Greg holds open the door for Cara to enter his sprawling apartment in Lower Manhattan. So far, everything has gone according to plan. Her flight arrived on time and he was waiting for her when she came through customs. On the drive back to West Village he outlined his full itinerary for the next five days. It seems a lot to pack in, and Cara’s head is spinning. It’s sweet that he wants to show her as much as possible in the short time she’s in the States.
Cara steps into an elegant hallway, painted cream and flooded with light through floor-to-ceiling casement windows. A handsome staircase leads up to a wrought-iron galleried landing.
‘Leave your hand luggage here,’ Greg says, placing her suitcase at the foot of the stairs. ‘I want to give you a tour of the apartment.’
Cara does as instructed.
‘Straight on is the Great Room,’ he says, cupping Cara’s elbow and steering her towards a door at the end of the hallway.
She tries not to gasp as she enters the large room with its hardwood floor, high ceilings and three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. A door leads out to an expansive and lushly landscaped terrace.
‘Being south and west facing, the terrace is sun-drenched during the entire day,’ Greg says, ‘and there are mesmerising sunsets in the evening.’
‘The views are incredible,’ Cara says appreciatively.
‘They’re not bad, I suppose,’ says Greg.
Cara glances at him. Is he being funny? They’re spectacular!
‘Every room has floor-to-ceiling windows from which to appreciate the view,’ Greg says, as if trying to sell her the apartment.
Glancing around the room, Cara approaches a modern fireplace. On a shelf above is a single framed photograph of Marietta. Since his late wife’s funeral, Greg hasn’t mentioned her once. She assumes it’s because he finds it too painful to talk about her, but she always gives him the space to initiate the conversation if he wants to. This would be the perfect time, but still he makes no comment.
‘Come, let us complete the tour,’ he says.
Cara follows him through to the kitchen, custom-built and top of the range, and through an open archway she spies a dining room leading off. The final room on this level is a large library/media room. Again, the room is light and airy, with high ceilings and walls of windows with views over the garden.
‘It’s a fabulous apartment,’ Cara says as they walk back to the Great Room.
Greg smiles. ‘It serves me well when I need to be in New York. I doubt there’ll be time for you to use the facilities on this visit, but the condominium has an excellent Olympic-size swimming pool, hot tub and plunge pool. There’s also a gym, sauna and steam room.’
‘I’m exhausted just thinking about it,’ Cara says with a laugh.
‘Having travelled all the way from Cornwall, you must be,’ Greg says in a soft voice. ‘I thought we’d dine early tonight and then you’ll be fresh for the tour tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, Greg. It’s really kind of you to invite me to New York.’
Greg smiles at her. ‘It’s not out of kindness that I’ve invited you, Cara. I hope you will see the city has a lot to offer.’ He’s imagined her in his apartment for so many months, and now she’s actually here. His plan is taking shape, but he mustn’t rush things. ‘Let me show you to your room.’
Cara follows Greg into the hallway. As she picks up her hand luggage she looks out across the Hudson River to the buildings on the opposite bank.
‘See the skyscraper with the antenna?’ says Greg. ‘That’s the Freedom Tower. The tallest building in New York. From the ground to the balustrade on top of the building is the same height as the Twin Towers. It stands next to where they once were.’
It’s a sobering thought. Cara observes the building of reflecting windows built in the shape of a spiral.
As Greg picks up her suitcase and ascends the stairs, Cara follows. This floor, too, has light flooding through floor-to-ceiling casement windows with views across the garden and river.
‘This is the third bedroom,’ says Greg, opening a door to a room with a balcony leading off. ‘And this one’s the master bedroom,’ he says, indicating to a door that he doesn’t open. ‘This is the guest room.’ He opens the door and stands back, allowing Cara to enter.
It’s a double bedroom with walls of windows wrapping around two sides. Cara gazes at the open views across the river to the far bank, unable to take her eyes off the Freedom Tower. Living in Cornwall, she feels cushioned and distanced from world news but here, in New York, there are strong reminders of the uncertain times.
‘The room is south facing so you will want to have the windows open.’ Greg places her suitcase on the bed. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’ He glances at his Rolex. ‘I’ve booked dinner for six at a restaurant just a block away. It’s walking distance. Come down to the Great Room when you’re ready.’
Cara nods and places her hand luggage on the bed beside her suitcase.
‘Cara.’ She turns at the sound of his voice. ‘I’m so pleased you agreed to visit. Thank you.’
‘Thank you for arranging it,’ she says, hiding her surprise. Greg has never thanked her for anything.
Greg smiles. ‘Feel free to use the phone any time you want to call England during your stay.’ He turns towards the door.
Cara quickly unpacks her bags. Unsure of what to bring, she’s packed a selection of clothes for most occasions. She hangs her clothes in the wardrobe and places two pairs of shoes beneath, and then carries her washbag through to the en-suite bathroom. Luxuriously appointed with a large glazed, double shower, this room, too, has a wall of windows overlooking the river. It’s like living in a goldfish bowl, thinks Cara. Any eagle-eyed person cruising down the river could catch an eyeful if they happened to glance in this direction at an inopportune moment!
