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I Heart New York
Lindsey Kelk
Angela’s running from the world’s worst wedding for a new life…Fleeing her cheating boyfriend clutching little more than a crumpled bridesmaid dress, a pair of Louboutins and her passport, Angela jumps on a plane - destination NYC.Holed up in a hotel room, Angela gets a New York makeover from her NBFJenny and a whirlwind tour of the city that never sleeps. Before she knows it, she’s dating two sexy guys and writing about it in her new blog. But it's one thing telling readers about your romantic dilemmas, it's another figuring them out for yourself …Angela has fallen head over heels for the big apple, but does she heart New York more than home?



LINDSEY KELK
I Heart New York





Copyright (#ulink_cd76c294-3328-5b8c-ae96-a08b6248731d)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Harper 2009
Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2009
Cover illustration © Adrian Valencia
Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content or written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007288380
Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007331604
Version: 2018-8-16

Dedication (#ulink_ff412b0f-1b3b-5ac2-bbea-17947cb627ba)
To the people that taught me everything I need to
know: Nana, Granddad, Janice, Phillip and Bobby
And to the people that taught me everything else:
James, Della, Catherine, Beth, Mark and Louise

Contents
Cover (#ucd51571b-cad1-5a2a-9f80-91e9abdb132d)
Title Page (#u1ad24bf2-9dba-50b3-a528-e54cc270c00f)
Copyright
Dedication (#ulink_e0715f65-41f3-5435-a2bb-cbb86b457f34)
Chapter One (#u47f69ad9-afb4-53cc-b881-4982b0dad710)
Chapter Two (#ulink_2c7796db-ec00-517b-b989-da39f62d69ba)
Chapter Three (#ulink_47e630a2-5444-5b98-85f8-684f2ff6197f)
Chapter Four (#ulink_fdd4c486-81e7-589c-ac2d-0d90ff8fff8d)
Chapter Five (#ulink_b0bc8d30-cbe8-59b1-a052-c7ad8dc403b3)
Chapter Six (#ulink_6f32136c-6cdb-5c71-b4a4-cabebeba2870)
Chapter Seven (#ulink_8612c084-da2d-5bc5-8d4a-dcc3b56f1d31)
Chapter Eight (#ulink_41577349-5a62-5633-8428-a097f297250c)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Also by Lindsey Kelk
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_99b55b62-0a1c-5c89-ad53-ceaa5e62b086)
The aisle looks really, really long.
And my tiara feels so tight.
Can you put weight on around your head? Have I got muffin top on my scalp? And my shoes really hurt. No matter how beautiful or how expensive they might be, the balls of my feet feel as if they’ve been up and down a cheese grater and then dipped in TCP.
I saw Mark standing at the end of the aisle, looking relaxed and happy. Well, I suppose he doesn’t have to walk down it in four-inch Christian Louboutins and a fishtail floor-length gown. You can’t even see the bloody shoes, Angela, I chide myself. Not even the tip of the toe.
And now my hands feel sweaty. Do I have sweat patches? I tried to sneak a peak under my arms without dislodging anything important from my bouquet.
‘Angela? Are you all right?’ Louisa frowned at me, a picture of perfection, calm as anything, immaculate make-up and not teetering a touch. And her heels are higher than mine.
‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, as eloquent as ever. Thank God it’s her wedding and not mine. And please God, while I’m at it, could you not let Mark focus on what a shoddy bridesmaid I’m turning out to be, just in case it puts him off setting our date. Seriously though, sweat patches would show horribly, the dress is a light coffee colour, specially selected to make me look sick as a dog.
I stumbled down the aisle behind Louisa, with a small smile for my mum and dad, looking appropriately happy whilst acknowledging the solemnity of the occasion. I really hope that’s how I look, anyway. There is a good chance I look as if I am wondering whether or not I’ve left my hair straighteners on. Shit! What if I have left my hair straighteners on?
I’m always struck by how short wedding ceremonies are. The months of engagement, hours of planning, a whole weekend for the hen do even, and the lifelong deal was done inside twenty minutes and a couple of hymns. Even the photos took longer than the actual service.
‘I can’t believe I’m married!’ Louisa breathed. We’d got to the not-at-all cheesy bride and head bridesmaid smiling by a fountain section. Oh dear. The poses came naturally, we’d been practising them with each other since we were old enough to hang pillowcases off the back of our heads, after all. ‘Angela, can you believe it?’
‘Of course I can,’ I said, squeezing her closely to me, ignoring the photographer’s direction. ‘You and Tim have been practically married since you were fourteen.’
We switched positions and paused to smile.
Click, flash.
‘It’s just unreal, you know?’ She flicked a soft blonde curl over her shoulder and patted a stray light brown hair back into my chignon. ‘It’s really absolutely happened.’
Click, flash.
‘Well, get ready,’ I said through a pearly smile. ‘It’ll be me and Mark next and you’ll be the one in the bridesmaid dress.’
‘Have you talked any more about setting a date?’ Louisa asked, fussing with the puddle train behind her. Was I supposed to be doing that?
‘Not really,’ I shook my head. ‘I mean, we talked about it all the time when you two finally set a date, but since Mark got promoted we’ve hardly had time to blink. You know how it is.’
Louisa waved the photographer away for a moment. ‘Mmm. I just mean, do you think you’ll definitely get married? To Mark, I mean?’
Click, flash–not a good one.
I had to hold my hands to my eyes to get a proper look at Louisa. The August sun lit her from behind, obscuring her face and highlighting a halo of wispy blonde curls.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’re engaged aren’t we?’
She sighed and shook her head. ‘Yeah, I just worry about you sweetness. With the wedding and stuff I feel like we haven’t really talked about you and Mark in ages.’
‘There’s nothing new to tell you. You probably see him more than I do. At least you get your tennis time every single week.’
‘I tried to get you to take up doubles,’ she muttered, messing with her hem again. ‘I just want you to be as happy as I am right now. Oh, that’s so patronizing, sorry. You know what I mean babe, just, be happy.’
‘I am happy,’ I reassured her, taking her hand and closing in on the dress for a scaffolded hug. ‘I am really happy.’
Just after the speeches had finished but a little bit before the dancing began, I finally managed to escape to the loo.
The reception was being held in a converted barn, that only had two ladies’ cubicles, neither of which were big enough to turn around in, so I had escaped up to our room. I looked around at my scattered belongings. I carried my life in my massive, battered handbag–laptop, iPod, phone, a couple of knackered old books. Bits of make-up and scraps of clothes were strewn all over the room, contrasting with Mark’s carefully organized suitcase. A place for everything and everything in its place, even in a hotel.
I was happy, I thought to myself, flopping down on the bed and idly flicking the pages of one of my books with my toes. I had a fun job that was flexible, I had Louisa, the best friend in the world, and I’d lost twenty pounds for this wedding, which had put me comfortably in the size twelve bridesmaid dress. I could even convince myself (if no one else) that a ten might have been a better fit. I wasn’t horrible to look at, long, light brown hair, greeny-blue eyes and since I dropped the extra weight, I’d discovered a pair of fairly impressive cheekbones. And I had Mark. Who wouldn’t love a good-looking, up-and-coming banker boyfriend? He should think himself lucky, I tried to convince myself. Yes, he’s got all his own hair, no hereditary diseases, a city banker salary, car and a mortgage, but I’d been attending horribly humiliating weight loss classes for the last six months (it wasn’t the weigh-ins that broke you, they were fine, it was the team leader who moonlighted as a dog trainer), I could cook and I cleaned the bathroom every Sunday without being asked. So no, sainthood didn’t beckon, but I wasn’t an awful girlfriend and we’d been together for ever, since we were sixteen. Ten years. But Louisa’s words bothered me a little bit. Was I happy? Maybe more content than bouncing-off-the-sofa-like-Tom-Cruise-ecstatic, but that’s still happy isn’t it?
I looked at my engagement ring. Classic solitaire. Not huge or flashy trashy, but not magnifying glass necessitating tiny. Mark had bought it with his first paycheque and presented it to me on a holiday to Seville, post-pony and trap ride and pre-lovely sex back at our hotel room. It had seemed horribly romantic at the time, but now it just seemed a horribly long time ago. Shouldn’t he be pushing me for a date? Just a little?
‘Don’t be silly,’ I said out loud to my confused reflection. Louisa was probably just getting in front of herself, she was married now after all, I just hadn’t expected her smug-married neuroses to kick in before she’d even got out of the church. There was nothing wrong with me and Mark. Ten years of nothing wrong, why would I worry? I tried to slip my beautiful, beautiful heels back on but my left foot seemed to have gained ten of my twenty lost pounds. After five fruitless minutes of searching the suite for my standby flats, I accepted that my shoe bag hadn’t made it out of the car. Which meant I would have to brave the drunken uncles, the dancing children high on wedding cake (I had seen balloons too–they were armed) and go to the car park.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_604126e3-10c0-562f-a38e-b3349853ccd3)
Tiptoeing barefoot, Louboutins in hand, I searched for the car. Over in a dark corner, hidden beneath beautiful weeping willows was Mark’s Range Rover. When he had bought it six months before, Louisa had taken it as a direct sign that he was ready for kids. I saw it as a direct sign that he was not ever going to let me drive it on my own. So far, I’d been the one proven right. Scrambling around in my handbag for the spare keys, I noticed that the reading light was on in the back. I smiled to myself, knowing Mark would be so happy that I had come out and saved his battery. Pressing the button to turn off the alarm, instead of the reassuring double pip, I was greeted by a loud siren and flashing indicators. Which was when I realized someone was inside the car.
Shit, our car was being stolen and here I was, hobbling barefoot over gravel with a pair of £400 shoes in one hand and wearing a floor length gown. And I’d just set the alarm off. Brilliant. The car thieves were definitely going to kill me. If I was murdered at Louisa’s wedding, she would be furious. All her anniversaries would be ruined. Would she still go on her honeymoon? Maybe I could use my heels as a weapon. Well, maybe not, I didn’t want to stain them. But the soles were already red …
I was all ready to turn and hightail it out of the headlines when I remembered my shoes. They could take Mark’s car but, damn it, they weren’t taking my fallback flats. Two-year-old Top shop maybe but they were the comfiest damn shoes I’d ever owned. I pulled open the back door to confront the thief before I bottled it. And then, in a startling moment of clarity, I realized there wasn’t a man trying to steal the car or my shoes, but two people, very much having sex on the back seat.
