Page 49 of A Winter in New York

Maria has invited me tospend Thanksgiving with them, but I find myself relieved to have to politely decline. I’ve had long-standing plans to eat with Bobby and Robin, who are excited to be hosting a fancy dinner for Robin’s family. I offered to cook, and Robin almost successfully hid his horror behind assurances that he’d hired in caterers. “You spend every night behind the stove,” he said. “Enjoy the gift of time off feeding people.” I chose to accept his offer gracefully, but in truth I’d love to have cooked dinner. I’ve had so little opportunity to use my finer culinary skills here, I miss the adrenaline rush of creating food for people to feast on. This will be my first experience of Thanksgiving. The effort of keeping secrets from the Belottis weighs heavy on my shoulders, a constant reminder that I don’t truly fit in. It’s a depressing thought. My entire life I’ve felt that way, never settling anywhere long enough to feel part of the landscape. Until Bobby, that is, so I’ll put on my nicest clothes and head upstairs to eat turkey I haven’t cooked myself with them later and thank my lucky stars for the noodle house on Chrystie Street.

—

Robin’s family trooped pastmy door a few minutes ago, so I hang back to give them time to say their hellos and settle in before I show my face. I’ve bought a decent bottle of red I know Robin will hide at the back of the cupboard and I’ve made them a batch of cinnamon rolls—if I can’t contribute to dinner, they’ll at least have something to nibble on in the morning. I’m sitting on the sofa browsing recipes on my phone to pass the time when a message alert scrolls over the top of my screen. I glance at it and go cold, all fingers and thumbs as I fumble to open it, hoping I misread the sender. I didn’t.

Adam Bronson.

Just his name is enough to make me sick. What does he want? How does he have this number? I close my eyes and try to slow my panicky breathing. I could just delete it, not look. But then I’d wonder and worry, create even worse scenarios in my head than the real one. I don’t want him in this life I’ve built. I don’t want to see his name on my screen, or to allow him any space in my head, but I have to read it right now.

New York, New York, someone’s a dark horse! Who knew you could sing, little mouse? Your Song, my song. @BellsyB16 was more than happy to send your info on to an old friend who might be passing through soon to pay you a surprise visit.

I throw the phone across the sofa, my eyes scalded by the incendiary words. Fuck.Fuck.I lean over and grab it again, stabbing at the screen. Bella sent me a link earlier to a videoposted on her school YouTube channel of our performance last week and, sure enough, she’s supplied my full name for the description. Oh,Bella.Why? I know why, of course. Because she’s fifteen and naive, because she’s proud of us and doesn’t see the danger, because I’ve lied to them all and she doesn’t know any better. And now Adam knows I’m in New York, and can fairly accurately pinpoint me to within a few streets. And he contacted Bella, for Christ’s sake. My skin is literally crawling off my flesh with shame that I’ve exposed Gio’s daughter to the nightmare that is Adam, a man willing to exploit the kindness of her marshmallow heart. I can’t breathe. I sit down with my head in my hands, and the rage that boils up in me has no exit but hot, angry tears and clenched fists pounded against the sofa.

Bobby texts to say come up and save him from Robin’s mother, and I push my face into a cushion and scream. I can’t go upstairs. I can’t pretend this hasn’t happened.Little mouse.Today is supposed to be about gratitude and thankfulness, but right now all I feel is ugly hate and humiliation.

I make excuses in the form of period cramps, and one look at me through the crack of the door is enough to convince Bobby I’m not lying. My brilliant friend taps lightly on my door half an hour later and leaves a plate piled high and a hot-water bottle, and I add Bobby to the list of people I lie to now.

I don’t know what to do. I’ve worked so hard over the last year to build this new life, and in the space of a few scant lines Adam has set a ticking bomb underneath it. Why did I write my real surname on the cast sheet at the school? Have I learned nothing? It just never entered my head that it would leap from that simple sheet of paper on to the internet, a hop, skip, and a jump away from anyone who might tap my nameinto a search engine. Do I reply? Ask him what he wants? Or do I ignore it and pretend it never happened? Both feel like the same level of risk.

I pull my duvet onto the sofa and climb underneath it, shivering, set back to the crumpled woman I was when I arrived here all those months ago.Little mouse.I long for my gelato machine. I want the therapy of loading the familiar recipe into the top, of spooning it into my mother’s pink melamine bowl, of savoring the lifelong taste of home in my mouth. I cry my hollow, grey heart out, painful sobs that wrack my body. I want my mum.

—

“Iris?”

Bobby taps the door, his voice low and soothing. I heard Robin’s family leave an hour or so ago, it’s pretty late now and I was just about to drag my quilt from the sofa to bed. I contemplate ignoring him, but he deserves better than that so I open the door and try to raise a smile. I fail, feel my mouth tremble, and he instinctively holds out his arms for me to walk into.

“What is it?” he says, closing the door and ushering me back to the sofa.

I know I look pathetic. I feel pathetic, as if I’ve shriveled in on myself over the hours since I read Adam’s message. I pick up my phone and open it for Bobby to read for himself, and after a couple of read-throughs he turns the screen off and lays it face down on the floor.

“So, if he turns up here, I’ll kill him, and Robin will dispose of him. Dissolve him in a suitcase and chuck him in the Hudson.”

I pull a watery smile out of my boots, because Bobby is so vain about their screamingly expensive luggage collection. “Not the Vuitton, he isn’t worth it.”

“You are, though,” he says, staunch, and I know there is no greater love than a man who is prepared to sacrifice his monogrammed carry-on for me. It steadies my nerve.

“What should I do?” I say.

He turns his head to look at me. “Absolutely nothing. DNR. Do not respond.”

“Just carry on as normal? I don’t think I can, Bobby. What if it makes him angry and he turns up here or messages Bella again? I can’t risk that.” I try to keep a lid on my escalating fear but it’s running away with me again. “God, Gio is going to really hate me, isn’t he? Not only is my ex not dead and not ever my husband, but he’s also a vicious snake coiling itself around his daughter.”

“Iris, stop it.” Bobby sits up straight and holds my hands, his eyes locked on mine. “None of this is your fault. You have not caused this, okay?”

I squeeze his fingers, not really believing him.

“Adam won’t come to New York, it’s an empty threat. We’ll sit here and come up with a cover story you can tell Bella to stop her from responding to him if he contacts her again, which he won’t. It’s going to be just fine, I absolutely promise you.” He ducks his head to keep eye contact when I look down. “Okay?”

I nod, exhausted. “Or I could just tell Gio the truth.”

“You could,” he says. “And you should when you’re ready, but not because you’ve been backed into a corner by some asshole.”

I slump against him and close my eyes.

“How was your dinner?”

“Oh, predictable,” he says. “Robin’s mother brought her own turkey in case we tried to serve an alternative Thanksgiving dinner. His father brought Japanese whiskey in an attempt to give me something culturally appropriate.”

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