gambled away my inheritance,’ said Sophie out of the corner of her mouth, starting to enjoy herself.
‘That so.’ He shook his head in sorrow. ‘That’s bad, your ladyship.’
‘And I couldn’t sell the family heirlooms. So, I had to get a job.’
‘Well, that don’t seem right,’ he stopped, his whole face screwed up in sympathetic distaste, then with a respectful nod, he added, ‘but good for you, your ladyship.’ There was a brief pause before, as if jolted back in line, he remembered he had a script. ‘So where will you be staying for the duration of your trip?’
She reeled off the address she’d memorised.
‘Brooklyn?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie, smiling at his palpable disappointment. ‘Isn’t that very nice?’
He straightened and lifted his chin. ‘Born and bred, ma’am, I mean your ladyship. Brooklyn …’ he winced, ‘has changed a lot over the years. It’s very hip now. Not like in my day. I hope you like it.’
‘I’m sure I will.’
‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you know the Queen?’ Expectant hope glittered in his eyes.
Sophie straightened and carefully looked over her shoulder before turning back to him, widening her eyes as if warning him that what she was about to divulge was top secret. She lowered her voice, ‘Yes, the family spends Easter at Buckingham Palace every year. Prince Philip’s an absolute sweetie and William and Kate’s children are such cuties. But don’t tell anyone I told you. We’re not supposed to talk about it.’
With a quick salute, a forefinger to his eyebrow, he nodded. ‘Mom’s the word. But you tell her hi from me. The name’s Don. Don McCready.’ He beamed. ‘Wait till I tell my wife, Betty-Ann, I met you. She just loves the royals. She’s gonna get such a kick out of this.’
Neon lights blurred as the cab sped past, the road still busy even at this time of night. Sophie wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant post-take-away smell hovering in the back of the shabby cab, the ugly metal grill separating the passenger seats from the front and the cab driver’s surly indifference to her. A stream of Spanish came from the mobile phone mounted on the dashboard, punctuated occasionally by the driver’s monosyllabic responses. She settled back into the battered seats, watching the street scenes through the scarred windows, as the car veered from lane to lane. It looked like the America she’d seen on television as a child in old episodes of NYPD Blue. People of all races loping along the pavements. Nail bars rubbed shoulders with tire-replacement centers, the alien spelling striking home, and unfamiliar fast-food franchises – Golden Krust, Wendy’s, Texas Chicken & Burgers – as well as the ubiquitous McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts and Seven Eleven, which looked the same, but also different somehow.
For a minute, it was oh-so-tempting to tap the taxi driver on the shoulder and ask him to turn around, go back. She took in a deep shuddery breath. Man up, Sophie, you chose to do this. Your choice.
She pulled out her phone and re-read the email about the arrangements. The company had fixed up an apartment for her. A one-bedroomed place in Brooklyn, within reach of the subway and an easy journey to work. For a moment, she let the image of Mel’s limp balloon dance in her head. Brandi Baumgarten’s desk would be ready and waiting for her on Monday, just thirty-one hours from now. Scrolling across the touch screen, she brought up the subway map she’d downloaded. It looked horribly complicated compared to the tube map she was so used to. Taking a deep breath, she closed the app. Tomorrow there’d be plenty of time to get her bearings and work out the journey to work.
The taxi had slowed, turning off the main highway, and here the streets were suddenly interesting, lots of bars, vibrant with crowds of people, pavement seating full, a world of nationalities in the bars and restaurants they passed. With a sudden screech of brakes, the taxi stopped and almost before he’d halted, the driver turned around.
‘Forty dollars,’ he spat.
‘Is this it?’ she asked, peering out of the window at several shop fronts.
‘Number 425 – right there, lady.’ He indicated with a contemptuous thumb. ‘Just like you asked for.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Sophie, uncertain as to how he could see any numbers. Maybe it was a locals’ thing and she was looking in the wrong place.
The taxi driver had already got out and was heaving her cases onto the pavement.
‘Thank you,’ said Sophie politely, as she rummaged through her purse with the unfamiliar currency and located a fifty-dollar bill. She knew tipping was big in America and had a sudden moment of panic. ‘Keep the change.’ She had no idea if it was too much or too little but at nearly three in the morning, she just wanted to find the promised key safe, get into her room and collapse into bed.
He snatched up the money and jumped back in the cab before she could say another word and the red back lights of the car disappeared down the street, two eyes glowing in the dark like a fading demon.
With two suitcases and her cabin bag she stood on the pavement, sudden fear clamping her heart as she surveyed the shop fronts. Not one of them had a helpful number on the door. She looked down the street which stretched away into the distance. It was a very long street. A few people were about, and from the nearby corner loud voices shouted.
She turned back and jumped as a man appeared from nowhere. At well over six foot five, he was the tallest man she’d ever seen, with long, lanky, slightly bowed legs that seemed to bounce as he walked towards her. Her momentary fear at being surprised and alone in the middle of the night in a strange neighbourhood receded when white teeth from ebony skin grinned at her.
‘Hey lady, you OK? You look a little lost.’
‘I’m … erm … looking for number 425.’
He loomed over her, smelling rather bizarrely of rosemary. With a surreptitious sniff, she also identified basil.
‘That’d be right here above Bella’s Place.’ He pointed to a bakery and then she spotted the narrow doorway squeezed between two shops. ‘You must be the English girl.’
‘I must be, yes.’ The scent of basil was stronger now and she blurted out, with drunken jet-lagged stream of consciousness, ‘You smell of herbs.’
‘Erbs,’ he corrected. ‘Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice.’
‘That’s what little boys smell of,’ said Sophie, now feeling a bit like Alice.
His grin widened as he pointed to a shop front a few doors down. Sophie nodded, feeling a little stupid when she realised Herbs and Spice and All Things Nice was the name of his shop.
‘You just arrived?’ He laughed. ‘Course you have, otherwise why would you be out on the sidewalk in the middle of the night with a bunch of baggage? I’m Wes, let me give you a hand with your things.’
Too weary to argue, she nodded, relieved to find the key safe by the door which gave up its contents as soon as she punched in the code. Wes led the way up the narrow staircase, carrying her
