Page 60 of A Winter in New York

—

“Fuuuuuck,” Bobby says,his eyes widening as I regale him with the earlier events of the evening.

We’re either end of the sofa with our bowls in our hands, the blanket spread between us, the scrapbook open to the image of Felipe and my mother.

“What’s he like now?”

“Felipe?” I frown. “He has a nomadic look about him, as if all the places he’s visited have grafted layers onto who he is. Faded tattoos, leather bracelets, that sort of thing. He’s skinny, and still quite a lot like he is in these photos, just more…”

“More…?”

I cast around for an appropriate word to describe him. “I don’t know. Walnutty?”

Bobby choke-laughs on his gelato. “Walnutty?”

I screw my nose up. “I mean he looks as if he’s sat in thesun for years without sun cream, weathered and lined, you know? Yet still boyish somehow, which is weird.”

“Lack of responsibility.” Bobby flares his nostrils as he scrapes his spoon around his bowl. Loyalty is engrained in his soul, it’s one of the things I love about him, and it means he’s deeply unimpressed with the idea of a man leaving his brother to raise his child in order to skip off around the world playing guitar.

“God, I’ve missed this stuff.” He gets up and pulls the silver gelato pail from the freezer. “More?”

I nod. It’s definitely a double serving kind of night.

“I don’t know what to do, Bob,” I say. It feels inevitable that Felipe is going to piece together who I am.

“The man’s in his sixties and lived a crazy life, chances are he’ll have forgotten all about you by morning,” Bobby says, handing me my refilled bowl. “I mean, I’m thirty-seven and my memory’s already shot, what chance does he have?”

“You’re thirty-eight.”

“Like hell I am.” He pauses, affronted, spoon midway to his mouth. “Oh God, I am.” He shrugs and points his spoon at me. “Which just illustrates my point. He’s a pickled walnut. Not making assumptions, but am guessing he’s probably had more than his fair share of the old giggle smoke over the years.” He mimes smoking a joint, inhaling and blowing smoke rings.

“You really think so?”

Bobby is still watching his imaginary smoke rings. “Felipe sounds like a rolling stone. He won’t stick around for long. Just avoid him until he hits the road again.”

I stir my melting gelato, casting a long glance at the photo of Felipe and my mother. In different circumstances I’d loveto talk to him about her, he’d be a rare glimpse back into that world I know so little of.

“Seriously, Iris, do not let this be another reason to dump that delectable man. He might believe you and not come back next time.”

I can only hope Bobby’s right and that, like the genie in the lamp, Felipe will disappear in a puff of smoke.

26.

“Iris, there’s a guy outfront asking for you.”

I whip around from the stove and stare at Shen, panicked. She’s seen Gio, she’d have said if it was him. The Adam Bronson dread that’s becoming all too constant swills over me like foul water.

“What does he look like?” I whisper.

Shen’s mouth twists. “Way too old to be wearing a shark tooth necklace and mirrored sunglasses even though it’s been dark for”—she glances at the clock—“like, six hours?”

It’s half past ten, a whisker away from closing up. I peep through the gap in the door to the restaurant beyond and see Felipe nursing a shot glass, his face turned toward the shadowed street.

“So much for being a rolling stone,” I mutter, stepping back from the door. It’s been twenty-four hours since Bella’s birthday party and, unfortunately, it appears that Felipe’s memory is not the magic roundabout Bobby predicted.

“I can tell him you’re not here if you like?”

I shake my head, knowing this isn’t something I can avoid. Better he speaks to me now than to Gio first.

---