Epilogue

   

‘Good morning, ma’am, sir – table for two, yeah?’

Warwick smirked at the echoes of ten months ago.  He wasn’t with this girl in the diner queue; he had made no ill-timed approaches to her as with Emily.  Not that he objected when the tiny blonde turned saucily back to him and replied ‘Why not?’ in a Scots brogue.  So, for the second time in a year, a waiter ushered him to a table with a pretty stranger.

‘I’d like to go for the bacon and egg bagel, please,’ the girl instantly ordered, ‘sunny side up.  And a black coffee.’

‘Blimey, you don’t dither.’

‘Had a good old peruse o’ the menu in the window.  And I couldn’t come to the very home of the bagel without having at least one.’

‘Quite, quite.  I’ll have the same, please.  With tea, though.’

‘I’m starving – ’ Warwick adored the rolled ‘r’ of her pronunciation – ‘worth it, though, to experience a pre-breakfast view like that.’

‘Too right.  It’s true what they say, the Empire State is at its most captivating first thing in the morning.’

‘I’m Renee, by the way,’ the girl said when the nimble waiter had delivered their hot drinks.

‘I’m Warwick.  Warwick Poole.’  He smiled as he said it.  What Renee imagined was him jovially introducing himself was in fact relief seeping out of him.  He recalled how he hesitated and stared at his sandwich when telling Emily he was Dominic Osbourne.

Dear Emily.  He raised his tea in a private toast to the girl without whom, ironically, he’d have done none of this – unshackle himself from the Chill Cabinet, enrol on the teaching course, travel.  He missed her, of course, and regretted deceiving her to such an extent that he could never recoup her respect.

‘So what brings you to New York, Warwick Poole?’

‘I’m starting teacher training in a month – mature student, as you might have gathered – and I’ve been inspired by…many other students who take mini world tours before wading into their degrees.  New York was one of the many places on my to-do list, so I thought Why not?’

‘Why not indeed!’

Warwick’s tea appeared to have truth serum properties.  ‘My folks have actually got a villa out in Singapore, so all my holidays since the age of fifteen have been spent there.  I know Raffles and Singapore Zoo like the back of my hand, but have little to no knowledge of the rest of the world.’

Renee looked fetchingly impressed.  Warwick glowed with the goodness of unaccustomed honesty.

Best not overdo the ‘I’ve got money’ bit, though.  I’m Warwick Poole, student teacher, at peace with myself, making it on my own terms, with what I’ve got.  No more fiction about parents being dead.

New York was an entirely impromptu excursion.  Warwick had finally finished at the Chill Cabinet a week ago, with a fanfare-less departure, as befitted him, and a starchy handshake from Dad that gave no clue as to their relationship yet simultaneously seemed to typify it.  There was no leaving do for Warwick either.  He never socialised with staff by choice; they were in any event too dispirited by the court case, Keeley’s sacking and Lance’s resignation to be spurred into a party.

The day after, he luxuriated in an unheard-of midday lie-in.  He flexed his toes beneath his bachelor-brown duvet, and thought: For the first time in my life I’m free.  I can do precisely what I like.

He showered, and decided to venture for his first ever stroll around his urbane neighbourhood. 

At once he was Warwick Poole with the soul of Dominic Osbourne: viewing the place through un-jaded, almost tourist’s eyes, rejoicing in unpretentious pleasures like trees, fresh air and greeting passers-by.  As well as worldlier ones such as the travel agent’s window, hyping last-minute breaks to New York.

Checking in at Birmingham Airport, the twang of dread he associated with those Far Eastern family convocations was replaced by the happy lurch more becoming to a holidaymaker.  A childlike whoop almost escaped him as his suitcase went skating off down the conveyor belt.

‘Well hello there, Warwick.’

Pivoting, zipping his boarding card and passport into his hand luggage, he encountered Ellery Crisp, devoid of dog collar, a haversack strapped to his ecumenical back.  Out of uniform, so to speak, Ellery resembled an ageing beatnik backpacker.

‘Off to Barbados,’ he beamed, ‘spending some of me spoils now I’ve got the roof fixed.  One of Mel’s celeb mates has loaned me his beachside villa for the fortnight.  Can’t tell you who, though.’  He tapped his nose with exaggerated secrecy.

‘Have fun.’  Warwick backed away to deposit his trolley, glad not to be sharing airspace with the quirky cleric who’d witnessed his face-off with Heidi, and not desiring his departure lounge company in the meantime.

New York was captivating him.  He would never forget the moment that wow of a city view opened up like widescreen, the monster-scale buildings shimmering in the humidity, like a soap opera dream sequence – adding to the overall ‘pinch me’ feel of the trip.

On his first day, he strolled down Fifth Avenue (his strolling gait – as opposed to the natives’ manic dash – coupled with his cricked neck from craning at skyscrapers screamed ‘tourist alert’) to Central Park for a bite of lunch.  In this haven in the heart of the world’s busiest city – canopied from it and from the ruthless noon heat – he could barely hear the frantic traffic, and only the skyscraper tips above the trees hinted at his location. 

Warwick bought a sandwich and ate on a bench, excitement streaming through him and what turn his day might take.

Young workers flocked by, taking their breaks, and taking for granted the portrait painters and sylvan scenery they saw every day.

This morning, he’d experienced the Empire State phenomenon.  There were no queues pre-breakfast – and that eighty-sixth floor view of the now toy-sized metropolis skirted in a translucent mist was truly peerless.  All those landmarks sprawled before him like a living geography book: the Chrysler Building, Macy’s, the United Nations headquarters, Madison Square Garden, Brooklyn Bridge.

The waiter deposited a bagel the size of a station wagon wheel in front of each of them.  The elfin Renee spray-painted the contents of hers with ketchup and tackled it like a navvy.  Egg splatted out of the hole.  She wiped it from her plate and licked her fingers, then burst into self-conscious giggles as she caught Warwick watching her admiringly.

‘Girls with appetites are good to see.’  He’d said that before.  May as well pursue
the conversation in the same vein as previously.  ‘So where are you from, Renee?’

‘Edinburgh.’  She pronounced it with a gorgeous lilt he had to stop himself imitating.
I remember once wishing I’d met a girl from there.  Where’s a nice girl from Wolverhampton when you actually want one? 

‘What are your plans for the rest of the day, Warwick?’

‘I thought I’d take a trip out to the Statue of Liberty.’

Renee’s eyes bubbled at him as she blew on her coffee cup with a coquettish little pucker.  ‘Liberty it is then.’

Warwick thought of the statue, her copper beauty and torch-wielding power stance screaming a big ‘Yeaaah’ of optimism, and a grin spanned across his face.  ‘Can’t wait!’