There were, of course, no cabs. I trudged to the subway, a system I thought I might be familiar with since I’d used London’s, and promptly got lost.
By the time I got back to my hotel, I was wet and blistered and grumpy, and there was a voice mail on my phone from Macbeth telling me to meet him in the lobby of the Park Avenue Hotel in an hour and a half. Bloody hell!
I leapt into the shower, shrieking when the hot water hit my blistered feet, and washed my hair. When I was done drying it, the room was like an oven, so I opened the window and flashed half of Manhattan in the process. No one told me New York would be this humid.
I pulled on my lovely little dress, which was even better for being a size eight (I tried on several twelves, thinking ecstatically that I’d lost loads of weight and must now be the same tiny size as Angel, before I remembered that American sizes are different to ours) and the shoes it had taken me so long to find (see above re: sizing). I made myself up with the cosmetics I’d picked up at Sephora on my way through Times Square, smoothed down my hair and braved the subway again. Yeah, I should have got a cab. But I’ve seen too many movies about psychotic cab drivers and, well, I’m a wimp.
I had to change twice, but I paid especial attention to the signs this time, and only got lost once. I arrived on Park Avenue feeling a little wilted, but reasonably expensive, and no one sneered at me so I must have been looking okay.
The hotel door was opened for me by a man in a fancy suit, and a dredged up memory told me he should be tipped. So I took a five from my wallet, still not entirely sure what the conversion rate was, and not wanting to be stingy. The doorman beamed.
“Thank you, ma’am. You have a splendid day.”
Hmm. It was nine p.m. Not much day left.
Macbeth looked pretty impressed, too, when he saw me.
“Very nice,” he said. “That new?”
“Why, it doesn’t still have the tags on, does it?”
He grinned. “You look new and shiny. But stop limping.”
I made a face. “My feet hurt. I’m all blistered and these things,” I waved my pretty new shoes at him, “aren’t helping.”
“You have to suffer to be beautiful.”
In that case, I must be looking really hot.
He pointed to the hotel bar, gave me a photo of Don Shapiro to memorise, and then handed me a little bag containing an earpiece and told me he’d be upstairs, listening in.
“How will you get in without anyone seeing you?” I asked. “Don’t they have CCTV in all these places?”
He grinned. “And?”
Good point. There was nothing Macbeth couldn’t disable.
I went to the ladies and put the earpiece in, switched on the battery and dropped it in my bag. I fastened the little mike inside my bra and said in a low voice, “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear everything,” Macbeth said, and I was sure there was a leer in there. “Go get him and, remember, he likes his girls sophisticated.”
I made a face at the mirror. Sure, I looked pretty sophisticated now, but after a couple of sophisticated cocktails I’d be legless.
I made my way over to the bar, hoping my overall image was one of a sexy wiggle, not a pained hobble, and perched myself on a barstool.
“Can I get you anything?” the handsome bartender asked.
“I’ll have a—” A what? My usual pub drink was lager. At home I drank wine or cider (am I cool, or what?). In Fuerteventura we’d been working our way through the silly cocktail menu of Sex on the Beach and Slippery Nipples. Somehow, I didn’t think any of those drinks would go down well here.
Although…
“Guinness,” I said. Guinness is the Land Rover Defender of drinks. Tough and ultimately cool, no matter who’s drinking it.
Plus, it matched my dress.
It came in a pint glass and I told myself to go slowly. I might look cool now, but in half an hour I’d be falling off the stool if I wasn’t careful.
Half an hour came and went, and there was no sign of Shapiro. I’d sipped a quarter of a pint and was feeling pretty silly sitting there all on my own.
“Are you waiting for someone?” the bartender asked.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s…he’s late…”
“I see that. Where you from?”
“England.”
He grinned. “I see that, too. Whereabouts?”
“Uh, near Cambridge,” I said, because that always sounds nicer than “I’m from Essex”, and I’d rather be thought of as a toff than a Shazzer, thank you very much.
“And what are you doing here in New York?” He said it Noo Yoik.
“Business,” I said.
“What kind of business?”
The mind your own kind, I nearly said, but I was too distracted, because during one of my many glances towards the door I saw someone familiar walk in. Someone very familiar.
“Excuse me,” I said to the bartender, leaving money on the bar, and hopped off my stool and ran over. “What are you doing here?”
