‘So this is her? This is the girl?’
Joel thought back to Flora ranting at him on the pavement last night outside the hotel and groaned. He really didn’t want to see the look on the Philippoussises’ faces if something like that happened again. He knew they would want to meet her, but he had absolutely no idea what they were expecting. Someone more model-like, maybe? More chicly dressed? Marsha was always immaculately turned out. But that was just New York women. Would they see that there was more to Flora – that maybe she didn’t have perfectly manicured fingernails but underneath it all was a good heart and a spirit and a fire?
And it felt private to them as a couple – something only they shared – and he didn’t feel entirely comfortable exposing that to daylight. But, he realised, it was time. He hadn’t really had conventional relationships, but this had to be one of them. This is what he would have to do. It was what Flora wanted, of course it was. And Mark and Marsha were … well, they were the closest thing to family he had. It would have to be done. So Marsha was extremely surprised – she had a list prepared of nine reasons as to why he should agree to bring Flora to dinner – when he said laconically, ‘Sure. Can I bring her to dinner?’
Marsha was so taken aback she could hardly speak. But she rallied pretty fast. ‘Joel,’ she said. ‘You are being nice to her?’
And the pause told them both what they needed to know.
‘Leave work,’ said Marsha. ‘It’s a Saturday.’
Joel looked down at the papers. Colton had loaded so much on him it wasn’t even funny. Something was up and he was being expected to handle all of it.
‘And I’ll see you later,’ said Marsha, hanging up.
Flora was on the top of the Empire State Building, looking out at one of the most iconic views in the world, doing something she had dreamed of her whole life since she’d watched Sleepless in Seattle four times in a row one weekend. And all she could do was check her phone.
This wasn’t right, she thought to herself. These endless nerves. He was her boyfriend. Okay, he’d never said the word – but on the other hand, he’d moved hundreds of miles to a tiny dot in the middle of the North Sea to be with her. If that wasn’t commitment, what was? He could have moved and not lived with her if it was just the island he liked, couldn’t he?
She tried to take in the stunning surroundings, the amazing ability of New York to be so strange and yet so overwhelmingly familiar at the same time; she took photos for other, happier couples and tried not to look bitter as she did; she googled where to go for lunch, for which she got thousands and thousands of responses, and glanced down at the list of amazing-sounding restaurants and wished she felt remotely hungry.
She was just turning round to head back when she heard a ping on her phone. Somehow she knew straightaway that it was him – for good or for bad.
‘Hello?’
‘How are you feeling?’
Joel’s detached, amused tones made Flora shut her eyes with overwhelming relief. She had been sure that he would find an excuse to withdraw even more, upset at her drunken rantings. Instead he sounded just like normal.
‘Awful,’ she said honestly.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I should have warned you about American drinks. Although on the other hand, you probably shouldn’t have four cocktails in half an hour anywhere.’
‘They don’t do a lot of cocktails at the Harbour’s Rest,’ muttered Flora.
‘They don’t,’ said Joel. He took a breath. ‘Anyway … tonight. Would you like …? There are some people I’d like you to meet.’
Flora straightened up. It must be the lady who rang.
‘I’ll check my schedule,’ she said, and Joel laughed.
Flora then spent most of the afternoon in something of a panic, looking up and down and around Fifth Avenue – completely paralysed by the sheer choice and range of things on offer – to find something appropriate to wear. She got lost in Sak’s, wandered through Bloomingdale’s far too overwhelmed to even approach anything, got shoe blindness, and realised that in her life she had rarely needed to buy summer apparel and didn’t appear to have the knack.
Joel stared at the phone. Stared at the laptop. Thought about what Marsha would say that night, then swore mightily and went to meet Flora.
He worried briefly about what Marsha and Mark would think, but they’d never met any of his girlfriends before; they rarely lasted long enough, and even so he seldom had the slightest bit of interest in sharing his upbringing. He hated – despised – the tilted-head look girls had often given when they heard about his past, as if they immediately saw him as some wounded bird only they could heal, so often he didn’t mention it at all. It had been different with Flora; she was so wounded by her own mother dying that it felt they were sharing in something they both understood. Even though she couldn’t understand it, not really. Losing a mother you had loved was not at all the same as never having known one.
But Marsha and Mark … There was no hiding there. Mark had read all his childhood files; Marsha, he surmised, had intuited the rest.
He hoped they’d like Flora. He hoped they’d think he was good enough for her.
He came across her panicking in Zara on Fifth, carting large amounts of clothes into the changing rooms. She looked hot and red-faced – sunny days didn’t exactly suit her – and her hair was hanging damply from a ponytail. She had a huge pile of coloured dresses in her arms, none of which, he could tell, would suit her.
‘Having fun?’ he said mildly.
‘Not really,’ said Flora crossly. ‘American sizes are weird and everything makes me look pale.’
‘That’s because you’re translucent.’
‘And nothing suits me and absolutely everyone else looks amazing in these colours and I just look like a peely-wally washout.’
Joel wasn’t sure what this was but guessed it wasn’t good. He glanced around. There was no doubt about it: Joel was good at clothes, Flora reflected. He wore suits every day, that was what he did, but they were subtly different – better – than other people’s suits: the slim lines of them, the positions of the buttons, the crisp shirts. He wasn’t a dandy; he just got it effortlessly right. That life he used to have … Everyone dressed well. She wouldn’t have dared buy him so much as a tie. She sighed. Now he was eyeing her, frowning.
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure this is the right place for you,’ he said. ‘Zara is Spanish. It’s designed for beautiful tanned se?oritas who don’t eat till 11 p.m. each night. Come with me.’
She followed him out and he guided her expertly to a very quiet corner of Bergdorf’s, up on the fourth floor. She eyed him suspiciously.
‘What?’ he said. ‘I dated a lot of models.’
‘Well, that makes me feel better,’ she said.
‘They’re very, very boring. Do we need to go through this again?’
Flora looked at the shop assistant, who had skin as pale as her own, but topped with a severe black bob and bright orange lipstick. ‘No,’ she said.
‘Okay.’ A smile played on Joel’s lips. ‘Let me do this.’
And Flora watched in mild amazement as he quickly blew through the racks, picking out some clothes, eyeing her, and putting most of them back. Finally he came up with three.