My life with the rich and famous is almost at an end. No more Gala Dinners. No more book parties. No more opera. No more concerts. Today I'm going downtown to meet with Jamie, previously the purveyor of the pomegranate and spinach salad with pine nuts at my now defunct bookclub who has moved back home to America. I was walking my son to the Highline after his Amtrak train to Boston was delayed yesterday and I ran into her in 23rd Street, where it turns out she lives. I felt like the real New Yorker than I may soon become if this bloody volcano dust doesn't blow away, meeting one of the two people in the whole of the city I know, by chance. She invited me for tea and cake at her apartment in the London Terraces, that seem to have nothing at all to do with London, and are not terraces as we know them, though they do have dizzying balconies - one of which had a tricycle on it which made me recoil in horror at the thought of a child riding it. From her sitting room you can see the Empire State building from one window and, far in the distance, the torch of the Statue of Liberty in the other. It's mighty impressive, though she is on the 18th floor and I have to step away from the window and not look down.
I am a wimp. I'm a wimp about heights and I'm a wimp at the idea that I'm not going to get back home tomorrow. When I checked my work email earlier (you can tell me I'm sad later) and one of the girls told me that the whole of Europe was shut down and that it had a slight doomsday quality to it, I did not feel like less of a wimp - only more isolated. I had the first panic attack I've had in years, contemplating the fact that I may be stranded in New York away from everything that makes me me, and all that sustains me. Not least of which is warmLuke who is supposed to be meeting me at the station when I get home tomorrow, except I'm not sure the planes will be flying. I had such plans. I feel sick at missing them. I feel sick that I can't go back to my own bed. I feel sick at missing work (as I said, you can tell me I'm sad, later). I feel sick. Period. I've been taking across the counter sleeping pills that are mostly strong anti histamine and though they don't stop me waking up at 4 or 5am to fret, they cling to me like overgrown toddlers for the rest of the day and make me long to close my eyes, or throw up, or both.
Jamie's husband is driving up from Washington that night and then they're going on to their country house in Connecticut together. I feel a pang of envy at the picture of togetherness. I'm probably going nowhere. Except to the handsome uncles for dinner in Greenwich village. Nevertheless, it's wonderful to see her and we have a pleasant couple of hours talking and laughing before I begin my walk down to Waverley Place in the rain.
'You know you're not leaving,' says Gerry.
I try very hard not to wail.
'I don't think you'll be traveling tomorrow. Have you called the airline?' Asks Socrates.
I have called the airline who say the flight is still scheduled, and who have issued me with a boarding pass and told me to go to the airport anyway. Heathrow is closed until 1am Sunday, but I'm not due to land until 6.35am. I might be okay, I persist.
They look doubtful. What's the biggie - what better place to be stuck than in New York?
I smile weakly but they're right. I'm like ET. I want to go home.
It's not that I love working at Pedantic above all other activities but another week away might make some people ask what exactly it is that I do anyway when I'm not missed and things seem to get done even without me to whine to. And I'm institutionalised. The people whose desks are unlucky enough to cluster around mine make up the fabric of my day. I don't know if my daughter is eating anything other than Muller Rice and instant noodles, or who won in the Pub Quiz. I haven't heard from my elder son since I left. My ex is watering my orchids and having dinner with the kids in my absence. WarmLuke is seeing his friends and going to gigs and having nice walks in Syon Park with other women and Nel has gone off to Dorset for the weekend. In other words my life is ticking over very nicely without me having to participate in it and will continue to do so if I don't go home. This is suspiciously close to what it must feel like to be dead with no-one missing you.
Socrates cooks turkey with yams and broccoli. Gerry opens a bottle of champagne. We drink. We eat. And then half way though dessert, Audrey taps me on the arm and wakes me. I've fallen asleep, sitting up with a plate of ice cream sitting melting in front of me.
Damn sleeping pills. Now they decide to kick in?
The perfect guest or what?
