“Yep. No one knows it’s here. They never advertise it. It’s strictly invitation-only.”
“So how do you know it’s here?” Although the idea of an invitation-only, secret café for artists intrigues me, I’m still not fully convinced.
“My dad used to have a studio here,” Noah says, taking the keys from the ignition. “The whole building’s full of artists’ studios. It began in the seventies when the building was empty and a whole bunch of artists started squatting in it. Then, in the nineties, when the authorities wanted to bulldoze it, the artistic community got together to protest and the mayor granted the building a special status.”
“Wow.”
Noah nods. “This is the real New York,” he says wistfully. “Places like this. It’s also my favorite place in the world,” he says.
I immediately get that fluttery feeling again at the thought of him bringing me to his favorite place in the world.
“And, hey, it seemed like the perfect place for Magical Mystery Day—it’s top secret and it has cake.”
“It’s perfect,” I say, and Noah starts to grin.
We get out of the truck and the icy wind is so biting it makes me shiver.
“You cold?” Noah asks.
I nod. “A bit.”
He takes off his scarf. “Here.” I stand dead still as he puts the scarf around my neck. He’s so close to me I daren’t lift my gaze from the floor. Then I do look up, and for a split second we’re staring into each other’s eyes. And click—I feel another part of me slotting into place with him.
“Come on.” He places his hand gently in the small of my back and guides me over to a gap in the metal fence surrounding the building.
We scramble down a steep bank covered in weeds and stubbly grass, and over to a large metal door. There’s an old keypad next to the door. Noah presses some of the numbers and there’s a clicking sound. He pulls the door open and ushers me in. We’re standing in a concrete corridor lit by harsh flickering fluorescent strip lights. The one appealing thing is the graffiti on the walls. This graffiti isn’t like the faded tags on the outside. These are proper works of art, whole murals stretching all the way along the corridor.
A door in the wall opens and a woman comes out. She’s wearing a long tie-dyed dress and her hair is pulled back into hundreds of beaded braids. It’s so nice to see someone so bright and colorful and friendly-looking that I’m instantly reassured.
“Noah,” the woman cries as soon as she sees him.
“Hey, Dorothy, how’s it going?”
“Great. I just found out I’ve got two pieces accepted for an exhibition downtown.”
“That’s awesome.” Noah gives the woman a hug. Then he turns back to me. “This is my friend Penny. She’s come all the way from the UK. I wanted to bring her someplace special for lunch.”
Dorothy gives me a warm smile. “Well, you came to the right place. Welcome to New York, honey.”
“Thank you.”
“OK, I’ll catch you guys later—gotta go have a meeting with the gallery. Well done, Noah. I’m so proud of you.” Dorothy gives him another hug and starts heading off along the corridor.
Noah looks really embarrassed as he turns to me. “Come on, let’s go eat.”
I follow him to a door at the end of the corridor that opens onto a stairwell.
“The café’s down in the basement,” he explains, holding the door open for me.
“Why was Dorothy proud of you?” I ask as we head down the concrete steps.
“Oh, she was just messing,” Noah says.
“What do you mean?”
“I think it was because I was with you.”
I look at him blankly.
“Because you’re a girl,” he says, the tips of his cheeks beginning to flush. “She’s always on me that I should have a girlfriend—not that you’re my girlfriend,” he adds hastily, his cheeks blushing even redder.
“No,” I say, and we look at each other for a split second.
He shrugs, and then we carry on walking.
But I can’t help feel a glow spread all the way up from my toes. Because even though he’s Rock-God–tastic, and even though he lives in a whole other country, on a whole other continent, and even though I’ll be going back home in two days’ time and will probably never see him again, part of me wants to jump up and down for joy. He doesn’t have a girlfriend.
Chapter Twenty
Once we get to the bottom of the stairwell, Noah leads me over to a door.
“It’s going to be really dark at first,” he says. “Is that all right?”
I nod, but I must look apprehensive, as he instantly takes hold of my hand.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It has to be dark to get the full effect.”
“OK,” I say, not having a clue what he’s on about, but it really is OK—anything would be OK right now—his hand holding mine feels so warm and so strong.
“Ready?” he says.
“Yes.”
I hear him flick a switch and suddenly we’re standing in a beautiful underwater world. At least it feels as if we are. The whole corridor has been painted to look like a seascape. The black walls glimmer with luminous pictures of fish and shells and emerald-green strands of seaweed.
“It’s done in a special paint,” Noah explains, “so that the ultraviolet lights in the ceiling make it glow.” He looks at me hopefully. “Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I say, slowly turning around to take it all in. Every fish, every shell, every tiny detail is a work of art in itself. It’s incredible.
“How does it make you feel?” Noah asks quietly.
I turn to look at him. “How does it make me feel?”
He nods. “Yes. My dad used to say that you should always ask yourself how art makes you feel.”
I look back at the glimmering walls. “It makes me feel calm and peaceful. And it makes me feel as if I’m in a magical world—as if I’m a mermaid.” There’s something about the darkness that makes me feel safe to say exactly what I’m thinking rather than try to censor myself for the sake of being cool.
“You look like a mermaid,” Noah says.
“Really?”