Found by Elle Field Page A

taste and I feel out of place in my dirty and borrowed clothes. If Felicity could see me now... I laugh out loud, quite hysterically, because she didn’t want to stick around to see what happened to me. She didn’t want to stick around to see what happened to anyone . No wonder Etta is always off her face, trying to cope – how wrong I was to vilify her.
    None of my behaviour fazes the barman who has likely seen a lot worse than a dishevelled woman looking sad and cackling to herself. ‘Do you want a key to the park?’ he asks kindly.
    Huh?
    Seeing the blank expression on my face he continues. ‘The park opposite the hotel? It’s private, but we have a key for guests. It’s very peaceful in there and, actually, it’s the only private park we have here in New York. It might be a better place for you to be than in here,’ he continues, ‘a better place to think. Or,’ he hurriedly adds, ‘you can stay here. Totally your call.’
    He flashes me a grin, showing his pearly white teeth, which automatically makes me run my tongue over mine. For the second time today. I totally blame Austin Powers and that stupid stereotype, though I do need to pick up a toothbrush. I had to use Piers’ this morning.
    ‘That would be really nice.’
    I offer him a weak (closed) smile, though he probably only wants me to leave to stop making his bar look grubby.
    ‘My pleasure.’ He looks relieved. ‘Tell the concierge that Chester sent you.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    With a quick salute and another smile he grabs my now empty glass of club soda – sparkling water to us Brits – and heads back down to the other end of the bar with it. In my state no alcohol is going to touch my lips – I’d only become maudlin.
    I make my way downstairs to the concierge, ask for the key, and head out of the hotel with a member of staff as I’m not allowed to let myself in. It’s weird to think that this is the only private park in New York City, though Central Park is plenty big enough for everyone.
    ‘Please shut the gate properly when you leave,’ the woman says to me with a smile before she closes the gate behind her – it locks with a click – and heads back to the hotel.
    As I look up, all I can see are the tall New York brownstones that surround the park. For a second it feels like they are closing in on me, that they are trying to swallow me whole, until I look straight ahead and see lush green trees and bushes. I take a deep breath, noticing a contrasting peppery sugar scent in the air, and I feel slightly calmer.
    Walking into the park I find myself a bench to sit on – it’s empty in here, so I have my pick – and I appreciate the silence. OK, I can still hear the beeping of cars and, occasionally, a siren or two, but I no longer feel like I am drowning. Today the gardens look lush and alive, and I admire the beds of neatly-kept, colourful flowers opposite me, though I imagine in winter, when everything is dead...
    I start to cough and choke at the thought of death, at the thought of Felicity, and the tears cascade down my face as I take huge gulping breaths of air to try and control my racing heart. It hurts so much, almost as much as when I thought I had lost Piers, and it’s just so unfair . Felicity didn’t deserve to die, however it happened, but she also didn’t deserve to suffer like she has been doing – no one deserves that.
    I just can’t get my head around her death. This goes against the Felicity Farrell that I know because the Felicity Farrell I know – knew – is a survivor. Can we truly know anyone though? I’m not sure I even know myself at times...
    ‘Hello there. Hello? Are you OK? Here, take this.’
    Something is pushed into my hand. As I clasp my fingers around it, I realise it’s a tissue. So much for New Yorkers being bad-ass people who only take care of themselves, though I guess I wasn’t as alone in here as I thought. Mortifying .
    I look up and I’m met with the sight of a glamorous older lady who