Page 62 of The Love Hack

And at the end was a row of three Xs. I could see straight away how many there were, but I counted them all the same.

TWENTY-THREE

I had a plan, and I believed it was a good one. I’d grab something to eat, then get the subway over into Manhattan. Although I longed to go straight to Zack and Amelie’s apartment and see my sister, I had an even higher priority. I needed to find the building near Wall Street where Zack’s office was, lurk outside until he emerged, then follow him and see where he went, with whom, and what happened next. I had my phone for directions. I had my sunglasses and a hat to make myself less recognisable – although I was confident that, out of context, the chances of Zack recognising me were slim.

But it didn’t quite work out that way.

The first part on my plan went flawlessly. I walked out into the sunny afternoon, carefully locking the apartment behind me and making sure the street door was securely closed, too. Then I walked round the block and found a tiny restaurant – not much more than a hole in the wall, with bench seating at the window and a couple of handkerchief-sized tables in the shadowy interior – with a long line of people snaking outside the door and round the corner.

Given it was mid-afternoon, I reckoned that boded well for the food, so I joined the queue, earwigging intently to see what other people were ordering. But I needn’t have bothered, because the place only sold one thing: artisan hotdogs, which was fine with me. Actually, it would have been fine even if they weren’t artisan, I’m not going to lie. Eventually, I reached the front of the queue and ordered a large one, plus a double-thick chocolate milkshake.

That was my first mistake. I ought to have realised that this was New York, where portion size reached a whole new level. The hotdog was the size of my forearm and the milkshake came in a vast paper cup, the straw sticking proudly upright because it was mostly ice cream.

Daunted, I perched at the counter and started eating. It was one of those times when you know you’re hungry but you don’t realise exactly how hungry until the first bite of food passes your lips, and then you go into a kind of feeding frenzy and eat and eat like a python until your ribs are groaning and your spine is sticking out at the back.

I devoured the whole thing, slurped the very last dregs of the milkshake, and only then realised how extremely full I was. Of course, the sensible thing would have been to take a gentle stroll to digest it all, but I was overcome by a wave of tiredness that, combined with my extreme fullness, made lying down feel like the only option.

I staggered back to the apartment, kicked off my shoes and lay down on the bed, thinking I’d be good to go after a forty-five minute nap.

And then I woke up to find the apartment in darkness. For a moment, I thought I was back home, and I even sat up and called Astro, because I thought it must have been him that had woken me. And then I remembered where I was, and my phone told me it was four in the morning.

So much for catching Zack in between his working day and whatever he had planned for the evening. I’d wasted most of the afternoon and all night, and now I was wide awake with no idea what to do. Going back to sleep was out of the question – I’d been out like a light for twelve hours and according to my body clock it was mid morning and I should be well into a working day.

I showered and dressed and went outside. The morning was still cool, and the world was dark and silent. I could hear the faint hum of traffic, and around me the occasional window flickered into brightness as someone got up for their early yoga class or because their baby was crying, or whatever. But I felt as if I had the world to myself.

Since I was up, I might as well get some sightseeing in, I reckoned. So, using my phone as a guide, I walked in the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was further than I’d expected, and quite eerie walking the streets alone, but I wasn’t afraid. The sleeping city felt welcoming and benign, as if this morning had been created just for me.

At last I reached the bridge and stepped out onto the wooden walkway beneath the cobweb of metal struts. The sky behind me was just beginning to brighten, turning from deepest black to midnight blue, with a widening vein of violet visible between tall buildings.

But I didn’t look behind me; I looked ahead, and I walked.

And after a bit, the most extraordinary thing happened. One by one, the glass towers of Manhattan in front of me turned to flaming torches as the sun emerged. I thought of Dick Whittington in the fairy story, arriving in London to find streets that were paved with gold, only this wasn’t London and it was skyscrapers I was looking at, not cobbled streets. Still, I found myself holding my breath as I walked, amazed that something so beautiful could happen every day, every time the sun rose.

I found myself involuntarily smiling, so that passers-by looked at me and smiled back, sharing my delight in the glory of the morning. And I realised that – despite my worry about Amelie, my uncertainty about how this rashly planned trip would pan out, and my knowledge that my feelings for Ross were likely to go unreciprocated and unrequited, I was happy.

I’d embarked on a new job, and despite its challenges I was doing my utmost to make it a success. I’d travelled alone to a strange city and I was enjoying myself.

I could look back, now, at what had happened with Kieren, and it felt almost like it had happened to another person.

The envelope in the drawer next to my bed containing his notes hadn’t got any new additions after that. When I arrived at work the morning after the first time we’d had sex, I was sure there would be one there – I remembered spending spent the whole time getting ready for work and the journey to the office looking forward to seeing it, imagining what it would say now that our relationship had moved on to the next level.

But there was nothing there. I moved my keyboard aside to check, then lifted it up in case the note had somehow got stuck to its base. Nothing. I pushed back my chair to look on the floor under my desk, but there was no white piece of paper on the floor. Then I noticed Misha looking at me curiously, and called off my search, swallowing my disappointment and going off to make coffee as if nothing was wrong.

He was at his desk – I could see him there, working, his dark head bent just the same as usual. I realised that with my disappointment had come a wave of anxiety – what if he was ill, or some accident had befallen him and he hadn’t made it to work?

But he was here. Just the note wasn’t.

As the day wore on, I felt my bewilderment crystallising into an agony of self-doubt. I must have done something wrong. Something about the sex must have disappointed him. Evidently, what I’d thought of as a consummation had been a disaster – a failure. My failure.

But I was wrong.

This time, it happened earlier – towards the middle of the afternoon. With it being a Thursday, the day after the paper had gone to press, the office was quieter than usual. The Editor-in-Chief was off, along with a few of the other senior people. Those of us who were working had less to do than usual, so I felt justified, once I’d plucked up the courage, to walk over to the newsdesk and throw out a general offer of help, carefully not aiming it specifically at Kieren.

But it was he who responded. He turned those deep blue, slightly narrowed eyes on me and said, ‘Actually, I could use a hand. Thanks, Lucy.’

I waited, my heart hammering. He stood up and said, ‘Let’s grab a tea first.’

I noticed the glances of his colleagues following us, without any real interest, as I walked with him down the office. But he didn’t turn into the kitchen. He led me into the cluttered little room opposite it, where the seldom-used binding machine and stocks of stationery were kept.

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