The sparkling night view over New York out through the penthouse terrace is as dreamy and lustrous as ever. The full moon still looks pretty good behind the pointed shaft of the Chrysler building. Even through these slats. And really, a New York view from a five-star hotel penthouse suite - how bad can it get? Peering out at it through the louvred doors from inside a closet takes the shine off noticeably, I’ll admit it. Not that big a closet, it has to be said. And I’m really not that small a girl. There’s only just enough space for me to stand, and my heart is thumping so hard, I’m afraid it’s going to bang the door open. At times like this, I wonder whether I’ve made all the best choices. It seems a world away from the little diner where it all started, just a few weeks ago. The drunken chef had sloped off early, while his wife, the owner, was out at the bank, or at least that’s where she always said she’d spent those afternoons. Must have been hard going, twice a week with the bankers, judging from how flushed she always looked when she got back, and the way her hair was often kind of mussed up.
