An English Boy in New York (26 page)

‘You need to think big,' Brandi said.

‘Brandi,' I said. ‘Were you not there today? I lost. The machine won.'

‘So what?'

‘So Mr D'Angelo doesn't want the Hoopie now. No one wants the Hoopie.'

‘I want the Hoopie,' Gavin said.

‘You want the Hoopie?' Brandi asked.

‘I want the Hoopie.'

I peered at him in the bright street lights. Jolly taxis whizzed by a few metres away. Gavin seemed perfectly serious.

‘I'll buy the Hoopie,' he said. ‘Give you some start-up cash. You can get some machines, start a production line.'

‘And what cut would you take?' I asked, the
Dragon's Den
having rubbed off on me a little, it seemed.

‘Fifty per cent of profits,' he said.

‘Net or gross?'

‘Net.'

I stood and thought this over. Is this what I wanted? Is this what I'd been fighting for? Handed to me on a plate.

‘Think it over,' Gavin said. And we kept on walking.

10.42pm

I stood in the doorway of the hotel room, staring, trying to comprehend what this thing was that had appeared in my room.

‘Come on, Ben,' Gex said, pushing past me. ‘What's the hold-up? I'm touching cloth.'

I let him in and he rushed into the bathroom, ignoring the alien object that had somehow transported itself into our hotel room. On the outside, it looked very much like a suitcase. One with two wheels and an extendible handle. I used to have a suitcase just like it, I thought to myself. Aeons ago. Before a warp portal had opened up at Heathrow Terminal 5, and sucked it into another dimension, never to return.

And yet here it was. Or more likely an alien shape-shifter which had taken on its form. The chances of BA having found the actual suitcase and brought it here to my hotel room were too remote to be seriously considered.

I approached the being.

‘Do you speak English?' I asked it.

It didn't respond, so I slung it on the bed and opened it.

My clothes! My Stiletto! My knitting!

Throwing caution to the wind, I took out the half-finished Hampton FC scarf and fondled the weave affectionately. My phone was low on battery but turned on OK. I had a few messages, and a text from Freddie saying Mr McGavin and his dad both wanted a Hampton FC scarf just like Dad's. There was a text from Megan too, sent before I'd destroyed her family.

I'm such a bellend.

6.56am

We went to Dino's for one last stack of waffles the next morning. Gex was very unhappy about being awake so early. Trey and Brandi were coming around at 7.30 to collect us in a big car to take us to the airport.

‘So are you going to take the money?' Mum asked.

‘That's the smart thing to do, I suppose,' I said.

‘But?'

‘What makes you think there's a but?'

‘I can hear it in your voice.'

‘The but is this,' I began. ‘I hadn't meant to get into this Boy vs Machine DeathMatch. It wasn't my idea. But all that stuff I said about wanting to reclaim knitting. You know, reclaim hand-made and take back knitting from the machines? It all made real sense to me. I actually do believe that.'

‘You feel you'd be a hypocrite to go and buy a knitting machine now?'

‘It's more than that,' I said. ‘I don't want the Hoopie to be knitted by a machine. I want it to be knitted by hand.'

‘You like the imperfections.'

‘I like imperfections,' I agreed. ‘I like flaws.'

I thought of Jessica Swallow's wonky teeth, compared to Brandi's magnificent dental showpiece. I thought of Hampton FC trudging around a muddy pitch, compared to the glamorous professionalism of the Mets. I thought of dusty old Pullinger's on the high street, compared to the retail heaven that is Bloomingdale's.

‘I love it here, Mum,' I said. ‘Don't get me wrong. But it's time to go home.'

We met up with Trey, Brandi and Gavin in the lobby of the hotel. While Gex and Dad went up to get the bags and Mum chatted to Brandi and Gavin, Trey came over to talk to me.

‘It's been good to know you, Ben,' Trey said. ‘I had a lot of fun.'

‘Me too,' I said. And the thing was, despite everything, I meant it. It had been an amazing week.

‘Could I have a word, Ben?' Gavin asked, coming over. We retired to a quiet couch.

‘Have you thought any more about my offer?' he asked. ‘I'm totally serious.'

‘The thing is –' I began.

‘Sell me the US rights to the Hoopie,' Gavin cut in. ‘I can't pay as much upfront, but you'll still get a cut.'

‘Go on,' I said.

‘Here's the deal,' Gavin said. ‘I'll give you a thousand dollars, in cash right now, for the US rights to the Hoopie design. If it goes into production. If we can firm up those orders you got. If we can make a profit, then you get five per cent of that.'

‘Gross profit, or net profit?'

‘Net, of course.'

‘Ten per cent,' I said.

‘Deal,' he said, holding out his hand.

‘Ah,' I said to Jasmine as I checked out. ‘I thought the extra charges were being picked up by the Knitting Guild Association of America.' The others were stuffing themselves and our luggage into Trey's car out in front of the hotel.

