Unbind (19 page)

Our flight was an overnight job so by the time we landed, it was around ten p.m. but really around three in the morning for our body clocks. I stepped off the aircraft feeling groggy and hung-over. The free G&Ts had been welcome after the turbulence, but did me no favours while queuing up for passport control and all the joys of that.

I couldn’t really appreciate what I was seeing as our minibus took us to our hotel in Lower Manhattan. Oh god, yes, and it was a Holiday Inn. When we arrived outside to see the neon-green sign, Jeff started singing ‘Come to Holiday Inn’. That was the moment I started hating him.

Trevor got us checked in and our luggage was taken care of. Everyone looked ready to bed down even though some of the guys made plans to have a drink first and then hit the hay. I was asked to join in but I didn’t feel like it, so I excused myself and rode the elevator to my floor.

When I got to my lodgings for the next seven days, I looked around and contemplated not unpacking. However, there were some items that would suffer if I didn’t. I found my surroundings to be acceptable and slightly better than the equivalent hotel chain back home, even noticed a coffee machine with a timer.
Great
. I hung my delicate dresses and washed my face in the bathroom. I was cleaning my teeth in my PJs when I remembered I hadn’t switched my phone on yet.

I dashed to the site of my hand luggage and found my iPhone, tapping my foot impatiently while it searched for network coverage. After a few minutes, I received two messages. I scanned the first:

KAYLA:
I hate you so much, bitch. Enjoy. Hope you land safely. Wish I was there. x

The second wasn’t from Cai.

KLAUS:
Why didn’t you tell me? Brilliant news. I hope you get it! x

I groaned and flipped back onto the bed. How did that man know everything, even that I was in America trying out a potential opportunity?

As I was typing a sarcy response to Klaus, I received another message and my heart pounded in my chest. Then, I read it:

MESSAGE TO […] FAILED

So Cai had changed numbers or something.

I had to empty the mini-bar to give myself any chance of sleeping soundly that night.

I WOKE THE next day feeling out of sorts but refreshed. When I looked at the hotel clock it read 9.30a.m. I’d tossed and turned a lot of the night but I supposed to have slept in was a good thing. It did feel like the world was spinning beneath me and when I looked out of the 15th floor window, I gulped. There it all was, waiting for me. There was my coffee ready, too.

What do you do when you wake up in a new country? When you’ve never been abroad before and staring back at you through the hotel room window is a huge, sprawling city of culture, excitement and food to die for?
One guidebook will never be enough
, was the phrase that sprang to mind, for the city that never sleeps and where something new happens every day. Where opportunities are endless. Where you can walk down the street and meet the man or woman of your dreams. Where you might see ordinary New Yorkers pay no heed to the mega blockbusting heroes strutting as anyone else. Even the most botoxed, Prada-laden beauties wouldn’t get a second glance—not unless you really fucking liked their shoes.

All the above, I gleaned from Kayla even though she’d never visited either—though she was now bugging her boss every minute of the day to let her take a business trip too.

I brunched at the hotel restaurant before I went straight for that bloody gallery. Yes, even on a boiling hot, summer’s day—when shopping or eating
al fresco
should have been the only order of the day—all I could think about was finally getting back into his company and hopefully after that, into his bed.

Navigating vast subway tunnels was a traumatic experience, but once I made it to Malcolm X Blvd, I found myself outside a two-storey building that had wall-to-ceiling glass windows. I’d known of Brooklyn and thought it couldn’t be as swanky as Manhattan, but I was so wrong.

Up above was his signage in digital letters: ‘K. Matthews Photography’. Those words spun in circles on the black, high-tech background and other messages were interspersed:

The artist’s debut show is
Life At Twenty-Something
: Drugs. Sex. Rock ‘n’ Roll. Awakening. Survival. Exploration. Courage.

What a crock of plop
, I thought.

Which numpty had made a dichotomy of him and his work? I had spent enough time with Cai to know he didn’t buy into all this sappy, ‘I’m a tortured artist whose work you will buy whether or not it is crap,’ type-of-bullshit.

I stood outside the glass door for a moment. A couple of people inside milled around, an assistant pretended to look busy.
He
was nowhere in sight. With my best dress on, my face dolled up, would he know it was all for him? If he was even here, anyway. My gut clenched, it was a horrible feeling, thinking he might not actually want to see me. I hoped he wouldn’t be here… suddenly, I hoped for anonymity. A miracle maybe, even. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

“Hey, can I help you?” The voice belonged to a Frenchwoman who was maybe a bit younger than me. She wore navy Capri pants, a white shirt tied at the waist and a silk neckerchief wrapped outside her collar. Black and white brogue flats.

“I just came to have a look,” I said in a friendly manner.

“Ooh, wow, what an accent. British, yeah?”

“Umm-hmm.”

“Where?” she asked intently, her eyes scanning every inch of me.

“Oh, the north.”

“Ooh, oh, let me guess.”

People usually didn’t know where the frig Barnsley was so I just said, “Manchester, near Manchester,” just to put her out of her misery.

“Manchester United, yes?”

Oui, oui, oui.
I felt grizzly, and most probably because, I just wanted to see Cai.

“It’s cold there, even in summer,” I offered brightly, giving her a smile.

“I love your outfit. Love it,” she smiled, still looking me up and down. “You are like a cross between Adele and Kate Winslet.”

Err, thanks?

She must have seen me gawping and quickly added, “Most girls would cut off their asses to get those kind of tits.”

Hello. Hello
…
I just met you!

She was French, so I cut her down a notch with a statement. “I work for the Press in London. Do you think I could speak with the owner? By any chance?”

“Oh,
non, non, non, non, non
. He rarely sees anyone. In fact, we run this place for him mostly. Yes. Well, Cai is a rare breed of shy.”

