Helen Cox - Starlight in New York

‘Oh, er.’ Mona clicked her fingers.

‘ The Way We Were ?’ I said.

‘Yeah!’ said Julie-Ann. ‘Oh, I love that movie.’ I resisted the almost crippling urge to remind Julie-Ann that Babs and her on-screen beau weren’t exactly booking a mini-break to Paris when the credits rolled at the end of that film.

The doorbell chimed and for a second time my eyes darted to the doorway but this time it was just Bernie, our boss. He waddled in and perched at the end of the counter. Bernie’s precise age was a mystery to me. He wasn’t greying but he’d lost a lot of his hair, which was brown and matted and concentrated on the sides of his head. His substantial tummy meant he had to sit some distance away from the counter surface. Even the effort of hoisting himself up onto his stool left him out of breath.

‘Morning, ladies. I see you’re hard at work as always.’ Poor Bernie spent much of his time trying to mask his contempt for women. His wife left him some years ago – a topic that was understood to be off limits amongst the diner staff. He’d never got over it, and now and then that old bitterness oozed out.

‘Everyone’s got their coffee, Bernie, don’t sweat it. You want some breakfast?’ asked Mona.

‘Yeah, ask Lucia to grill me some bacon, fresh,’ said Bernie.

‘You got it,’ Mona replied and we both disappeared into the kitchen. It was best to keep out of Bernie’s way until he’d had something to eat.

‘You gonna jump every time that doorbell goes today?’ asked Mona.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘I mean, you’re looking at that door every two minutes. You’re gonna give yourself a neck injury at this rate. If I wasn’t so busy mindin’ my own business I’d say it was almost like you’re looking for someone particular.’ Mona crossed her arms. Slouched to one side.

‘She exchanged a stern word or two with Mr Faber last night,’ Lucia piped up, ‘maybe she’s lookin’ to make amends.’

‘Good to know you caught the whole show, Lu.’ Lucia threw some bacon rashers on the griddle and giggled. ‘I’m not looking for anyone. I have to keep an eye on who comes in. It’s my job to serve them,’ I argued. ‘Speaking of which, do you know that hooded woman on table twelve?’ I said.

‘Nope,’ said Mona, applying a fresh layer of pink lip gloss and using the microwave door as a convenient mirror.

‘Weird that she wears her hood up inside.’

‘Probably hiding out from some boyfriend who won’t leave her alone.’ Mona shrugged. ‘I seen that a lot. Course, you wouldn’t know anything about that kinda thing. Boyfriends, I mean.’

I sighed and left to take Bernie some coffee.

Although I tried hard not to react every time the door opened – Mona was watching me, ready to pounce with a quip – I did spend most of the day hoping Jack would be our next customer. We had numerous other punters: a tourist family from Belgium who wanted to see if maple syrup was a viable breakfast food; a loved-up couple in their twenties grabbing a burger on their way to watch The Exorcist III at the movies and a haughty businessman who tutted every ten seconds whilst we made his coffee-to-go. But Faber never showed.

By the time my shift finished at four o’ clock I was repeating the same phrase over and over in my mind: it’s for the best, Esther. For the best . I tried to think about Mr Delaney. The stench of him, up close. The feral glint in his eyes as he held her down. The ceaseless rhythm of him. But I could only hold these thoughts for moments at a time before they faded. Before I remembered the warmth of Jack’s hand on mine…

‘Mona, do you think I’m icy?’ I asked, changing out of my heels and into my trainers. Rubbing my toes to relieve the sting of the eight-hour shift.

‘Icy?’ Mona laughed. ‘Now, where’d you get an idea like that?’

‘Come on, tell me.’

‘Well, I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say icy. But you definitely have a frost to you.’

I looked at the ground and pouted my lips to one side.

‘Aw honey, don’t you worry about it. Most people’ll just put it down to you being British.’

‘Oh, thanks. You’re a great comfort.’ I laughed in spite of myself. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Though it was after four, the heat out on East Houston Street was insufferable for anyone used to the soggy Augusts of England. I straggled along towards Clinton Street trying not to think about it all: the temperature and my emotional yo-yoing. A fire engine blared past. Nobody else paid it any heed but to me its peal was banshee-like. The exhaust fumes from passing taxis and buses created a suffocating cloud of smog and the air smelt of roasting nuts some vendor was selling on the street corner. A scent that mingled with the sweat hanging in the air and this, combined with the weather, left me nauseated. I rooted through my satchel. Amongst the empty perfume samples and loose sticks of gum and pulled out a bottle of water.

A phone booth further down the street caught my eye and a thought came to me. It was a thought that’d been skulking at the back of my mind ever since my conversation with the man at Coney. I’d done all I could to ignore it but what if he was right? What if the most frightening thing in this world was being alone?

I walked over and emptied out a handful of small change on the stand beneath the receiver. Picking up the phone, I pushed in the coins and dialled the one number I knew by heart. A click sounded out and then came a drowsy version of her voice.

‘Hello?’

‘Mum? Mum, it’s Esther.’ The line crackled. ‘I’m…I’m sorry, to ring so late, I forgot about the time zones.’

‘Esther? Oh God, I’ve been so worried,’ said Mum.

‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to settle into New York, you know, after Atlantic City.’ I paused then, thinking about the false start to my new life in America. It’d been just over a year since I flew into JFK, shipping out to Atlantic City shortly after, where I hoped to lead a quiet life by the sea. I should’ve known the town that inspired the original Monopoly board would be a town driven by greed, brimming with liars and cheats. At least in New York, the muggers were upfront about it.

‘Esther?’

‘Sorry, Mum. How are you, you OK?’ I asked, keen to keep this phone call as much about her as possible. The last thing Mum needed was to hear me sobbing down the phone from 3000 miles away.

‘I’m getting along,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ That was blatant Old Person Code for ‘I’m still breathing but that’s about it’. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know you are, love. I know.’ Her voice sounded strained. I looked to the sky, hating myself.

‘Mum, look, I was wondering –’ I took a deep breath ‘– do you want to come to New York? For a visit.’

‘Oh! Well, I could do that. When were you thinking?’ she asked.

‘As soon as you like or can get a flight. This phone booth is gobbling up all my change. But I … I just wanted to call,’ I said.

‘Alright. Well, call again in a couple of days and I’ll tell you what flight I’ve booked. It’s so good to hear from you.’ The strain in her voice had become a tremble and I wondered if she was doing that thing women do so well of letting silent tears slip down their cheeks over the phone, offering little indication of their grief to the person at the other end.