He stared at me. “Do I know you?”
I frowned. Then, “Oh, yeah, very funny. See, I do scrub up well.”
“Uh, yeah. Very well. Look, who the hell are you?”
I stepped back and looked him over. Tall, good body under his jeans and faded green T-shirt, great teeth, lovely hazel eyes, shiny brown hair.
“Harvey?” I said uncertainly. “What are you doing here?”
He stared at me a bit more, and then he started laughing. And I laughed too, hesitantly, feeling slightly stupid, still having no idea what was going on.
“Are you here on—” I looked around, “—business?”
He grinned and nodded. “Business. Yeah, I like that. I guess I am.”
Bloody Karen sending someone out to get in my way. “Is it—is it the Shapiro thing?”
He frowned and took me by the arm to a further away corner of the plush bar.
“What do you know about the Shapiro thing?”
“Duh, it’s why I’m here. Didn’t Luke tell you?”
“Well—”
Of course, Luke and Harvey don’t really get on. Luke thinks Harvey’s as useless as a Ken doll, and besides, they started badly when I met Harvey and, er, sort of snogged him before I got together with Luke, and now Luke still thinks there’s some sort of spark between me and Harvey. Whereas Harvey’s a lovely bloke and all, and undeniably cute, but just… I don’t know, just a little too nice. Maybe there’s something wrong with me that I prefer Luke, who is admittedly a bit of a bastard.
And then someone came up to us, unctuously dressed in the hotel uniform, and asked Harvey greasily, “Excuse me, sir, are you a resident?”
“Well, no, but—”
“It’s just that we do have a dress code here in the Houston bar,” the uniform gave a little sneer, “a tie, and no sneakers or jeans for gentleman.”
“Oh, just for gentlemen?” Harvey said. “The ladies don’t have to wear a tie?”
The uniform didn’t smile.
“Look,” I said, “he just forgot, right, Harvey? Why don’t we get out of here, ‘cos I don’t think Shapiro’s coming, and we can go talk about this, right? My hotel’s not too far.”
They both looked at me, the hotel guy with a leer, and Harvey with panic.
“Listen, lady,” he said, “I appreciate it and all, but—”
Jesus, did he think I was making a move on him? And hadn’t he once invited me up to his hotel room? No, not once—twice?
“I’m not making a move,” I hissed. “Doesn’t the name Luke mean anything to you?”
Harvey opened his mouth, but the hotel guy got in there first. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said.
Harvey glared at him, then me, and said, “
Fine
.”
And then he walked out.
Bloody hell.
I shuffled after him on my painful feet, mumbling to my mike, “Macbeth, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. I got surveillance set up outside the room, I’ll holler if he’s coming. You go after the Yank.”
“You know why he’s here?”
“No idea. Not like they ever tell us anything.”
“Cheers,” I muttered, and caught up with Harvey at the revolving doors. Then I got stuck and went round twice before being ejected onto the pavement and nearly knocking Harvey over as he lit up a cigarette.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” I said in surprise.
“What you don’t know about me could fill the Empire State,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”
“This isn’t funny—”
“Nope. Listen, lady, I’m not who you think I am.”
No kidding.
“You know Harvey, right? James Harvard Esquire. Lives in England, right?”
“Right,” I said, trying to figure this out in my head.
“He’s my brother.”
I stared.
“My twin brother,” he clarified.
“But—”
“You didn’t know he had a twin brother.”
I shook my head, unable to think of anything else to say.
He flicked ash off his cigarette onto the ground. “Well, here I am. I can show you ID if you want.”
I nodded dumbly, and Harvey II got out a wallet and flicked it to a driving licence. Alexander Henry Harvard. State of Ohio.
I peered at the birth date, but not knowing Harvey’s, it meant nothing to me. But I did know he was from Ohio. Shit.
“If you’re Harvey’s brother,” I said, “what’s his girlfriend called?”
“Angel. Sweet little thing. Tiny and blonde.” He studied me. “So who the hell are you?”
“I—I’m Sophie. I’m a friend of Harvey’s. We sort of work together.”
“Sort of, huh?” Alexander Henry said, and I wondered how much he knew about Harvey’s work for the CIA and SO17.
He started walking, and I stumbled after him, wincing. These shoes might be pretty, but I wasn’t altogether sure I’d worked out the sizing right and they were pinching and rubbing like a bad Swedish massage.
