I want to. I want to stand here and sing forever. She passes me her music book and I flick through it, pausing at a Pat Benatar track. “This one, and maybe this?”
She puts her fingers on the keyboard and bangs out the rocky opening chords of “Hit Me With Your Best Shot,” and I’m away, riding shotgun with my mum in her old Vauxhall Viva, barreling along and singing at the top of our lungs in the dog days of summer. It’s an anthem and I belt it out like one, a metaphorical middle finger to anyone who wants to come and try to take me down. I feel like I’m singing right into Adam’s ear; how I wish the girl I was then could see me now. I slam a hand over my heart and sing for her. The words burst from me, strong and proud, and I dash away tears of elation from my cheeks. More people have joined the crowd now, and when my new friend rocks out the iconic opening beat of Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’N’ Roll,” a guy at the front plays air guitar and people start clapping the beat, like a drum. We are in this together, a thirty-strong band, and it’s actually electric. I’m singing, they’re singing back at me, and by the time I’m belting the chorus out I feel as if I’m onstage in Madison Square Garden. People put more than another dime in the jukebox, they stuff money in the busker’s hat until it’s brimming, and it’s like drinking champagne straight from the bottle. Oh Mum, was this why? Was this it? I’ve never been brave enough to sing in front of people, and I’ve somehow just brought this corner of this New York City park to a momentary standstill and it felt like pure, glittering magic. You know those scenes you see in the movies where the entire school canteen goes up, kids are on the tables, people spill on to the streets and dance on the roof of a line of yellow cabs? That’s how it felt and, quite honestly, I think the last half an hour has changed me forever.
I hug the busker tight enough to crush her ribs, not giving a damn if I catch her bug because she’s just given me back something money can’t buy: my confidence. I laughingly refuse the money she offers me and walk away, practically bouncing along the path until I’m out of sight of the scene. Hello, New York, I’m here, and I can’t wait to spend a couple more hours spinning through this crazy, heart-pounding, life-affirming neighborhood I call home.
* * *
—
JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, BOBBY bangs on my door.
“You can come in but there’s still no gelato,” I shout, not getting up from my spot on the sofa. It’s been a busy night downstairs in the restaurant and I’m not moving unless the building’s on fire.
He throws the door wide and stands in the frame with his phone in his hand turned toward me. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the video on his screen is from the park this morning, and that the sound coming from it is me giving the Pretenders a run for their money.
“What the ever-loving God, Iris!”
I groan and bury my face in my hands, shrinking into the corner of the sofa. This morning was pure spontaneity and joy, but seeing it recorded wasn’t ever part of the deal.
“Where did you get that?”
“I’m sorry? How about where did you get that voice?” he says, slamming my door and landing on the sofa beside me. “You’re more Chrissie Hynde than Chrissie Hynde is.”
I pull myself up to sitting and sigh deeply. “She was my mother’s favorite.”
“And you’re her doppelg?nger,” he says, shaking his head. “How have I missed this?”
“It was just something that happened this morning, it wasn’t planned,” I say, reaching out and turning the video off. “Who recorded it?”
He shrugs. “The guy from the coffee cart put it on the Buskers of New York page, tagged the park or something, I guess. It’s popping up on local feeds, Robin saw it. This could go viral.” He clutches my arm. “You’ll be on Oprah by morning.”
I roll my eyes and sigh.
“People want to know who this crazy talented gal is, Iris, and where they can see more of her.”
I shake my head. “They can’t.”
“I mean, obviously the place they can see more of her is the Very Tasty Noodle House, NYC’s newest music venue,” he says, pointing downstairs with a look of “Yes, girl” on his face that I need to dispel asap.
“Absolutely not, Bob. Not here nor out there again.” I gesture toward the window and the park beyond. “It was strictly a one-off.”
He flops back against the sofa. “How did I know you were going to say that?”
“Because you know me better than anyone else in this city, and probably the entire world?”
“Maybe,” he says, sighing. “Or at least I thought I did, until Robin sent me this and I was like, okay, hold my drink, I need to go home right now because Mariah’s living in my building. I mean, I missed dessert for this.”
I reach out and pat his hand. “And I don’t even have gelato to give you.”
“It’s genuinely like you hate me right now,” he says.
“You know I love you,” I say.
“Will you sing to me?”
I can’t give him my recipe, but I guess I can sing. “What do you want to hear?”
He leans against me, his head on my shoulder. “Surprise me.”
I squeeze his hand and, after a moment’s deliberation, I quietly sing “Golden Slumbers,” because it was my mother’s lullaby of choice when I was a small child in her arms. I feel Bobby’s head grow heavy, and when I’m done I pull the blanket over us and close my eyes too.
11.
Dear Iris,
I’m sorry I was an idiot, please come back. We miss you, I miss you.
G x