So how can I kill a few hours in the most exciting city in the world?
I sat myself down on the Post Office steps and surveyed the street scene on 8th Avenue as I rummaged in my bag for a bottle of water. It was nearly lunchtime, and the only thing I'd had planned for my day off was a ritualistic visit to the vast main Post Office to mail off a birthday present and card for my nephew. Somewhat unnecessary, but I wasn't doing anything else and mailing my package from the lovely old Post Office building seemed like an event, and gave me an excuse for travelling into Manhattan. The reasons, otherwise, were becoming obscure. I felt like it was the sort of thing I should be doing, now I lived in New York City (albeit on the outer edges somewhat). But still - even after six months - I felt a little disconnected from the place, like I still didn't really fit in, however hard I tried.
The late summer sun was almost at its height so I pulled my shades out of my bag too and put them on. Sucking on the bottle of water, I reflected that at least I hadn't caved in and headed off home for a few days, as I'd done all too often recently. See? I still called Boston 'home'.
Art galleries? Done them all. Shopping? Too poor. Walking around, just exploring? Could do that, although the inventory of streets I hadn't schlepped down was fast diminishing and the joys of making connections in the urban landscape were starting to wear thin. Movie? Alone? Please, I'm not that pathetic. Not yet, anyway. Which leaves... go to one of my usual itinerary of bars, drink too much, and hope to meet someone. The One. That magic person who will suddenly materialize and sweep me off my feet. However - to my surprise, and contrary to my somewhat naive assumptions before moving here - these girls seemed to be thin on the ground in the NYC lesbian bar scene. Or maybe just for shy, retiring wallflowers like me. Staring with puppy-dog eyes at attractive women just wasn't doing it for me as a hookup technique, not with the kind of competition that was pretty much constantly around. It didn't help that I always got embarrassingly tongue-tied when trying to talk to new people. It'd been much the same for me ever since I was a teenager. Jeez, I scolded myself. You're twenty-eight years old. When the hell are you going to grow up?
Stuffing my water bottle back into my bag, I stood up and pressed my earbuds in; the thunderous drums of Florence + the Machine roared into my head. I swivelled my gaze, about to decide on the spur of the moment which direction to head in, when my head suddenly stopped turning.
She was standing at the bottom of the steps, by the 33rd Street intersection. She may as well have sported a flashing neon sign saying 'lost tourist'. Her Ray-Bans were pushed up onto her forehead and she was squinting at a street map, occasionally looking around to get her bearings. I felt sympathetic. That had been me six months ago. Now of course I was - ha! - a hardened New Yorker. On impulse - and I'll never be able to explain fully why I did this for her in particular, when I normally wouldn't bother - I headed down the steps diagonally towards her.
She cut a pretty elegant figure, actually. Not your usual tourist type in garish t-shirt, baggy shorts and running shoes. Blonde hair pulled back casually into a messy ponytail held in place with a black scrunchie, she wore a simple white shift dress that came to just below the knee. The dress had a black 50s-style geometric pattern, and she carried a matching black & white chequerboard-design bag. As I got closer, I could see that she was a few inches taller than me, even in her completely flat white gladiator sandals.
"Hey there, hello, can I help? You need to find somewhere?"
She looked up at me from her map and broke into a rueful smile. I could see now that the only non-monochrome part of the ensemble were her startling pale blue eyes. The slight crow's feet that appeared when she smiled indicated that she was maybe in her mid-thirties. My eye automatically flickered down to her left hand. No ring.
"Oh, thank you, that's very kind of you. Yes, I'm afraid I am a bit lost."
Brit. English accent you could cut with a knife.
"'Sokay. So where are you looking for, Ma'am?"
WTF? Why did I call her 'Ma'am'? Her age? Her accent? Been watching too much Downton Abbey?
"The High Line. I know it's on 30th Street, but I'm so useless I've been walking in the wrong direction for ages. Nearly got to the other side of Manhattan before I discovered I was going the wrong way."
"Wow. That's quite a way to walk."
She laughed again. "Oh no, it's alright. I'm here to see the city after all. And I did see a fair bit of it, so I shouldn't complain."
I jerked my head. "Well, it starts just down here." Goddammit if my horrible Beantown accent didn't leak through. Staaaaahhhts. Ack.
"Oh, where are you from? You have such a lovely accent!"
I blushed. "Well, I'm from Boston, originally." What a fraud. I made it sound like I'd been here for years.
"Oh! I've never been to Boston. I must go sometime. It's so interesting to hear someone with a different accent in America."
My blush just carried on. "Well I could say the same."
"Oh, don't! People always say that to me. 'Gee, justI luuuurve your cuuuute accent, honey'" She'd made a pretty decent stab at an American accent; it came out more New Jersey than anything else, but still, pretty good.
I laughed. "That's not bad. You have a good ear."
"Well, thank you." A pause. "So, you said it was close? The High Line?"
"Uh, yeah. 30th is just there, past the other end of the Post Office. Just turn right and keep going straight on."
"Ahh, right! I get it now. Well, thank you so much. I really appreciate it. I should be OK now, even with my awful navigational skills." She smiled again, a casual, loose kind of smile. A happy and self-assured person's smile, of someone who's perfectly at ease with themselves, or so it seemed to me.
I heard myself say, "I could show you if you like." I'd just blurted it out, like my mouth had suddenly decided to operate without consulting my brain.
"Oh no, I don't want to put you to any trouble." she said, a little warily. She probably thought I was part of some panhandling scam. Did I look like a mugger or something? Light gray tank top, jean shorts, and well-worn red high-tops… maybe I did look a little 'street' to her, coming as she did from Little-Pumpkin-in-the Marsh or wherever.
"I don't mind really. I don't have anything much else to do today. But, ermm, sorry,I didn't mean to… I'll leave you alone…" I'd started stammering and stumbling over my words. My messed-up psyche had clearly re-established control over my mouth.
"Well, no, sorry, I didn't mean to be rude." She peered at me curiously. "but... you really have nothing else to do? In New York City?"