‘I don't think so, Ben,' she said apologetically.

‘And how much are they?'

‘The minibar bill comes to $492.65 including deep-cleaning the fridge. The room-service tab is $389.25.'

That only left me $118.10. I'd gone overdrawn by $95.00 at Bloomingdale's on Saturday rescuing Gex, so only had $23.10 left.

I sighed and counted out the notes. It had been nice for the twelve seconds it had lasted. Jasmine gave me the change and I jingled the thin coins in my hand.

‘Come on, Ben,' Mum shouted from the kerb. ‘All the bulkheads will be gone.'

I said goodbye to Jasmine for the last time and walked out of the hotel.

‘Want some ADVICE?'

‘Hello,' I said, holding my breath. I regarded my homeless guy, clutching his cup. A knitted rabbit poked out of his filthy coat pocket. ‘Tell you what,' I said. ‘I'll give you some money. But I don't want any advice.'

‘You don't?'

‘No. Instead. I want to give
you
some advice.'

‘OK,' he said agreeably, rattling the cup at me.

I dropped the coins into the cup, then after a moment's hesitation, I stuffed the notes in too.

‘What's the advice?' the man asked, his eyes lighting up.

‘Please have a bath,' I said.

He stared at me in puzzlement.

‘Take a
goddam bath
,' I said in my best New York accent. ‘You stink worse than a Costa Rican love toad.'

I left him sniffing his armpits and got into the car. Maybe I was a little bit New York after all.

Got a text from Joz on the way to the airport.

Oh well, at least I'd accomplished one thing on this trip. It did mean I had to knit a scarf on the flight back home.

3.12pm – Somewhere over the Atlantic

Mum's asleep. We just had an interesting conversation.

At JFK I told her that she should sit with Dad up in Executive Club. I was relieved they seemed to have got through the Diablo issue.

‘No, I'm OK,' she said. ‘I'm happy to sit with you. If you don't mind?'

‘No, I don't mind,' I said. I'd had enough of Gex for a while. ‘I'm surprised though,' I said. ‘I thought you and Dad were having a second honeymoon. There was certainly a lot of  …  innuendo.'

‘Oh, don't get me wrong, Ben,' she said. ‘I had a lovely time. It's just your father  … '

‘Yes?'

‘Well, I think perhaps he was trying a little hard?'

‘He was a little jealous of Diablo?'

‘He was,' she said. ‘And he overcompensated. Flowers, dancing, romantic meals. Frankly, I'm looking forward to getting away from him for a few hours.'

7.43pm – Hampton

OK. There have been events.

As the plane taxied to the landing gate, I turned on the Stiletto and checked my messages wondering if Megan might have sent something welcoming me back home. OK, so it wasn't very likely, and I wasn't surprised to see I had no texts apart from one from Freddie asking me if he could copy my geography homework. He seemed to have forgotten I'd been in America. I checked my emails. Nothing. But just as I went to turn off the phone in disgust, I saw a little red phone on the Skype logo. A missed call.

I opened Skype. Had Megan tried to get in contact? The plane had now reached the terminal and I heard the
clunk-hiss
of the doors being opened.

But no. It wasn't Megan. It was Mrs Frensham, of all people.

Mrs Frensham had tried to skype me? I clicked on the call button as people started to shuffle past. Mum reached up to get her bag out of the overhead locker. Mrs Frensham's phone rang, and rang, and rang.

‘Come on Ben,' Mum said. ‘I want to get home.'

‘Sorry,' I said, turning the phone to silent. ‘Let's go.'

But in the queue for passport control I felt the phone vibrate. I whipped it out. There, on the wide screen, in digital immensity, was Mrs Frensham.

Suddenly her face loomed as she brought the phone to her mouth, giving me an excellent view of her gold fillings.

‘Hello? Hello?' she said, deafening me. ‘I want to speak to Ben!'

‘Hello, Mrs Frensham,' I said. ‘Pull back a bit, I can see your lunch.'

‘Sorry.'

‘That's better,' I said as she sat back. ‘I can't believe you've worked out how to use Skype.'

‘It's an emergency,' she said. ‘Lottie's dying.'

‘Megan's gran?' I asked after a pause. ‘Is she genuinely dying?'

Mum and I exchanged a quick look.

Mrs Frensham nodded. ‘Yes, she is. She's in St Andrew's Respite home. I went and visited today.'

‘Oh, I hadn't realised it was that serious,' I said.

‘Megan's very upset,' Mrs Frensham went on. ‘She was close to Lottie.'

‘Right.'

‘I thought you'd want to know,' Mrs Frensham said.

‘Thank you,' I said. A man behind me in the queue coughed meaningfully and I realised the family in front had moved on. I shuffled forward.

‘She's been getting worse over the last couple of weeks,' Mrs Frensham said.

‘Megan didn't tell me,' I said. No wonder the Hoopers were so cross I'd told Marcus that his gran was in hospital.

