A Girl’s Best Friend. Lindsey Kelk

many times had Amy walked down this street since she got here? And Al? I knew Jane had chosen their house in Milan because it faced the park – had she picked this place for the same reason? I wondered how things had changed since they’d moved to New York in the sixties and how much was the same. Everything in my life seemed temporary at the moment; twenty-seven years of the same followed by six months of madness. It was so hard to know what I was supposed to do now. Carry on down this road of not knowing or go back to my old life with my tail between my legs? A partnership in an advertising agency with one of my best friends shouldn’t have felt like second prize but I couldn’t shake the feeling that accepting that would be settling.

      And try as I might, I couldn’t stop my eyes from searching the crowds for his face. I stopped for a moment, reaching into my handbag to rest my hand on my passport, to find his note. It was strange sometimes, the thought of Nick was always there in the back of my mind but every now and then it popped up to say hello, punch me in the stomach and stop me dead in my tracks.

      Nick lived here. I was in Nick’s city.

      But New York was a big place, wasn’t it? I wasn’t about to bump into him on the street, even if I wanted to. I didn’t know which area he lived in, but I couldn’t see him rubbing elbows with Upper Eastsiders. That said, I could absolutely imagine him running up here. Every few minutes, a Lycra-clad jogger whizzed by me and disappeared into the park, like a lululemon-sponsored ninja. And in that moment, he was real again. He wasn’t a fading holiday hangover memory, he wasn’t the super human I’d built him up to be. He was just Nick, a man who might go running around the park of a morning. A man who walked and talked and breathed and ate and did everything the same as everyone else, here in this city. And all the arguments I’d had with myself, all the reasons I’d come up with not to call, suddenly seemed silly.

      ‘I could call him,’ I whispered, my fingertips finding my phone in my pocket. ‘I could send him a text to let him know I’m here.’

      Before I could act, my Nick-induced trance was broken by a loud snuffling and heavy breathing around my shins. I looked down to see a huge, smiling golden retriever wearing a purple puffa jacket and slobbering on my jeans.

      ‘Hello,’ I said, bending over as far as my coat would allow to pat his happy head. ‘What’s your name?’

      ‘Don’t touch my dog!’ His owner, wearing his very matching purple puffa jacket, yanked on the dog’s lead and pulled him away down the street.

      ‘So friendly,’ I muttered as the dog made eyes at me over his shoulder.

      I stared at the phone in my hand but the moment was gone. I wasn’t ready. What if he didn’t want to see me, or speak to me? I didn’t want to ruin my first day in New York. I’d call him later.

      With my phone safely zipped away, I carried on my march along Central Park, washing away thoughts of Nick Miller by filling my brain with a million new memories. Across the street I saw tall men in grey coats and top hats, hurrying in and out of buildings with snow-covered green awnings, opening the doors of long black cars for women wearing floor-length furs and sunglasses, and on my side, men in jeans and two pairs of gloves were setting up shiny steel food carts as far as the eye could see.

      The carts looked so out of place, all bright colours and unappetizing photos of greasy doner kebabs hanging from them, right in the middle of the elegant, icy neighbourhood. It would make a great picture, I thought, as I watched one of the men blow into his hands while he watched out for a customer.

      ‘Excuse me …’ I sidled up to one of the carts and gave the sullen-looking owner my brightest, non-teeth-chattering smile. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Hot dog?’ he replied. ‘Two dollar.’

      ‘Oh, yes, I do want a hot dog,’ I said, pulling my camera out from inside my coat where it was safely nestled in my armpit. ‘And a coffee—’

      ‘Three dollar,’ he said before grabbing the handle on a silver lid to reveal a bucket of hot dog sausages, resting in an inch of unpleasant-smelling hot dog juice. ‘Onion?’

      ‘Oh, no!’ I waved my hands madly as he started fishing for a limp sausage with a bun in the other hand. ‘If it’s all right, I want to take your photo first?’

      He didn’t say anything.

      ‘Me, take photo?’ I pointed at my camera and held it up to my face, making clicky noises. ‘Photo of you?’

      ‘You wanna take my picture?’ he asked, dropping the hot dog back in the grey water with a splash. ‘Sorry, it’s early, I didn’t get ya’ right away. No worries, hun, snap away. This is my best side.’