‘Nothing,’ I say, startled. ‘I just gleaned it from his demeanour. That it was violent. I don’t think Scott died a good death, Violet. But I don’t have any details.’
‘Where are you right now?’ she says.
I look at the street sign.
‘Corner of 55th and Lexington. Where are you?’
‘I’m in school. I don’t want to go home, Molly. I don’t want to go to work and I don’t want to go home. Nowhere is safe.’
‘You think you’re in danger, Violet?’
She sighs and I hear her blow her nose. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe not. Who knows what to believe? They killed Scott, that’s all I know. I heard it was some kind of BDSM thing gone wrong – guy at Columbia said he was found with his wrists tied to a bed. Some sicko.’
‘What’s BDSM?’
‘You know, sadomasochism. He was into erotic asphyxiation, you remember I told you? Never tried it with me, but . . .’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Can we meet?’
‘Sure. Somewhere near the library?’
‘The Butler Library?’
‘The Public Library,’ I say.
‘Oh, OK. Bryant Park? At four?’
‘OK. Take care, Violet.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
I haven’t had lunch yet. I walk into Zuma with a strut in my step, and get guided to a table in the corner. A handsome guy in black brings me a menu and then he brings me a bottle of sparkling water that costs more than my average London lunch budget. Twice as much.
KT would have loved this place. I know I still need to be careful – but I also feel a strong urge to experience this life one last time. KT’s life. It’s balancing risks, it’s always about balancing the risks. For these final hours in this city, surely I can risk being more like KT.
I let the server choose the dishes for me. All I say is I’m medium hungry, because that’s true, and that I don’t want puffer fish, because I read it’s potentially fatal if it isn’t handled properly. Especially the liver. I read that only the most experienced chefs in the world are qualified to prepare the delicacy. He says they don’t offer it in the restaurant.
The food is sublime, each dish better than the last. My first taste is salmon sashimi, just tipping my toe in the water. This is the real deal: salmon so velvety and soft it melts on my tongue. It’s not fishy. It’s not cold and hard. It’s divine.
My favourites are the eel, the yellowtail sashimi with jalape?o peppers and ponzu, and the black cod. I savour the flavours and the textures. Maybe KT ate good sushi a hundred times in her twenty-two years, in Aruba with James Kandee, in Paris with James Kandee, in Hong Kong with James Kandee, but she never experienced this. The undiluted joy of mono-dining at a quiet table during an off-peak lull; each mouthful a surprise and a delight. I am determined to fully enjoy this moment.
Dessert is green tea ice-cream. I pay, and tip the waiter thirty per cent, because he’s outrageously attractive and he did a good job. Credit where credit is due.
I feel like KT when I walk to the New York Public Library and then wait in the centre of Bryant Park for Violet to appear. I feel cosmopolitan and cultured. Less afraid. Less of a perennial outsider.
There’s construction work going on in the park. I find two green chairs, each one with a small table attached, and try to figure out what they’re building. Someone talks about the marathon and someone else nearby talks about a Christmas market. Then the woman’s husband corrects her, saying they’re building an ice rink, same as they always do, it’s a tradition like the big tree outside the Rockefeller Center.
Violet arrives and bursts into tears when she reaches me. I didn’t expect this from her. Not because she didn’t like Scott – I know all too well that she liked Scott very much – but because she’s a hardened New Yorker, and because I never saw her cry like this for KT. There are people staring at us out of the corners of their eyes. She says, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just . . . shit, can we go somewhere?’
‘Sure.’
We walk north and we do not speak. She loops her arm around mine and I like that. It’s as if we’re in a play or something.
‘You want to talk in my room?’ I ask.
‘In the Ritz-Carlton?’
‘Hardly! That was just for one night. No, I’m back in the hostel. Come up?’
She nods, and when we get there I unlock the door with my key and go inside. I glance at the door next to mine, wondering who’s sleeping in Mum and Dad’s bed. My room smells fusty.