“One idiot who screwed up our budget,” I corrected her, “and one idiot who assumed the other idiot was not, in fact, an idiot.”

He’d unhooked the rope for us. “Lucky for you, I’m retiring tomorrow,” he said. “Say hi to Tom Hanks for me.”

This time, after posing for a few photos and making engaged faces at the building’s new exhibit about its construction, I walked onto a waiting elevator, which dumped me out on the viewing deck, empty and secured for me. My protection officers were downstairs (watching me on CCTV in case something crazy happened, like a sudden hurricane or a visit from Spider-Man). There was no docent to talk me through the sights, no members of the public for me to meet, nobody’s hand to shake and no one to smile for—and, hopefully, no long lens trained on my face, or any other parts of my body. I was totally alone, for the first time in two weeks. I relished the feeling of smallness that came from beholding a seemingly boundless city spread out beneath me. In the scheme of things, who even cared if my boobs were in the paper? The people we’d visited on this trip did important work every day of their lives—not because the Daily Mail would approve, or because it would bring good PR to their extended family, but because it was their calling to help. It was about time I treated my job like that, too.

“Cracking view,” said a voice, and then Nick’s hands were wrapped around my waist. “Definitely beats the White House Rose Garden.”

I turned sideways and gave him a peck. “I wish I’d seen that,” I said. “I’ve never been to DC.”

“I didn’t get this kind of view of it, sadly,” Nick said, dropping a coin into one of the viewfinders. “But it’s dwarfed by New York. Why isn’t this your capital?”

“I’d tell you, but I don’t want to spoil Hamilton,” I told him. We had box seats as our final hurrah in New York before heading for Heathrow.

“It does seem to be, as they say, a hell of a town,” Nick said. “I wish we could stay longer.”

“I wish we could, too.” I sighed. “It was a rude awakening, realizing I couldn’t show you my New York. No one is going to let us sneak into some grungy dive bar and monopolize the jukebox until we get kicked out for playing too much Wham!”

Nick turned away from the viewfinder to peer at me. “That cannot be a true story,” Nick said. “There is no such thing as too much Wham!”

“Tell that to the darts league that complained,” I said.

“You two clearly had fun here,” he said, abandoning his viewfinder completely and coming to stand hip to hip with me. “You sound like you miss those days.”