Mistletoe on 34th Street Read online

  She looked up and furrowed her brow at me. ‘Hi?’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Just going to the Ladies. That OK?’

  ‘Sure, bit of a wait with this one though, you might want to try the back.’ I pointed, hoping she’d follow my gaze, but she didn’t, and behind me I heard the tap turn on in the cubicle. They’d be coming out any minute.

  A woman stepped into the aisle in front of Jasmine, who audibly sighed with impatience. The woman noticed, smiled at her and took her time getting her book from her bag up in the locker. I could have snogged this woman for buying me some time, but there were enough inappropriate shenanigans going on already.

  Buying Dee and Ian time, I should say. What were they doing in there? Get out, get out, get out. They’d better not be going a second round; this wasn’t Sex and the City.

  The tap switched off and I heard Dee whisper, ‘Got everything?’

  Book lady sat back down.

  Jasmine stepped closer towards me.

  The cubicle door unlocked.

  And a very minor jerk of turbulence saved the day.

  As the plane rocked I did the first thing that came to my head and hurled myself forward, tumbling into the aisle at Jasmine’s feet, wailing as I went down. She stared down at me, utterly perplexed, while the two people on the aisle seats next to me leapt up and without realising they were creating a human screen, blocked the view of the toilet cubicle behind them.

  ‘Ouch, owwwww, the turbulence … ’ I wailed.

  ‘It really wasn’t a big deal,’ said Jasmine, still doing nothing to help other than scowl. ‘They haven’t even switched on the seatbelt sign.’

  Dee’s face appeared between the two other passengers and looked down at me, flushed pink. ‘Liv? Are you OK?’

  I looked her in the eye. That’s right. I know. ‘Are you?’ I muttered, pulling myself up. Disaster averted. Their modesty would remain intact for now but I knew I’d never think about Christmas baubles in the same way again. ‘Thanks, everyone, I’m fine, I think I’ll be OK now, I’m just going to … ’ I edged back and into the toilet cubicle, snapping the lock shut behind me. Then my skin crawled because all I could think of was Ian’s naked bottom and what he and his shlongadong had been up to in here moments before.

  I peed – praise the lord – without any part of me touching any part of the bathroom, and then exited the toilet cubicle without another word to Jasmine who was waiting impatiently outside. Before turning back to my seat I looked over and caught Dee’s eye again, and she blushed furiously and pressed her nose into the sky mall catalogue.

  The remainder of the flight brought very little drama, unless you count Ian panicking that he hadn’t completed his ESTA visa waiver form, and then remembering half an hour later that, in fact, he had completed it after all.

  Eventually we landed in a clear-skied New York, safe and sound, with all thoughts of snow and storms behind us. Passport control took so long we all stopped making polite conversation and stood in weary silence, and by the time we blurred our way into baggage claim getting to the hotel was the only thing on anyone’s mind. Even Abigail had run out of interesting things to text to her boyfriend.

  One by one our bags came out, each of them enough of a distance from each other that it was one long nail-biting fest to see whose luggage had accidently been diverted to Kathmandu. I had five things to collect altogether: my bag, a giant poster tube, a big flat thing containing a cardboard cut-out of some cheery-looking youths, an extra case filled with paperwork, and a bubble-wrapped bag stuffed with giveaway knick-knacks that was supposed to be delivered straight to New York along with our other stuff, but turned up at our office just after everyone else had left for the Christmas party.

  Miraculously, everything arrived, so I herded my team and all their baggage out of the airport and onto a bus, yawning.

  The sky was inky black, but as the shuttle neared Manhattan – what seemed like hours after it left the airport – we all perked up. Christmas lights and room lights from a thousand skyscraper windows blanketed the city and I leant forward with excitement as the Empire State Building finally came into view. Despite all my stresses and strains, I did love this place – the women were powerful and respected, the architecture was jaw-dropping, and the youth were inspired to learn and help and be leaders. And with the low sounds of Nat King Cole playing on the bus’s radio, a small flame of Christmas spirit unwittingly ignited in my belly.

  I peeped over at Abigail, who was pressed against the window, her phone screen being held up next to her. Abigail saw me looking and whispered, ‘I want my boyfriend to see this with me for the first time, so we’re FaceTiming.’

