We wait for the broker on Thompson Street. Her name is Claire. After talking to Paige last night, I sent an e-mail to Syd’s real estate agent in L.A., who wrote me back this morning and directed me to Claire in the New York office.
“Are you nervous?” Joan asks.
“No. Why?”
“Your foot is tapping really fast.”
I look. Joan’s right. I take a deep breath to compose myself. Perfectly timed, because here she comes, her high heels clacking down the sidewalk. She extends her hand well before actually reaching us.
“Claire,” she says.
“Gavin.”
“Pleasure.” She gestures to Joan. “And who is this?”
“I’m Joan Lennon.”
“Nice to meet you, Joan.” Claire looks back to me for further explanation, but I don’t offer any, just a broad smile.
We follow her inside. When we spoke on the phone earlier today, Claire confirmed that she did indeed show Syd a property in Manhattan. Not this exact property—the one they saw has since sold—but one just like it and in the same neighborhood. Also, it wasn’t in January, like Paige had suggested, but in February. This is the first piece of proof I’ve obtained that Sydney really did travel to New York a second time this year.
Claire points out the doorman, mentions a gym. She keeps pitching, but again I’m missing words, too distracted by the possible revelations ahead. We reach an elevator and go up.
“How is he?” Claire asks, our three bodies pressed tight.
“Who?”
“Mr. Brennett.”
I didn’t get into it on the phone, didn’t see the point. I simply asked Claire if she could show me more of what she showed Sydney. Now we’re face to face, inches apart, and I’ve got a little girl peering up at me, waiting for my answer.
I grab Joan’s hand and squeeze gently. “He’s great.”
Claire smiles.
The elevator lets us out and Claire guides us to a corner apartment. She’s giving us the whole rap: square footage, river views, bedrooms, bathrooms, amenities, finishes. But Claire is wasting her breath. I’m not buying anything.
She leads us to the first of two bedrooms, then, after an apology, excuses herself to take a phone call. Joan has to use the bathroom so I send her into the en suite.
Alone now in the master bedroom, I take a seat on the queen bed. We have a queen at home. I wanted to upgrade to a king, but Syd wouldn’t do it. He joked that we’d never see each other again.
It takes a lot of searching and luck to find a partner worthy of your bed. Sleep is so precious, and a partner cuts your space in half. They hog your blanket; they snore. But then you fall in love and you gladly invite one in. Over time your sleep patterns are no longer your own. The two of you form a joint routine. Years pass, and you barely remember the value you once placed in having a solitary bed. Until one day your partner travels for business and the bed is all yours again. You stretch out in every direction. When your pillow gets stale, you swap it out for the cold one. You sleep deeply that night. But then the second night arrives and it’s harder to find peace. The balance of the bed is off. You can’t achieve the right temperature in the room. Nothing you do fixes the problem. It’s a bed for two, not one. Your partner returns. You’re not so much relieved as stabilized. Things are back to normal. You tell him to roll over, he’s snoring. A part of you wishes you were alone again. Until the day comes when your partner never returns. You realize how wrong you were for not always cherishing your shared bed. You forgot the earliest lesson of love: a little discomfort is a small price to pay.
Joan exits the bathroom. She notices we’re alone and takes advantage of it. “Why did you lie about Sydney?”
I tell her the truth. “Sometimes it’s easier to lie.”
I’m not sure it’s the right lesson to teach her, but what can I say? I’m doing my best to navigate an awkward situation. Besides, it was just a fib. I’m here to uncover the real lies.
I look around the room, searching for potential clues. Syd was never in this exact room, but he was somewhere not too far from here, perusing a similar space. What was he looking for? If it was intended for both of us, why didn’t he let me know?
“I’m sorry about that,” Claire says, returning.
I stand up from the bed.
“So, this is the master bedroom.” She keeps her phone in her hand, pointing with a closed fist. “As you can see, the size is quite generous. You get gorgeous light through the window here. The closet is definitely roomy by city standards. And, of course, the en suite bath.”
“It’s very nice,” Joan says.
Claire smiles and turns to me. “Any questions?”
“Not at the moment.”
