For Paul. Ever and always

  Books by Meg Rosoff from Bloomsbury

  The Great Godden

  Friends Like These

  Jonathan Unleashed

  Also by Meg Rosoff

  How I Live Now

  Just in Case

  What I Was

  The Bride’s Farewell

  There Is No Dog

  Picture Me Gone

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Copyright

  1

  Arriving in New York for the first time was like wearing a sign that said CHEAT ME.

  Muggers mugged. Junkies jacked up. Pickpockets picked pockets. Flashers flashed, rapists raped and perverts perved. Psycho bag ladies shouted obscenities at miscellaneous crazies. You could get shot just for being in the path of a bullet. AIDS knew where you lived.

  Heaps of garbage stank on every corner. Taxis honked, hawkers shouted, brakes screamed. Women jeered, flirted, complained in a barely comprehensible language. Gedda hell oudda heah! Don’ fuckwidme mistah. The midday sun bounced off ten million glaring surfaces.

  Dragging her suitcase out of the station on the hottest day of the year, Beth dripped sweat. Signs made unhelpful suggestions: Seventh Avenue, Eighth. Thirty-first Street. Thirty-third. She didn’t dare ask directions for fear of being taken for a fool. Or worse, a tourist.

  She stuck out her arm and a taxi swerved. Shoving her suitcase on to the seat, she fell in after it and closed the door.

  ‘Christopher Street,’ she gasped, hoping he’d know where that was. And then, just like that, they were off. The sweet smell of decay blew in through the open window mixed with exhaust fumes and melted tar.

  Beth sat back in the cab and sighed. Remember this time and place, she thought. New York City, June 1983. This is where it starts.

  Already her life felt like a miracle.

  2

  ‘Which corner?’ In the mirror the driver waited for an answer, rolled his eyes.

  Which corner? She frowned. Why did it matter?

  He screeched to a halt. ‘Two thirty-five,’ he said, shaking his head, thinking (no doubt) he could have charged this girl anything.

  She fumbled in her purse, found three dollars, handed it over, threw open the door and fell out on to the melting sidewalk with her bag.

  ‘Keep the change,’ she whispered as he sped away.

  The lock on the building’s front door was broken. Inside, a single bulb illuminated peeling paint and a row of dented metal mailboxes. The heat was unbearable. She hauled her suitcase to the foot of the stairs and began to climb, stopping on each landing to wipe the sweat from her hands.

  On the fifth floor she flicked the light switch and recoiled.

  A figure sat slumped against the door, glaring. ‘It’s about fucking time. I’ve been waiting in this hellhole all day.’

  Beth gaped.

  ‘Open the door, for fuck’s sake.’ The strange girl snatched Beth’s keys. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, pushing her own suitcase in first. ‘Christ what a fucking dump.’

  ‘I’m …’

  ‘I know who you are. You’re Rachel’s friend. Bernie. Betsy. Barbie.’

  ‘Beth.’

  A dark hall led to a tiny living room (no window) with a door on each side. The kitchen was only big enough for one person, the bathroom too small for a sink. A definite scurrying in her peripheral vision when she turned on the light. Cockroaches.

  The apartment came furnished. In the living room, a Chinese scroll hung sideways over a small oatmeal-coloured sofa, like you’d find in a dentist’s waiting room. A wooden folding chair and a small glass coffee table completed the suite. The only shelf held a dusty wine bottle covered in drips.

  Rachel’s sister dumped her bag in the near bedroom and ran the water in the kitchen, waiting unsuccessfully for it to cool. ‘I’m Dawn. Tom should be here already. He has the keys.’

  Beth hated people referring to strangers as if you should know them. Who was Tom? Her boyfriend? Her cat?

  ‘Oh,’ Beth said. ‘Thanks for letting me live here.’

  ‘Couldn’t afford it without you. Have to find a job. You got one, right?’ She looked Beth up and down, as if to say, If you got a job, I can get ten.

  Beth nodded.

  ‘We’ve got to do something about this place. I can’t live in a fucking slum.’

  ‘Do you mind if …’ Beth edged towards the door.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Beth dragged her bag into the second bedroom. Small double bed, narrow bedside table, chest of drawers. Barely room for a person. Bare bulb overhead.

  How could it be so hot?

  Across the way, a brick tenement identical to theirs had fire escapes running up and down like zips on a biker jacket. She opened the window and stuck her head out over the street, desperate for air. A muffled clamour rose from below. It was hotter outside than in.

  Stripping off her clothes, she fell back on the bare mattress.

  Ugh, she thought. I need a shower.

  The door to Dawn’s room was closed when Beth stepped out in a towel. She hurried to the bathroom, stood under the cold shower till her blood cooled, then stood dripping on the wet tile floor. No bath mat, no shower curtain. Water trickled from the ceiling and ran down the walls; the entire apartment had become a rainforest. She was sweating again by the time she reached her bedroom.

  Beth made the bed and unpacked into the chest of drawers. A few stray items at the back – green nylon underpants, torn T-shirt, single grey sock – she dumped guiltlessly in the trash.