  We drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and stop-started our way through the traffic in inner Manhattan. The bus was toasty warm but outside I watched locals wrapped to the nines, fingers curled around their hot coffees and feet bouncing up and down on the frosty pavements. Despite the cold there was merriment in the air, and as the bus trundled round the corner onto the magnificent Fifth Avenue I whipped my head back and forth like I was at a tennis match, trying to focus on the stunning, extravagant window displays we passed.

  Dee and Ian sat in the seat in front of me, and you’d never know they had a thang going on, other than the way they glanced at each other warmly as we passed Tiffany’s.

  ‘We’re here,’ I said into the darkness, when the shuttle came to a stop. My team flopped sleepily out onto the pavement in front of the Hotel Vue. Dee and Ian, Abigail, and of course Jasmine, all hung back while I pointed out our bags and boxes and tubes to the driver and sorted the tip and the thank yous, but this time, I didn’t even care that I was in charge of everything. I was in New York, and it felt good. I felt … home.

  ‘We’re here,’ I breathed.

  ‘Yippeeeee!’ cried Dee, but her cheer merged into a yawn. Abigail was just staring up at the nearest skyscraper in awe. Or she was asleep.

  ‘Come on then, let’s get inside.’

  The hotel lobby was warm and welcoming. A Christmas tree stood in the corner and the smiling doorman helped us with our bags. An enormous wreath hung above the reception, and the smell of hazelnut coffee emanated from a help-yourself urn by the lift, with Hotel Vue mugs stacked at the side.

  ‘Coffee,’ I declared, pointing. ‘We should coffee up, we can’t go to sleep yet or we’ll be up at two a.m.’ It was seven thirty p.m. New York time, which meant it was twelve thirty a.m. in the UK. ‘Does anybody want dinner?’

  I received a noncommittal noise from them all in reply as they stroked their bellies, full of rubbery plane pasta and Toblerones.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said a beautiful concierge in his twenties with dark skin I just wanted to lick. ‘We’re serving complimentary wine and cheese in our lounge until eight thirty, if your party just wanted to snack. You’ll also find fruit, crackers, cookies … it’s pretty tasty.’

  Suddenly everyone’s bellies weren’t so full and we agreed to dump our bags and meet back down in the lounge in ten minutes – any longer and I thought we’d lose people to their vast American beds. And eight minutes later, I was already there, sinking down into a cream leather sofa by a window that overlooked Madison Avenue, Christmas radio tinkling in the background. I took a long sip of Prosecco with a Mmmmmmm.

  Maybe I should live in New York. In this hotel. They have wine and cheese and little crackers in the shape of fish. I could blow the small house deposit I’d been building back up; I could forget work and responsibilities, and just live here. My sisters did it (minus the hotel) so why couldn’t I?

  Jasmine appeared and sat down opposite me with a sigh. Abigail perched beside me like I was some medieval king and she was my concubine.

  ‘Everything OK, Jasmine?’ I chirped. Just try to find something to complain about.

  Jasmine looked up at me, then at her surroundings, thoughtfully. Before she could answer Ian appeared with a plate bursting with cheeses.

  ‘Best. Hotel. Ev
er,’ he declared, and Jasmine sank back in her chair and stared out the window. ‘So what’s the plan tomorrow, boss? Do we need to be up and hailing cabs by the crack of dawn?’

  ‘Not really. The conference opens at ten, so we should be there for nine. I might go a little earlier than that just to figure everything out. You have the address and all the contact details in the conference pack I gave you, so if we don’t travel together feel free to jump in a cab to take you there in the morning. We’ll probably subway-it the other days though, to save a bit of money.’

  I took a yawn break and noticed Jasmine becoming visibly more slumped at the thought of having to use the subway.

  ‘Does anyone want to have a walk outside for a while? Try and stretch out the time before we go to sleep? We’re right by Fifth Avenue so I bet the Christmas shopping would be good … ?’

  That was met with nothing more than a fat load of yawns, and I thought, well screw you guys – I don’t want to hang out with you either. So I polished off my cheese, grabbed a takeaway cup full of hazelnut coffee and left the alluring cosiness of the hotel for the night air of New York City, on my own.