Claire pushes on with the tour, leads us into a modest second bedroom. “This could work for an office or maybe a child’s room. I know Mr. Brennett was envisioning a place suitable for a family.”
She checks my face, waiting for confirmation. The charade is getting harder to pull off. I know I’m supposed to be an actor, but real-life performing is different. “Let me ask you, Claire. When you met with him, did he happen to mention why he was in town? Where he was coming from? Where he was off to next? Anything like that?”
“I don’t think so,” she says, flustered. Clearly these weren’t the types of questions she’d been anticipating. She refers to her phone, hoping to find the answers in the client profile she created. When that doesn’t work, she offers one resolute shake of her head.
I look over at Joan, who seems equally annoyed. No one is able to offer the level of detail she can. If only I could take her with me everywhere, I’d always have a complete vision of life instead of one riddled with holes.
Claire walks us through the kitchen and back to where the tour started. She’s still talking up the apartment, but we’re done listening. Joan looks bored out of her mind and I can’t keep my performance going for one more second.
“Thanks so much,” I say. “I’ll let you know.”
“Please do,” Claire says. “And again, this apartment is a pretty close comp to what I previously showed Mr. Brennett. I’m not sure what you thought of that one. Sometimes the pictures don’t do it justice. And honestly, I saw the pictures his photographer took and they weren’t nearly as good as the ones my guy shot.”
I’m not sure I heard her right. “What photographer?”
“The one he brought with him.”
I glance at Joan, who looks just as confused as I am, but for different reasons. “Do you remember his name?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Claire says, retrieving the apartment keys from her purse. “And actually, if I’m remembering correctly, I believe it was a her.”
High above us, the glass top of a building blends with the blue summer sky. Lower, a dozen trees sway in elegant harmony. Surrounding voices join in a soothing white noise. For a moment, I can almost be fooled into thinking the world is at peace.
“So, are you going to buy that place?” Joan asks. She’s lying in the Washington Square Park grass, chewing on the soft pretzel I bought her from a street cart.
“No,” I say, seated behind her along the concrete perimeter.
“Then why were we looking at that apartment?”
I have to question whether I should be sharing so much of my life with this ten-year-old girl. I keep forgetting that she’s just a child, maybe because her parents seem content not to treat her like one. Maybe the fact that she is a child is what makes her so easy to talk to. Unlike an adult, she’s eager to listen and not eager to judge.
“Syd and I had talked about moving out here,” I say. “He thought if we were going to start a family, our child should have a relationship with its grandmothers.”
The problem was I finally had a steady gig in Los Angeles and wasn’t ready to move back east. Nor was I quite ready to be a father, even though I went along with the plan and participated in the process. Unlike Syd, I was relieved that we’d faced some setbacks on our journey to become parents. Actually, it was my own foot-dragging that caused part of the delay. And yet it would appear Syd couldn’t stop himself from preparing for the day when at last we could start our family.
I’m not sure what to make of the news that he wasn’t alone while he was looking at properties. I wouldn’t know where to start in trying to figure out who the photographer was. Syd had a massive network of creative types to call on: filmmakers, composers, designers.
“You’re being very quiet,” Joan says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Come sit on the grass.”
I join her on the lawn. The bristly blades tickle my bare legs. She breaks me off a piece of pretzel but my stomach is already at capacity with all the carbs I just consumed.
“Why don’t you tell me one of your Sydney memories?” Joan says.
And I was just getting comfortable. “Really? Right now?”
“Yeah. What’s your best memory? Your absolute favorite one.”
I think about it. And think some more.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it would be just a regular night, him and me lying in bed, watching bad TV or something. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but honestly, I can’t think of many things I’d rather do right now.”
She’s not satisfied. “But what about one night that sticks out from all the rest?”
She’s right. I should have an answer. I should have a hundred answers. The question should be difficult because I have too many great nights to choose from, not because I can’t come up with a single one. All my memories of Sydney have been sucked into one swirling blur in my mind.
The disappointment on Joan’s face is nothing compared to what I feel inside. “Sorry. I’ll have to get back to you on this.”
“Think about it.”
“I will,” I say, but I don’t know if it’s true. I’m not sure I can take any more thinking. I’m still trying to figure out some way not to have to think at all. At least, not to have to think of him.