‘She didn't want to spoil your trip,' Mrs Frensham said. ‘She's always been thoughtful, that girl.'

I am such a complete idiot. While poor Megan had been sitting by her gran's bedside, worried sick, I'd been flirting with waitresses and PR girls in New York, accusing her of being unfaithful. No wonder she was cross with me. No wonder she'd spent time with Sean. No wonder she'd forgotten to draw her curtains properly.

‘What should I do?' I asked Mrs Frensham desperately.

She shook her head at my idiocy.

‘You could start with some flowers,' she said simply.

‘Yes,' I said, ‘flowers. Of course.'

Then I had to hang up because we were at passport control. The bearded immigration officer waved us through and Mum and I rushed down the corridor to the baggage collection area. Dad and Gex were standing there, looking glum.

‘That's the problem with Executive Club,' Mum said. ‘You might get off the plane quicker, but that just means you have even longer to wait for your bags.'

I looked up at the monitor anxiously. Our carousel hadn't been identified yet.

‘Don't wait,' Mum said, resting a hand on my arm. ‘We'll bring your bags back.'

‘Really?' I asked.

‘Yeah,' she said, smiling. ‘Go and see Megan.'

It took me a little over an hour to get to the respite home. I was lucky with the coach and the train from Woking. I stopped at Sainsbury's for the flowers because it was on the way and because the security guard always follows me very closely when I go into Waitrose these days. A nice lady at the respite home reception told me which way to go. I stood and took a deep breath, trying to calm my anxiety. Sometimes I wish I was asthmatic. It would be nice to have an inhaler to suck on in times like this. Maybe I need a Canadian inhaler.

I pushed open the door and went into a small waiting room. Mrs Hooper was in there talking to a man I didn't know. He turned and I took a sharp breath as I saw he wore a dog collar.
The priest!

‘Calm down, Ben,' Mrs Hooper said, reading my mind. ‘You're not too late.'

‘I'm sorry I  …  I mean, well, I'm sorry that  …  oh, you know what? I'm just sorry,' I said.

She nodded. ‘It's OK, you can go through. Megan's in there with her.'

‘Are you sure?' I asked, suddenly even more anxious. I'd never seen someone dying before. Mrs Hooper raised an eyebrow and I reminded myself I wasn't there for myself, or even for Megan. I was there to bring flowers to someone who was very ill.

I pushed open the door and went in. The first person I saw was Megan, who was sitting in an armchair by the bed, reading a book. She looked tired, her hair a little flat and tied roughly back. She was beautiful. Megan looked up as I came in. Very briefly she smiled but then just as quickly fixed her expression into one of tight-lipped disapproval. But it had definitely been there. A little flash of happiness that made me think I'd made the right call in rushing here. Despite everything, she was pleased to see me.

Her gran lay in the bed under a chintz cover. Tiny and grey, she slept. Flowers and cards occupied every available space. I looked around for somewhere to put my flowers. I knocked a vase over and had to snatch at it to stop it smashing on the floor. In doing so, I knocked about thirty
Thinking-of-You
cards over. I dropped my flowers as I tried to pick the cards up. Megan watched me, clearly exasperated at my ineptitude.

Eventually she told me to stand to one side while she sorted everything out.

‘Sorry,' I said.

‘What for?'

‘For not being here.'

‘You had your thing,' she sighed.

‘This was more important.'

She turned to me, looking me in the eye properly.

‘No, Ben,' she said. ‘I understand how important knitting is to you. And of course you had to go to New York. Don't feel sorry about that.'

‘But I should feel sorry about everything else.'

‘Yes,' she said. Lottie stirred and Megan moved to straighten the pillows.

‘Well, I am sorry,' I said. ‘I should have trusted you.'

‘Yes.'

‘I should have understood why you couldn't come.'

‘Yes.'

I just managed to catch myself before saying, ‘I shouldn't have twerked with Melanee.'

She smiled at me. ‘How was the Empire State Building?'

‘I didn't quite make it,' I admitted.

‘You went to New York and didn't see the Empire State Building?'

‘Well, I
saw
it. Just from a distance. I
did
see a crocheting monkey.'

Lottie stirred again. And Megan put a hand on the old lady's forehead.

‘Well, I suppose I should go,' I said. ‘I just came to bring the flowers  … '

Megan turned back to face me. It was a bit cramped in there.

‘If you think that's best,' she said. She really was beautiful. She didn't need mounds of hair. She didn't need expensive teeth.

There was quite a long pause. The only sound was the ticking of an old clock on the window ledge.

‘I  … ' I said, trailing off.

‘You  …  ?'

There was another long pause, finally broken by a voice from the bed.

‘Kiss her, Simon,' Lottie said. I looked over to see that Lottie was sitting up in bed and peering at us expectantly.

‘Yeah, go on,' Megan said. ‘Kiss me, Simon.'

So I did.