As Cara freshens up she considers Greg. He’s being so attentive, she has the feeling he’d grant her anything she desired. She frowns. This is not the Greg she has come to know. Usually, he makes her feel slightly ridiculous in his company, as if he finds her secretly amusing. She has always felt the pressure to raise her game to meet his standards. But on his home turf Greg is showing her a different side. Which is the real one? Maybe she will know by the end of her stay.
Kicking off her boots, Cara changes out of her leggings into a pair of black trousers. She selects a clean T-shirt and a casual, floral over shirt. Opening her jewellery roll, she takes out a long necklace and fastens it around her neck, the heavy pendant hanging down almost to her navel. As she brushes her long blonde hair Cara looks at herself in the mirror. What is she doing here? Why did she allow Greg to persuade her to visit New York? She knows he wants to show her the city, and he’s keen for her to see his house in the Hamptons too. Why didn’t she just say no? She looks herself squarely in the face. You know why, Cara. Fear flutters in the pit of her stomach. Why does the thought of being with Greg have this effect on her? Life would be comfortable and her children would have opportunities that she, alone, cannot offer. Cara shakes her head. How horribly black and white. She has never considered life in these terms before. She was always happy to go wherever the wind took her, and this philosophy served her well… until four years ago. Losing Christo at such a tragically young age altered everything.
‘Life is changing, Cara Penhaligon,’ she says sternly to her reflection, ‘and however uncomfortable it makes you feel, you will just have to adapt.’ She hardly recognises the woman staring back. Taking a deep breath, Cara turns away from the mirror and heads for the door.
*
Greg puts his arm casually around Cara’s shoulder as they walk along West Side Highway towards Charles Street. It’s still early evening and the traffic is heavy along the embankment. He loves this environment. Life is never dull. Noise and mayhem equate to people making things happen. It’s only lack of imagination that limits you. He knows all about that – his parents couldn’t see beyond their pitiful existence. Charlotte taught him to look beyond his circumstances and dream big, and it has paid off.
Greg tightens his hold on Cara’s shoulder. She is his big dream now. Funny how life turns out. During that summer two years ago, when that actor, Oliver Foxley, arrived in the cove, he thought he might have lost his opportunity with Cara, although she always said there was nothing between them and that she and Oliver were just friends. But, what with Marietta’s passing and Oliver having conveniently disappeared off the scene, opportunities are finally falling neatly into his lap. He wonders about Cara’s youngest child. They’ve never discussed him, and he’s never bothered to find out who the father is. Probably a one-night stand. But he’s not worried about that. Once she and the children are living in America, as long as he can bask in the glory of Cara’s talent and the kids don’t get in the way, that’s all that matters. He’s already successfully reinvented himself once and he’s sure he can play the nice stepfather, as long as he has Cara.
Greg’s arm feels a deadweight around Cara’s shoulder, and everything seems so alien. The roar of the traffic is an assault to her senses and the pavement beneath her feet harsh and unforgiving. She’s like a fish out of water and longs to feel the sand between her toes. Even the restaurant, as stylish and fashionable as it was, seemed clinical, with its hard, angular lines, concrete and steel structures and endless windows. And the unnecessarily busy carpet irritated her. The food and its presentation, however, were faultless. Greg was obviously well known and the staff fussed over them; she had to stop herself from smiling at how they ingratiated themselves to her by default. As Cara glances across the busy highways to the Hudson River – always drawn to water; be it sea, lake, river or stream – a beautiful eighty-foot schooner in full sail glides by.
‘The sunset cruise,’ says Greg. ‘It’s a good way to see many of the famous sights and the New York City skyline. If there’s time, we can book a tour.’
‘That would be nice,’ says Cara. Perhaps, if she’s out on the water it might make her feel more at home.
‘I’ve already planned a tour of the Statue of Liberty,’ Greg continues. ‘We will catch the ferry at Castle Clinton, on the southern tip of Manhattan. It will be crowded but there’s no way to avoid that. It will be worth it, though. The views are astounding from the statue’s observation decks. You can see not only the New York skyline but also New Jersey and Ellis Island.’
His passion for New York is endearing. Still as smooth and sophisticated as ever, his voice has acquired an extra quality as he talks of life in the Big Apple.
‘Were you born in New York, Greg?’ Cara asks.
Was that hesitation?
‘No. I came here in my mid-teens. The city has been good to me. It’s given me not only a home but also a career.’
She wonders about Greg as a boy and is about to ask more when she glances at him and swallows her questions. He has closed up. That particular conversation is over. This is the man she knows; the one who doesn’t invite further investigation.
They walk on in silence, one revelling in the atmosphere of the concrete jungle, while the other thinks of wild cliffs and golden sands. The blackthorn and honey-scented gorse are out, and the primroses are abundant in places. She even discovered a patch of perfumed dog violets behind The Lookout.