  One thing that never fails to amaze me about New York is how the whole place looks like a studio set. The brownstones really do have steps leading up to them that people sit on, people like Carrie Bradshaw. There really are basement-level bars on side streets like in How I Met Your Mother. Steam really does plume out of pipes poking from under ground in the middle of streets, like in all movies and all music videos ever. Being somewhere so familiar in so many ways made one feel very welcome, very at home.

  Fifth Avenue was amazing. The buildings a hundred storeys high, with elaborate Christmas lights climbing up the outside. Enormous festive window displays lured in the happy Christmas crowds, still thick and jolly even at eight o’clock at night.

  My legs were slowly turning to mush and I knew my sleepy self couldn’t walk far. Perhaps if I could speak to someone I’d last a little longer, because you don’t just fall asleep mid-conversation.

  I tried Anne, but there was no reply, just a thousand rings. Instead, I went into the first store I came to: a gigantic Hollister crammed full of shoppers and beautiful sales people pretending to fold clothes. However, I’d forgotten my head-torch, and if you’ve ever been into a Hollister you’ll know it’s the worst possible place to be if you need to stay awake because it’s so dimly lit you could probably nap on a stack of skinny jeans and would only wake when a frantic buyer nudged you out the way to find their size. So I left Hollister, crossed the street, and went a couple of doors down, to where the skyscrapers briefly halted to bow down to the ornate St Patrick’s Cathedral.

  I stood outside and gazed at it for a while. It was both a funny and humbling sight in the middle of an avenue full of towering glass and extreme wealth. The cathedral takes up a whole city block, its twin marble, Gothic spires rising over a hundred feet into the air. At this time of night it was lit up against the dark with gentle amber spotlights, and understated Christmas wreaths hung above the entrance and upon the two spires.

  Inside I could hear the soft sounds of carols being sung and an organ spilling melodies that rose up and out of the stained glass windows into the night air. I breathed it in, my tired body and brain relaxing into this feeling.

  My mind tried to wander to its familiar place of deep thoughts, worries and plans for tomorrow, but it didn’t have the strength. I’d been awake long enough. I looked up at the cathedral one last time, and then succumbed. It was time for bed. Goodnight, New York.

  15 December

  1 week, 3 days to Christmas

  I woke from a deep sleep to a world that was still pitch black. My eyelids fluttered open and it took me a moment to process where I was – the tight sheets, the blinking red light on the TV opposite the bed, the shrill ringing of my mobile.

  Urgh, hadn’t I just got to sleep? Goddamn you, jetlag, you arsehole.

  I sat up and tried to loosen my muscles. I was in the buff and my mouth tasted of yesterday’s blue cheese. My extreme-knackeredness the night before meant I’d stripped off my flight clothes and fallen face-first in the bed without even bothering to open my suitcase and retrieve my toothbrush. Hawt.

  ‘Hello?’ I croaked, stepping out of bed, pulling the whole duvet with me and moving across the carpet to the window.

  ‘Good morning! Are you here yet?’ Jon’s chirpy voice seeped into my ear.

  ‘No, isn’t it like, three a.m.?’ I pulled back the heavy hotel curtain to see that it wasn’t pitch black – it was more fireplace-ash-grey, and yellow cabs were already zooming past the hotel on the street below like they couldn’t believe their luck at the lack of gridlocked traffic.

  ‘It’s seven thirty – did I wake you?’

  ‘Seven thirty?! No, no, you didn’t wake me. I am up and raring to go.’ I scratched my boob and stifled a yawn. ‘Good morning to you too.’

  ‘HeForShe had to get here first thing to help set up for the keynote speaker – I’m such a moron it didn’t even occur to me you wouldn’t be here until later.’

  ‘Actually, you’ve provided the perfect wake-up call; I should get there a little early to find our stand, and name badges, and … ’ There was so much to do, it was a little overwhelming.

  But I could do it.

  ‘Do you need a coffee?’ I asked. One thing at a time.

  ‘I’d love a tea.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can get that for you here, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be there in about half an hour. Forty-five minutes. An hour tops.’