I looked down at my feet. "You'd be surprised," I mumbled.
"Alright then! Lead on!" she stuck her hand out. "My name's Harriet, by the way."
I reflected that in all of my twenty eight years on the planet, she was the first actual Harriet I'd ever encountered outside of Masterpiece Theater.
I shook her hand. "Vicky. So... this way."
We walked past the Post Office and she stared up at the façade as we went. "Goodness, what an impressive building!"
"Uh, yeah. They have an English postbox in there."
"Do they really?"
But I already had a sinking feeling in my gut and the little voice in my head was scolding me again.
"This woman's travelled thousands of miles to see NYC! Is she really going to be interested in a fucking English postbox? She sees those every day for God's sake!"
Jesus. Look up 'Social Awkwardness' on Wikipedia and my picture will be there, I swear.
We turned onto 30th and walked in silence for a few minutes. Harriet was constantly craning her neck, taking in the cityscape around us. It was kind of thought-provoking to see someone so fascinated by something I'd become completely blasé about.
We crossed 9th and neared the High Line entrance, walking past the USPS trucks lined up at the depot building.
"Well" said Harriet, breaking the silence "this is quite an unprepossessing approach, isn't it?"
Also possibly the first time I'd ever heard anyone use the word 'unprepossessing'. An unwelcome presence floated into my brain, the braying cackle of Amy Billings, self-appointed centrepiece of one of the bar-scene groups that I hovered on the periphery of. I could just hear her: "Stuck up Limey bitch has gone and swallowed a fucking dictionary!" accompanied by her own nasty snigger and the dutiful laughter of her acolytes. God, I hated that woman. I've never been able to stand loudmouths. Why did I keep going back to places like that? Or maybe it was just envy? She seemed to be the center of attention without working at it, just effortlessly walking into a bar and taking over. Maybe I just wished I could do that?
"Mmm" I responded awkwardly. Then, gratefully, "Here we are!"
We'd arrived at the steps leading up to the start of the High Line. Harriet turned to me.
"Well, Vicky, thanks again. I really appreciate your help." She stuck out her hand once more.
And I really didn't want to shake it. Because that would formalize the end of my little good deed and I'd have to walk away. And I found myself not wanting to. The scolding voice returned to my brain.
"Oh, here we fucking go again. Crushing on an older straight woman. Just what you need right now. Not."
For some reason my spine stiffened this time and I batted the evil little sucker down.
"You know what? I think I might walk the High Line too."
"But of course! You said you didn't have anything to do. But you must have visited it before, surely?"
"Yes, once, but that was just after they opened the second section, and it was a weekend, so it was really crowded."
"I see. So why don't we walk it together? It'd be great to have some company. If you don't mind, that is." Her eyes were fixing me with a steady gaze. I avoided looking her in the eye, like I did pretty routinely with everyone. But my heart did actually beat a little faster and I mentally high-fived with myself.
"Sure! I always wanted to be a tour guide." Poor joke, but she laughed anyway.
We climbed the stairs and did an initial look around, then headed off, strolling slowly along. We rounded the bend and the view of the High Line proper hit us, arrowing dead straight through Chelsea and into the distance, the vanishing point shimmering in the heat haze.
Harriet whistled and stopped walking. "Oh my! That is impressive. What a great thing! To think it was nearly torn down."
I grinned at her effusiveness. "Yeah, it's pretty cool. I like it." I scrambled to think of something else to say. "I kinda wish they'd done something like this with the Central Artery in Boston."
"Was that a railway too?"
"No, a highway. It passed close to where I lived. There's a park there now too, but at ground level. This is much more interesting."
I slapped myself on the back. I'd managed a little small talk and some tour guide stuff, albeit for a completely different city to the one we were in.
As we walked, Harriet stopped to inspect the plantings on the way, muttering about species and stuff. At one point she turned and asked me if I knew what some plant was. "We don't have this in England."
"I have no idea! Plants are a mystery to me. Sorry, I'm being a terrible tour guide, aren't I?"
"Oh, don't worry. So you're not a gardener, then?"
"Um, no. My apartment is on the sixteenth floor and I don't even keep houseplants 'cos it'd be cruel. I kill them."
"Shame."
"How about you?" See now, something was happening here. Normally I'd have clammed up after my previous statement and that would have killed the conversation. But here I was, actually doing small talk. For some reason I just felt so relaxed with Harriet, not wound up tight and anxious like normal, where the tension and anxiety crawled up from my knotted guts and strangled my vocal chords.
"Not right now. I live in a flat so I just have a few pots on my balcony. My family's house has a big garden though. I used to love working on it with my Mum."
"So where do you live in England?" Damn, I'm getting good at this small talk thing.
"Oxford. But I grew up in a little village about ten miles outside Oxford. My Dad still lives there."
"Oxford! Sounds wonderful. Are you a College Professor?"
Harriet burst out laughing and I felt my ears redden a little. But I really had the feeling that she wasn't laughing at me, she wasn't ridiculing me.
"No, we're not all College Professors in Oxford, although there are a lot of those about, obviously. But you're on the right lines. I work for an academic publisher. All of those professors need to publish their papers and books about splitting bosons or whatever it is they do all day."
"So you see your Mom and Dad a lot? If they're so close?"
"Well, sadly my dear old Mum passed away last year."
Hark, what was that sound? Why yes, I do believe it was the faux pas alarm sounding. "Oh God, I'm so sorry." I felt myself at the top of a familiar slippery slope, a quick descent into the bowels of awkwardness beckoning.
"Oh, don't be. She hadn't been well for a long time, poor thing. But my Dad still lives in this big old empty house by himself. He's rattling around in there now I must say. And he certainly can't keep up with the garden. I visit as much as I can, but…"
"Can't your brothers and sisters help too?"
"Nope. Only child. I could go back there and live with him, I suppose. But he's very proud, he wants to look after himself, you know? Anyway, it'd be a bit sad for someone my age to be living at home, don't you think?"
