The Persistence of Memory

Chapter Three

Trey, one of the four alternate doormen is on duty tonight and he smiles and opens the door for me as I approach. He's tall and broad and reminds me of a large bear. He's probably my favourite of our doormen if I had to choose. He has a deep rumbling voice with a southern accent I could listen to for hours.

"Good evening, Mrs Alford," he says with a warm smile.

"Hello Trey, Oliver is just coming — he's paying the driver," I reply with what I hope is a warm tone. A non-snooty tone. It unnerves me that we live in a building which has doormen. It feels unwholesome. Like having a servant. Or like going to pee in those places which have toilet attendants. I hate those places. I don't want to be made to feel guilty for the privilege of using soap.

Trey nods and tips his hat to me, and I make my way past him to the two lifts. Pressing the call button, I glance upwards to the old fashioned counter and watch it begin to descend from the 8th floor. The arm making its way slowly across the half-circle.

A moment later Oliver appears at my side and slips his arms around me to pull him into his body. As he leans in to kiss the top of my head I gaze at our reflection in the brass doors. We look good together, he and I. Oliver is tall with a good physique - one he works hard at each morning in the building gym - with dark copper hair that goes a little lighter in the sun. I'm a few inches shorter, pale and slender with long strawberry blonde hair. A nice compliment to him. I always like us in photos together.

Yes, from the outside, we make an attractive couple.

When the lift opens with a 'ding' I get in first and stand at the back as Oliver pushes the button for 10 and comes to stand by my side, sliding his arm around my waist to pull me into him. I lean my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand stroking the small of my back.

I'm exhausted. I'm always bloody exhausted. After it happened I'd spent about two months sleeping. Mainly because I was tired, but also because sleeping was the only thing that made me forget, the only thing that stopped the guilt that was smothering me. No that wasn't right. It didn't stop it smothering me. It merely hushed it for a few hours.

"Tonight wasn't that bad," I murmur sleepily. Oliver kisses the top of my head again.

We exit the lift and walk in silence to the door of the place we now called 'home', though as he unlocks the door and holds it open for me I know as I always know that this place, this cold duplex on the upper east side of Manhattan will never feel like a home.

I leave Oliver to lock the door and walk down the long hallway to our bedroom, the motion sensor lights illuminating the large room with views out over the park.

The view from the balcony was one of the things I did like about this place. That and the dressing room come walk-in wardrobe. A ridiculous luxury that I'd actually rolled my eyes at the first time I saw it.

But I missed our house at home. Our Garden. I resented that at this very moment it was being occupied by complete strangers, that they called it 'home'. I missed London. I missed black cabs. I missed Hyde Park. I missed the rain. I missed the coffee shops and book shops of Hampstead. I missed the park. Central Park wasn't Hyde Park. New York wasn't London. This wasn't home.

This was a hotel. A large expensive suite in a magnificent five-star hotel. I doubted I'd ever stop thinking that. That our stay here was only temporary. Maybe because I'd never decorated it and it was just here in all its glory when we arrived that cold Friday evening in February. When Oliver was offered the job, the apartment came with it. It felt more like a condition of employment than a home.

I didn't belong here, I knew that much.

I'm taking off my earrings when Oliver appears behind me. He's removed his jacket and is leaning against the doorway casually as he undoes his tie, watching me hungrily in the mirror of my dressing table.