And one of them was Mark.
‘Angela,’ he stuttered, his red sweaty face staring out at me, indentations from my Hello Kitty seatbelt protectors on his left cheek. He wouldn’t let me put them in the front. It took me another moment to register the naked woman underneath him. She looked at me, frozen underneath Mark, with smudged mascara and a red chin from Mark’s omnipresent five o’clock shadow. I didn’t recognize her at all, blonde, pretty, looked fairly skinny from what I could see of her bony shoulders, and she had a lovely tan. A peacock blue silk dress scrunched up on the parcel shelf suggested she had been at the wedding reception, and the beautiful pair of silver Gina sandals clamped around my boyfriend’s waist told me I really should have spotted her earlier. I did love a nicely turned shoe.
‘I came to get my flats,’ I said, numb, not moving.
I stumbled backwards as Mark pulled himself out of the car on his belly and dropped to the floor in front of me, his boxer shorts working themselves further back down his legs as his sweaty skin peeled away from the leather.
‘Angela,’ Mark stood up, he pulled his pants up high, and wriggled into his shirt. I looked past him into the car. The girl had managed to get her dress on and was rubbing under her eyes to try to get rid of the mascara. Good luck, I thought, if it’s as good a quality as your shoes you won’t get that off by rubbing. Shoes still looked great though. Bitch.
‘Angela,’ he tried again snapping me out of my shoe-induced haze. ‘I–what are you doing out here?’
I looked back at him. ‘Shoes,’ I said, waving my sandals at him and gesturing towards the car. ‘You didn’t bring my flats in.’
He stared at me wildly, glancing from me to my high heels and then back at the car. Slowly, as though I were a startled animal that might bolt, he took a step back towards the backseat and reached under the passenger seat for a small cloth shoe bag. He held it out to me, afraid to touch me, afraid to make contact. ‘Thanks.’ I took the bag.
Mark stood, bathed in the backseat light, red, sweaty, trousers off, socks and shoes on with a little wet patch growing on the front of his boxers to add insult to injury.
‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I asked. Incredibly eloquently.
‘Angela,’ Mark shuffled forward half an inch.
‘And who, the fuck, is she?’ I asked, pointing to the girl with my left Louboutin, still in my hand. The girl looked away, trapped in the back of the car.
‘Angela,’ he stuttered, retreating from the perfectly pointed toe aimed at his temple.
‘No, I’m Angela. I can see how you might be confused though,’ I said, feeling my eyes starting to well up. My boyfriend was having sex in the back of our car, our beautiful future children’s car, at our best friends’ wedding. I was not going to cry in front of him while he pissed away ten years together on a cheap shag in a car park.
‘Angela, this is Katie. I, erm, I—’ he looked back again and met her eyes briefly and I swear I saw a hint of a goofy smile cross his goddamned face. It was the most painful moment of the whole thing. ‘We, well, we’ve been playing tennis together, and, well—’
‘This is what you think playing tennis is? Shit, does Louisa know you’ve been “playing tennis” with Tim?’ I wanted to hit him, I wanted to hit her, and just as I was about to toss a coin to see who was getting it first, I realized. ‘You haven’t been playing tennis with Tim,’ I said.
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘And you haven’t been working late.’ It was all making a horrible sort of sense.
‘No.’ He sighed, his shoulders dropping with acceptance.
‘Does Tim know?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ I didn’t even look up.
‘And Louisa knows?’ I gripped my heels tightly and was vaguely aware of a buckle cutting into the flesh of my palm.
‘I think so.’ He nodded. ‘I mean, well, we do play tennis sometimes. Doubles. I–I’m not sure though.’
Was I happy? Louisa had wanted to know if I knew.
‘You’ve all been playing doubles together?’ I gulped, trying not to be sick.
He looked at me, eyebrows raised, breath caught in his throat. ‘Angela, don’t,’ he put a hand out towards my forearm.
‘Don’t you dare!’ I said, feeling the bile rise in my throat and pulling my arm away. ‘Don’t you dare touch me.’ Heel raised high above my head, I saw for a second how easy it would be. He was frozen and she was trapped in the back seat and Louboutins are beautifully made, I’m fairly sure they would do two skulls without breaking.
But, instead of seeing two bloody corpses, all I could see was Tim and Louisa laughing hysterically in their tennis whites after a game of doubles with Mark and Katie. While I sat at home, tapping away on my laptop, not eating and waiting for my cheating, lying, scumbag boyfriend.
Potential murder weapon in hand, I turned on my heel and started back across the car park. Mark was still pitifully calling my name as I charged through the French doors and across the dance floor, cutting a swathe through the tiny bridesmaids dancing to the poptastic disco. Tim and Louisa were standing by the dance floor cradling champagne, waiting for the DJ to announce their first dance, when Louisa saw me.
‘Angela,’ she said as I ploughed to a stop in front of them. Right away, I knew she knew.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I shouted. All concern for ruining her wedding was long gone. I had been completely betrayed by the people I trusted most in the world.
‘Angela, I–why don’t we—’ Tim reached out and placed his hand on my forearm. Before I knew what I was doing, I snatched my arm away and cracked his knuckles with my shoe.
‘Will you stop saying my name like it’s a bloody tranquillizer!’ I paused, gritting my teeth. ‘I have just caught Mark shagging your tennis buddy in the back of our car.’
If I didn’t have everyone’s attention before I broke the groom’s knuckles, I did now.
‘Oh, Angela,’ Louisa sobbed. ‘I tried to tell you, I just, I thought you must already know. You know, somehow, deep down.’
‘At what point did you think that? When I told you I was perfectly happy and was still sure I was marrying Mark? When I didn’t tell you my boyfriend was a cheating shit? Or when you first started playing doubles with him and that slag?’
Louisa burst into tears and turned to run out of the room, but her exit through the French doors was blocked by Mark. Still in his stained boxers, socks, and half buttoned-up shirt, he stood frozen under the gaze of three hundred wedding guests, most of whom had just about worked out what was happening. Finally remembering to breathe, I took a moment to observe the scene. Tim looked at me with pale terror as he clutched his bloody hand, Louisa was standing bawling in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by crying children, and Mark, clutching at the doorframe as though it was all that was holding him up, stared at me in disbelief. I looked backwards towards the guests and saw my mum emerge from the crowd. She looked everyone up and down, paused, pursed her lips and walked right up to me. Loosening my white knuckles, she prised my Louboutins out of my left hand, then gripped it tightly in her own.
‘Come on,’ she said quietly, placing a hand on the small of my back and guiding me across the room. I couldn’t see anything but the floor in front of my feet, or hear any of the murmurings around me. All I knew was my mum’s hand and the gravel still stuck to my bare feet.
It must have been about five in the morning when I woke up. The room was so big and quiet and I could hear the bones of my bridesmaid dress scrunching into my ribs. I turned over and realized that lying next to me in the big beautiful bed wasn’t my fiancé, my Mark, but my mother. Her perfect wedding outfit was carefully folded over the back of a chair and I hesitated for a moment before looking down at what she was wearing instead. It’s a bit weird to see your mum wearing an old Blondie T-shirt and a pair of your boyfriend’s boxers. Ex-boyfriend. I sat up slowly and tried not to catch sight of myself in the mirror until I’d locked myself in the bathroom. My hair was a bird’s nest of slept-in chignon, my make-up smeared with sleep, tears and pillow creases and the parts of my dress that hadn’t already been torn or muddied, were twisted and creased up beyond all recognition.
Stripping myself of everything, earrings, necklace, engagement ring, I stepped into the giant shower and just let the water run. How had this happened? Destroying my best friend’s wedding aside, how had I not noticed that my boyfriend was cheating on me and had been doing so for so long and so openly that my friends all knew? It wasn’t just a quick shag, it was clearly serious. What would I do? Where would I go? As the shower stall steamed up and I lathered, rinsed and repeated, I tried to be rational. Keep a clear head in any situation. Mum always said it was one of our strengths.
I’d have to go home and get my stuff. Home. I supposed it wasn’t even my home any more. He’d probably move her in tomorrow. ‘Katie,’ said a little pixie-ish voice in my head. ‘Not “her,” it’s Katie.’
‘This shower feels amazing,’ I said out loud, pushing that voice out of my head as the hot, hot water streamed down from three different jets. It was as if none of it was real. If only I could live in a hotel. Not having to go back to that shit heap and rummage through my stuff like I was the one that had done something wrong. Jesus, the splitting of the CDs. I just couldn’t face it. A couple of renegade tears started to seep out of my eyes. If only I could stay in this hotel for ever and pretend none of it had happened.
Why not stay in a hotel?
Not this hotel, clearly. I had a strange feeling I wasn’t going to be terribly welcome at breakfast, but another hotel. Somewhere impersonal and wonderful where the staff’s only concern would be keeping me happy rather than whether or not I was going to ruin another gala event. I had a little bit of money, we’d been saving for my non-existent wedding for years, and it seemed fairly appropriate to tax Mark his share of the cash for shitting on me. My work was freelance, I had my passport, credit cards, driver’s license (no burglar was stealing my identity while I was away at a wedding for almost a week!) enough clothes, my favourite shoes, what else would I need? I definitely had enough stuff not to need to go home for a while. Screw the CDs even, I had my iPod. There was really no reason not to go, and God knows, I am the queen of talking myself out of anything even vaguely confrontational.
I forced myself out of the shower and into the bathroom. For a second my gaze rested on Mark’s wash bag, next to my engagement ring. A lovely leather piece I’d bought him last Christmas. He’s bound to want to come back for that, I thought as I slipped on my earrings, my necklace, it’s full of all his fancy shaving stuff his mum buys him for his birthday. For a moment I thought about filling it with shaving foam, but froze with a flashback as I picked up the can. Him, hunched over that cow, all sweaty and confused. Maybe I should throw it out of the window. Then I remembered him smiling at her. Smiling at her, in front of me, in those scummy boxer shorts.
And so I sat on the loo and pissed in the bag. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever done, and I was so so proud. Once it was nicely ruined, I dropped in my engagement ring, zipped up the bag and left the bathroom.
‘Mum,’ I whispered, sitting beside her on the bed. ‘Mum, I’m off.’
She opened her eyes and looked a bit confused as she remembered everything, and then she looked at me as though she was going to commit me to the same home where she had stashed my nan.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, sitting up, looking even more confused at the sight of her nightwear. ‘You don’t have to go anywhere because of that shit.’