I bit my lip. That was exactly what I'd been contemplating for the last few weeks. Frankly, the only thing stopping me was the thought of the shit-eating grins on the faces of my Dad and whichever of my brothers he'd managed to whistle up to join the fun. To witness my humiliation as I got off the train at South Station, skulking back home with my tail between my legs and all my worldly possessions stuffed into two LL Bean duffle bags. That, and the near-continuous lecture that would follow, on the theme of 'Told you so. Didn't we tell, you, huh?'. They would fucking love that. I refused to give them the satisfaction. Otherwise…
"So how about you, Vicky? What brings you to New York?" Excellent question.
"Well, I…"
Where to start? The feeling of failure? Of being suffocated by my family? The pressure of needing to 'make something of myself' as my Dad constantly put it? The uneasy tolerance and 'of course we love you, you're our own flesh and blood' overlaid onto an unmistakeable undercurrent of homophobia? The relentlessly breeding siblings being held up as reproachful examples? Or the final, irrevocable breakup with Lauren, my on again/off again girlfriend since High School?
We'd stopped to look out over a street scene that the High Line was passing over, with a view down to the Hudson. Harriet was looking at me coolly, eyebrow raised, sensing my discomfort. This time I held her gaze, and a curious thing happened; the street noise below us seemed to tune out and for a moment there was just me and those incisive ice-blue eyes, lifted up and floating in a kind of hazy bubble, until a blaring car horn suddenly snapped the world back into focus. Weird.
"I… I dunno, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time." Lame, lame, lame.
"And was it? The right thing? Do you think?"
"Uh… sure! It's been great!" I was being defensive, and she knew it.
"Mmm." We started walking again "So. Brothers and sisters. The way you asked me just now told me you have some?"
"Oh yeah, sorry, I guess I just assumed. I'm one of six. Two brothers and three sisters."
"Six!" Harriet stopped and stared at me "Oh my! I can't imagine. I'm so jealous!"
"Jealous?" I asked, confused.
"Of course! It must have been such fun in your house with your brothers and sisters to play with all the time. Me, I was left to my own devices, pretty much."
"Well, I guess." I said doubtfully. "But you had your own room! I used to dream of not having to share."
"I suppose. But six kids, that's quite unusual, isn't it?"
"Uh-uh. We're Catholics. Italian-Americans from the North End. It happens."
"Oh, you're Italian! How lovely! I thought your coloring was kind of southern European."
"Really?"
"You have such black hair though. Lovely complexion. And your eyes are so dark, I can't even make out your pupils. Oh yes, your Mediterranean blood definitely shines through. Sort of Penelope Cruz-ey, you know? You look a little like her, actually, don't you?"
My heart skipped again. A woman complementing me on my looks? This was an unfamiliar pleasure. I'd always thought I was kind of rat-like. But Penelope Cruz? Puh-lease. I look like Penelope Cruz after her hair had been restyled with a hedge trimmer, and some serious boob reduction surgery.
"Vicky isn't really an Italian name though, is it? I mean, Victoria?"
"Actually it's Vittoria. But I shorten it to Vicky. It's easier."
"Vittoria." She said it contemplatively, seeming to mull it over, almost. So… if she's into this stuff, maybe it's time to go for broke. I sighed and then took a deep breath in.
"Vittoria Fiorella Giannelli. That's the full handle."
Harriet actually gasped. She stopped again and turned to me, staring open mouthed.
"Wow! That is a truly magnificent name, if you don't mind me saying so. You must be so proud of it. It's like poetry. It flows, doesn't it? Vittoria Fiorella Giannelli"
I shrugged. "Dunno. Not that unusual where I'm from."
"Well it beats Harriet Wickes any day."
"Don't you have a middle name?"
"I do, but it's too embarrassing to reveal." I laughed and she grinned back at me.
"But," she continued, "You don't sound Italian. You sound like…"
I held my hand up to stop her. "I know, I know, please don't say it. President Kennedy. I sound like President Kennedy."
"Well, I was about to say Mayor Quimby from the Simpsons, but yes, OK, JFK too."
I laughed again. I think I'd laughed more in the last hour than I had in the last month.
"You have the Simpsons in England?"
"Of course we do! And the Sopranos. And Mad Men. And…"
I held my hand up again. "OK! OK! I get it. I'm so unworldly."
Self deprecation. Wow, I can do self deprecation. Normally I'd have just felt self-conscious. But I was so relaxed. What was it about this woman that just relaxed me so much? My brain scrambled to deconstruct this strange phenomenon, bottle it somehow for future use.
And this time when we started walking it felt, oh God, I don't know, like something had clicked. It's hard to explain but it felt to me like we were walking together, not just side-by-side, you know? I was trying half-heartedly to hold back the onrush of the dreaded Straight Girl Crush but it wasn't going well.
We stopped again so that Harriet could take a picture of the Empire State Building, looming over the Manhattan roofscape.
"Did you visit it?" I asked.
"Sadly, no. I went there but the queue was so long I couldn't be bothered to wait."
"Try early morning. Maybe tomorrow."
"Can't, I'm afraid. I'm flying home tomorrow. I'm on the early morning flight; have to get up at some ungodly hour to get to the airport. I need to be at work the day after tomorrow, you see."
Strangely, I felt my heart sink at this news. "Oh well, you'll have to come back soon." Yeah, and let me know when so I can make a note in my diary.
A little farther on we came to a colorful flowerbed. Harriet pointed at some flowers.
"Now come on, surely you must know what those are?"
"Of course I do."
"OK then, what are they, cleverclogs?"
"They're flowers." She hooted with laughter.
"Yes, but what I meant was, do you know what kind of flowers?"
"Sure I do."
"Go on then, tell me?"
"They're yellow flowers."
Harriet doubled up with laughter. I smiled at her a little uneasily. I wasn't used to this. Tears were actually running down her face.
"You're quite a comedian, you know that?" she said eventually, when she'd recovered a little.
"Am I?" I said uncertainly. " No I'm not."
"No? Bloody well make me laugh."