  I jumped in the shower, turning on the TV for some company, and stood under the hot water to let the plane journey and the shuttle bus and the groggy head slide off me and down the plughole, along with all the nutmeg-scented hotel toiletries I dumped upon myself. I ran through a mental to-do list for the day: get coffee, get team to conference, find stand, get everything set up, hope I don’t cock anything up, try not to trip over and pull stand down with me, get benefactors and interesting people to come on board with Girls of the World, enjoy self. But mainly don’t cock anything up.

  Stepping sleepily from the shower, I allowed a short moment to observe myself in the bathroom mirror, and wondered if I’d feel more boss-like if I had arms like Michelle Obama. Probably not – it was a fear of saying something so idiotic that Girls of the World became an internet-meme laughing stock and crumbled to the ground, all because of me, rather than my physical appearance. But even so, thank God I had my Hillary Clinton-inspired business woman outfit with me for day one of the conference. Though I had voted for matching conference Tshirts, like we usually had, but damn democracy got in the way and it was vetoed by the others who ‘just this once wanted to look like stylish New Yorkers’.

  I padded towards my suitcase, one eye on E! News – what had Bieber done now? – and unzipped its thick black lid.

  Where was my power suit?

  Where were my clothes?

  Why was my suitcase full of humongous men’s Y-fronts?

  No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. I closed the lid with a bang and checked the luggage label.

  WHO THE HELL WAS TIMOTHY TAM?

  I couldn’t have picked up the wrong bag at baggage claim. I can’t have not checked the label. I can’t only have yesterday’s smelly, crumpled clothes to wear to represent my company – to represent all the youth and the next generation of Girls of the World everywhere in New York City.

  Oh God, was there anything I could fashion out of a pair of Y-fronts?

  I called the airport with shaking hands.

  ‘John F. Kennedy airport, how may I help you?’

  ‘Help – I mean hello, help. I’ve come home with the wrong bag, I—’

  ‘Let me transfer you to baggage claim.’

  I waited, suddenly feeling very exposed in my hotel dressing gown. Maybe I could wear this, and claim kimonos were totes all the rage in London. Why hadn’t I checked the suitcase last night? That would teach
me for being too sleepy to bother to get out my toothbrush. I deserved Y-fronts and tooth decay. I glared at the suitcase with resentment.

  ‘John F. Kennedy airport baggage claim, how may we help you?’

  ‘Oh um, hello.’ Why did I always put on an ultra-British phone voice when abroad, like I was Judi Dench’s protégée? ‘I was on BA flight 0173 yesterday from London Heathrow and I picked up the wrong bag, and this one belongs to a man and I don’t have my clothes and he has no underwear. Except for mine!’ Oh, what if he was wearing my underwear right now?

  ‘What does your bag look like, ma’am?’

  ‘It’s black, and square, and quite big, I guess.’

  ‘Are there any distinguishing features?’

  ‘No, not really … ’ For shame. If I shared luggage taste with Mr Tam, Y-fronts King, maybe it was time to invest in something a bit more stylish.

  ‘All right. Could you confirm your name and address for me, as written on your luggage tag?’

  ‘It’s just got my name and email address on it, because I read somewhere that if you put your address down and someone steals your bag, they’ll also know where you live and that you’re not home, so it’s better not to put those things.’

  ‘All right. Could you confirm your name and email?’

  I reeled it off, spelling it all out carefully.

  ‘All right. Could you tell me something in your bag? Describe some clothing to me, for example?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got … ’ My mind went blank. What pyjamas did I bring? What outfits did I bring? What shampoo did I bring? Anything? ‘Oh! I have a jumper in there with a squirrel on. A sweater. With an embroidered squirrel, that looks like it’s been picked at.’

  ‘Is this a child’s sweater, ma’am?’ asked the woman, confused.

  ‘Nope, it’s mine. It’s cashmere, if that helps … make me sound more normal.’

  ‘All right. We’ve got your bag, ma’am.’

  ‘You’ve got it?’ I whooped at the poor woman. ‘Can you send it to me at the Hotel Vue on Fifty-Fourth Street, or will I have to come and pick it up from JFK?’