It was the first time I’d heard her call Mark anything other than ‘darling boy’ or ‘that lovely Mark’, and I was quite touched.
‘I know,’ I nodded towards my packed travel bag. ‘But with the wedding and everything, I think I’d better get off early. Thing is, I thought I might nip off for a few days to sort myself out.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, taking my hand. ‘You’re just coming home with me and your father, he’s going to come and collect us later. You’ve done nothing wrong, you know. Well …’
‘I know, Mum,’ I said. ‘But I think it would do me good to get away. I’ve booked a taxi to the airport.’
She looked at me slightly oddly. ‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You’re really going somewhere on a plane?’
‘Yes,’ I said, standing up, clutching my bag.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, looking at the clock. ‘Wouldn’t you rather just come home with me and your dad?’
‘Hmm,’ I pecked her on the cheek. ‘I think I’m actually going to go with my first idea.’
Mum shook her head. ‘But where is better than home at a time like this?’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0d35d0c7-a89c-528c-b3d8-18fd6797a6cf)
The plane landed at JFK without a hitch and, while the homeland security guard didn’t seem that interested in my break-up (business or pleasure didn’t seem to cover why I was there), he did let me into the country. Good start. Once I stepped out into the sunshine, everything began to feel real. The cabs were yellow, they were on the wrong side of the road, and my taxi driver even swore a blue streak tossing my bag into the boot of his car. Man alive, it was warm. If women glow, men perspire, and horses sweat, right at that moment, I was one sweaty bloody horse.
‘Where to?’ the driver asked.
‘Erm, a hotel?’ I asked, plugging in my seatbelt as we took off. ‘I need a hotel.’
‘You fuckin’ serious?’ he asked, swerving onto the highway before I could even reply. ‘Which fuckin’ hotel? There are fuckin’ millions of hotels.’
‘Oh, yeah, I–well–I—’ before I could finish my sentence, I started to tear up. ‘I don’t know anywhere. I just sort of got here.’
‘Well, guess what lady?’ the driver yelled back at me, ‘I’m a fuckin’ taxi driver, not tourist information. You want me to fuckin’ drop you here in the middle of Queens or you want to give me the name of a hotel?’
In response, I burst into tears. Witty comeback, thy name is Angela.
‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m dropping you off at the first fuckin’ hotel we pass,’ he muttered, turning the radio all the way up.
Twenty minutes of talk radio later, I was hanging out of the window like a dog in a bandana, and I had just about stopped crying when I spotted it.
The New York City skyline. Manhattan. The Empire State Building. The beautiful, beautiful Chrysler Building. The Woolworth Building with its big old churchy steeple. And I fell in love. It hit me so hard that I stopped crying, stopped thinking, stopped breathing. I felt as if I’d been winded. Winding the cab window all the way down, I breathed in the skyscrapers, the giant billboards, the industrial riverside stretches and the sweaty, steamy air. I was in New York. Not at home in London, not at Louisa’s wedding, and nowhere near my filthy, cheating fiancé. And so, for the want of something else to do, as we disappeared down into the midtown tunnel, I burst into tears again.
The first hotel we passed turned out to be the last hotel the cabbie had dropped off at, and it was beautiful. The Union was set just off Union Square Park, with a lobby dimly lit to the point of a power cut, and filled with the overpowering scent of Diptyque candles that smelled like fresh washing on the line. Overstuffed sofas and ancient leather armchairs filled the space, and the reception was picked out in fairy lights. Suddenly finding myself in such perfect surroundings, I was very aware of the state of my hair, my dehydrated skin and my rumpled clothes. I really, really did look like complete crap, but this place couldn’t be further from a two-bedroomed terrace in south west London. It was just what I needed.
‘Welcome to The Union,’ said the incredibly beautiful woman behind the counter. ‘My name is Jennifer, how can we help you today?’
‘Hi,’ I said, pulling my handbag high up on my shoulder and kicking my travel bag towards the reception desk. ‘I was wondering if you had a room available?’
She smiled serenely and began clicking away on a keyboard. As she tapped, her glossy spiral curls bounced away behind her. ‘OK, we are a little busy but … I have a junior suite at $800 a night?’ She looked up. My expression apparently suggested that was a little bit out of my price range. ‘Or I have a single at $350. But it only sleeps one.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I fished around in my battered old bag for a credit card and tried not to work out the cost of the room in real money, ‘it’s just me. Well, I just found out my boyfriend was cheating on me and we broke up and I had to leave home and I thought, well, where’s better to get away to than New York? And,’ I paused and looked up. She was still smiling at me, but with a healthy dose of terror in her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. A single would be fine.’
‘And how long would you be staying with us?’ she asked, tapping away again. I guessed she was alerting everyone to the fact that there was a desperate woman checking in. My photo was probably being distributed to the whole staff with a ‘do not engage in conversation’ note.
‘Sorry?’ I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
‘When will you be going home?’ she said slowly.
‘I–I don’t have a home,’ I said, equally slowly. ‘So, I don’t know.’ I was dangerously close to tears and really didn’t want to let them go in the reception of the swankiest hotel I’d ever stepped in. But, wow, I really didn’t have a home.
‘Well, I kinda just wanted to know when you would be checking out, but the room is free for the next week, shall I put you in for seven nights and see where we go from there?’ she suggested. I nodded and handed over my credit card. Jennifer exchanged it for a sexy black room pass key, emblazoned with a silver U. ‘Room 1126 on floor eleven, take the elevator and then turn left. It’s at the end of the corridor.’
I nodded numbly and took the key, tripping over my own bag as I turned.
‘Do you need anything at all, Miss Clark?’ Jennifer asked. I turned and tried to smile, shaking my head.
‘Head check?’ I could only make jokes for so long before I evaporated.
‘Just phone down if you want anything at all,’ I heard her call. Hopefully, she wouldn’t send up a therapist, I had always been warned that Americans didn’t always get sarcasm.
If the room was a single, Mark’s house was a mansion. A huge, white bed dominated the tastefully painted cream bedroom, topped off by a dramatic brown leather headboard. Past the bed, a floor to ceiling window with beautiful views of Union Square Park below. A walk-in wardrobe was tucked away to my left, and to my right was the bathroom. I dropped my travel bag and opened the door. It was beautiful. White tiled walls, black slate floor. The toilet and sink were tucked neatly away against the wall, while the rest of the room was completely taken over by a glass encased bath and shower. Two chrome showerheads jutted out from opposite walls, and a glass shelf held small but perfectly formed designer toiletries. A chrome shelf by the sink groaned under the weight of fluffy towels, and a thick waffle robe hung behind the bathroom door.
I backed back into the bedroom and looked out at the window, but paused before I got there. This was just what I’d been looking for, but between being completely exhausted and suddenly incredibly hungry, I just couldn’t bring myself to look outside and see a strange city. Instead, I headed back into the bathroom, via the well-stocked mini bar, and ran a bath, using the whole bottle of bubbles. Stripping off my clothes, I stepped into the bath, wishing that my brain would stop ticking over for just a second. Using the edge of the bath as a makeshift bar, I mixed a $15 vodka and coke in the toothbrush glass and poured half a packet of $8 peanut butter M&Ms into my mouth. It was less than twenty-four hours since I was in that shower back in the UK, thinking how badly I needed to get away, and here I was. Away.
I lay back and sighed deeply, letting the ends of my hair soak through. Gradually the sigh turned into a whimper, and the whimper became a sob. I was allowed to cry, wasn’t I? I’d been cheated on by my fiancé, deceived by my best friend, and humiliated in front of all my friends and family. Reaching for the M&Ms, I managed to polish them off in one go, washing them down with a large swig of my drink. What was I thinking, coming all the way to New York on my own? I wasn’t being brave, I was being stupid. There was no one here to help me, to talk to me, to watch Pretty Woman, Dirty Dancing and Breakfast at Tiffany’s with me. I should towel off, call my mum and get a plane home. This wasn’t impulsive and exciting, it was immature and cowardly. Just a really, really elaborate version of hiding in my room and getting wasted. I’d made my point, and more or less paid a grand for a bath and a bag of sweets, now it was time to face reality.
Pulling myself out of the bath, I slipped on the robe and padded across the carpet, leaving miserable-looking footprints behind me. I rummaged around in my bag for my phone, half hoping it was old and crappy enough not to work in America. Bugger, five whole bars of reception. I stared at the screen. Three messages. Hmm. Did I really want to do this with only one vodka in me? Forcing myself to stand up, I walked over to the window. If I was just going to turn around and go home, I wanted at least to get my money’s worth out of the view. It really was beautiful, the sun was shining, people were wandering through the park, dashing to the subway, ducking into shops, carrying bags and bags and bags.
How weird would it be if I went home and it was as if nothing had happened? If I’d been confused somehow and it wasn’t what I thought. Or Mark had realized what an idiot he was and did everything he could to win me back. And in years to come, we’d be able to smile ruefully, maybe even laugh, at Mark’s mad moment and the time I ran away to New York for fourteen hours.
‘Angela, it’s your mum, just calling to say I got the hotel to refund the cost of my room since I stayed with you, so that will go back on your credit card.’ Bless my mother for always thinking of the practical things in life. ‘I spoke to Louisa and she was very apologetic–very, oh Annette, I don’t know what to do–well, that young lady should know better, and I spoke to Mark as well. The less said about that right now the better, I think. Anyway, call me when you can and give me your flight details for coming back. Dad’ll come and get you and I’ve made up your room. Call me when you get a chance, I hope you’re having …’ cue slightly awkward pause while my mother looks for the right word. ‘I hope you’re safe. Love you dear.’
‘Angela, it’s Louisa, please call me back? It’s Sunday morning and I know you must be really angry and everything but, well, I’m sorry. And I didn’t know what to do and, oh God, I can’t do this over the phone. I’m such a shit friend.’ Yes, you are, I thought. She sounded gutted, but I really couldn’t have cared less. ‘I spoke to your mum, it was horrible, she hasn’t been that mad with me since I brought you home drunk from that sixth form party at Tim’s house … Oh and Tim’s hand is broken, but he’ll be OK in a couple of weeks. It’s not a serious fracture. Erm, call me?’
