An English Boy in New York by T. S. Easton

that
before
I did the interview,’ I pointed out.
    â€˜Don’t worry about it. It’s not as if anyone’s going to check,’ she said.
    â€˜I hope not,’ I said. ‘I don’t like lying.’
    â€˜Really? You’re pretty good at it,’ she said. Denise came and gave us our coffees. This time Denise smiled at me. She looked a bit perkier than she had last night.
    â€˜Did you get some sleep?’ I asked her.
    She laughed. ‘I sure did.’
    Brandi raised an eyebrow as the waitress walked off.
    â€˜What?’ I said.
    â€˜Quite the ladies’ man, huh?’
    â€˜No, it’s just that last night  … ’ I stopped. ‘Oh, whatever, it’s not what you think!’
    â€˜You’re lying again.’
    â€˜No I’m not.’
    Brandi took my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m just teasing. I think you’re amazing, Ben. I really enjoyed today.’
    â€˜Yeah, me too,’ I said.
    Back at the hotel, I walked into my room and my first thought was that we’d been burgled by someone with reverse-OCD. Someone had taken every last item out of Gex’s suitcase and distributed it carefully around the floor so that everything was exactly equidistant from everything else. Even though Gex hadn’t slept in the bed last night the bedclothes were messed up and in a heap at the foot of the bed. There was also an odd smell.
    Gex was sitting at the table by the window, sending a text.
    â€˜So the wanderer returns,’ I said. ‘I missed you. Not.’
    â€˜All right, Bellend,’ said Gex, looking up from his phone. ‘Whaddup?’
    I shook my head and surveyed the mess again. ‘Has Tracey Emin moved in?’ I asked.
    â€˜Tracey who?’ Gex shrugged. ‘Nah. But we do have a visitor.’
    I heard the toilet flush and a strange man appeared at the door to the bathroom.
    â€˜Ben, dis is Keith,’ Gex said. ‘Keith, Ben.’
    â€˜Yo,’ Keith said.
    â€˜Hi  …  Keith,’ I said, slightly nervous. Keith was a big lad with greasy hair and a huge leather jacket. So he was a gangster?
    â€˜Keith is just his gang name,’ Gex said.
    â€˜Really?’ I asked. ‘Keith doesn’t sound very  …  gangy.’
    â€˜It’s a cool name here in the Apple,’ Gex said knowledgeably.
    â€˜Where are Mum and Dad?’ I asked.
    â€˜They went to some place called the Googlehome.’
    â€˜The Guggenheim?’
    â€˜Whatever.’
    â€˜So you the knitting guy?’ Keith asked.
    â€˜Er, yeah,’ I replied. I wasn’t sure I was happy about Gex volunteering all this personal information about me to Jimmy Soprano here.
    â€˜My mom knits,’ Keith volunteered.
    â€˜Er, OK.’
    â€˜I love my mom,’ he said.
    â€˜Good,’ I replied. ‘Me too. I mean, I love my mom. Not your mom. Not that your mom isn’t loveable also.’
    Gex started whistling through his teeth, which is Gex speak for ‘shut the hell up’.
    â€˜Hey, I need a coffee,’ Keith said. ‘Let’s go to Starbucks.’
    â€˜Let me go and see if my parents are back first,’ I said.
    I wandered down the hall and knocked at their door, but there was no answer. They must have still been at the Guggenheim, or maybe they’d gone out to dinner. This was why it was so frustrating not having my phone. How did people cope in the 80s, before mobile phones? I shudder to think. And I worry about the human race in the event of an extraterrestrial attack. All the Martians would have to do is take out a few phone masts and we’d all forget what we were supposed to be doing and start wandering about aimlessly.
    Anyway. Out the three of us went, onto the streets of New York.
    For some reason Gex was nearly wetting his pants about going to Starbucks.
    â€˜We have two in Hampton,’ I pointed out. ‘One in the high street and one at