‘Upstairs? There’s an upstairs?’
I ran, trying not to look down, until I came to a small escalator. This led to yet another observation deck, this one even more packed with visitors. I felt despairing, had a sudden vision of him moving downstairs on the opposite side, even as we spoke. And I would have no way of knowing.
‘Sam!’ I yelled, my heart thumping. ‘Sam!’
A few people glanced at me but most continued looking outwards, taking selfies or posing against the glass screen.
I stood in the middle of the deck and shouted, my voice hoarse, ‘Sam?’
I jabbed at my phone, trying to send the message again and again.
‘Yeah, cell-phone coverage is patchy up here. You lost someone?’ said a uniformed guard, appearing beside me. ‘You lost a kid?’
‘No. A man. I was meant to meet him here. I didn’t know there were two levels. Or so many decks. Oh, God. Oh, God. I don’t think he’s on either of them.’
‘I’ll radio over to my colleague, see if he can give him a shout.’ He lifted his walkie-talkie to his ear. ‘But you do know there’s actually three levels, lady?’ He pointed upwards. At this point I let out a muffled sob. It was twenty-three minutes past seven. I would never find him. He would have left by now. If he was ever even here in the first place.
‘Try up there.’ The guard took my elbow and pointed to the next set of steps. And turned away to speak into his radio.
‘That’s it, right?’ I said. ‘No more decks.’
He grinned. ‘No more decks.’
There are sixty-seven steps between the doors to the second deck of 30 Rockefeller Plaza and the final, uppermost, viewing deck, more if you are wearing vintage satin dancing heels in fuchsia pink with the elastic straps cut off that really weren’t made for running in, especially in a heat-wave. I walked slowly this time. I mounted the narrow flight of steps and, halfway up, when I felt something in me might actually burst with anxiety, I turned and looked behind me at the view. Across Manhattan the sun glowed orange, the endless sea of glittering skyscrapers reflecting back a peach light, the centre of the world, going about its business. A million lives below me, a million heartbreaks big and small, tales of joy and loss and survival, a million little victories every day.
There is a great consolation in simply doing something you love.
In those last few steps I considered all the ways in which my life was still going to be wonderful. I steadied my breath and thought of my new agency, my friends, my unexpected little dog with his wonky, joyful face. I thought of how in less than twelve months I had survived homelessness and joblessness in one of the toughest cities on earth. I thought of the William Traynor Memorial Library.
And when I turned and looked up again, there he was, leaning on the ledge and looking out across the city, his back to me, hair ruffling slightly in the breeze. I stood for a moment as the last of the tourists pushed past me, and I took in his broad shoulders, the way his head tipped forward, the soft dark hair at his collar, and something altered in me – a recalibrating of something deep within so that I was calm, just at the sight of him.
I stood and I stared and a great sigh escaped me.
And, perhaps conscious of my gaze, at that moment he turned slowly and straightened, and the smile that spread slowly across his face matched my own.
‘Hello, Louisa Clark,’ he said.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks to Nicole Baker Cooper and Noel Berk for their generosity and wisdom relating Central Park and the Upper East Side, and for giving me such a clear window into these very specific worlds. Any deviation from the facts are entirely my responsibility and there to serve the purposes of the plot.
Huge gratitude also to Vianela Rivas of the New York Library service for taking the time to show me around Washington Heights public library. My fictional library is not an exact replica, but its creation has certainly been informed by the invaluable public service the real version and its staff provide. Long may it continue.
Thank you, as ever, to my agent, Sheila Crowley, and my publisher, Louise Moore, for their continuing faith and endless support. Thanks also to the many hardworking people at Penguin Michael Joseph who help shape this raw material into something publishable, particularly: Maxine Hitchcock, Hazel Orme, Matilda McDonald, Clare Parker, Liz Smith, Lou Jones and Claire Bush, Ellie Hughes and Sarah Harwood. Thanks also to Chris Turner, Anna Curvis and Sarah Munro as well as Beatrix McIntyre, and Lee Motley for cover design. Thank you also to Tom Weldon, and beyond that, all the unsung heroes in bookshops who help get us authors out there.
Massive gratitude to everyone who works alongside Sheila at Curtis Brown for your continued support, especially Claire Nozieres, Katie McGowan, Enrichetta Frezzato, Mairi Friesen-Escandell, Abbie Greaves, Felicity Blunt, Martha Cooke, Nick Marston, Raneet Ahuja, Alice Lutyens, and of course Jonny Geller. In the US, thank you yet again to Bob Bookman.
Thank you for enduring friendship, professional advice, lunch, tea and inappropriate beverages to Cathy Runciman, Monica Lewinsky, Maddy Wickham, Sarah Millican, Ol Parker, Polly Samson, David Gilmour, Damian Barr, Alex Heminsley, Wendy Byrne, Sue Maddix, Thea Sharrock, Jess Ruston, Lisa Jewell, Jenny Colgan and all at Writersblock.
Closer to home, thank you to Jackie Tearne, Claire Roweth, Chris Luckley, Drew Hazell, the staff at Bicycletta, and everyone who helps me do what I do.
Love and thanks to my parents – Jim Moyes and Lizzie Sanders – Guy, Bea and Clemmie, and most of all to Charles, Saskia, Harry and Lockie and BigDog (whose inclusion in ‘family’ will surprise nobody who knows her).
Final thanks to Jill Mansell and her daughter Lydia, whose generous donation to the Authors for Grenfell appeal mean that Lydia is now immortalized as a gum-chewing, cigarette-smoking vintage clothes-store owner.