I decided she could stew for a while longer.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ he started. I pressed my hand against the window and watched the people below. ‘I had to call and say something.’ Even from way up on the eleventh floor I could see people emerging from Starbucks with huge vats of coffee. Coffee would be great right now. Coffee or Sambuca. ‘I’m so sorry for what happened, it was incredibly stupid of me and heartless and, well, just awful.’ There were so many shops around the square. I would definitely feel better if I could go shopping. ‘I should have told you what was happening.’ Even though the aircon was high in the room, I could see how hard the sun was beating down on all the gorgeous people in their tiny shorts and cute T-shirts. ‘Katie and I, well, I should have told you, it’s sort of serious.’ So many people were bustling around. ‘I think we need to have a really sensible chat about the mortgage and everything, I mean, you can’t just vanish, Angela.’ And I could see squirrels darting around in the trees. ‘Your mum said something about you being in New York? I don’t know, well, can you call me? I know I fucked up, but you have to call me, you can’t just hide. I’m not going back to the house, I’ll stay with, well, I won’t go back to the house until we’ve spoken.’ I spotted a subway station peeping out from the trees. Wow, the subway. ‘We have to talk about what’s going to happen. I do love you Angela, but, well, I’m just not in love with you any more. Anyway, call me.’
I rested my forehead against the glass and hung up. So much for him doing anything he could to get me back. Just because this was all a big shock to me, didn’t mean it was a shock to him, more like a relief. Shit. What the hell was I going to do now? I couldn’t stay with my mum for the rest of my life and I couldn’t rely on my friends any more. I couldn’t even throw myself into my work, I was freelance, and it was a really slow time for me. I breathed in deeply and stepped back from the window, keeping the tips of my fingers on the glass as I dialled Mark’s number.
‘Hello?’ His voice.
‘It’s me,’ I said, pressing my fingers harder against the window, against the skyline. ‘I’m sending Mum over for my stuff, she’ll pack it up.’ I traced the tops of the opposite buildings and carried on breathing. ‘I won’t be coming back to the house, so do whatever, just, I’m not coming back.’
‘You’re at your mum’s?’ he said hesitantly.
‘I can’t talk to you,’ I said, looking down on the park and breathing deeply and slowly. ‘And I’m not at my mum’s, I’m in New York and I don’t know when I’m coming back, so go and do whatever you want to do with whoever you want to do it with, and don’t ever, ever call me again.’
I hung up and leaned my entire weight against the window. So, I’d chosen New York, now I needed it to support me in that decision. And to celebrate, I dashed to the bathroom and threw up the vodka and Coke, followed by the peanut M&Ms. Nice.
‘Hi, Miss Clark?’ The door opened, leaving me just enough time to pull my robe tightly around me and push myself up from my comfy fetal position around the toilet bowl. The girl from reception pushed through the door with a trolley. ‘It’s Jennifer, the concierge? Is it OK for me to come in?’
‘Yes,’ I called, checking nothing was flashing in the mirror and staggering across the room to let her in. ‘Of course.’
‘I wasn’t sure that you would have all your essentials,’ she presented the trolley with a flourish. It was stacked with piles of giant cookies, boxes of cereal, a kettle of steaming water, hot milk, cold milk, pancakes, toast and a big box of beauty products. ‘And, you know, you mentioned a break-up and no one should be on their own after a break-up. This is our complimentary “All Men Are Shits” break-up service.’ She picked up a cookie, snapped it in half and grinned.
‘God, thank you, and it’s Angela, please,’ I said, feeling incredibly English. I took the half cookie she offered and stood awkwardly, taking it in. ‘This is wonderful, thank you, I was starving.’
‘Well, we’re a whatever, whenever hotel, and I’m a whatever, whenever kind of a person,’ she said, hopping on to the bed. ‘Say if you want me to go though, I’m totally overstepping my concierge boundaries. I just thought, if I’d come to New York after a break-up with one tiny travel bag and no hotel booked, what would I want? So I hit the supplies room, dug out some pyjamas,’ she pulled out a pair of white cotton button-up PJs from the bottom of the trolley, ‘slippers, socks, cleansing stuff, sewing kits–I don’t know, everyone seems to need a sewing kit–and all the food I thought I would want if I was post-break-up. And tea, because, you know, you’re English.’
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I was more than happy for this girl to keep talking until I made a decision. ‘Thank you again, I suppose I do need pyjamas, I hadn’t thought about it really. About anything, actually.’
She mixed a hot chocolate for both of us and broke up another cookie. ‘They’re the first thing I need when I break-up with someone, I just take to my bed for like, a week or something, and then I eat until I’m over him. So, that’s why all the food. I’m guessing it was a bad break-up if it sent you all the way across the Atlantic, huh?’
I took the pyjamas and instinctively made towards the bathroom, but I had a feeling this girl wasn’t going to mind me putting them on in front of her. She had already flicked on the TV and was nodding to a music video. I slipped the bottoms on under my robe and quickly dropped it to slide on the top. They felt great, like the coolest, softest sheets I’d ever slept in.
‘Too bad to talk to a stranger about?’ she asked. ‘It’s OK, I am the hotel’s resident shrink.’ She patted the bed and I flopped down, like the pyjamas, it felt completely luxurious and inviting.
‘Well, I haven’t talked to anyone so far,’ I sighed sipping the hot chocolate. ‘I literally just found out my boyfriend is cheating on me so I decided to take a holiday to sort my head out.’
‘Seriously? What a douche. How did you find out?’ Jennifer asked, moving on from the cookies to a bowl of Lucky Charms.
‘I caught them having sex in the back of his car at our best friends’ wedding. Our friends all knew. Just me the moron that hadn’t noticed.’ I paused to accept a bowl of cereal. So much sugar in one bowl. Amazing. ‘We always said we would just walk away if either one of us cheated, so … I think I’m single.’
‘Ouch,’ she said, crossing her legs under her and shifting a couple of pillows. ‘That sucks. But you’ve got friends in New York?’
‘Nope.’ I munched on mini marshmallow pieces and watched the milk turn green. Eww and yum. ‘I sort of got on the first available flight at Heathrow that met my criteria of English-speaking, full of shops and really fucking far away from Mark.’
‘You picked good. New York is like Mecca for people that have had horrible break-ups, trust me, I’m president, treasury and social secretary of the local broken heart society. But not many people just get up and leave the country though honey, you’re real brave.’
‘Not really,’ I confessed. ‘I couldn’t go back home and I just really can’t bear the idea of talking to my friends now and finding out they’ve all known for months. And well, when you break the groom’s hand and make the bride cry all before the first dance at their wedding when you are the maid of honour, you think about leaving the country.’
‘Wow,’ she said, staring at me. ‘You’re my new personal hero.’
She looked so genuine, I burst into tears. Seriously, I’m not a crier, but this had been a tough twenty-four hours.
‘God, that’s so sad,’ I mumbled through the tears. ‘I’m almost twenty-seven, I’ve been cheated on, I’m homeless, my friends are all arseholes and I’m alone in a city with one tiny travel bag, a pair of £400 shoes that double as a weapon, and half a Toblerone. That’s not my definition of a hero.’
‘Nope, I think you’re a hero. You confronted a life changing situation head on, you challenged people who were negative influences on your life even though they were cornerstones in your social system and you came to the best city in the world to rediscover yourself. And, you’re not alone now, you’ve got me whether you like it or not,’ she said, smiling broadly and scraping her mass of dark brown curls back into a loosely contained ponytail. ‘Jenny Lopez, New York’s number one free psychiatrist. Make the most of me before I cost you a billion bucks an hour. And don’t laugh at my name. And can I see those shoes?’
‘I won’t make fun,’ I said, wondering how I could drink the milk out of my bowl without her seeing. Proof that E numbers are addictive. ‘And thank you, for all this and for listening and well, talking. And yes, the shoes are by the bed.’
‘Oh, never thank me for talking,’ she laughed, hopping up off the bed and picking up a shoe. ‘Wow, Hyde Park Louboutins, nice. Well, I’ve got to get back to the desk and I would guess that you need to sleep, the jet lag must be kicking in about now.’
I nodded, she was strangely insightful. When I tried to stand up to see her out, my legs were like lead.
‘Don’t get up,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Just enjoy the food, watch some shitty TV and get ready for tomorrow.’
‘What’s tomorrow?’ I asked, cracking into the pancakes. I was so hungry and everything was so good.
Jenny grinned from the doorway. ‘Lots of things. It’s my day off, it’s the day I’m taking you out so you don’t spend a second longer than necessary alone watching cable, and it’s the first day of your New York adventure. Be up and in reception by nine-thirty.’
And she was gone.
I sat on the bed, slightly shell-shocked. Opposite the bed was a large mirror, six feet high, leaning against the wall. I could hardly believe it was me staring back out. Me in New York. Me, single. Me with a friend, (albeit a pity friend) taking me on a tour of the city in twelve hours. The jet lag was starting to make me feel as though I’d drunk a lot more vodka than I really had and all the food on the trolley was starting to blur out of focus. Pushing backwards and kicking the covers down around me, I collapsed into the feather bed. Happily, the remote control surfed to the top of the quilt and found its way into my hand. I flicked and flicked until I found something familiar. Ahhh, Friends. Perfect. The insanity of the last twenty-four hours flitted around in the back of my mind as I tried to relax. The sun had started to set outside, casting long shadows across my room.
Aren’t you feeling lonely? You should go home and confront things, the dark room whispered. I had always hated how things seemed ever so slightly worse, ever so slightly more insane at night. I defiantly stuck my hand out and fumbled around on the trolley for another cookie, the final act of exertion that pushed me over the edge. I collapsed into a dreamless, jet lag induced sleep before I even got it to my mouth.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_67f6c132-cb89-5626-bce0-fd91a6fc9d3b)
The next morning, I woke up just as suddenly as I’d fallen asleep. Having more or less passed out, I hadn’t drawn the curtains and August’s sweaty sunlight streamed through my window, demanding I get up immediately. In one hand was a half melted cookie and in the other, the remote control. Friends was still playing on the TV. I was more or less sure that it was a different episode … According to the clock on the nightstand, it was Monday, eight a.m. and my first full day in New York. I rolled out of bed, trying not to look in the mirror, and took a glance out of the window. Union Square was already buzzing. The subway station was swarming with people and a sprawling market had sprung up and taken over. I was just about to hop in the shower, as a knock at the door shook me out of my wow-I’m-really-in-New-York-and-let’s-not-think-about-why trance.
‘Room service,’ a polite, cool voice accompanied the knock and without thinking, I opened the door to easily one of the best looking men I’d ever, ever seen. He was over six feet tall, thick black hair, parted in the middle and falling to his collar, deep doe brown eyes and baby soft olive skin that contrasted sharply with his crisp white collarless shirt. ‘Miss Clark?’