Well, who'd of thought? How did I do that? She just made me feel comfortable, mainly comfortable with myself if truth be told, and the tightly-wound springs inside me eased off a little and I felt the stirrings of confidence. And my sense of humor started to feed on that. But maybe I should stop psychoanalysing myself and just go with it…
"Sorry. I'll stop. I thought you were having some kind of seizure."
We were near the restrooms about half way along the High Line and Harriet dove off towards them. She called back over her shoulder. "Maybe I didn't have a seizure but I'd better go to the ladies' while I can. If you do that to me again I'll definitely wet myself."
There was a short line for the ladies' room and I hung around outside as Harriet waited. I made a show of looking at stuff in the vicinity but was really just looking at her the whole time. She'd taken her phone out and seemed to be checking for messages. I tried not to stare, but oh God, I realized with a shock that I really wanted her. I wanted to be her girlfriend and when we were walking the last few yards just then I wanted to hold her hand so badly. I heard a faint echo of the Nasty Voice, somewhere far back in my head, saying "Getting a little ahead of yourself there with this straight bitch, aren't you?" But it was pretty much being drowned out by the massed choirs of neediness.
I found myself looking her up and down, and then made myself stop. Maybe I was becoming too much of a New Yorker. What is it with girls here? It seemed to me that they were always looking me up and down on the street, like it's a competition or something. I hated being on the receiving end of that, and now I was doing it to Harriet. But she was fascinating. I was pretty sure those girls on the street weren't fascinated with me. They were just trying to estimate the size of my trust fund from what I was wearing. Of course, I didn't have one, and it showed in my TJ Maxx wardrobe. Which of course meant I was immediately dismissed.
But I wasn't really looking at the way she was dressed, distinctive and striking though it was. I was mainly – shamelessly – checking out her body. The word that sprang to mind was: sturdy. She wasn't large, but solidly built, with broad shoulders and firm calves. I could see her well-defined biceps pretty clearly as she bent her arm, holding her phone close to her face in the bright sunlight. Her dress was just tight enough for me to make out the rounded curves of her rear. Breasts quite big, but again firm and high. All in all I got the impression of someone who was pretty fit, outdoors type, worked out a little maybe (but not too much), swam, rode horses. Oh yeah, being raised in what sounded like a pretty big house in the English countryside? That would inevitably involve horse-riding.
I ruminated for a little on the contrast. Her, the pampered, spoiled only child in some kind of mansion (in my head it had already grown to Buckingham Palace proportions). Me: poky, ramshackle house in the North End, crawling with kids (plus my Grandmother), trying to make ends meet on my Dad's salary as a railroad worker. And, of course, me turning out to be the black sheep of the family. Still, being the frowned-on homo disappointment daughter did spur me on I suppose; gave me the impetus to push myself through college, just to get four years away from home.
I caught a final glimpse of her as she disappeared into the restroom and I suddenly found my brain – as it sometimes did, unbidden – drifting off into an amazing sexual fantasy.
Harriet steps out of the restroom and our eyes meet; they remain locked together throughout what unfolds. She walks towards me with a slow, steady tread and as she does so, she pulls her dress over her head. She is completely, gorgeously, naked underneath. In response I peel off my tank top, taking a moment to just enjoy the feel of the fresh air, and the hot sun on my bare breasts. Then I unfasten and push down my shorts. I am just stepping out of my panties as Harriet reaches me; she doesn't stop but just walks forward and takes me in her arms, my hands wandering freely over her luscious curves as we melt together and kiss passionately; it seems like we're back in that opaque bubble as passersby seem to ignore us or are at least just mildly curious about us…
As Harriet walked back up to me I panicked a little; I'm really flat-chested, so almost never wear a bra. This isn't normally a problem; however, my nipples do tend to protrude quite a bit when I'm turned on. Which I was now. I involuntarily let out a little moan and a guy nearby looked at me oddly. I hastily looked away.
Hurriedly I flapped the front of my sweaty tank-top in what I tried to get across as a reasonably convincing 'Gee, isn't it hot today?" gesture, stretching the front a little looser over my chest and hoping my rock-hard nips weren't too obvious.
"Hi." I said, with a kind of tortured grin. I wondered vaguely about what Harriet would think if she knew that a moment ago, in my fevered imagination, we were buck naked and energetically tribbing on the bench seat I was standing next to.
"Hey, fancy a rest? There's that place over there where we can sit and look out on the street."
Harriet waved towards the 10th Avenue viewing area, where some huge picture windows had been cut out of a High Line bridge and some tiered seating had been installed. We'd rushed past on the way to the restrooms but now we doubled back towards it and settled ourselves down a couple of rows from the front. It was actually quite hypnotic, watching an endless stream of vehicles flowing under us.
"Well," Harriet broke the silence. "This is just quintessentially New York, isn't it?"
"I guess."
"You're not really happy here, are you Vicky?" The directness startled me. I sighed. And I felt a little chink form in the dam.
"Weeeell… It's OK I guess. Maybe… it's not quite living up to my expectations. I dunno, maybe I just need to give it a little more time."
Harriet stretched her legs out and pointed her toes. She leaned back on her elbows and turned her face up to catch the sun.
"And what were your expectations exactly?"
"Ummm. Well, to be honest I just wanted to move away from home. New York seemed like a good option. Seemed like the sort of place that would be good to make a fresh start."
"And why did you feel you had to make a fresh start?"
I sighed again and did the all too familiar weighing up in my head about how much to reveal.
"Let's just say I had a few problems at home. I just needed to get away from my family for a while. Strike out for myself. Umm. Yeah. That's it really."
"And it's not working out? You don't like it here and you don't want to go home. Hence, dilemma."
"Mmm. Part of the problem is that I'm too close to home. It's too easy to scoot off home for the weekend."
"So even though you have problems at home, this place gets so bad that sometimes you'd rather go there?"
"Yeah." I said it in a small, miserable voice, staring down at my feet. I felt wretched.
"So what's the problem with New York? City that never sleeps and all that?"
I sighed again. And then the dam broke.
"I… I'm lonely." To my horror I started to well up.
"Talk to me." It was an order.
