‘No.’
‘Okay.’
They drove back to Rent-a-Moke with the wind rushing through the glassless windscreen into their faces. They parked under a banana tree. The owner came out of the rental hut, dusting her hands together.
‘No charge for you, love,’ she said. ‘We miss your mum now she’s on the mainland.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t think she misses much here.’
Colby had never seen Caitlin in such a mood. The sun – so high and bright when they’d set out – was lost behind a cloud. They boarded the ferry, and rode home
sitting on benches on the deck, with Caitlin’s golden hair whipping about her face, and seagulls swooping on the breeze.
‘I sense a storm,’ said Colby.
‘Me too,’ said Caitlin, ‘and I’m not often wrong.’
‘Just so you know, I’m not coming to New York because it’s your birthday. I’m coming because it’s winter here, and there’s absolutely nothing to do.’
‘So, you’re basically telling me you’re bored,’ said Colby, ‘and you want me to entertain you?’
They were on opposite ends of the phone again, at opposite ends of the world. Colby had flown home after his week in Townsville in October 2000 and now he was coming good on a promise – made while drunk on tequila at the Townsville Hotel one night – to fly Caitlin to Manhattan in 2001, so she could see where he lived.
‘No,’ said Caitlin, ‘I’m only coming because you keep saying how much you miss me.’
‘I do miss you. I can’t wait to see you.’
‘True story?’
‘True story.’
And it was a true story: Colby was looking forward to
seeing Caitlin again. He had picked up the cost of her ticket to Manhattan, and he was going to put her up for six weeks, all of which surprised him. He told Robert as much, saying, ‘I don’t want to put a label on it, but I do like being around her.’
‘You better watch it,’ Robert said, ‘next thing you’ll be telling me you’re ready to settle down.’
Colby laughed. Caitlin was cute, and shagging her was fun, but Colby wasn’t ready to settle down. He wouldn’t have told Caitlin this, but he was still seeing other women. A little under a year earlier, Colby had bought his first apartment and, upon picking up the key, he’d immediately paid somebody to transform it into a bachelor pad for him.
‘You can’t do it yourself,’ Robert had said, ‘you’ve got to get a gay guy, somebody who understands fabric weight and scatter cushions and all that shit.’
‘But the look I want isn’t smooth,’ said Colby. ‘I don’t want a girl thinking, “I could live here.” I want a place that says, “No woman has ever, or will ever, live here. This is a bachelor pad, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”’
He found a designer who specialised in cool pads for finance guys. She hadn’t been anything particularly special to look at – she’d turned up in leggings, a faded T-shirt and ballet flats, carrying colour swatches and an HB pencil – but she took measurements and opened curtains and then, six weeks later, she’d come back with a truck and five Hispanic labourers to carry cardboard boxes down the ramp.
Colby made himself scarce, saying, ‘I think I’m in the way here.’ By the time he got home, the apartment was
unrecognisable, in ways he wouldn’t have predicted. The linen was slate-grey. The towels were plump and charcoal-coloured. He had a new leather sofa, and a bed even wider than king size, for which he’d have to have sheets custom-made.
‘You like?’ the designer asked.
‘I like!’ said Colby.
‘You should try it,’ she said of the bed, pressing a hand into the mattress. Colby shot her a look and they broke in the bed, there and then, and there hadn’t been much down time for that bed ever since.
Now Caitlin was coming for six weeks. That was longer than Colby had ever lived with anyone, except his college roommate.
‘It makes me nervous,’ Caitlin said.
‘What does? Staying with me, or the flight?’
‘Not the flight. But what if I get lost at the airport?’
‘You can’t get lost at the airport. There are signs everywhere, and there are people to help you.’
‘What if I get on the wrong plane?’
‘You can’t get on the wrong plane. You’ll have a boarding pass, and you can’t get on the wrong plane with that boarding pass.’
‘What if I lose the boarding pass?’
‘They’ll give you another one.’
‘What do I do when I land? Are you going to pick me up from the airport?’
‘Me?’ Colby laughed. ‘No. I don’t have a car. But don’t worry, I’ll send one for you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s what people do here. There will be a man standing in the arrivals hall with a sign with your name on it. All you need to do is go up and introduce yourself. He’ll have my address, and the doorman will let you in.’
‘What if the doorman’s not there?’
‘The doorman is always there.’
There was more than a continent between them; there was an ocean of sophistication. ‘And I’m supposed to tip the driver, right? And the doorman. But how much?’