I think I made some sort of noise but it wasn’t really an acknowledgement, so I followed it up with a nod. I knew my face was covered in pillow creases, I still had melted chocolate chip cookie on my right hand and I really, really wanted to be wearing my bra. Which was at least ten feet away from where it needed to be, strewn on the floor by the corner of the bed.
‘Jenny asked me to make sure I brought up everything she would want for breakfast, so that’s pretty much everything on our menu. I’m Joe,’ he pushed a fresh, steaming trolley into the room and quickly swapped it for the ravaged mess Jenny had left last night. ‘She also asked me to give you a note, it’s just there. Enjoy your breakfast.’ He flashed the most amazing smile and strolled out of the room. How was he a hotel waiter? I wondered, lifting lids and taking big sniffs of everything on the trolley. Omelette, not a fan, bacon and eggs, maybe a little early, pancakes, always time for pancakes, and on the bottom shelf, an array of cereals, pastries, hot chocolate, milk and my because-you’re-English tea. I was so thankful.
Post-shower, post-breakfast, post-another episode of Friends, I opened Jenny’s note.
Hey,
Hope you found something you enjoyed, like I said,
I’m an eater.
I’ll be in reception at 9.30 a.m. sharp, don’t bail on me or I’ll cut off the room service. Today is the first day of your recovery program with Dr Jenny, I hope you’re ready for it!
Jenny x
p.s. hope you enjoyed Joe too, I bet your ex didn’tbring you pancakes in the morning looking like that …
I laughed out loud, but it sounded so strange. I realized I hadn’t heard myself laugh for a good couple of days. Better than crying. But laughter and hot waiters aside, it was time to face facts. And more terrifyingly, it was time to look in the mirror.
The lighting in The Union had been designed to be as flattering as possible but even low wattage bulbs, soft focus mirrors and twelve hours’ sleep couldn’t repair the damage a break-up could do to your skin. I rummaged around for my make-up bag and emptied the contents out on the bathroom counter. Not a lot to work with. I flicked on some mascara and dabbed gloss onto my lips. Not a lot happening there. And my hair was the same tragic story. I’d been growing it for what seemed like for ever to achieve Louisa’s dream bridesmaids’ chignon, but now it just looked limp and pathetic. I managed a ponytail and hoped for the best. My wardrobe choices were even more limited. Jeans, T-shirt or bridesmaid dress. And I really hoped Jenny would be taking me somewhere I could grab some new underwear, because I was seriously lacking. When I’d decided to take on my great adventure, I figured I had everything I could need. In reality, I had two T-shirts, three pairs of knickers and a bra. And the Louboutins. Sigh. Beautiful. I grabbed my handbag and bit the bullet. It was 9.25, time to meet Jenny in reception.
Jenny was easy enough to spot. The reception was just as dark and cool as it had been last night, but Jenny glowed in a corner, leaning against the concierge desk in a flirty lemon sundress and delicate gold flip-flops. I felt like her grandmother. And I hadn’t noticed how impossibly long her legs were last night. Maybe this wasn’t a great person to befriend mid-break-up … Before I could bolt for the door, she saw me and beckoned me over.
‘See!’ she said to the girl behind the counter. Another glowing goddess, this one decked out in the concierge uniform of black collarless shirt and trousers. ‘She’s real! She’s a total hero!’
‘Wow,’ the girl breathed, staring at me. I felt like a museum exhibit from a 1997 Eastenders set. A pony-tail? I thought I could get away with wet hair in a ponytail? ‘You’re like, a total inspiration. You rock. I’m Vanessa.’
I smiled awkwardly. I rocked?
‘Hi,’ I said to them both, trying not to think about whether or not I had muffin top. ‘I wasn’t sure what we were doing so I wasn’t sure what to wear.’ According to the mirror behind Vanessa, I did have muffin top.
‘You’re dressed fine,’ Jenny said waving away my concerns and taking my arm. I waved goodbye to Vanessa, but instead of heading to the door, we were moving towards the lift. ‘Today is phase one of your transformation.’
‘Transformation?’ I asked. We slipped into the lift and Jenny pressed a button labelled Rapture Spa. Did I look that bad?
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Rule one after a major break-up, you must submit yourself to complete and utter pampering. Welcome to Rapture.’
The lift doors opened on a large airy space, the complete opposite of the hotel reception. It was flooded with light and smelt of citrus and vanilla. Dozens of serene looking beauticians wandered around in pale blue tunics laughing and joking, carrying salon sized bottles of shampoo, massage oils and bundles of towels. Motown played on the PA system, low but loud enough to sing along to. One of the girls spotted us and waved us over. She was tiny with jet black hair pulled back in a severe bun, emphasizing ridiculously sharp cheekbones and beautiful lips Angelina Jolie would need Restylene to achieve.
‘Hi!’ She and Jenny kissed briefly on each cheek and then the girl pulled back and looked at me. ‘This has got to be her, right?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Angela Clark, meet Gina Fox, our hottest beautician. She’s going to make you over from head to toe. Sound good?’
Without giving me time to respond, Gina took my hand and walked me through the spa, past reception and back towards a large locker room area. ‘Jenny told us about your break-up honey, you’re amazing.’ She gestured towards one of the pale blue robes and I guessed I was supposed to get undressed. ‘But when you break-up with someone, you got to make some changes. You heard the saying “Wash that man right outta your hair”? Well, I’m going to cut him out of yours.’
Jenny was picking at a plate of brownies on the bar by the doorway. ‘I think a cute little bob, something classic,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of pecans.
Gina spun me around and considered my hair from every angle. ‘Great cheekbones, a bob would look good. A few highlights, maybe …’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’m a highlights kind of a girl,’ I stuttered, starting to panic. Highlights sounded very white jeans and glittery vest top, not very me.
Gina looked at me sharply and then back at Jenny. ‘Is she going to give me trouble?’ she asked.
Jenny shook her head quickly. ‘Uh-uh, just go easy on the girl, Gina. She’s been through some stuff.’ She bagged another brownie.
I sat down in a shampoo chair and let Gina snap a ‘before’ picture on a Rapture branded camera. As she lathered me up, I mentally congratulated myself on washing it already this morning, it really had been a big skanky mess.
‘So, honey,’ Gina said, ‘tell us about yourself.’
‘Well,’ The hair washing chair had an amazing inbuilt back massager that was pummeling me into soggy submission, ‘I’m a writer, sort of, I write the books of children’s films and TV shows and stuff.’
‘Really? That sounds fun,’ Gina said moving on to work the shampoo through. Ouch, a touch too harsh. ‘Anything we’d know?’
‘Maybe,’ I muttered, giving in as Gina began to knead my scalp. ‘I’ve worked on pretty much any kids’ film that’s been out in the last five years, big green ogres, radioactive spiders, talking turtles.’
‘Fun!’ She nodded, pushing her knuckles into my temples.
Oooohhhh.
‘At first it is, but you know, after a while a job’s a job.’
‘So, what do you want to do?’ Jenny piped up from the next shampooing chair. ‘If you could do anything, what would it be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I purred, giving in to the wonderful conditioning massage. ‘I guess I’d be a proper writer, you know, write my own stuff. I just never had time for it before.’
‘You’ve got time for it now,’ Jenny said. It sounded as if she was back on the brownies. All I knew about this woman so far was that she was the nicest kind of bully and she ate more than anyone I knew, even though her waist was about the circumference of my left thigh. ‘You’re not on deadline now, right?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t have anything at the moment.’
‘So, stay, write,’ she said while Gina wrapped my head in a towel and guided me over to the styling station. ‘You’re in New York, it’s like, the best place on earth to be a writer. There are a million books inspired by Manhattan.’
Gina snorted. ‘Name one Jenny Lopez, and I will give you a hundred dollars, right now.’
‘Yeah, so technically, I’m not a reader,’ Jenny made bunny ear quotations in the air. ‘But I have to immerse myself in my subject. I read a lot of self-help books.’
‘If you mean you buy a lot of self-help books and leave them littered around our apartment, then yes, I guess you do,’ Gina said.
‘So, you live together?’ I asked, trying to diffuse the daggers Jenny was glaring at Gina. Must be a fun old time in that house.
‘We do until Gina leaves me on Wednesday,’ Jenny pretended to sob. ‘I can’t believe you’re ditching me just to be manager of a salon.’
Gina started to comb my hair straight down and flip the parting, centre, left, right, back to centre. ‘Yeah, sure, just some salon. Not manager of the first international outpost of Rapture in Paris. You’ll live, Jenny,’ she said, looking at me in the mirror. When she relaxed she actually looked as if she could be fun and not just some impeccably groomed beauty terrorist. ‘So, Angie, what else do you like? Music, theatre, self-help books?’
‘Whatever,’ Jenny interrupted. ‘I think it’s interesting that you answered the question “tell us about yourself” with information about your job. You think you spend too much time working and not enough working on other areas of your life?’
‘You think, Dr Phil?’ said Gina, saving me from having to come up with a response. ‘You are so full of shit sometimes. But seriously, apart from your writing, what else are you into? Music? Fashion? Dog shows?’
‘I do love music,’ I offered, glad to be back in safe territory. ‘I love live music, gigs and festivals and stuff. And I’ve always had a soft spot for an indie boy. You know, skinny tie, leather jacket, Converse, the whole bit.’
Jenny and Gina were smiling and nodding. ‘Oh yeah, we’ve both been there,’ Jenny said, her eyes misting over slightly. ‘You just need to go down town and shout out some obscure band name. Cute British girl like you? They’ll come running.’
Gina laughed. ‘Yeah, you can totally work that accent. But I’m so too old for that now,’ she said. ‘I’m more into hanging around Wall Street on a Friday evening. I need to meet someone who can take me back to a Park Avenue apartment via Tiffany’s, not a loft in Brooklyn via the free clinic. Oh, I miss my twenties.’
‘Well, I’m twenty-seven in October,’ I said while Gina started to chop away at my hair with her tiny scissors. ‘Doesn’t that make me too old for skinny indie kids?’
‘Nah, you got a good coupla years in you,’ Gina said. ‘But wouldn’t you like someone to take care of you? Some big, strong guy? Worked-out six-pack, black Amex, well dressed. Someone to totally spoil you?’
‘I don’t know, I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad thing. My–ex–was a city boy but he wasn’t exactly what you’d call worked out. And he was totally tight,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ve never even really looked at boys like that. I didn’t think I was a proper grown-up I suppose. Isn’t that tragic?’
