It starts with ‘Untitled (Cowboys)’, a photograph by Richard Prince. This piece hangs in the V&A and when I see its rollicking effect and gritty grain, I feel I’ve been tapped on the heart. It’s late May and whatever homesickness I felt before is nothing compared to the melancholy I feel now. This is when I realize it’s not about a photo in a museum or a preoccupation with you or the ghost of us; it’s just about going home.
I begin to obsess over visions of Americana – buttery pies of primary-colored fruits swimming in melting vanilla ice cream. Country music. Small town swimming pools and the way they sound from a distance – that detached, hazy noise of abandon.
These taper into visions of New York – dozens of birthday parties for semi-friends at the Magician. Spaghetti at my favorite Italian restaurant in the West Village. Mary-Kate Olsen getting off the elevator at Barneys, her giant head and sunglasses bobbing as if attached to the ceiling by puppet strings. The cat I had to leave behind, sitting in the window, watching the ships on the Hudson.
I know I want to go home. I don’t know when I’ll be able to, but it’s on the horizon and I’m moving deftly towards it.
–
Istanbul is legendary. The city always looks like a downturn of a delightful party; it is caught in the pale tatters of former opulence. Over three days, we eat, drink, dance, and cause commotion.
The flight home means four hours, fifteen of us, countless mini bottles of wine, and one of the best memories of my life.
If you haven’t been on holiday with Brits, you haven’t been on holiday.
–
My friend and I sit outside to eat, despite the ever-consistent chilly London air. It is June and it is freezing. We curl up in our chairs and try to enjoy the fact that, at the very least, it is not raining. For once.
On the subject of men and marriage, she leans back and rests her fork and knife on the edge of her plate.
“Food for thought — one in three marriages ends in divorce,” she says. “The odds are not good, darling. If you went skydiving, and just before you jumped, you were told that there was a 33% chance you would die, would you still jump?”
“It depends. Is divorce like death?”
My friend looks at me and says dryly, “I don’t know, but do you really want to find out the answer to that question?”
We quietly eat our grilled figs with a crisp Muscadet and look past the houseboats, eyes settling on bulbous, cartoonish trees that live on the south bank of the Thames.
–
In late July, the email comes. G_____, a something-nothing-sometimes-maybe-one day is finally getting married. After five years of dancing around the idea of giving us a shot, he’s decided to give someone else a shot. And this is fine. This is good.
He wants me to come to the wedding in October. That’s when I decide – I will go to New York for it. No. I will go to New York for it, and I will stay there.
–
A few days later, Laura arrives on the tail-end of her semester and travels in Europe. I am her final stop and when I see her at the airport, we both cry. She is resplendent and shining and I can only hope that I look that way towards the end.
We go out in east London and select a random bar for drinks in the middle of a Friday. I can’t believe it when I see him there, the Italian I swore I’d never see again. And there he is, seeing me. Our eyes meet and I nod, wave. So sheepish. Because the last thing I ever said to him was, “This never should have happened. Please go away. This was a mistake.”
He waves me over and we sit with him and his mates. Before long, things are as they were and I’m allowing him to caress my leg and whisper to me in words I don’t understand. I’m able to pretend that this is ok until he says, “You know, the last time I saw you, you said some words that hurt me.”
These are words I understand and dread.
“About that,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“You said we were a mistake. I don’t want to think that you believe that.”
How do you tell someone that they were a drunken diversion and a warm body and a placeholder? The advice I received from a friend rings in my head: “Bridge, just get it over with and sleep with him. Someone has to be the first one after the breakup, and it had better be someone meaningless.”
–
“C____.”
That’s all I have to say – his name, in that tone, and he knows.
My boss C____ closes his eyes and covers his face. All I see is the tip of his pink tongue, caught between his pale lips.
From behind his hands, he says quietly, “You’re not.”
I sigh and say, “I have to. It has nothing to do with you or this job and it has everything to do with England.”
“Please tell me you’re not. I need you here. The office needs you here. Let’s pretend you didn’t just say that and go back to our work. Hm, think I’ll make a tea. Tea?”
“C____…”
“You need to stay. How can we get you to stay? Money is the obvious answer. But that’s not it, and I know it. We need to…we need to make you fall in love. That’s it. I have four weeks to find you a man and make you fall in love.”
I laugh and wish it were that easy.
He says, “This is precisely why I’ve been avoiding you all week. I was afraid of this.”
“Well, that didn’t help matters,” I say. “I thought you were being a twat.”
“See, this is why I need you here. To hear you say, with your American accent, twat.”
“I’m sorry. This is my six week notice,” I say.
“Bridge…if you’re in a life raft and you know that someone else in the life raft is prone to shooting big fucking holes in it, you either sit really far from that person, or right next to them. Remember that.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but know that someday, I will need to know that information.
–
As soon as I decide it’s over, it begins. The process of melting into my environment and actually living starts. I sometimes run into acquaintances on the street, the way I always did in New York. I befriend three lovely girls who are warm and they open their lives and homes to this American stranger. I find pockets of the city that are special to me. Then I share them and make them special to others. Life in London unwraps and bares itself. It is raw and naked and it is whatever I want.
I am endlessly busy with friends and visitors. I begin to make plans and pack. Kate visits and it is like being at home, which is strange, because Kate and I haven’t lived in the same city in years. So it’s just that being together is like being at home.
My birthday approaches and I’m amazed at the way it’s embraced – the girls throw me a dinner party and shower me with gifts. Several other parties and dinners hover around my birthday, and I am grateful for it. Because two things were supposed to arrive on my birthday and didn’t – you, and our baby.
–
Two weeks later, I’m back in New York.
Four weeks later, and I’m here – I’m home — and it is right now. It is all right now.
6 November, 2008 at 3:46 pm
good luck and welcome back home!