  And that was it. Home.

  Lying naked on the bed, she spread the damp towel over her torso. If you didn’t move, it wasn’t too bad.

  As the light slipped away, Beth heard a male voice in the next room. Must be Tom, she thought. Not a cat then. She lacked the energy to check. It was too hot to get dressed. Too hot to talk. Definitely too hot to talk to Dawn.

  Outside, singing, swearing and shouting rose up in a spew of noise. New York City after dark sounded savage.

  She turned off the light and tried to sleep.

  3

  The next morning, Beth woke early, dressed and went out. The bars on Christopher Street were closed, clientele gone to their beds or someone else’s. Ten minutes of wandering led her to The Acropolis, a blue, white and chrome Greek coffee shop. Within seconds she’d been steered to a counter seat, a menu slapped in front of her.

  ‘Coffee?’ The waiter held up a pot.

  She nodded, grateful. He filled a heavy white mug and slid a metal container of milk in front of her.

  Beth ordered the Breakfast Special – two eggs any style, pancakes, hash browns, bacon, sausage and toast. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. Her plate arrived with far too much food, but she ate it all, accepting extra toast and coffee because it was free. The waiters treated her with reassuring indifference.

  After breakfast, with no desire to encounter Dawn and Tom, she set off exploring. From the air-conditioned coffee shop, outdoors hit her like a hammer. Not even ten and already creeping up towards a hundred degrees.

  She walked and walked. And looked and looked. And walked. And looked. Veered into a pizza joint.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Could I please have some water …’

  The pizza man filled a giant waxed cup with water and ice. He waved when she reached for her wallet. ‘I’m not gonna charge you for ice.’

  Her hands, thick with heat, dipped into the cup.

  For hours, Beth sat in Washington Square watching people come and go. All around her, New Yorkers in sunglasses, stiletto heels, flip-flops and roller skates flowed from here to there and back again, impervious to weather and everything else.

  Eventually she got up and wandered off again through the streets. She stopped at a store advertising air-con and exotic gifts, with hash pipes, ropes of silver jewellery, T-shirts printed with marijuana leaves and books of Indian poetry in the window. Inside it stank of patchouli. She took her time, searching the glass cases as if for something specific, though the salesgirl ignored her. Wreathed in cool air, Beth’s eyes glazed over with pleasure. Could she stay here all day?

  Her damp clothes began to turn icy.

  ‘You need help?’ The girl looked up at last. She was young, hippieish.

  Beth pointed to a large black-and-white poster of Debbie Harry looking sideways at the camera
. ‘How much is that?’

  ‘It’s the last one and it’s torn. You can have it for a buck.’ Not waiting for assent, the girl pulled it off the wall and rolled it up.

  ‘You want the tacks?’

  Beth nodded and exchanged them for a damp dollar bill from her pocket. Indian goat bells tinkled on the door as she left.

  For a few seconds the heat outside was bliss.

  Box fans formed a pyramid in front of a hardware store. Get ’Em While They’re Hot said the handwritten sign. She bought one, and a cheap desk lamp.

  Back on her block, the party she’d heard the night before was in full swing. It wasn’t frightening down here, just giddy and feverish. Men in tight satin micro shorts or jeans and tank tops arrived outside bars where people already gathered to drink, talk, hold hands and kiss. Couples dressed head to toe in leather strolled past oblivious to the heat. She’d never noticed gay people back home; they all must live here.

  Beth threw her shoulder at the front door and flicked on the light. The bulb blew with a flash and she trudged up to 5E in the dark.

  Nobody home, much to her relief. Dumping her treasures on the bed, she set up her new lamp. It was better than the ghoulish overhead but nothing could fix the depressing atmosphere of the place. The only cheering feature was a slim bookcase pushed up against the living-room wall, with best-sellers from past years, a few classics, and half a dozen old books with brightly illustrated covers. Some previous tenant had been a reader. She plugged in the fan and switched it to high, then stood on her bed to hang the poster. Tacks slid easily into the flimsy wall.

  Beth stepped back. Debbie Harry looked strong. I will surround myself with strong women, she thought. And become like them.

  Stripping down to her T-shirt, she dozed off to the noisy whoosh of the fan, waking early evening in a drugged haze, her sheets damp with sweat, hungry but unwilling to brave the endless stairs. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed scuttling.

  Both windows faced the street so there was no chance of a cross-breeze. Beth soaked her T-shirt in cold water and wore it to bed. When she woke at midnight it was bone-dry, so she soaked it once more and went back to sleep, clammy, hot and cold at once.

  From deep within a heat-haze dream she heard Dawn and Tom come in.

  Saturday night on Christopher Street sounded like an insurrection.

  4

  For her interview six months earlier, Beth told the story of her best friend’s rejection from the local high school, despite living practically next door. Innocent questions turned serious when she uncovered exclusions that didn’t chime with local zoning. Why were some students admitted and some not, given equal proximity?