‘Well, you’ve got to stop calling them “boys” for a start, Angie,’ Jenny chipped in. ‘You want a man. Maybe even a couple of men.’
‘Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Someone who actually weighs more than me … Oh God, no, I’m too old for all that dating nonsense. I can’t imagine actually doing it. God, I’m going to have to start dating at twenty-six.’ I couldn’t quite believe it.
Jenny shook her head. ‘I wish my next birthday was twenty-seven. I’m thirty next July.’ She dropped her head onto the arm of my chair. ‘Can you believe it? I can’t turn thirty without achieving any of my life’s ambitions.’
‘But your life’s ambitions are to meet Oprah, get a job with Oprah, make friends with all of Oprah’s friends then slowly usurp Oprah in the hearts of the nation,’ Gina said. There was a lot of hair on my shoulders and a whole lot more on the floor. ‘So far, you’ve read Oprah’s books, bought Oprah’s magazines, watched Oprah’s show and pissed off all your friends by talking constantly about Oprah.’
‘Yes, but they are all important steps on becoming the next heart of the nation. And obviously, a billionaire.’ Jenny looked resolute. ‘What are your life’s ambitions, honey?’
I thought hard for a moment.
‘I don’t think I have any,’ I said. ‘Maybe I would like to have an original book published or have a column in a magazine or something. I don’t know, that stuff isn’t easy.’
‘But you can absolutely do it,’ Jenny said, pulling a pad and pen out of her handbag. ‘You just have to get organized. Let’s make a list. God, I love this!’
Gina pulled strands of my hair down to my chin to check the lengths. ‘Jesus, you’ve created a monster. Never give that girl a project.’ She tapped Jenny’s pad with her scissors. ‘Now no talking, I’m about to blow this baby out.’
Twenty minutes later I had a beautiful, chin-length swishy bob with a sweeping fringe, cutting across my right cheekbone. It looked grown-up but cute, stylish but not try hard. I doubted it would look this great ever again.
‘Now,’ Gina said scooping out a thumbnail of waxy looking product. ‘We have options, depending on what you decide to do with your life. What you’re looking at now is Park Avenue Princess. You could walk into any of the publishers right now and demand a book deal–super sophisticated.’ Jenny was nodding enthusiastically.
‘But now …’ Gina rubbed the wax into the palms of her hands and then attacked my hair, pushing it over the front of my head and raking her fingers through every section. When she flicked it all back, the smooth bob had given way to a choppy, layered, messed up look. Something I had tried to achieve in the past and just ended up looking as though I’d slept with wet hair. ‘Now you are ready to go and rock the Lower East Side with the rest of the hipsters. You like?’
‘Thank you,’ I muttered, so so happy. ‘I didn’t even know my hair could look this good.’ I couldn’t stop touching it, just tiny pinches at the ends in case too much contact made it poof … disappear.
‘I don’t want to see you with a hair out of place from now on.’ Gina stared me down and for a moment I thanked the managers of Rapture Paris.
‘OK, Angie honey, grab your bag. I’m taking that cute do of yours out on the town.’ Jenny forced down a final half brownie and pulled me out of the chair.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked, letting Gina comb out some of the volume, returning to somewhere in between the sleek bob and the crazy chop. ‘Because I’m not really dressed for–’
Jenny took my hand and gave me a look you might give an elderly relative who thinks it’s still 1947. ‘Sweetness, that’s exactly why we’re going where we’re going.’

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_62821fe2-2992-5764-9cb1-eea6a915c449)
Bloomingdale’s.
I’d heard of it, I’d seen the little brown bags but I hadn’t ever really thought about going there. In the cab, Jenny had briefed me on what we were looking for. She’d started my new life plan during my blow dry and the first thing we needed was to get properly kitted out for a stay in New York City. It just so happened to tie-in to Jenny’s number two rule on how to handle a major break-up. Buy yourself a new everything.
Now, I had shopped. Tackled Top Shop Oxford Circus on a Friday evening, been elbow deep in the Selfridges’ sale, found diamond buys on Portobello Market, but this was a completely different beast. After a quick appraisal of my existing make-up (not enough) and a short description of my make-up bag (sheer revulsion) and confirmation that my credit limit wasn’t really an issue as long as we weren’t being silly, Jenny decided we would start on the ground floor, in cosmetics. She hit the MAC counter with all the determination of a cross-Channel swimmer. Within seconds I was sitting in another stylist’s chair being stripped of the basic make-up I’d slapped on that morning by Razor.
Razor was the most charming man with a mohawk I’d ever had the pleasure to meet. His make-up was amazing, and quite frankly, what he could do with eyeliner put me to shame.
‘So we need a proper base to even out the red skin tone, you’re very pale, doll, and then we’ll work with a blush–maybe an apricot for day and something pinker for night-time? Then we’ll do a bit of a workshop on your eyes. Since you’re fairly new to this, we’ll leave lips for another day and just hook you up with a few neutrals. Maybe a classic red if you’re feeling brave,’ he said amid a flurry of sponges, brushes, tubes and tubs.
‘We can do lips today,’ I said meekly, feeling bad for being so pale and letting Razor down. ‘I know I’m not wearing a lot today but I do like make-up, I do wear it quite a lot.’
Razor and Jenny exchanged a doubtful glance. ‘Take hold of this eyeliner brush for me, sweetness,’ Razor suggested, holding it out like a golden sceptre. I took it from him and looked at it quizzically.
‘This is for eyeliner? I suppose I only really use pencils,’ I said thoughtfully, tilting my head because I was too afraid to move the brush. Not a problem, because Razor snatched it out of my hand before I could even try to apply it to my face.
‘Yeah, I think we’ll just start with the basics,’ he said sweetly, patting my shoulder. I think it was supposed to be comforting but really, it wasn’t. Nonetheless, within thirty minutes, I had a face to match my new do. My skin glowed, my eyes were smoky and wide and my lips, as promised, neutral and easy to touch up. Jenny was busy playing with some fluro green eye shadow when Razor announced I was done with a dramatic, ta-da. He looked as if his pedigree puppy had won first prize at Crufts.
‘Wow,’ Jenny said, not really smiling but taking in my makeover with complete seriousness. ‘Razor, this is amazing. And Angie! You look gorgeous!’
And even if it was just for that moment, I really felt it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually bought new make-up.
‘I’ll take all of it,’ I said hurriedly before I had time to think about it. Razor was carefully talking me through every bottle, every brush, every palette and tossing in ‘how to’ sheets so I could at least attempt it at home, but I was too excited and pressed my plastic into his hand. Soon, I was $250 down and a medium brown bag of MAC up. And it felt good.
As we strolled through the hall, Jenny stopped at various counters, picking out ‘essentials’ I couldn’t be without. Soon we both had very full bags and enough make-up to do the faces of every guest in The Union.
‘I need perfume,’ I said as we passed by the Chanel counter. ‘I’ve been wearing the same perfume for the last ten years. Mar–my ex used to buy it for me every Christmas,’ I explained, ‘and I don’t ever want to smell it again.’
Jenny hugged me, wrapping her arms and brown paper bags all the way around my neck. ‘You’re getting it now,’ she said steering me towards Chanel. ‘Angela Clark, by the end of today, I’ll have made a New Yorker out of you. It’s got to be No. 5 and then some lunch.’
By the time I’d put away a chicken club sandwich and Diet Coke and Jenny had packed in a burger, fries and yet another chocolate brownie, I’d discovered that she was a true New Yorker born and bred, she had moved to the city after college to follow her dream of becoming the next Oprah. After a summer off in California, she had taken a job as a waitress in a big tourist hotel restaurant back in NYC to ‘study her medium’ (I think she meant people) but was accidentally so good that she was soon headhunted to move on to the reception desk. When The Union had opened the previous spring, she’d applied for a concierge position to improve her contacts. The boutique hotel apparently attracted a lot of young celebrities, generally blonde, tanned and emaciated or butch, gorgeous and gay. She now considered herself the best connected amateur psychologist in New York, a position that afforded her entrance to the best clubs and restaurants and the personal mobile phone numbers of several Hollywood starlets, and, more importantly, their agents.
‘So how come you’re not plastered all over the TV yet?’ I asked, dipping a spoon into her brownie. It was delicious.
‘Haven’t had my break yet,’ she shrugged. ‘The average agent doesn’t have the power to get a nobody like me a chat show. You have to be Tyra Banks to walk into something like that.’
She was so pretty, so lovely and so bloody determined, it seemed crazy that she wasn’t on the front cover of every magazine in the country. ‘You’ll get there,’ I smiled, pushing the last spoonful of brownie over to her. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before, honestly. You’ve done an amazing job of sorting me out. I would be sitting on the sofa in three-day-old pyjamas, eating ice cream and crying at Living TV if I were at home.’
‘Well, you’re going to take more than one day, a haircut and some make-up, but we’ll get there,’ she grinned, scooping up dessert. ‘God, you haven’t even been to Soho yet. I’ve got a whole plan for you, doll. Do you think you could let this interfering yank take you through Angela Clark version two?’
‘I don’t have anything better to do,’ I laughed. It was so weird to be taken in hand by someone I had met twenty-four hours ago, and, for some reason, it made perfect sense. I already felt as if I’d known Jenny all my life and being with her in New York made London and Mark feel a very long way away and a very long time ago.
After lunch we moved on to the very important job of creating my new wardrobe. A quick run around the fourth floor and three armloads of clothes later, I was ordered into a changing room while Jenny and two assistants appeared intermittently with racks and racks of clothes. Soon I was clad in beautiful 7 for All Mankind skinny jeans that made even my short legs look sexy (according to Jenny) and a flared pair of J Brands that I could dress down with my Converse and an old T-shirt, or dress up with my Louboutins (according to Jenny). One of the helpful and definitely on commission assistants declared that, despite my legs being a little on the short side, they were a good shape and as such, should be on display. Excitingly, I found out I was just a size 8 in America, reason enough to hang around a couple of weeks at least. She had brought in a whole rail of bum-skimmingly short dresses before we both accepted that I would never be able to walk more than ten yards down the road without pulling them down. After that, we added a couple of inches to the length and I relented on a cute blue French Connection jersey dress, a gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs printed smock and several stunning bits from Ella Moss and Splendid–T-shirt dresses so soft they felt like clouds! I had no idea. Primark was over for me in that instant. Several C&C California T-shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts and easy to wear skirts later, we moved on to evening wear.
