The driver had opened the back door to the van and was lifting boxes onto the kerb.
‘I feel terrible about it, Trina, I really do.’ Bill found he was whispering. ‘I feel really ashamed.’ He offered her a shy apologetic smile. ‘Let’s get some lunch, eh?’
She shook her head. ‘I want a couple of hours alone. You actually repulse me at the moment.’
If he spoke he would cry. He stood there, nodding, as she told him to meet her in three hours at a bar on Mulberry Street that they had discovered their first night in the city. If he spoke he would cry.
He wandered the city, looking into the windows of cafés and restaurants, unable to decide on any of them for lunch. He walked in the shade of the cross streets of the Upper East Side, past Lexington, past Third Avenue. He found a small deli and ordered a pastrami and salad roll that turned out to be enormous, and sat on a small stool outside to eat it, but could only manage to eat a third of it. Down the street he could see a man wheeling his belongings in a trolley, stopping every so often to check through bins and gutters. Bill wrapped the roll in a napkin and perched it carefully on the edge of the stool for the homeless man to find.
Bill walked all the way to the edge of the island, hoping to find a park, a space, some kind of solitude from the roar and bustle of the metropolis, but at the edge of the city a motorway, ugly and relentless, barred any access to the river. His shirt was now sticking to his back.
He wandered back to Second Avenue and scanned the sign above a bus shelter. An elderly man dressed in a light brown suit, a fedora in his hand, looked across at him and smiled.
‘Excuse me,’ Bill said to him, ‘can I get a bus here to go downtown?’
‘Where do you want to get to, son?’
‘Allen Street.’
‘It’s the right bus.’
They waited, standing next to each other.
‘Are you English?’
‘No, I’m Australian.’
The old man smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to go there. I’ve heard Sydney is beautiful.’
‘I’m from Melbourne.’ The old man kept smiling and nodding. ‘It’s in the south,’ Bill explained.
But the old man had looked away and was holding out his hand to hail the bus. Bill climbed the steps behind the man and held out a five-dollar bill to the driver.
‘Allen Street, please.’
The driver was shaking his head. ‘Exact change, sir.’
Feeling foolish, feeling like everyone’s eyes were on him, Bill fumbled through his pocket. He had to re-count his money, confused by the foreign coins. He had only a dollar fifty in change. And a two-dollar Australian coin.
The old man had made his way back to the front of the bus and tapped Bill on the shoulder. ‘How much do you need, son?’
‘Fifty cents.’ Bill gratefully accepted the two quarters, took his ticket and moved down the aisle. The old man had sat next to a young woman who was listening to her iPod. As he passed, Bill said thank you to him, and the old man replied, ‘Don’t mention it.’
Bill took a seat down the back and then stood up again, balancing carefully as he weaved down the aisle to stand next to the old man. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Bill took the gold Australian coin from his pocket and handed it to him. ‘This is a two-dollar Australian coin,’ he explained, ‘for you to use when you make it to Sydney.’
The old man beamed as he accepted the coin. ‘Thank you, son, you’re a mensch.’ He laughed at Bill’s puzzled expression. ‘It means you’re a good boy, son.’
Bill didn’t dare say a word for fear that if he did he would burst out crying.
He got to the bar fifteen minutes early and Trina was twenty minutes late. The first time they had come across it, it had been evening and the place was full. There was a crush to get to the bar and the music was loud; they had thrilled at ordering martinis and sitting at the bar, watching the mating rituals of the fashionably dressed young New Yorkers. They had sat in a blessed jet-lagged torpor, every so often looking at each other and laughing, We’re in New York, we’re in New York! But that afternoon the bar was empty except for the sullen-mouthed young bartender, her hair dyed platinum in a pageboy bob. Bill ordered a beer and took a seat at a front table.
When Trina did arrive she offered no apology for her lateness. He jumped up to greet her. ‘Do you want a beer?’
Instead of answering she threw her bag on a chair, barked at him to look after it and walked over to the bar herself. She returned with a white wine, placed the backpack between her feet and took the seat.
He leaned over to her, whispered, ‘I missed you.’
And he had, he really had; he had pined for the presence of her by his side. The city he had wandered through that afternoon had seemed grimier and far less miraculous than when she was with him, when she was seeing what he was seeing, taking in what he was taking in. He was jealous of all that she had done that day without him.
‘I didn’t miss you at all.’
The bar, the city, everything fell away and there was only a rising panic, a fear of what she would say next. During and after their worst rows, their most cauterising arguments, he had fantasised about life without her and had decided it would be possible. He knew he could survive leaving her. It was a truth that he zealously kept from her, a trump card that he would only play if she dared him with the threat of walking out. In the past, that certainty had warmed him: that he could answer back that he didn’t need her. But now, for the first time not assured of her devotion to him, he realised it was not the truth. He could not live without her.
He dared not speak.
A black youth, a khaki satchel flung over his shoulder, was running against a red light, crossing the road towards them. The youth jumped onto the kerb and walked over to the table.
‘How you all doing?’ He was remarkably handsome, still only an adolescent, with an open sincere smile. His clothes stank of his sleeping in them. ‘I am very sorry to disturb you but I was hoping you might have some loose change to give me.’
Trina had already brought her backpack to her knee, was opening it. Bill pulled out his wallet. He took out a ten-dollar note and handed it to the youth.
The smile widened. ‘Sir, I am so very grateful.’
There was a whistle from behind the bar. The three of them turned; the bartender was gesturing to the young man that he should leave. He dipped his head, almost a bow, and sauntered up the street.
Trina was shaking her head. ‘Was that some kind of fucking absolution? You think that makes up for what you said?’
Before he could speak, before he could even begin to think about what a possible answer could be, two older gentlemen came into the bar and sat at the next table. They were both slim and dressed in fine linen suits. The taller man was wearing a beret, which he placed on the table as soon as he sat down. He took off his jacket and carefully folded it across his knees. They were both softly spoken but Bill was sure that they were speaking Italian. One of the men took out a small map of the city and examined it while the other went to the bar, returning with two glasses of beer. He nodded to Bill and Trina. The two men clinked glasses and took a sip. Bill watched as the tall man leaned over and very tenderly wiped a line of foam from the other man’s top lip. Oh, he realised, they are lovers.
Trina got up and went over to their table. He heard her introduce herself and the three of them began a conversation in Italian. He did not feel slighted at alclass="underline" he adored it when his wife spoke the language. She seemed more animated, more alive, when she spoke in her parents’ tongue. At one point one of the men pointed to Bill and she said something that made the three of them laugh. Bill lifted his shoulders and frowned in pretend annoyance.