child to care for. I’m supposed to be able to sort out my problems on my own and have my own contingency plans. Contingency plans that don’t include a friend of a friend allowing me to stay in their very fancy Fifth Avenue apartment. I mean, who even has those sorts of friends?
Well, obviously her. Meanwhile, I count myself incredibly lucky to be her friend, a friendship that’s nothing to do with connections or money.
“I know.” Her sing-song answer drifts from deeper in the apartment, the hallway darkening as I close the front door after me. I follow their voices, noting the pristine floors, dust-free mid-century wooden furniture, and the neutral palette of soft furnishings. Surfaces gleam, and large potted palms thrive. This place doesn’t look at all unoccupied, but it does look expensive.
I pause at the ceiling-height French doors that lead to the terrace overlooking the treetops of Central Park as a sense of trepidation washes over me. Why trepidation and not excitement? This should feel like a dream come true, given I’ve wanted to live in New York since I’d discovered reruns of Friends as a teenager. From Friends it was just a hop, skip, and a click of the TV remote before I devoured all six seasons of Sex in the City, leaving me imagining myself wandering through The Whitney in impossibly high heels and drinking my way through mimosa-filled brunches in achingly hip restaurants. My imaginings were very Carrie Bradshaw and a lot less—