‘So, for dates … I’m thinking something flirty but fun? Classic though. And easy to wear. You can’t be sexy if you don’t feel good.’ Jenny sent the assistants scurrying across the shop floor with another flick of her wrist. I stood in my pants, peeping round the corner of the slatted wooden door waiting for the next rack of clothes. And in no time they arrived. Vera Wang Lavender. Tory Burch. Nanette Lepore. DVF. 3.1. phillip lim. Paul & Joe Sister. More Marc Jacobs. This was so much fun.
‘What are you wearing right now?’ Jenny asked loudly through the door.
‘Nothing?’ I replied, slipping out of a gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs printed silk halter dress. ‘Underwear?’
‘I have a horrible feeling I ought to take a look at that too.’
Jenny’s level of horror raised to orange alert when she saw my M&S heart print boy shorts and mismatched bra. Then she went a funny pink colour when I admitted that I didn’t exactly know what bra size I was.
‘It’s just not OK,’ she said, shaking her head and snatching up several styles and sizes. ‘Do you want your rack around your knees at forty?’ I was pushed back into my new natural habitat of the changing room, armed with balconettes, backless, strapless, plunge, soft, full cup and half cup bras.
Before my credit card company could know what had happened, I was up another floor buying flip-flops, flats and full-on heels to match all my outfits. Despite Jenny’s insistence that gladiator sandals were the shoe of the season, I couldn’t help but feel as if they were more my great aunt Agatha than me and eventually, she let it go. But the ballet pumps, the Havaianas and two pairs of wedges were coming with us.
We headed back down through the store, laden with bags–big, medium and little–I had spent more than a month’s income in only four hours but I was too happy at the teeny tiny numbers on the labels (a SIX on one of them!) to feel any buyer’s remorse, (even if it was just a ten in translation). Riding back down to the ground floor, I adopted the official lift position as Jenny fannied around in her handbag. Clutch purchases, do not make eye contact with fellow lift riders, stare straight ahead. But instead of seeing myself in the mirrored doors, I saw someone completely different. Not different like Louisa’s wedding day (just me with more make-up and elaborate hair) but glossy different. My hair swished as I turned my head slightly, Razor’s make-up had given me huge Bambi eyes and just-bitten lips, and the thrill of spending more than an entire month’s mortgage payment on clothes and slap had given me a giddy flush that I just couldn’t get from any blusher. But I knew I had several different versions of the stuff in my bag to give it a good go back at the hotel.
‘Come on, we’re so gonna struggle to get a cab at this time,’ Jenny muttered as the doors slid open, taking my lovely new reflection with them. ‘Were you checking yourself out?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good girl,’ Jenny said catching hold of my arm and dragging me out of my New Favourite Place in the Whole World.
So what if I was now officially broke. Why else did I have an emergency credit card? And I was stylishly broke at least. Plus I was too busy staring up and down Lexington Avenue really to think about it. Everywhere was too busy, too hot and too noisy but it was amazing to me. Looking right, I swam in the endless downtown view afforded by the New York grid system, channels framed by skyscrapers rising high into the sky. To the left, dozens of honking, screeching cabs and searing sunshine contributed to the glowing heat haze rising up and distorting the air. I thought it was beautiful.
‘How far do you think you can walk before you pass out?’ Jenny asked, nudging me out of my daydream.
‘Maybe fifteen minutes?’ I wasn’t sure if it was really a question or a challenge. I really, really didn’t feel like walking.
‘Then we should do as much of this on foot as we can.’ She nodded to the crossing and threw herself into the traffic. ‘Come on, Angie!’
We marched across the road and then down the block, across another road, straight over Park Avenue and ever onwards, crossing Madison. Dragging my precious bags behind me, my fifteen minutes of walking time were quickly wasting away.
‘I just wanted to make it to Fifth,’ Jenny yelled, holding out her arm, as we crossed for the last time. ‘Let’s get a cab.’
If it was humanly possible, the cab ride through Manhattan was even more exciting than the ride into the city. We cruised down Fifth Avenue, whizzing for five blocks then crashing to a stop at a red light, with my bags, my head and my stomach crashing into the partition between us and the driver more than once. Every time we stopped it was outside another landmark. St Patrick’s Cathedral rose up amongst all the shops, so totally out of place, like putting a Brownie hut next to Harvey Nicks, but here in New York, it just seemed to make perfect sense. I couldn’t help but think, as we passed the lions roaring out in front of the huge public library, that if all libraries had giant lions outside, people might read more. Or at least rock up to have their picture taken on their backs.
‘Hey, do you see the Empire State Building?’ Jenny pointed out of my window to an inconspicuous looking building by the side of us. I couldn’t see anything but a huge queue of people, even when I pressed my head right up against the window of the cab and recoiling only when I saw the nasty, greasy marks left by a previous passenger.
‘Oh bugger, I really wanted to see that,’ I said, leaning in slightly and trying not to think about any other stains that might be around.
‘Pretty sure it’ll still be there tomorrow,’ Jenny said as I leaned into the back window, watching the tower go on and on into the sky as we moved further away. Until we came to a sudden halt again and I smashed my chin against the back seat. ‘We’re coming up to the Flatiron in a moment, that’s way cooler.’
She wasn’t wrong, the Flatiron building was incredible, all triangular and pointy but everything we passed was cool. Gorgeous, organized, New Yorky and cool. So incredibly different to London and, if this cab driver didn’t start taking corners with a less cavalier attitude, the last place I would ever see. Fifteen minutes later, we reached the tip of the island and pulled up outside the South Ferry Terminal.
‘We’re going on a ferry?’ I asked. Jenny had been enigmatically and uncharacteristically silent on the journey downtown and I’d been too busy taking in the city and counting the Starbucks to worry about it.
‘You’re so not ready for Staten Island,’ she laughed, passing the driver a twenty and hopping out, taking several of my bags with her. I crawled out with my other bags and trailed behind her. ‘But you’re totally ready to see this.’
We marched along the pavement and down into a busy park, I was so consumed with checking out the various sculptures and lines of people chatting, laughing, eating ice cream, I was almost at the fence before I saw it. When I did, I stopped dead. There it was. The clearest, truest symbol of New York, of America, standing proud and keeping guard across the bay. The Statue of Liberty.
Jenny turned around to look for me, holding her hand over her eyes. ‘Pretty great, huh?’
I nodded, without anything to say and walked slowly towards her. We dropped our bags and leaned over the railings. It was beautiful, my very own movie moment.
‘I was thinking where we should go when you were trying on clothes,’ Jenny said softly. ‘And I figured where better than the first place thousands of people first experienced New York. Cheesy maybe, but who better to officially welcome you to the city than Lady Liberty.’
‘It’s so weird,’ I said, still staring out across the river. ‘I’ve seen it a thousand times on TV and stuff but to actually see it, there, real. Wow.’
‘Yeah,’ Jenny agreed. ‘I remember the first time I saw her, it was the first thing I did when I moved to the city. We never, ever came down here as kids, my mom hates it. But she’s here to look after everyone. New York is made up of millions of different people, Angie, and they all come here looking for something, just like you.’
‘Please, you’re giving me too much credit. I wasn’t looking for something,’ I said, looking across at what I guessed to be Ellis Island. ‘I was running away.’
‘No, you’re not giving yourself enough,’ Jenny said, turning to me. ‘Yeah, so maybe not everyone puts an ocean between themselves and their ex but you’ve got a lot to work through. And that’s not psychobabble, that’s genuine life experience talking. When my ex left me, I fell apart and I mean it. Fell. Apart. And I had no excuse to be so incredibly pathetic, it was all totally my fault and I had the most amazing friends to look after me. If you didn’t feel like your support system was strong enough, then getting yourself out of the situation was the best thing to do. And New York is a great place to do that. It’s a city of new beginnings. People go to LA to “find themselves,” they come to New York to become someone new.’
‘I suppose,’ I said, thinking about everything that had happened. Was it weird that Mark hadn’t even crossed my mind since the Chanel counter? ‘It all just seems so strange and unreal. I feel like I ought to be, I don’t know, feeling more.’
‘So you’re still in shock,’ Jenny said, turning back towards the bay. ‘There are worse places to be in shock than in Bloomingdale’s. Seriously though, you’ve suffered a huge personal trauma, a break-up is the closest thing to a bereavement, you know.’
‘I do feel kind of like that,’ I admitted. I really didn’t want to dwell on it in such a public place. I was English after all, we’re not public criers. ‘One minute I’m like, it’s over, I’m not even going to think about any of it and then the next, I just can’t believe what’s happened. I think I’m doing the right thing by being here at the moment though.’
Before Jenny could back me up or shoot me down, a loud ringing interrupted us. My phone. I pulled it out of my bag, ready to remind my mum how expensive international calls were on a mobile when I saw who it was.
Mark.
I looked at the flashing screen for a split second and wondered what he could possibly be ringing for after our last conversation. Had he changed his mind? Was he feeling awful? Was Tim’s hand so badly damaged he was having it amputated?
Ring ring. Answer me. Answer me.
Without another thought, I threw my phone, as hard as I could over the railings and into the water. And it felt really, really good.
‘Sorry,’ I said, inhaling deeply. Had I really just done that?
‘This city is a good place to deal with trauma, honey, we’ve been through a lot ourselves and we’ve come out of it just fine.’ Jenny pulled a pack of tissues out of her handbag and passed them over as a precautionary measure, completely ignoring the phone missile I’d just launched.
‘God, I know,’ I said quickly, taking the tissues. ‘I suppose when you think what everyone has been through here, what they survived, it puts a break-up into perspective.’
‘True, but that’s not what I meant, sweetie,’ Jenny said. ‘I meant that you’ve come to the right place to pull yourself through something that’s difficult and hard and tears your insides out. Whatever that something is, is different for everyone. For me, Century 21 reopening five months after 9/11 was my epiphany. I knew I’d be brave enough to get through anything if they could open their doors and sell me designer shoes at a seventy per cent discount.’ She took my hand. ‘Now I’ve got to get to my evening shift. And you must be completely wiped. Want to head back to the hotel?’
I took one last look out at the statue. Wowsers. I was in New York.
And I was so incredibly tired.
‘Yes please.’
We gathered up all of our bags and flagged down yet another cab. Hmm, a new friend, a new wardrobe and a new city. Compared to Saturday, this hadn’t been a bad day.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_7b1f8a04-000c-5862-84dc-00ce90f13362)
After a nap, a shower and several false starts at international dialling from the hotel room phone I finally did what I had to do.