So I spilled my guts. I spilled my guts to this woman from half a world away that I'd only met in the last few hours. It all came out. About the initial excitement and how I do love the city and what it can offer.
"But… it's hard to make friends. Especially for me, I'm quite shy and that's a real handicap here. People can be really standoffish a lot of the time and it can be difficult to get to know people because it seems no-one really lets their guard down. It's like they always have an agenda, you know? You always have an uneasy feeling that you never quite know what their actual motivation for talking to you is. I have met people since I've been here but lots of them seem so… dysfunctional. There's always so much drama. Do you know, Harriet, I honestly think you're the only happy stable person I've met while I've been here."
She snorted.
"Honest to God! I swear!" The tears were streaming down my cheeks now. "There's a strange vibe in NYC. I think you have to be very tough to be happy in New York. I'm not tough. Seems like the people who do well are pretty hard-nosed, and I don't just mean at work, but socially too. And the money thing… it's vicious. And…"
Harriet had reached into her bag. Wordlessly she handed me a Kleenex.
"Oh God I'm sorry. I'm being so pathetic," I sniffed.
"Not at all. I think this is doing you good. Isn't it? It's me who should be sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I apologize for prying."
"No, no it's so great to have someone who'll actually listen. No-one seems to have time for you here. They've always got somewhere else they need to be. Or act as if they do. I've been bottling this all up for too long." I was actually sobbing miserably now.
And oh my God this wonderful woman put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed me close to her in a sisterly hug. My heart flipped a little. And then she pecked me on my temple and my heart flipped a little bit more.
"Come on, it'll be OK. I know that's an easy thing to say but really, I'm sure things'll work out for you, really I am."
"You are? Why?"
"Because you're a lovely person and you deserve to be happy. And you will be. Maybe you should try somewhere else? You've tried New York and it didn't work out for you, I'm sure you're not the first person that hasn't made a go of it here and you won't be the last. Move somewhere else. How about San Francisco?"
Now why did she suggest there?
"I guess." My sobs were receding now. "I won't be tempted to slink off back home from there."
"Right you are. Or go travelling! Why not? Visit Italy! Find your roots! That'd be fun!"
My gut screamed No! England! England! Oxford, England!
"Aha! A smile! That's nice to see." She squeezed my shoulder again. It felt great. I wiped away the last of my tears and blew my nose.
"I don't have a passport. I've never even been to Canada."
"Get yourself one! Tomorrow! The world is your oyster, young lady. Seriously."
I smiled at her gratefully, and shrugged.
Abruptly she plunged her hand into her bag and pulled out her camera again. A Leica, I noted. She placed it into my hand. "Take my picture? Please?"
"Sure!"
Harriet stood next to the windows overlooking 10th Avenue and struck a pose. The light was fantastic, it was getting quite late in the afternoon now and with the sun heading lower in the sky the colors were spectacular. I waited till a picturesque arrangement of yellow cabs appeared in the frame next to Harriet and shot off a couple of pictures.
Harriet stepped up to me and took the camera, peering at the pictures I'd taken on the screen. "Hey, nice! Very artistic, I must say. Get one of you?" She waved me towards the spot where she'd been standing and stepped back.
"Umm… OK"
I posed a little self-consciously while Harriet snapped my picture. I was stepping away from the window when a foghorn of a voice broke in.
"Hey you guys! Want me to take one of you together?" A large African-American lady was shuffling along one of the seat rows towards us. I was just about to politely refuse when I heard Harriet say "Why yes! That's very kind! Thank you! There you go, just that big silver button there… OK?"
So Harriet and I now stood together by the window. And… she put her arm around my shoulder again. Definitely a sisterly gesture, but… God, I was sure I could feel actual affection there. Before I knew what I was doing I reciprocated by slipping my own arm around her waist. She didn't even flinch.
So the picture was taken and Harriet broke away from me and retrieved her camera from the lady, thanking her.
"No problem, honey. You sure do make a cute couple!" she chortled.
Harriet laughed. Note, just laughed, without informing the lady that she had the wrong end of the stick, or anything. Interesting.
I've looked at that picture plenty of tlmes since, of course. It's not the best I've ever looked, to be sure. I look like a deer in the headlights, my eyes still red and puffy from crying. Harriet? I'm pretty sure I can detect a glint in her eye.
As we walked on, I struck up the conversation again. "So, do you have any other trips planned yourself, Harriet?"
"Yeah…" Her voice trailed off, and she sounded a little distant. "Early next year. Middle of February, I think. Not quite sure yet."
"Oh, winter break! Nice. Going somewhere hot, then?"
"Yup." I couldn't quite figure out why she was suddenly so reticent.
"How long for?"
"It'll be about nine weeks."
"Nine weeks?" I spluttered. "Nine weeks? Jeez, I knew you guys got more vacation time than us, but…"
"I need the time to work on my tan."
"Yeah, I 'm sure you do," I said sarcastically. "So where the hell do you go for a nine week vacation?"
"Afghanistan."
My stomach flipped over and my hand shot to my mouth. I sucked my breath in sharply. "Oh my God! You mean…? You're in the service? But I thought you said you worked in publishing?"
"I do. I'm a reservist. Air Force."
"Shit! Aren't you scared?"
To my surprise, she laughed. "Not really. I'm so rear-echelon I may as well be on a beach in Goa."
"Have you done this before?"
"Once in Iraq, twice in Afghanistan. It's OK. Change of scenery and all that."
Oh, you Brits and your stiff upper lips.
We walked on a few more paces in silence. I thought back to my appraisal of her earlier.
"Maybe I should have guessed," I said after a while. "You look pretty fit. I guess you have to stay in shape to serve in the Air Force."
So Harriet told me about the annual fitness test she had to pass, which included what sounded to me – inveterate slacker that I am - like an impossible distance to run and an impossible number of push-ups to do, all in an impossibly short time limit.
"You can really do that many push-ups?" I asked doubtfully.
"Of course! Oh, you don't believe me? Right, hold this!" Before I knew what was happening she had thrust her bag at me and dropped to the ground. Several people passing by at the time stared incredulously at her. She'd completed two push-ups before I reacted.
