‘A isling,’ John calls from the bathroom while I’m perusing the pillow menu for the seventh time. Our pillows are actually lovely and I’m loath to order new ones, but it seems like an awful waste not to sample everything that’s on offer. Maybe I’ll do it this evening after I look up what buckwheat seeds are and why I should be resting my head on them.
‘Yeah?’ I call back.
‘I think it’s safe to say we missed the hotel breakfast?’
‘It was worth it.’
He pops his head around the doorframe of the bathroom, eyes twinkling. ‘Will you marry me?’
I shriek and fling one of the perfect pillows at him. He must have asked me six times last night. One time I nearly said yes, because he was on top of me and I’ve never felt closeness like it. Now, as he finishes up in the bathroom, I have a question for him. ‘John?’
‘Yep?’
‘Why did you propose to me the other night?’
He turns off the tap and comes to lean on the doorframe, thinking for a second. ‘Because that was always what you wanted.’
My heart sinks. I can’t go back to this again.
‘And now it’s what I want too.’
We stare at each other, and then he frowns. ‘No, wait, that sounds selfish, does it? Like, it’s not just that because I want it now it should happen. I just mean that I was stupid before and now I’m, eh, less stupid?’
That gets a laugh out of me.
‘Anyway, you didn’t even say yes. What’s with that?’
‘Excuse me, I don’t just say yes to any strange man who shows up on my doorstep proposing marriage.’
He feigns shock but quickly reverts to being serious. ‘No, really, was it a terrible thing to do?’
‘No, it was very sweet. And I can’t believe you bought a ring in Dubai airport. That’s extremely cute.’
His mouth turns down. ‘Cute. Sweet. Just the words I was hoping for.’
I hate to hurt his feelings but the truth is marriage is not the priority it was for me a couple of years ago. And besides, not that long ago both of us were in relationships with other people.
‘Look, I can’t remember the last time I actually thought about getting married. Maybe that will change again, but it just seems a bit … what’s the word? Like, kind of arbitrary to me right now. Obviously I love you.’
He smiles and then looks thoughtful for a second. ‘I don’t think marrying you would be arbitrary.’
‘I know. But it’s just not necessary right now. For me, anyway.’
‘Okay, I respect that. Doesn’t mean I won’t stop asking, though.’ He smiles cheekily. ‘Are you getting up or what? I’m starvers.’ He’s pulling on a navy wool jumper over a white T-shirt, and while the thought of him living in Dubai with another woman is not something I want to dwell on, between this and the Calvin Klein underpants he had on yesterday, the shopping over there did wonders for his wardrobe.
I slide out from under the luxurious duvet and feel for my nightdress, shy now that the mid-morning winter sun is coming in through the gap in the curtains.
‘If this was a film, I’d have a big white shirt for you to put on.’ John laughs at me. ‘I’ll wear a white shirt this evening and then you can wear it in the morning.’ He’s already over to me and pressing into me, not laughing any more.
‘No, come on, we have to find some breakfast and do something.’ I push him away gently.
‘Right, grand, sorry. I just can’t help myself. Pawing away at you.’
I feel an immense rush of power and confidence and kind of shimmy towards the bathroom, hoping my effort to drop my nightdress strap off my shoulder doesn’t look like I’m having a stroke. ‘Well, you can paw away at yourself there now while I have a shower.’
****
It’s lunch we’re looking at by the time we’re out and about, dodging the slushy piles of dirty snow with our hands swinging by our sides, occasionally and painfully almost touching. Holding hands seems so intimate and couple-y, and I don’t think either of us knows if it’s the right thing to do.
‘What are you hungry for?’ I ask him after two blocks of peering at menus and hemming and hawing. ‘Do you know what I’d love? Italian. Really good pasta.’
One of the dream meals that comes to mind when I’m really starving is Mammy’s spaghetti Bolognese. I can still remember the first day she made it, after getting a taster from one of the Dolmio demo ladies in the supermarket. Life-changing stuff.
John looks at me, inspired. ‘Jesus, yeah, that would be lovely.’
