and I can feel the whole day stretching ahead of me. I could go home, but Robyn’s at her drumming circle and I don’t feel much like sitting in an empty apartment: me, Simon and Jenny, and piles of my hand-washing. I could call my sister, but she’ll either be at the gym or the office, or both. Or I could . . .
I draw a blank.
This is ridiculous. I’m in New York! The Big Apple! The city that never sleeps! There’s masses to do. I’ve been so busy since I arrived that I haven’t got round to doing any of the real touristy stuff yet. I could go up the Empire State, take a boat ride past the Statue of Liberty, go to Times Square.
All the things I wanted to do with Nate.
Suddenly my defiance takes a bit of a dip and for a split second I think about calling him, or maybe texting him. Then change my mind. I know, perhaps he’s texted me. Perhaps I just didn’t hear it beep. Hope flickers and I quickly tug out my phone and glance at the screen.
Nope. No text message. No missed call. No nothing.
For a moment I stare at my phone feeling upset. Then impulsively I turn it off. Otherwise I’ll just keep checking it all day. Shoving it firmly in my bag, I take a big gulp of coffee. I need to do something that will cheer me up. Like brown-paper packages tied up with string did for Julie Andrews. Only in my case my favourite thing’s not raindrops on roses; it’s art galleries. As soon as I walk through the door, it’s impossible to feel sad or depressed. Surrounded by all those ideas, all that imagination, all that creativity, my problems seem to fall away and I lose myself. It’s like being a kid again.
When I was living in London, I lost count of the number of hours, days, weeks probably that I spent at the National, the Portrait Gallery and Tate Modern. And before that, growing up in Manchester, the city’s Art Gallery was my refuge as a teenager. Art galleries are for me what Manolo Blahniks are for Carrie Bradshaw. I go there when I’m happy and when I’m sad. When I’m feeling lonely or I want to be alone. Not to mention that they’re the perfect heartbreak cure. Forget Bridget Jones and her Chardonnay, give me a Rothko any day.
Like today, I suddenly decide, feeling galvanised. Today is the perfect day to lose myself in a gallery, and where better than here in New York? The city is stuffed full of them. I’ve already visited quite a few since I’ve been here, but I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface. Plus I was saving the best until last: the Museum of Modern Art is arguably the best modern art gallery in the world.
I feel a buzz of excitement. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Great idea! Invigorated, I start striding off. Then a thou, I Thstifallou, I Tght hits me: I have absolutely no clue where I’m going.
I stop dead in the middle of the pavement and rummage around in my handbag. Digging out my pocket tourist guide, I look up the address: ‘11 West 53rd Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues.’ OK, well, that’s easy.
Sort of.
I pause uncertainly. I think it’s that way . . . but then it could be that way . . . or even that way. Shit. I think about doing my ‘Never Eat Shredded Wheat’ rhyme, then think again. Well, look where that got me last time.
‘Spare any change?’
A voice next to me interrupts my thoughts and I glance sideways and see a homeless man sitting on a piece of cardboard, drinking a beer. He holds out a tattered old polystyrene cup, containing a few quarters.
‘Oh, yes, of course . . .’ Emptying my pockets, I find a couple of dollar bills and stick them in his cup. ‘By the way, would you know the way to the Museum of Modern Art?’
OK, I know it’s a long shot, but still.
He peers at me from underneath his shaggy eyebrows, then grunts, ‘You mean the MoMA?’
‘Oh, erm . . . yeah, the MoMA.’
That will teach you to judge, Lucy Hemmingway.
‘Let me see . . .’ He scratches his long, bedraggled beard.
‘Is it that way?’ I ask hopefully, pointing across the street.
He looks at me as if I’m slightly barmy. ‘No, that way,’ he rasps, and points in a completely different