and on to the street to hail a cab.
Chapter Eleven
According to my New York tourist guide, there are thirteen thousand registered yellow taxi-cabs in Manhattan. In addition there’s all those other private-hire vehicles, and limos and black cars – I’m not sure exactly how many – but it’s a lot. Which means that basically there’s literally tens of thousands of taxis prowling the city.
And yet I can’t bloody find one of them!
Fifteen minutes later I’m still standing on the pavement. Waiting. OK, don’t panic, there must be a cab somewhere, there just must be, I tell myself, waving desperately at every passin g€ every p†g vehicle in the hope that one of them might be a cab.
Oh look, one’s stopping! Finally! Brilliant!
I feel a jolt of relief, swiftly followed by something else.
Er, actually, no, it’s not brilliant. It’s not a cab at all. It’s some creepy man in a car. And now he’s making a rude gesture.
Urgh . . . Jumping away from the kerb, I march quickly in the other direction – not so easy in three-inch heels – and continue scanning the traffic for a yellow light. But nothing. The knot in my stomach tightens a notch. Shit. I’m going to be late. Like really late. Like my romantic-dinner-with-Nate-is-going-to-be-ruined late.
No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I see a flash of yellow.
Hang on a minute, is that . . .?
Out of nowhere a cab appears and swerves up beside me. Oh my God, where did that just come from? For a moment I stare frozen in astonishment as it drops off its passengers next to me on the kerbside and flicks on its light. I mean, how can that be? One minute it wasn’t here and then the next . . .
Lucy, for God’s sake, just get in.
‘East Fifty-Seventh Street, please,’ I say to the driver, jumping inside. Gosh, listen to me – I sound like a proper New Yorker. Then smiling happily to myself, I can’t resist adding, ‘And step on it.’
Robyn is right – it’s super swanky.
Arriving uptown at the restaurant, the uniformed maître d’ leads me through the intimate dining room, with its subdued lighting and murmur of chinking cutlery, to a candlelit table tucked away in the corner. And Nathaniel, looking immaculate in his dark grey suit.
He’s chatting to someone on his iPhone. He sees me and smiles.
My stomach flips right over like a pancake.
‘Sorry, Joe, can I call you back?’ Then without missing a beat he says approvingly to me, ‘Wow, you look amazing.’
‘Thanks.’ I smile, my anxieties about what to wear melting away. I don’t know why I was so nervous. Nate’s seen me in his boxer shorts and a sweatshirt, my hair scraped back and not a scrap of make-up. Admittedly it was ten years ago, but still. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘I’m glad to see nothing’s changed,’ he says, standing up and giving me a kiss.
I feel a tug of longing. Yup, he’s right. Nothing’s changed.
‘So how was your day?’
Broken from my lustful reverie, I see the waiter pulling out my chair for me. ‘Oh, you know,’ I say, sitting down.
‘Busy? Me too.’ Nate nods consolingly, though that’s not exactly what I meant. To be truthful, it all passed in a blur of butterflies and anticipation of this evening. ‘We were filming all day in the studio. It was pretty exhausting.’
‘What were you filming?’ Knowing Nate, it’s most likely some drama or documentary about history or politics, which is what he majored in at Harvard.
‘A game show.’
‘A game show?’ I feel a snap of surprise, followed by something that feels like a tiny beat of disappointment. Which is ridiculous. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with game shows. My parents watch them all the time.
‘I know what you’re thinking – what is Nate doing producing game shows? – but in terms of viewing figures . . .’
‘No, not at all,’ I protest quickly. ‘I love game shows!’
So OK, that’s a bit of a fib. I can’t remember the last time I watched a game show. I think it was probably last Christmas at Mum and Dad’s, when we watched Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Kate was there too and she did her usual trick of answering all the questions before the contestant and getting them all correct. Me? I needed to phone a friend on the first one.
‘Really?’ Nate looks pleased. ‘Which one is your favourite?’
Shit.
‘Um . . . gosh, there are so many,’ I say vaguely. ‘It’s hard