I pull out my phone. ‘I actually starred a place near here. One of the girls told me the bread is amazing, and there are pictures of Martin Scorsese on the walls.’
‘Sold!’
****
We’re the first customers into Tony Baletti’s for lunch. In fact, the door was locked when we arrived, but just as we were about to walk away a terrifying man – Tony? – with a pencil behind his ear and a phone in each hand ushered us in and silently pointed at a table for two in the middle of the small restaurant. And there are pictures of Martin Scorsese on the wall, along with Tom Hanks, Tina Fey and Will Smith. Our eyes are on stalks as we shuffle our coats off onto the backs of our chairs.
‘Lookit, that’s Jennifer Lopez,’ John whispers, pointing to a picture of Jennifer Lawrence, and I don’t bother to correct him because I’m sure there’s a picture of JLo here too.
I grab his arm. ‘Look, look, Liam Neeson. And Colin Farrell!’ I feel strangely patriotic seeing the lads up there with Tony and his staff. It’s like when someone Irish appears on one of the late-night talk shows in America and they have to do the spiel about how demented Irish names are and we all roll our eyes at home even though we’re actually delighted and smug that we know it’s obviously pronounced ‘Donal’ and not ‘Dum-nail’.
As we’re gawping at the walls a waiter appears beside us and, in one fell swoop, whisks the coats off the backs of our chairs and lands menus, a wine list and a bread basket in front of us.
‘I’ll have the veal ragu,’ John blurts after a quick scan, his eyes on the focaccia.
‘Me too.’
‘Oh and –’ he scans the wine list ‘– the Montepulciano. The bottle.’ He pronounces it perfectly and gives me a little smile and all of a sudden I have a lump in my throat. It’s not even an emotion I can pinpoint. I just feel so content. Everything feels right – even with Tony now roaring into one of his phones and manning the door like he’s expecting a Mob hit at any second. We tear into the bread as the first glasses of red wine are poured.
John lifts up his glass. ‘To New York,’ he says, and we clink. ‘This is a trip I don’t think I’ll be forgetting in a hurry.’
‘Yeah, about that,’ I say, taking a delicious sip. ‘You haven’t told me how long you’re staying for. Three nights in the Plaza and then what?’
‘Well, we had other priorities.’ He laughs, holding my hand across the table.
I feel the blush creeping up my neck. ‘Of vital importance.’
‘But my flight is on Wednesday evening.’
‘That soon?’ The feeling of disappointment takes me by surprise. We’re only just getting to know each other again. The new us. We have so much to catch up on too.
‘When I was booking it, I thought three nights would be enough to say everything I wanted to say, but I wish I could change it now. I had to tell Mam about me and Megan, though, so she said herself and Dad would pick me up at the airport. I think she thinks I’ll be nursing a broken heart.’ Then he adds quietly, ‘I hate the thought of leaving you, Ais.’
‘I know, me too. But maybe it’s for the best. So much has happened in the past forty-eight hours.’
He looks disappointed but then jokes, ‘And me after proposing to you? But yeah, okay. Maybe you’re right.’
‘I think the distance will be good for us.’ I hope I sound more convinced than I feel. ‘Let things settle and go from there. You’re just out of a long-term relationship too, don’t forget. I don’t want to be your rebound.’
He looks mildly offended. ‘You’re far from that!’
‘I’m sure your folks will be thrilled to have you back home anyway.’
He bites into the focaccia. ‘Mam is already at me about getting a job. Jesus, this is good bread.’
John’s an engineer and used to work in a big multinational company before becoming the toast of the parish as the county team selector and then moving to Dubai.
‘No flies on Fran,’ I laugh.
The waiter deftly places two plates of steaming pasta smothered in a rich meaty sauce in front of us.
‘I have a plan that will keep her off my back, actually,’ John says, picking up his fork and digging in. ‘I’ve been thinking about opening my own gym in BGB. I think the village is ready.’
I mull it over for a second. ‘That’s a genius idea. Sharon looked into buying one of those Peloton bikes last year and nearly dropped dead at the price of it. If you do spinning classes I know she’d be all over it.’