As they approach the condominium, the doorman springs to attention and opens the door.
‘Thank you, George,’ says Greg.
‘A lovely evening for a stroll,’ the doorman says, discreetly eyeing up Cara.
‘It is indeed,’ Greg says coldly, daring the man to continue his subtle ogling. The doorman quickly averts his eyes.
As the lift doors open, Greg intends to pull Cara into an embrace. He’s waited this long and the restraint is killing him. But a man enters with them and he is forced to abandon that idea. Reaching his floor, Greg guides Cara into the lobby.
‘You must be tired, Cara, after your long journey today,’ he says, unlocking his front door and walking into the hall. ‘Can I get you a drink or would you like to retire to your room?’
Cara stifles a yawn. ‘I am feeling rather exhausted. I think I’ll go straight up and then I’ll be fresh for the morning.’ She smiles at him. ‘Thanks for a great introduction to your city, Greg.’
He watches as she climbs the stairs. As she disappears along the landing, Greg heads to the Great Room and pours himself a large Scotch on the rocks.
At ten he turns in, but not before pausing outside the guest bedroom. All is silent, though a light shines from under the door. Turning away, Greg enters the master bedroom. Removing his clothes, he walks briskly to the en-suite bathroom and fastidiously prepares himself. Energetically swilling mouthwash, he spits into the basin and mops his mouth on a luxuriously plump towel while staring at his image in the mirror and scrutinising his body. Not bad for a man in his mid-fifties. Perhaps a little too much around the waistline, but apart from that there’s not much to criticise. His gaze travels southwards. Everything’s in perfect working order. Glancing up, he meets Gary’s steady stare and a wolfish grin spreads across his reflection’s face.
‘Not bad at all.’
All day Greg has watched himself. To anyone else, the level of self-control he has exerted would be exhausting, but he’s a master. This is the price he’s paid for the life he’s led over the past forty years. By treating Cara in a gentlemanly and attentive fashion, he has shown her the best side of both himself and the city. It’s early to retire by New York standards. However, he’s desperate for her and, despite his resolve, Greg has no intention of ending the evening just yet. He takes a silk dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door and slips it on, the cool material sensual against his hot skin. He ties the tasselled belt around his waist and opens a mirrored wall cabinet. Removing a box of condoms, he checks inside. Will this be enough to last him over the next few days? He may have to buy more.
‘Time for your treat, Gary, my lad,’ Greg says to his reflection as he slips the box into his pocket. He allows the wolfish grin to appear briefly before carefully removing any trace of it from his face.
*
Propping the pillows against the oak headboard, Cara climbs into bed. Normally she sleeps naked and the newly bought nightdress feels alien against her skin. Although she’s exhausted, sleep is a long way off. She glances inquisitively around the room. Greg’s apartment is a surprise. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t this. As luxury apartments go, this one is bland; minimalist, without any accoutrements and predominantly decorated in varying shades of beige and brown. The only life springs from the walls. There must be thousands, if not millions of dollars’ worth of original art on display. Paintings by old masters and collectible modern day artists too – Greg coolly pointed out a David Hammons and a Christopher Wool in the library. It’s odd there’s no evidence of Marietta, apart from the one framed photograph in the Great Room on the shelf beneath a vibrantly coloured Picasso. It’s as if she never resided here. Did the stylish couple always live like this? Perhaps Greg keeps his memories of Marietta tucked away in the privacy of the master bedroom. After all, he kept the door to that room firmly shut when he gave the tour of the apartment earlier. Maybe it’s a shrine to his late wife for no one else’s eyes. Or has he removed all evidence of Marietta following her death? If so, it’s sad to live so spartanly because reminders are just too painful.
Cara yawns. She’s been up for hours but her head is buzzing. Over dinner Greg expanded on the full itinerary he has planned for her, commencing with a visit to the Museum of Modern Art. He warned it would be an early start. With this thought in mind, Cara snuggles down beneath the duvet and is about to switch off the side light when she hears a tap at the bedroom door.
‘Cara, are you awake?’
She holds her breath.
‘Cara?’
As the door opens slightly, Cara quickly closes her eyes and feigns sleep. She can feel the weight of his presence as he approaches.
‘Cara,’ he whispers.
She remains motionless. As she feels his fingers brush her cheek, she wills herself not to flinch. After what must only be minutes but seems more like hours, she hears the click of the bedside light and senses the lightest touch of silk on her arm as Greg turns and walks away. Keeping her eyes tightly shut, Cara waits until she’s certain he’s no longer in the room before letting out a long, silent breath. She sits up; her heart racing and the palms of her hands feel sweaty. The lights on the other side of the Hudson River twinkle at her through the curtainless windows. She always knew he’d probably try it on, but now she’s under no illusion. They are at the point of no return. She will have to be very canny if she is to successfully keep him at a distance over the coming days.