"Harriet, get up!" I hissed, grabbing her under her armpit and pulling upwards. "OK,OK, I believe you! People are looking!"
She got back to her feet and as she did so, our bare arms briefly brushed together; another secret little thrill for me. Harriet's face was slightly flushed and she was sporting a huge, beaming grin. Her eyes shone with mischief. "What? Am I embarrassing you?"
I was laughing hard too. "A little."
Harriet smoothed her dress down and we exchanged a few more pieces of 'banter' as she would call it but, sorry, I don't remember exactly what we said because there was a strange buzzing in my head and a curious fuzziness in my stomach and looking back, I'm pretty sure I can pinpoint that as the precise moment I fell hopelessly in love with Harriet.
We strolled off again towards the covered area at Chelsea Market. As we approached, two women - clearly a lesbian couple, classic butch/femme - walked out, openly hand-in-hand. Harriet was looking off sideways at the stained glass and I glanced at the couple as we passed. One of the women nodded at me knowingly and smiled. With a start, I realised she'd assumed Harriet & I were a couple. Woohoo! I have a fake girlfriend! Made my day. But our body language must have… I rammed the thought to the dumpster in the back of my brain where I kept all of my other stupid obsessions, idiotic crushes, and stuff. It was getting pretty full.
We browsed the handicraft stalls for a while and Harriet bought a plant guide, then walked back up to me as I pretended to be contemplating the Manhattan skyline and that I hadn't been stealing glances at her every chance I got. She'd spotted the coffee cart at the far end of the covered area.
"Buy you a coffee? Tour guide fee?"
"I don't think I've really earned it. Anyway, shouldn't you be drinking tea?"
"I have to confess I usually do, but… I love America, but I'm afraid it's true that you just can't get a decent cup of tea here. Unless you have any ideas, tour guide?"
"I'm a Bostonian. I'm required to have a particular viewpoint on English tea."
She looked puzzled for a second, then realisation flashed across her face. "Ah yes! Of course!" She laughed that easy, cascading laugh again. She's a good laugher, I thought. And I can make her laugh. I heard the voice again, but very faint this time, as if it was pushed up against the back of my skull: "She's only being polite, you moron." I marvelled at how easy it was to ignore now. Because I knew it was wrong.
We grabbed a couple of coffees and walked on towards the water feature that tinkled and sparkled in the sunlight. A couple of little kids were shrieking uproariously as they splashed about in the water.
"Oooh, these look like fun!" exclaimed Harriet, and she raced over to the reclining benches that ran on some of the leftover rails from the High Line's heyday. She pushed two together, settled down on one with her coffee and patted the adjacent seat. Dutifully I settled down next to her.
"Tell you what, tour guide, maybe you can recommend somewhere for me to eat tonight? You must know some good Italian places."
I named my favourite Trattoria and mentioned its Piedmontese specialities, waxing lyrical about Corzetti and Gianduiotto.
"Sounds scrummy!"
I stifled a smirk, and gave Harriet some rough directions. "It's in Little Italy. Have you heard of it?"
"I think so. What's it like?"
"Not what it used to be. We had relatives there and I used to visit when I was a little girl. It's very different now; it's a lot smaller. It's being squeezed by other neighborhoods."
"Well in that case I'd better see it before it disappears." Harriet delved into her bag again, pulling out a guidebook and settling down to read up the section on Little Italy.
I flipped my wraparound shades down over my eyes and settled back into the seat, just chilling out for a few minutes. And indeed it was a nicely chilled out few minutes; although we were sitting together in silence, it wasn't my usual uncomfortable, mildly panic-stricken silence, with me desperately fumbling for conversation that wouldn't come. I just didn't feel I had to; it felt like a weight off my shoulders.
I was interrupted from my dozing state by a flurry of activity from Harriet. I glanced over at her; she was sitting sideways on the seat and reaching down to unbuckle her sandals.
"Sorry," she grinned at me, "I just can't resist it." Tossing her sandals under the bench, Harriet padded barefoot over to the water feature, tested the temperature with her big toe, and stepped in. Again, I couldn't take my eyes off her. She started to play peek-boo with a little boy, about 2 years old or so, him hiding behind his Father's legs while Harriet kept 'finding' him. They were both laughing hard. So, she's good with kids; likes them. I was still trying to shake off my somewhat prejudiced ingrained view of small kids; in my experience they were things that had to be babysat, fed dinner, taken to school…
The guy led the little boy off and Harriet called over to me. "Come on in, the water's lovely!"
Not the sort of thing I would normally do, but… what the hell. I slipped out of my battered Converse and went over to join her.
And it was a really fun, free feeling, and the conversation flowed easily again. We started horsing around, flicking water and splashing each other. At one point I kicked some water up at Harriet and my foot brushed against her calf. A few minutes later, a police siren in the street below and a helicopter overhead combined to make such a hellacious background din that I had to move in really close to hear what she was saying; I accidentally stood on her foot and my bare toes rested on hers for a couple of seconds before I snatched my foot away with a mumbled apology.
After sitting down again for a few minutes to let our feet dry off in the sun, we resumed our walk; I hadn't bothered putting my Converse back on and walked in bare feet, my sneakers hanging casually from the fingers of my left hand. Harriet took up what now seemed to be her familiar position to my right and I pictured myself reaching out and taking her hand; the gap between us seemed unnatural somehow, like a vacuum that needed to be filled by our clasped hands. But I couldn't do it.
The afternoon had been extraordinary, I reflected; I was pretty sure I wouldn't be quite the same again. It had sown a seed of self-confidence that I was sure I could build on… but. There was still enough energy in my lack of self-esteem to build this force-field between us that I just could not push my hand through. I cursed myself. What was the worst thing that could happen? I pictured an angry glare, a heated comment, defenses going up. I just couldn't handle that; a deep seated fear of failure was one of my defining features. Oh, I knew girls that would just do it anyhow, laugh things off if it went wrong, or flip Harriet the bird with a nonchalant "your loss, sweetheart!" and walk away smirking.