‘The gym I joined in Dubai did everything – spinning, weights, yoga, dance classes. It put the idea in my head.’
I pick up my glass. ‘To good ideas.’ I smile, but I can’t stop thinking about him getting on that plane.
****
‘I can’t believe we were in there for nearly four hours! It felt like forty-five minutes.’
‘I can’t believe you made Tony take our picture for the wall. I wonder will he put it under the one of Sandra Bullock.’
I give John a dig as we carefully navigate the icy street, annoying New Yorkers just trying to get home before the snow gets any worse. ‘Oh, you’d recognise Sandra Bullock, alright, wouldn’t you?’
‘You know Sandra and I have had a very special relationship since I first saw Speed 2: Cruise Control at The Truck’s eighth birthday party.’
I slide my arm into his, grateful for the warmth and the sturdiness after the bottle of wine and three of Tony’s limoncellos. He said he’d email me his chef’s famous tiramisu recipe so I can send it to Carol back in BallyGoBrunch, and he made me promise not to tell Mandy I’d been in for lunch too. Apparently she rented the restaurant out five years ago for Taylor Swift’s intimate birthday dinner and then threw a shitfit because he refused to take down the picture of himself with Jake Gyllenhaal.
‘I bet Taylor didn’t even care,’ I reassured Tony. I was two glasses of Montepulciano in and felt like my dedication to listening to Taylor’s Red album in my early twenties means I know her inside out.
‘She didn’t!’ he shrieked. ‘She thought it was funny!’
John is creasing himself doing his impression of Tony as we head for ‘just one more’ in the vicinity of Central Park when I hear a familiar voice behind me calling my name. Aubrey. It’s Aubrey. I turn around to find her standing there in her ankle-length black puffer.
‘I thought that was you!’ Her cheeks are pink and her hair is frizzy from the snow. She’s carrying multiple bags from Wag and Bone and looks from me to John, just dying for me to fill her in.
‘John, this is Aubrey Weiss. We work together. Executive assistants.’ John holds out his hand for a big firm shake. ‘And Aubrey, this is my fr–, my … this is John.’
‘Hello there, John. Aisling, I’m so glad to see you in good spirits. When you took off work so suddenly I was worried it was something to do with home, with that toxic stench thing.’
‘Well, John actually is from home, so I suppose it is kind of connected. He’s in town unexpectedly so I just wanted to, em, make myself available.’
John looks at his feet and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
Aubrey, to be fair to her, glosses over my awkwardness. She holds out her bags. ‘Well, I was just out getting some more supplies for a certain dog’s birthday. Apparently, Clive Streisand can’t be around any non-precious metals so …’ She shrugs and I smile understandingly.
‘What the celebs want, the celebs get,’ I explain to John.
‘Okay, well I’d best be on my way.’ Aubrey rearranges the bags in her hands. ‘John, it was so lovely to meet you, and Aisling, I’ll see you on Wednesday? I’ve sourced Maggie’s turkey so we can focus on Bella Hadid’s menu. Her cousin is allergic to pecans.’
And with that, she’s gone. John and I walk on again, our cosy Tony’s glow pierced a little, but not completely gone.
‘So that’s Aubrey,’ he says as we pass lines of horses and carriages just dying to take us into Central Park.
‘That’s her alright. Doing just one of the crazy things we have to do for work.’
‘She seems really sound and really … efficient.’
‘She is. She’s been with Mandy for a few years now, but she’s hoping to open her own wedding-planning business back in Long Island some day if she can ever tear herself away from the city. It’s a tough job but the experience we get is second to none. I could do event planning in my sleep after this. I could do St Patrick’s Day at the Áras.’
‘It’s mad – you’re, like, really in it here. Working and knowing places to go and bumping into people on the street.’
‘Hey, I’m walkin’ heeya!’ I do my best New Yorker accent because I can feel him getting soppy.
He stops and tugs on the sides of the hood of my parka. ‘You’d think you’d get yourself a new winter coat.’ And he bends down to kiss me, but before his lips meet mine he puts his mouth to my ear and in his best Tony impression he growls, ‘Ais-a-ling, will you-a marry me?’