“Shy? What do you mean? Like a recluse?”

“Oh no, not like that. I just get the impression,” she paused, and rolled her eyes and her tongue, “well, he doesn’t need the money.”

“So the sign outside? You and your colleagues—”

“Oh yes! Don’t you think it’s wonderful?” Her grin hit her ears, it was so wide.

Figures. He’s not here
.
This is for show, like the rest of his life
. I breathed a small sigh of relief at that. Cai
had
shown me at least some portion of his real self then.

“I’d like to take a look around and get a feel of the place on my own, if you know what I mean? Really absorb the themes and spirit of this collection?”

“Oh,
mais oui
. Go, go, go. Enjoy,” she shooed me away. “At the end, tell me he’s not brilliant and I will fit my breasts in your bra.”

“We’ll see,” I winked.

“Oh, oh, oh, I forgot. Fill in the guest book first. Please,” she giggled, blushing. “After all, you might be someone important.”

Bloody hell the woman was incorrigible. I signed it rapidly and walked away to escape her. I shouldn’t have worn what I was wearing, perhaps. It was a white, bias-cut silk wrap dress that made my UK size-12 waist look disproportional against a hefty arse and round breasts. As my mum would say, “You’re built for breeding, girl.” I would respond, “In your dreams.”

I wandered the gallery and gawped at how far back the building went. There were lots and lots of immaculately mounted images but the pictures themselves were fairly uninspiring when presented with them in the flesh. I didn’t want to be unkind but I’d somehow got the feeling that Cai really was an artist and all I was seeing was piles of clothes left in corners, empty pizza boxes, someone sleeping off the night on a street corner, a guitar with all the strings broken, a split portrait of a twenty-something in their daywear and nightwear (the outfits greatly contrasting), plus moody images of young people in discussion, or walking in groups—always this amazing city in the background.

I got lost upstairs amongst the pattern that was emerging—these were images of the freedom of being young. Nobody took pictures like this unless they weren’t free. If Cai had a life, he wouldn’t have time for this crap. Maybe I was reading too much into it all, but I didn’t like the feelings this gallery evoked in me. Especially as I was looking at the past ten years of my own life and wondering what the hell I’d done with my time. Your twenties, you know, aren’t for anything but making it to the much safer thirties. So you may as well get drunk, have sex, and all that. Hmm. I didn’t like how I was made to feel by those pictures. Maybe that was Cai’s point.

My phone bust out into sharp rings and I saw someone in a corner frown. I quickly looked down and the number was unknown.

“Hello?”

“Chloe. What’re you doing in my gallery?” His voice came across gravelly and his grating tone got me worked up, in more ways than one.

“Free country isn’t it?” 

“Corner, outside… five minutes.”

He hung up and I realised his voice had sounded worried.
What the hell?
I wasn’t sure what was going on. I walked leisurely around the rest of the gallery, because NOBODY told me what to do.

I saw that girl as I meandered toward the front door and gave her a look. “What’s your name? I didn’t get it on the way in.”

“Oh, Corinne,” she said in a rush.

“Thanks for being a friend, Corinne,” I snapped, knowing she’d dobbed me in. “Why did you call him?”

“I don’t know, oh, maybe because you were in those pictures with him. You’re not exactly forgettable, Chloe.” She pursed her lips but I didn’t buy that sweet look. “He needs a woman, if you ask me.”

“What he needs is less of an interfering gallery assistant, if you ask me. Oh and by the way, that sign out front is a crap concept.”

I turned on my heel and left, so furious—I didn’t really know why.

If I thought I was the only angry one, I was sorely mistaken. As my foot touched the sidewalk, a vintage black Mustang screeched to a halt on the corner of the curb. It had to be him and when I ducked down, I saw it was. He was looking straight ahead and not at me. I knocked on the window and he reached across the seats to open the door.

“Get in.”

I slid into the seat and was invaded by his scent and leather. I closed the door behind me and began fiddling with my seatbelt, my hands shaking.

He wasn’t looking at me. What did I ever do to him?

“You’re in New York?”

“For work,” I hastily added.

“Of all the galleries, you had to come into mine.”

“Of all the assistants, you had to hire a nosey one.”

He finally turned to look at me, his eyes blazing with lust. “Did you give her shit?”

I bit my finger and couldn’t help but smile. “I told her that sign out front is toss cake… more or less.”

He chuckled and shook his head, reaching out for my cheek. “You look beautiful today.”

From cold and scary, to that again.

“You smell gorgeous,” I remarked.
Really? That the best you could come up with?

We stared at one another and as we did, something low in my belly tightened and I was mesmerised. The blazing sun through the windows made his eyes glitter. Before I knew what was happening, we were fighting for kisses. Violently tasting and trying to own one another. He held tight to my hair at the sides of my head while I pressed my hands to his pecs. Our tongues, teeth and lips weren’t concentric.

His lips travelled the length of my throat and he kissed my heavily exposed cleavage, groaning against my flesh, setting me alight. His hands wandered up and down my sides, tracing the outer curves of my breasts. I could have stayed there all day, kissing him.

Except then he got scary again and threw himself away from me, complaining under his breath, muttering words not meant for me. He ran both hands through his short hair and sure seemed tense. He looked out of the window at his side, looking anywhere but at me.

“We should get some coffee,” he mumbled.

“Okay,” I agreed, though frightened.

Coffee was what Americans did all the time, right? They just ‘got coffee’ to chill themselves out. They
did
coffee. ‘We’ll do coffee,’ like, ‘We’ll do brunch.’ That type of casual thing. I was clutching at straws—was he taking me to coffee to say
we
were a big mistake waiting to happen?