‘Two dollars,’ Colby said. ‘You tip everyone – the driver, the doorman – all of them get two dollars. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Have you told your mom you’re coming?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You better do it.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Caitlin, but she was dreading it. She lived not six streets away from Ruby in Townsville, and they saw each other once a week, usually before the last of Caitlin’s shifts on Sunday, but their little chats, over tea and Madeira biscuits, never seemed to go all that well.
‘I think she’s losing her mind in there,’ said Caitlin. ‘You should see her wheelchair. She’s put a basket on the front for her dog, and she’s got these Australian flags fluttering behind, left over from when she was waving them at the Olympics on TV. She’s put on weight and she’s taken to putting her hair in these little ponytails that stand up like palm trees on the top of her head.’
‘At least I’m still having fun,’ she had told Caitlin. ‘Most of the other people in here have given up. They’re slumped all day in front of the soaps. The biggest drama of the day is what’s for dessert. I can’t stand it.’
Ruby’s apartment in the assisted-living village had everything that her little cottage with the cyclone pole had not: the floors were smooth, beige and tiled; the walls were smooth, beige and painted; the kitchen bench was smooth, beige and laminated.
‘Is it not the most boring place you’ve ever seen in your life?’ Ruby said, the first time Caitlin had dropped around. ‘I’m going to have to paint the walls yellow to make it more like home.’ But that wasn’t permitted.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Caitlin, ‘we can jazz it up with ornaments.’ They’d tried, with faux tiger throws and a plastic shower curtain with glitter fish.
‘It still looks like God’s waiting room,’ said Ruby, which was fair enough. That’s what it was: a place for people to spend their last few years before they died. It took quite a bit of Caitlin’s courage to tell Ruby that she was leaving town to have a summer romance in Manhattan. To her surprise, Ruby encouraged her to go. ‘You might as well have an adventure,’ she said. ‘God only knows, I’ll never have another one. I’m guessing it’s his money?’
‘He’s buying the ticket,’ Caitlin said. ‘Where would I get that kind of money? It costs more than $2000.’
‘Good for him, if he wants to splash his moolah around. But it sounds a bit like prostitution.’
‘How does it sound like prostitution? He’s not paying me to stay with him. He’s paying for the
flight
.’
‘I wish some young bloke had offered to fly
me
to New York when I was your age,’ Ruby said. ‘Your father never offered me so much as a trip to the mainland.’
Caitlin was in the kitchen, searching through the cupboards above the sink for teabags. The kettle started to whistle.
‘So, how long will you be gone?’ Ruby asked.
‘Six weeks. I leave on July 30, and I’m due back on September 14.’
‘I hope you know New York’s dangerous. You can’t just wander around there like you do here. You’re too young to have heard of the Central Park jogger. A woman got raped there. It was all over the news.’
‘Women can get raped anywhere,’ said Caitlin. She pulled up the teabag and squeezed it against a spoon.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Tea.’
‘You’re not having one?’ asked Ruby.
‘Not today,’ said Caitlin. ‘I’ve got one more shift to do. Then I’m gone. But don’t worry. I’ll be home soon.’
‘What the hell is she playing at?’
It was 6 pm on 30 July 2001 – the day that Caitlin had been due to land in New York – and Colby was in his office at the World Trade Center, awaiting her call.
‘I sent a car to pick her up,’ he told his assistant, Summer, ‘and they say they’ve been at the airport since the plane touched down, but she hasn’t come out.’
‘Maybe she came out and missed the guy with the sign,’ said Summer, bouncing a little on the yoga ball that she had recently rolled into his office, to use while taking notes. ‘Maybe she caught a cab straight to your apartment.’
‘Maybe,’ said Colby, but he’d called his own regular doorman, Carlos, three times to ask if anyone had come looking for him.
‘I’m afraid not, Mr Colbert,’ Carlos had said. ‘No visitors for you today.’
Did he have to sound so happy about it? But honestly, where could Caitlin be? Colby had five computer screens in his office, including three on the desk in front of him, one of which was open to the Qantas website. It very clearly showed that Caitlin’s plane – QF 108 – had taken off on time, and it had landed on time. By rights, Caitlin had been on the ground in New York for six hours. That was plenty of time to clear customs. Wait, maybe she hadn’t cleared customs? Maybe she had forgotten to empty all of her mom’s so-called medicinal cigarettes out of her pockets? But no. They’d joked about that. Caitlin had promised to be careful. So, where the hell was she? The plan had been for Colby to go to the office, and for Caitlin to get picked up by the car service he’d organised. The driver would take her to his apartment. Carlos would let her in.
‘Have a shower, get undressed,’ Colby had said. ‘Get into bed if you want! I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Caitlin had said, ‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ but now he couldn’t find her. He called the car service again (more accurately, he got Summer to again call the car service) while he watched and twisted a paperclip.