But I knew I wasn't like that. As usual, I tried telling myself that this was because I was such a nice person; I wouldn't stoop to that. But deep down I suspected that, really, it was just cowardice, plain and simple.
And I was becoming all too aware that the end of the High Line was approaching. Then what? I idly ran through the likely scenario in my head. Exchange phone numbers, with vague promises to keep in touch and look each other up if we were in each other's neck of the woods (yeah, like that was going to be likely in my case). Friend each other on Facebook; and (speaking from experience) I'd occasionally see a status update go by that sent me into a brooding melancholic state for about a day or so.
I was relieved when my thoughts were disturbed by Harriet characteristically exclaiming her delight at the last big landmark on the High Line, the new hotel that straddles the line at 13th Street.
"This is amazing! Wouldn't it be great to stay there?" Harriet stood hands on hips, with her neck bent backwards, gazing up at the glass façade that towered over us.
"You know the story about this place, right?" She shook her head. "When it first opened, there was a thing about people… you know… ermmm… getting up to stuff in the windows. Umm… kind of an exhibitionist thing, see." I wished I hadn't mentioned it now.
"You're joking! What sort of things? Details, please!"
"Umm… you know, men and women. Men and men. And… uh, women with women." My voice kind of died to a croak.
"Reeeeally?" Harriet pushed her shades down a little and looked at me over them. Then she pushed them up again and tilted her head back, surveying the windows of the hotel. After a minute she turned to me.
"Well, nothing much seems to be happening at the moment. Shall we hang around for a while and see if some action starts?"
"Harriet!" I squeaked, punching her on the arm. She was looking at me with a sly, amused grin and she had that mischievous look in her eye again.
We were interrupted by a rumble of thunder from somewhere over Jersey City. I looked over the Hudson towards the approaching darkening sky.
"Uh-oh. Thunderstorm coming. Looks like we might get wet in a minute."
"Oh damn. I didn't even bring a brolly."
OMG. Scrummy. Brolly. She is totally hilarious.
We broke into a run, giggling like little kids, and reached the steps leading down from The High Line's southern end just as the first fat raindrops started to fall. Slightly breathless, we turned to face each other among the forest of pillars that supported the old railroad. The rain was hammering on the deck above us now as cars swished by and people ran past, desperately trying to flag down cabs.
"Well," said Harriet, "Thank you so much! I've had a really fun afternoon!"
"Sure! I enjoyed it too."
"I suppose I'd better find this restaurant soon. Don't want to eat too late. Early start tomorrow and all that."
"Right."
"Unless… would you like to join me for dinner, maybe?" Harriet cocked one eyebrow upwards, quizzically.
And… I turned her down. Surprising, huh? It's hard to explain. One prosaic reason was that the place I'd recommended was pretty expensive, and I was, as usual, flat broke. But no way was I going to let her pay for me. And also… I don't know, the afternoon had just been so perfect. I thought maybe I shouldn't spoil it, didn't want to push my luck too far. Didn't want things to all fall apart and for us to be staring at the walls in the restaurant because I'd used up my entire capital of conversation, or made some stupid thoughtless comment in an unguarded moment.
Harriet seemed a little taken aback. "OK then, if you're sure. So, thanks again, tour guide! I'll definitely recommend you to all my friends."
I laughed once again, and we shook hands. And she didn't drop my hand, and I didn't drop hers, and suddenly the air seemed to thicken. Our eyes were locked together.
Harriet made a strange kind of growling sound in her throat, and then – sounding kind of exasperated, actually – said, "Oh for God's sake, c'mere."
She gripped my hand tighter, yanked me toward her, and kissed me, lightly but firmly, on the mouth. She held it just long enough to make it clear that this wasn't a platonic peck. Then she pulled back and looked me over, studying my reaction.
What she would have seen was my mouth hanging, slack-jawed, open, and my eyes rammed wide like saucers. She reached up with her left hand, brushed away a stray strand of hair from my face, and pushed my shades further up onto my forehead.
"God," she breathed, "Your eyes are so fucking sexy it's ridiculous."
I wasn't sure what shocked me more, the unexpected compliment or the unexpected profanity.
Harriet slipped her left hand behind my head and pulled me in again, tighter this time. And this time I responded. My sneakers hit the sidewalk with a thud as I slipped my arms around Harriet's waist and I stood on tiptoe to make sure our mouths came into full contact. I probed my tongue tentatively into her mouth and she responded eagerly, our tongues dancing lightly round each other as I whimpered through my nose. I'm sure some passersby must have been staring by now, but I was way too caught up in the diverting sensation of our boobs being crushed together to care.
Eventually we broke apart, Harriet rubbing her nose delightfully against mine as we did so.
"Oh, wow" I whispered.
Harriet took my left hand in her right, gently squeezing my fingers.
"Sure I can't change your mind about dinner?"
"I think you just did."
"Attagirl." She pulled her phone out and peered at it. "This place we're going to? Does it have wifi?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe. Are you going to be checking your emails during our date?"
"No. I need to change my flight." My heart turned over. "I'm assuming I can engage your services as tour guide again tomorrow? Or did you have something else planned?"
"Yeah, I was going to call Geek Squad. Have them come over and fix my busted gaydar."
"Oh come on now. Seriously? You were playing footsie with me back then in the water feature."
"Was not!" I protested. "I was not playing footsie with you! It was an accident, I swear!"
"Huh. Don't believe a word of it. Put your shoes on and let's go eat. My treat."
As I crouched down to lace up my sneakers I started babbling again, awash with adrenaline and excitement and anticipation. "So what did you want to do tomorrow? I mean, anything you really wanted to see? What time did you want to start? When did you want to meet? I mean, it'll take a while for me to get to you in the morning…" I stood up, panting slightly.
"Well," said Harriet, evenly. "That all depends on how far away you are in the morning, doesn't it?"
My knees turned to Jello. Watery Jello, at that. Harriet placed her hand gently in the small of my back and propelled me towards the start of a memorable evening.
