‘Lucy Hemmingway . . . um . . . senior coordinator.’
I just made that up. I don’t actually have a title.
‘I’m here to oversee the delivery and installation of a collection of artwork.’
I want to appear super professional. Like someone who’s completely in control of every situation. Someone who’s efficient, organised and, well, basically like my sister.
I do not – repeat not – want to appear like someone whose approach to problem-solving is ignoring something and hoping it goes away, who writes lists only to lose them and once hit ‘reply all’ to a friend’s birthday evite and asked if she was still having sex with her ex.
‘Ah, yes.’ The doorman nods gravely. ‘I’ve been given instructions to expect you.’ Pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose, he flicks his eyes to the paintings, which are being unloaded on to a trolley by Mikey. ‘I’m to take you up to the penthouse.’
My stomach gives a little flutter. It’s that penthouse thing again. You c>
‘If you’d care to follow me.’
With Mikey in charge of pushing the trolley, I dutifully follow the doorman through the doorway and enter a large marbled lobby, complete with trickling water feature, button-back leather sofas and oversized vases filled with the kind of exotic-looking flower arrangements that you know cost an absolute fortune.
‘The elevator is straight ahead.’
I’m trying to appear completely nonchalant and unimpressed, but my head is swivelling from side to side like a barn owl. It’s a bit different to my lobby, with its obstacle course of bikes, pushchairs and piles of mail to negotiate. And that’s before you even begin to climb the three flights of stairs to mine and Robyn’s apartment. Stairs, by the way, that are so steep they make the ones up the sides of the Mayan pyramids at Chichen Itza in Mexico seem like a walk in the park.
‘Whoa, fancy,’ whistles Mikey from behind the trolley. ‘You must have some celebrities living here, right?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that kind of information,’ replies the doorman stiffly.
Mikey throws me a look and mouths, ‘Madonna.’
I break into a grin, despite myself, and stifle a giggle.
Ahead of us, I notice a lift, the doors of which are just about to close. ‘Oh look,’ I say, gesturing to it, ‘just in time.’ I make a dash towards them, but the doorman stops me.
‘The penthouse has its own private elevator.’
‘It does?’
He turns the corner, where another lift is waiting for us.
Crikey. There’s posh and there’s then posh.
Maybe Mikey’s right. Maybe Madonna does live here.
Buzzing with anticipation, I step into the lift. It’s quite tight inside and we have to shuffle up against each other as the door slides closed. The doorman presses the button with a ceremonious stab of his white-gloved finger and we start travelling upwards, climbing steadily higher and higher. I feel my stomach drop as we gather speed. Gosh, we really are going quite high, are™€uite high caren’t we? Now my ears are even starting to pop.
I try swallowing to unblock them. Nope, they’re still blocked. I know, maybe if I yawn . . . Hiding behind my hand, I give a couple of hippo-sized yawns, but nothing. My ears are still well and truly blocked. So much so I can’t hear anything.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice the doorman. He’s looking at me expectantly, the way people do when they’ve asked you a question and are waiting for your reply. Shit. Trying to look as natural as possible, I throw him what I hope looks like the confident smile of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and not someone who can’t hear a bloody thing as their ears are popping like crazy.
Honestly, you’d think I never go in elevators.
You don’t, pipes up a little voice. You hate them.
My nerves wobble. With everything that’s been going on, I’ve managed to block that out, but now I feel the familiar creeping anxiety. Still, it’s no biggie. It’s not like I’m phobic or anything. I just prefer to use the stairs.
Ever since you got stuck in one at art college and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.
I feel a flash of panic, but ignore it. I’ll be fine. Totally fine. That was a crappy old lift in the student union at Manchester Poly. This is New York. Home of the skyscraper. People use elevators all the time here.
Elevators are just lifts in American clothing, and you’re scared of lifts. You have nightmares about the cords