‘I’m sorry, Colby,’ Summer said, ‘they’re saying that Caitlin never got off the plane.’
‘What do you mean, she never got off the plane?’
‘That’s what they said.’
‘Get them on the line for me, will you, Summer? Jesus Christ. It’s her first time in New York. Are you sure they didn’t lose her?’
Summer called the service again, and this time Colby took the receiver.
‘Our driver waited for two hours,’ the service told him. ‘We were there with the sign. Caitlin Hourigan. She didn’t come out.’
‘Jesus,’ said Colby. He strode into Robert’s office, saying, ‘I’m sorry to do this to you, buddy. You know Caitlin was due to touch down today. I think I’ve lost her. Or somebody’s lost her. The plane definitely landed on time. But now the car service is saying she didn’t disembark, and Carlos hasn’t seen her.’
Robert leaned back in his chair, pen in his mouth. ‘You’ve checked your email?’ he asked.
‘Of course I’ve checked my email.’
‘Maybe you should go home. She’s probably sitting in the foyer.’
‘You don’t think Carlos would have seen her in the foyer?’
‘You’ve checked your phone?’
‘Of course I’ve checked the phone.’
‘Well, I don’t know what else to tell you,’ said Robert, swinging his chair back towards his computer, ‘except what I’ve told you before, which is that Daisy Duke has got you by the balls. Look at your face. You’re beside yourself. Are you sure you’re not a little bit serious about her?’
‘Oh, you’re a big help,’ said Colby. He marched out of Robert’s office towards the elevator. It was barely a three-minute walk, over a little footbridge, from Carnegie to his
apartment building in Battery Park City. Colby pushed his way through the revolving door. Carlos was sitting behind the bellman’s desk, but he jumped straight up at Colby’s approach.
‘Mr Colbert!’ he said. ‘No sign of your friend?’
‘I was hoping you might have seen her. No chance that anyone else let her up?’
‘I’ve been here all day.’
‘I better check.’ Colby rode the silent elevator to the 79th floor, strode down the corridor, and put his security key in the door. His apartment had windows that looked directly upon the World Trade Center. It was quiet, elegant and empty.
‘What the hell could be going on?’ he thought. ‘Don’t tell me she’s ripped me off? Don’t tell me she’s cashed the ticket and pocketed the money?’ But that made no sense. He knew enough about women to know that Caitlin was both smitten and genuinely excited to visit New York. No way would she miss an opportunity to see him. Something must have gone wrong. He went into the kitchen, brow furrowed, and poured a drink – the designer who had been so helpful with wearing in the bed had insisted upon a fridge with an ice-maker – and Colby was still nursing his icy glass, and checking and re-checking his email, when his cell phone rang.
It was Robert.
‘So, are you done shagging her?’ he asked.
‘Don’t joke. She’s still not here.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘I’m not kidding. She’s not here. I’ve called. I’ve emailed. I’ve tried to get information out of Qantas. Good luck with that. Am I supposed to ring her mother? I mean, Caitlin’s a grown woman.’
‘Well, not quite grown,’ drawled Robert. ‘If my memory’s right, she just turned twenty-one.’
‘Look, whatever. Yesterday she said she was getting on the plane. Today she’s not here. Does that make her a missing person? Am I supposed to call the police?’
‘The police?’ said Robert, alarmed. ‘Look, no, I wouldn’t do that. I realise this is an unfamiliar situation for a smooth guy like you, Colby, but it seems to me that you’ve simply been stood up. Happens to us mere mortals all the time. And Caitlin isn’t silly. I always thought she’d wake up to you. Now she’s shot through with your ticket. Good for her. But there’s no point sitting around, moping. You’ve got to take it in your stride. I’m at Hudson. So is half of Carnegie. We’re toasting your birthday. Come and join us.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Colby had forgotten that he was supposed to pick up Caitlin from his apartment and take her to his birthday drinks in Midtown. ‘I’m not coming to Hudson. I’ve got a missing person on my hands.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Robert. ‘You’ve been stood up. Accept it. It happens to all of us.’
‘But I don’t get it. She seemed keen.’
‘Well, no point sitting home getting drunk,’ said Robert. ‘Far better to come out and get drunk.’
‘But what if she shows up?’
‘Carlos will let her in. And he can call and let you know. But she won’t show up. You’ve been stood up. So come on, man. Will wallowing at home make it better? No. Will having a beer make it better? Yes.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Colby, but then again, what the hell? Caitlin hadn’t turned up, and it was his birthday. He took the elevator down, caught the subway to Columbus Circle, and rode up the yellow perspex elevator to Hudson, with its lawn patio, picnic tables and people drinking boutique beers.