If you'd asked me that morning as I stepped out of my apartment on my way to the Post Office how I would be spending that night, I doubt that the response 'in an extended, volcanically intense, euphorically passionate lovemaking session with a refined English lady in a chic Midtown boutique hotel bedroom (oh, and bathroom)' would have been likely.
Fortunately, Harriet's hotel allowed late checkout, because I think it was around 5am when we finally, exhausted, drifted off to sleep in each other's arms. We didn't really get much more sightseeing done; not of the city, anyway. We'd both been fascinated to discover, however, that we each had a completely unanticipated tattoo.
That afternoon we strolled the few blocks to Central Park; luckily it wasn't far, as my legs were still a little woozy from the shattering orgasm Harriet had given me in the shower about 30 minutes previously. We found a reasonably secluded spot under a tree and settled down side by side, occasionally stealing kisses when we could but mainly just lying on our backs, watching clouds float by, wiggling our bare toes, playing discreet footsie, and talking. Oh, we talked. And talked, and talked; about families and coming out and schools and relationships and work and movies and music and the weather, about everything and nothing… we were there about four hours, and honest to God it felt like ten minutes.
Harriet had changed her flight to the latest one she could get that night. She would have to drive directly to her office from the airport in the morning, but that didn't seem to bother her much.
I accompanied her out to JFK of course, gripping her hand fiercely in the back of the cab all the way there. But inevitably the time came when she had to head off to catch her plane. We stood facing each other, me chewing my lip.
"So… well. I'll call you," said Harriet. It sounded a little anticlimactic, but I couldn't really blame her.
"Uh-huh." Maybe I didn't sound convinced. I was too used to disappointment to quite let myself believe what was happening. Harriet picked up on my hesitancy. A deeply earnest look appeared on her face. She took both of my hands in hers.
"Vicky. Vittoria Fiorella Gianelli. This is not a fling. OK? Unless you want it to be. Do you want it to be?" She raised one eyebrow quizzically, in that way she had and that I though was just amazingly, adorably cute.
Wordlessly, I shook my head.
"Well then, we'll work it out, won't we?" Harriet kissed me, gently, on the mouth. And I launched myself at her, hugging her close while I buried my sniffling face in her soft, warm neck. Eventually, Harriet managed to disentangle herself from me and glanced at her watch. "I really do have to go." She shouldered her bag and looked me firmly in the eye.
"I will call you." It was said in a way that was clearly intended to leave no room for doubt.
I managed a cheery smile and wave as she disappeared into the throng heading for the departure gates. Then wept bitter tears on the subway all the way back to Brooklyn, reflecting on how fucking unfair this all was. How many thousands of gay women are there in this city? And the one for me lived thousands of miles away. Typical. Story of my fucking life.
I attracted a few glances on the subway, but no-one seemed too worried about me. Even the fact that I kept pulling up the front of my tank top and holding it to my nose didn't attract too much attention (Harriet had playfully dabbed some of her perfume between my breasts as we were dressing earlier in the day; I was chasing the last few remnants of her scent that lingered). Good old NYC. Crying girl on the subway, acting weird? All part of life's rich pageant in the Big Apple.
But she did call me. And indeed, it wasn't just a fling. Oh no. In fact…
I'm writing this at the desk in the study, looking out of the window at the approaching dusk. A cloud of rooks wheels over the woods in the distance, and a light mist is settling on the chilly winter landscape. Soon, I'll take our two boisterous Labradors out for their afternoon hurtle around the fields nearby. At the end of our walk, I'll head into the village to check on Alan in his cozy cottage near the church. Alan Wickes is Harriet's Dad, and in a couple of months he'll be my Father-in-Law.
Alan & I got along pretty well from the start, but I guess we really bonded during Harriet's deployment to Afghanistan. I tried not to let it, and just be proud of her, but this whole part of Harriet's life did bother me; I cried the first time I saw her wearing combat fatigues. One evening, just after one of her intermittent phone calls, I was having a long dark night of the soul, one in which I'd allowed my fears to get the better of me. I'd always suspected that Harriet significantly downplayed how much danger she was actually exposed to out there, but on this occasion I'd really let my imagination run riot. So Alan introduced me to single malt Scotch. That, and the memorable kitchen-table conversation we had, infused as it was with his huge wisdom and compassion, helped me enormously. I reciprocated a few evenings later with a bottle of Grappa, and from that point on we were buddies.
I look down at the engagement ring on my finger. It is exquisite, stunning. Every time I look at it (and I look at it a lot) I am stunned all over again. A platinum band, with a square-cut emerald surrounded by a circle of small diamonds. Even in the dim, pearl-gray winter light from the window, I can see flashes of green and white fire out of the corner of my eye as I type.
It was Harriet's Mother's. When Alan insisted that I should have it, I was so overcome I couldn't speak for about ten minutes. But he was adamant. Although it's pretty old, the ring still has its original box. The name on the box – Asprey – I was not familiar with, so I Googled it. And swallowed hard when the results came back.
So, we've come a long way in the short time since I with, I must admit, some trepidation wheeled my baggage cart loaded with the aforementioned two duffle bags into the arrivals hall at Heathrow Airport, and was swept into the longest and tightest hug I'd ever experienced. Our long-distance relationship had just become short-distance; very short-distance. Harriet and I live together in her family home, where she was born and raised. Her Dad, as she had mentioned to me, insisted that he wanted to live independently so moved into the little cottage in the center of the village. Alan brusquely and matter-of-factly pointed out that as 'The Girl', as he gruffly but affectionately refers to Harriet, is going to 'inherit the bloody place anyway when I shuffle off' she might as well have it now. So here we are. I caused something of a stir locally when I first showed up; Harriet and I were the talk of the local pub for about two days until we were superseded by some other developing scandal. We're still jokingly referred to as the 'Lady and Lady of the Manor', however.
And that's about it. Anything else? Oh yes, Harriet's middle name is horrendous. I've had words with Alan about this, and he was apologetic, but I'm not sure I can quite forgive him.