“So what’s your business with Shapiro? And what’s my bro got to do with him?”
“Um,” I said, “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“And who’s Luke?”
“My boyfriend. Look—”
“Where is he?”
“England. Look, Alex—”
“Xander.”
“Xander, right—”
“Is he cute?”
“Who?” I was confused now.
“Your boyfriend.”
“Yeah, he’s gorgeous.”
“Got a picture?”
“What?”
Xander stopped and turned to me. “Of your gorgeous boyfriend? Can I see him?”
“Uh—” Completely thrown now, I reached in my bag for my wallet, thinking for a moment that this odd Harvey clone was going to mug me, but he just stood there, watching me.
“I’m not going to take your wallet,” he said, “I just want to know if you’re after my brother.”
I frowned, but pulled out a file photo of Luke looking moody. It’s not the best picture of him and he doesn’t even know I have it, because I printed it off the office computer once when he was out. He has his arms folded, he’s wearing a black shirt, his hair is tousled and he looks kind of sallow and hungover, as well he might, because I think it was taken the morning after a pretty bad night out. But he’s still damn fit.
I watched anxiously as Xander scrutinised the photo in the dark. I was still at the stage where I desperately wanted everyone to approve of my boyfriend. I thought he was pretty damn stunning, but was I being deluded?
“Nice,” was Xander’s verdict. “Looks pissed off, though.”
I grabbed my precious photo back. “He always looks pissed off.”
“Even with you?”
I scowled at him, and Xander laughed, flicking away his cigarette. “So how far’s this hotel of yours?”
“Erm, I don’t think—”
“I’m not going to make a move on you,” Xander said firmly. “Trust me.”
“Oh, cheers.”
He grinned, and it was Harvey’s open, friendly grin. “Where are you staying?”
I knew Macbeth was still in contact, so, feeling safer for having him as back up, I said, “Hotel Philadelphia, on Seventh.”
Xander looked like he was considering this. “We’ll take the subway,” he said, and I followed after him slightly helplessly.
My Metrocard was still valid, so I followed him down onto the platform. He seemed to know exactly where he was going.
“Where exactly on Seventh?” he checked as we went down to the platform.
“Between 32nd and 33rd.”
He nodded and switched lines easily, me following along like a little hobbling dog.
We got off at Penn Station and waited for the Walk sign to turn to our advantage. Xander hesitated outside a grocery, then went in and bought a bottle of vodka.
“You want anything?”
“Erm…” Getting drunk with a complete stranger would not, I surmised, be a very good idea. “I’m supposed to be working.”
“Am I in your way?”
“Well, no, but I shouldn’t really be drinking…”
“Tell you what, I’ll drink and you can watch.” He added some Coke and then started shovelling junk food into a basket, proper Homer Simpson junk food that we just don’t get. Lay’s potato chips and Hershey bars featured in large quantity. I spotted some Jolly Ranchers and lobbed them in for good measure. I love Jolly Ranchers, but no one seems to sell them in England anymore.
We got to the till and Xander looked at me hopefully.
“Nope,” I said, “you picked it out.”
Scowling, he dug out some cash and paid for it. Then he followed me back to my hotel. I know I could have protested, could probably have got one of those scary guys by the elevator lobby to have kicked Xander out for me, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to attack me. I had a hunch. Well, okay, more than a hunch, but that sounds cooler.
I stopped off at a drugstore (which always sounds shady to me, because I’m a good girl who Says No To Drugs) and bought some fat sticking plasters and waterproof tape for my feet. I chucked in a bottle of water, feeling very virtuous, and off we went again, Xander slouching moodily ahead, me hobbling behind.
We got back to my room and Xander looked around. “Jesus,” he said, “did something explode in here?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t feel at home unless I’ve made some mess.”
“Then you must be planning to live here.” He got out another cigarette, and I took it off him. “Hey!”
“This is a no smoking floor,” I told him. “There are smoke detectors all over the place.” I wasn’t sure if this was true, but I didn’t want my room stinking of smoke.
Xander scowled at me and stalked into the bathroom for one of the plastic cups by the sink. He threw himself down on the double bed and tore open the bag of Lay’s crisps—sorry, chips—and sloshed out a strong measure of vodka. No Coke.