‘Look at the long face!’ Robert was pointing the neck of his bottle in Colby’s direction. ‘Stood up for the first time in his life. But never mind: make way for the birthday boy! Let’s get this man a beer!’
‘I just don’t get it,’ Colby said. He was genuinely worried. And, if Robert was right, and he had been shafted – well, he was surprised how much he cared.
‘Cheer up,’ said Robert. ‘We’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll see. Come with me.’
The common area was buzzing. At least half of the patrons were Colby’s friends from Carnegie, Columbia and his home state, Connecticut. The women were polished; the men were rich; the music was cool jazz.
Robert raised his voice.
‘Now, if I could get everybody to stand back,’ he said, using his arms to create a space, ‘the birthday boy has finally arrived, meaning it’s present time!’
One of Hudson’s funky staff had come out from behind the cloakroom counter. He was wearing denim overalls, with the button of one bib left undone, and he was pushing a trolley with a large cardboard box on it.
‘Christ, it’s huge,’ Colby thought. ‘How am I going to get that home?’
‘So, go on, open it,’ Robert said, but just as he said it, the satin bow on top of the box began to move.
‘Whoa!’ said Colby and then, to himself, he thought, ‘Oh God, no. Not a stripper. I’m in no mood for a stripper.’ The box moved again, the bow fell off, and the ribbon pooled onto the floor. The cardboard flaps on top of the box opened – and out popped Caitlin.
‘Surprise!’ she said, arms outstretched.
‘Jesus!” said Colby, trying to steady himself. He was not drunk but Caitlin had thrown herself – or the top half of herself anyway – from the box into his arms and he’d stumbled backwards under her weight. Everyone was cheering. Caitlin’s legs were still in the box, and she looked very funny standing there like that, but she was still gorgeous. Colby looked over her shoulder at Robert, who tilted another bottle in his direction.
‘Gotcha!’ he said, over the laughter and the noise.
‘Who cooked this up?’ Colby asked. He was in shock but also delighted. He took Caitlin under the arms and lifted her clear out of the box.
‘I did,’ she said, steadying herself against him. ‘I wanted to surprise you.’
‘But how did you organise this?’
Caitlin shrugged. ‘I emailed Robert. I asked him to help me. He thought it was a fantastic idea.’
Colby looked at Robert, who was grinning like a loon. ‘But how did you even get Robert’s email?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t know you guys were in touch.’
‘She’s a dark horse,’ said Robert.
‘Ha! And maybe there’s a lot you don’t know about me.’ Caitlin winked at Robert. ‘We did a good job, didn’t we, Robert, keeping him out of the loop?’
‘Like I told you, your girl is sly as a fox,’ Robert agreed. ‘She had me sworn to secrecy.’
‘I don’t know if I should be happy … or afraid!’ said Colby, laughing.
‘Don’t be afraid.’ Caitlin planted a kiss on his lips.
‘Well, I sure know I’m happy to see you.’ Colby kissed her again, hard on the mouth. The crowd cheered louder.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Colby said, raising her arm. ‘Please meet my little Aussie fox, Caitlin Hourigan!’
‘Three cheers for Caitlin!’ said Robert, slapping bank notes on the bar.
It was close to 3 am when Caitlin and Colby’s taxi finally pulled up outside Colby’s building. Carlos was back on duty. He came out to the kerb to open the taxi door and help Colby to his feet.
‘My friend Carlos!’ Colby said – he was very drunk. He took Carlos by the shoulder, partly to steady himself, and partly to say, ‘Carlos, I’d like you to meet my girl.’
‘Well, hello miss,’ said Carlos.
‘No, no, no. This is not any girl. This is her! The girl I was waiting for. This is Caitlin. She cooked up a thing to surprise me, isn’t that good? But she came. I knew she would.’
‘Pleased to hear it, Mr Colbert.’ Carlos winked at Caitlin, and helped Colby across the red carpet that was stretched across the sidewalk, into the foyer, and then into the elevator. ‘The two of you have a good night, now.’ He pushed the button, to make sure they at least found the right floor, but it still took Colby three goes to get his key into the door.
They snuggled down into the slate-grey linen on Colby’s special-order king-size bed, and Caitlin stripped down to a new bra and knickers, and because they were young and in love, they had a red-hot go at having sex, but Colby really was too drunk and finally he gave up and said, ‘Okay. No, no, let me go to sleep. I’ll shag you tomorrow.’
‘Alright,’ said Caitlin, whose own effort, given her jet lag, had been pretty heroic. She curled up beside him, under the giant-sized, black-framed portrait of Marilyn Monroe, and added, ‘It’s not like we don’t have plenty of time.’