Page 70 of The Wedding Forecast

We chat and walk through the dark snowy streets, and I have the feeling this might be one of the most perfect days of my life. I make Mac stop and take photos whenever I see anything that feels iconically New York.

‘This is just a pile of dirty snow.’

‘No, it’s a classic New York sidewalk.’

‘Oh, we should go to the High Line tomorrow,’ he says.

‘We?’ I say.

He looks a little embarrassed.

‘I mean, you should.’

‘Do you want to hang out again tomorrow?’ I say.

‘Do you?’ he says.

Our arms have brushed together, which is nothing with thick coats on but, still, I notice it, I feel it.

‘I would love to,’ I say, because it’s dark and feels safe to say anything right now—the words will just float away like snowflakes.

‘Me too,’ he says.

The Christmas market is still open. We wander around and I buy several tacky items that I will absolutely regret when it comes to fitting them in my bag to go home, but right now, they feel like the most precious things I could possibly own. A snowglobe of the New York skyline with the Empire State Building looking slightly warped. A hanging Christmas-tree ornament of a vintage yellow taxicab being driven by Santa.

We’re almost at my hotel, when I say, ‘Why did you pick survivor. On the cards?’

‘Oh. Well. It’s kind of nothing,’ he says. ‘It was my family nickname, a joke. Cormac the Survivor. I was a bit of a daredevil as a kid, and I would just climb things, throw myself off things, dive into things. I had no fear.’

‘Cormac the Survivor,’ I say. ‘Does your family call you Cormac?’

‘Mainly just my mum did. I miss it.’ He glances at me, and we keep walking. ‘The survivor thing, it stuck with me. I wasn’t good at school, but I would tell myself, you can survive this. And then, when I moved here, I knew I wasn’t going to be instantly famous or anything, I knew how hard it was going to be, how much work and how long it would take to get anywhere, if I even could. I knew it was going to be tough, the industry is ruthless. And I always thought to myself, just keep surviving. Like a cockroach. Don’t let them squash you. Just get through the first few years. And I did. And then, after Mum died, I went back to that thought again. Just get through it. Just survive it.’

‘And have you?’ I ask. ‘Survived it?’

‘I guess. I mean, yeah, I have.’ He doesn’t sound so certain.

We walk in silence for a moment, and then he turns to me. ‘What about you? Why did you pick dreamer?’

‘Oh.’ I pause. ‘I guess it’s a bit like yours. I was a daydreamer as a kid. And I still am, in lots of ways. And it’s…I don’t know. In my head, it felt like a way to represent all the things I still want.’

‘Which are?’ he asks.

‘You know. All the boring, conventional things. A partner. A house. A dog. A child. And creative stuff. To write more books. Make art. Get a day job I actually like.’

‘You don’t like your job?’

‘I used to. I’ve had some fun creative marketing roles. And made lots of friends. But what I’m doing right now, for a health-insurance company, is very safe, and stable, and it pays pretty well, but it’s so dull. And I got a new boss a year ago, who is just awful.’

‘Why are they awful?’

‘His name is Marco. And if someone calls out his name, he’ll always say ‘Polo!’ in response, and he expects everyone to laugh every single time. It’s very annoying. Also, he makes half the staff cry on a daily basis.’

‘A real charmer.’

‘Right.’

‘You should leave.’