  She went to town council meetings and asked school board members questions about quotas and pupil places. No one thought to lie to a seventeen-year-old. What she found revealed admission practices based on religion and race, and when the school newspaper chose not to run the story, Beth took it to the local news. National wires picked it up and within days it was headlining in New York, Washington, DC and Chicago.

  ‘HIGH SCHOOL SLEUTH BUSTS ZONING CHEATS’ and ‘SHOCK SCHOOL QUOTA COVER-UP’. The headlines made her temporarily famous and guaranteed the internship against steep competition.

  The answer came first by letter, then by phone.

  ‘Hello, Beth?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Jeanne Pearce in New York. I just wanted to congratulate you in person. We were very impressed by your application.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She felt a surge of triumph.

  ‘The summer term runs from June twentieth to Labor Day. Will you have trouble finding a place to stay in New York?’

  ‘No, it’s OK. My friend’s sister has a sublet.’

  ‘Excellent. That’s Monday the twentieth at nine. Your first test is to find us.’ She chuckled. ‘Unless you have questions, I’ll see you then.’

  On Sunday, Beth returned to The Acropolis where the waiter confirmed her table for one and tossed down a menu. But then he turned round and said, ‘Breakfast Special over easy? Coffee extra toast?’

  It was like receiving a key to the city.

  Afterwards she practised walking to work. Forty blocks, forty minutes, straight up Seventh Avenue in the sweltering heat, through the plant district, the garment district; past groups of men hanging around outside Spanish bodegas and Cuban Chinese diners, smoking, reading newspapers, arguing. The only immediate danger was heatstroke. Despite everything she’d heard about New York, none of it seemed particularly threatening.

  At Times Square, she walked slowly past the bronze revolving doors, then turned and retraced her steps back down Seventh Avenue, not yet confident enough to try a different route.

  Halfway to the Village she passed a store with neon T-shirts in the window and, inside, a gigantic industrial fan, big as an airplane engine. Beth went in and stood in the powerful breeze like a seagull coasting an updraught. It was no weather to be trying on clothes. The salesgirl, languid and slow, approached with an armful of hangers.

  ‘Try this,’ she said, holding out a loose cotton jumpsuit. It was tobacco brown, sleeveless with a deep V-neck. ‘Leave your T-shirt on.’

  Beth held her arms away from her sides and stepped into the jumpsuit. The salesgirl chose a wide leather belt, fastened it around her waist and looked at her dispassionately.

  The jumpsuit looked great but the person in the mirror was wrong. Wrong hair, wrong shoes, wrong way of standing. The expression on her face was wrong. Her parents, home-town, school, friends, aspirations. All wrong.

  ‘See?’ said the girl.

  She saw.

  Beth bought the jumpsuit and belt, plus a black-and-white-striped skirt her mother would hate and a tight neon pink T-shirt. Elation competed with despair. How could her life possibly live up to her new clothes? Three crumbs of fashion was more a curse than a fix, throwing the horror of her existing wardrobe into stark relief. Well, at least she’d have something to wear on the first day.

  She left the shop. Her feet hurt. Her sneakers smelled bad. She’d spent most of her money. Vendors called out to her: ‘Louis Vuitton bags! Cartier watches! Top quality Ray-Bans! Get yer Gucci loafers, Versace jeans, Lacoste sun hats! Wind-up toys, books, belts, jewellery!’ Wherever she looked, gigantic boom boxes howled dance music from people’s shoulders.

  No one had ever been more grateful for New York’s special gift to newcomers: anonymity.

  She bent to examine the Rolex watches, twenty dollars each, two for thirty. Gigantic, tacky, flashy things. They looked real enough to her. How could you tell?

  The air of New York was thick with repartee. Women argued prices with street hawkers, beggars mumbled if you flipped them a quarter, roller skaters bantered their way backwards along crowded sidewalks. One guy smelling of urine held a sign that read Raising $10 million for wine research. Beth’s head swam with the noise.

  As the day wore on, her skin turned grey with dust. There didn’t seem to be enough air in the air. It might make sense to eat dinner now, she thought, though it was only four thirty. No way would she risk opening the apartment’s fridge. Anything could be in there. A cockroach colony. A severed head. She bought an ice-cream cone, licking the drips as fast as they melted, and suddenly realised how tired she was. Back on Christopher Street, she opened the lobby door and began the long trudge to the fifth floor.

  Dawn was home, eating cheesy Goldfish out of the bag and drinking beer. ‘What you got there? You been shopping?’

  ‘A few things for work tomorrow. Jesus it’s hot in here. I got a fan yesterday – you should get one. There’s a hardware place a block over selling them.’

  ‘Supposed to be like this all summer. Fucking awful if it is. No way I’m going up and down those fucking stairs ever again. Tom will do it.’

  Beth wondered if Dawn planned to spend the entire summer in the apartment. She wondered if she’d ever meet Tom. Maybe he was just a voice.

  She retreated, turned the fan on high and closed her door. The breeze swept the corners of the room in ragged circles like a trapped pigeon.

  5

  Arriving at work on Monday morning dressed for the Sahara, Beth found the temperature inside arctic. Everyone else, she noticed, carried a sweater or jacket.