‘Annette Clark speaking.’
‘Mum, it’s me.’
‘Oh, Angela, thank goodness. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,’ she breathed out in an overly dramatic gesture. This was going to be quick and easy, then.
‘Well, my phone doesn’t work over here.’ We generally found it easier to rely on white lies, a much healthier mother/daughter relationship, than telling the truth, and I wasn’t ready to have my mental state questioned. Again. ‘I just wanted to let you know I’m safe and I’ve got somewhere to stay and I’ll give you another call when I know what I’m doing.’
‘Somewhere to stay?’ she repeated.
‘Yes, with a friend,’ I said, keen to get off the phone before the conversation turned to a subject I just didn’t want to deal with. ‘Now, can you do me a favour and pick up my stuff from the house? He knows—’
‘Angela, slow down,’ Mum said. I could see her, cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, rubbing her cheeks with her palms, just like she always did when she was confused. ‘What do you mean “a friend”? You don’t know anyone in America. Please just come home. Dad has sorted out your room and everyone feels just awful, you know, but no one blames you for what happened at the wedding.’
‘No one blames me!’ I said, my voice getting a tiny bit higher than it needed to be. ‘No one blames me … Right, well, yes, I’ve made a friend. No, I didn’t know I could make a friend in a day but then until Saturday, I didn’t realize the friends I’ve had all my life could lie to me so well, so maybe it’s time to take a chance on new people.’
‘Angela, don’t start, that’s not what I meant,’ she sighed. ‘I just want to know you’re all right. Sod the rest of them.’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said, catching a glimpse of my new hairdo and beautiful, albeit slightly melted, make-up in the mirror. Damn, I looked pretty bloody good. ‘I really am. Look, I’m staying at a–with my friend Jenny and she’s really nice. I’m going to be here for a while I think, but I’ll call you if I need anything and you can call me on this number for the next couple of days, just 1471 it. Love you.’
‘Love you too, sweetheart,’ she said, sounding slightly mollified. ‘Dad and I will go and get your things from your house. Don’t worry, just come home soon.’
Five minutes after my mother had hung up, I realized I was still gripping the receiver so tightly my knuckles had turned white. Just hearing her mention Mark, the wedding, everything back home had put me in a foul mood. Not a good move when I had to spend the night in by myself. I walked over to the window, looking for somewhere to hide out, people watch and basically listen in on other people’s conversations. A huge, familiar beacon of normality stared back at me.
Starbucks.
Perfect. And there was even an HSBC next door.
Multinational corporations be praised.
I emptied two of the Big Brown Bags onto the bed and found a pair of tiny shorts and some colourful T-shirts. Peeling off my sweaty jeans and old graying T-shirt, I swapped outfits and slipped into my new Havaianas. My handbag looked too formal, too structured and altogether too much like it came from Next to wear with the outfit, so I slipped my room key and cash card into my back pocket and hoped for the best. Sporting a big black pleather handbag with flip-flops and hot pants did seem a bit silly.
Jenny wasn’t on the desk when I passed through reception so I escaped without questioning and, even though it was past seven, the air outside was still balmy and dense. I visited the bank first, struggling for a second with having to put my card in and take it back out again before the buttons would work. Just before I could withdraw some cash, the related accounts link danced in the corner of my eye. The joint account. I pressed the button, just to check. It was looking really, really healthy. Mark and I had always had an agreement that I put in a certain amount each month to cover the mortgage and bills and then he paid them all. From the looks of this, he’d been covering a lot more than half the bills for some time and never mentioned it. For a brief moment, I felt a pang, maybe he wasn’t all bad, he did look after me after all.
And then a devil appeared on my shoulder with a quick reminder of his sweaty, pathetic face. Before I even knew what I’d done, I moved half the cash from the joint account over to my personal account. He was hardly going to miss it, he earned a fortune, and by rights, half of it was allegedly mine. And more importantly, it covered my shopping spree. Result.
Breathing fast and heavy, I withdrew a couple of hundred dollars, not knowing what I’d be doing for the next few days, and dashed into Starbucks with my ill-gotten gains.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the cute assistant. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been flustered and blushing, he was absolutely my crush type. Tall, skinny, floppy brown hair and had the look of a man that new his way around a Stratocaster. The complete opposite of Mark, to be specific. But I was too confused by the coffee menu to take in his messy prettiness.
‘Er, I just want, a, erm,’ this wasn’t me projecting my most confident and beautiful self, as recommended by Jenny, ‘a large coffee?’
‘A regular coffee?’ he asked. ‘Like, a Venti Americano?’
‘Very possibly? And a muffin, blueberry muffin.’
‘Five thirty-five,’ he said, flipping the fringe across his eyes. Now the coffee issue was out of the way, I had a chance to check out just how good-looking he was. And he really was. ‘I’ll bring them over.’
I scooted over to a table for one by the window and tried to relax. Looking at the bank account had actually been even worse than talking to my mum. I felt as if I’d actually taken money out of his wallet. I rested my head on my forearms and breathed deeply. Sod it, he could consider that his Dickhead Tax.
‘Venti Americano and a blueberry muffin.’ Starbucks boy deposited my drink and snack on the table in front of me with a flourish.
‘Thanks,’ I said, suddenly as hungry as Jenny, looking at the giant, berry-studded muffin.
‘So, are you on vacation?’ he asked.
I wasn’t really used to getting into conversations with strangers, let alone fit male ones. Working from home limited my access to the outside world and the people in my local Costa were not chatty. I don’t think they liked me using their place of work as a makeshift office.
‘Sort of, I suppose.’ I didn’t really want to get into the reasons behind my visit to the city with a hot barista. ‘I’m staying here for a while. With a friend.’
‘Cool,’ he nodded. ‘So you’re from England right? I really want to go to London. The music scene there is so cool right now.’
‘I am,’ I nodded back, sipping my bucket of coffee, wishing I’d asked for a decaf and trying to think of something cool to say. ‘It’s really–cool.’
‘Yeah, totally,’ he agreed. ‘If you’re around next month, you should check out my band. We’re playing at the Cake Shop in a couple of weeks.’ He pulled a napkin from under my plate and took a pen out of his pocket. ‘Give me a call and I’ll put you on the guest list. I’m Johnny.’
I took the napkin, turning bright red and not from the sunburn I’d picked up in Battery Park. ‘Thank you,’ I said, tucking it into my pocket and looking hard at my coffee.
‘And, if you’re not doing anything at the weekend, you could give me a call or something. We could, like, go to a show or something,’ he said, flicking his fringe back the other way. ‘Or you know, if you just want some coffee, I’m usually here.’
I gulped my coffee and broke off the edge of the muffin as Johnny sauntered back behind his counter. Had I just been asked out by a cute boy? Since I’d been engaged, I’d assumed (or hoped) I was giving off an ‘I’m taken’ vibe that put off all reasonable men. There had been the odd sleaze who would have a crack at the end of the night, or the dodgy friend whose best mate had already got off with someone, but I really couldn’t remember the last time an actual honest to God, good-looking man had even attempted to have a go.
‘But you’re not engaged any more, you’re single,’ whispered the increasingly irritating devil on my shoulder, who apparently had not done enough damage in the bank. I drained my coffee quickly and nibbled the other edge of my muffin, my appetite gone. Johnny was serving another customer as I left. He gave me a quick wave, I nodded and smiled back shyly.
Outside it was starting to cool a little at last. I crossed over the road into Union Square Park and sat down on the first bench I passed. For a split second, I couldn’t feel my cash card in my pocket. I fished around the oddly deep back pocket of the implausibly short shorts until I gripped the card, my room key and the roll of cash I’d just withdrawn. People were still streaming out of the subway, looking harassed, hot and tired, while a younger, cooler crowd surged down the steps. I wondered where they were all going when a short, suit-wearing middle-aged man sat down on the bench next to me.
‘Hi,’ he said, sitting at the far end of the bench.
‘Hello,’ I replied, grasping the roll of cash in my hand. He didn’t look like a mugger but I couldn’t be sure, I was in a strange city after all.
‘So, I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but how much for a blow job?’ he asked quietly, talking to my knees.
‘Sorry?’
‘A, ah, a blow job. I have a hundred bucks or so,’ Sweat was beading on his top lip but I didn’t think it was from the heat. ‘I’ve had a hell of a day.’
‘I–I’m not a, not a prostitute,’ I spluttered, unable to move.
‘Oh,’ he stood up quickly, shuffling backwards but still staring at my legs. ‘I’m sorry, I just thought, because the cash and–and … I’m sorry.’
Before I could get up, he had shuffled away, out of the park and down the street. I stared after him. Did I look like a prostitute? Quickly, I shoved everything back in my pockets and ran back across the road and into the safety of the dimly lit hotel lobby.
‘Hey,’ called Jenny from the concierge desk. ‘Where have you been? I called up to see what you wanted for dinner.’
I stopped dead in the middle of the busy lobby and turned to face her. ‘These shorts are going back.’
It took an emergency cup of tea and full packet of Chips Ahoy! cookies on the floor behind the concierge desk, before Jenny could get any sort of sense out of me. Naturally, she managed to find the positive in my being mistaken for a hooker who gives blowjobs in public parks.
‘A hundred dollars is way above average, I’m sure,’ she said, topping up my tea with hot water. I’d already had to demand a mug, no matter how against cute English stereotype, I didn’t want to have to get into the ‘we don’t top it up with hot water, we make more tea’ conversation when I was having absolutely the wrong kind of Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman moment. ‘And more importantly, Starbucks Johnny totally hit on you! You hit one out of the park on your first try, honey!’
‘Do you know him?’ I sniffed, necking the weak, milkless excuse for tea. ‘He was quite cute.’
‘Know him?’ Jenny whistled. ‘Half the girls working in this hotel would like to know him a whole lot better. He’s the reason we all have caffeine addiction. Ask Van next time she’s on the desk. She’s got a four machiatos a day habit because of that boy.’
‘It was just so weird, I don’t think I handled it that well. I don’t think I’ve even got his number still.’
‘He gave you his number?’ she shrieked, scalding me with more unnecessary hot water. ‘Jesus, Angie! What do you need me for? You’re already picking up grade A guys on your second day in the city. I don’t think anyone here got his number.’
And admittedly, that did make me feel quite good. ‘It’s only because I’m English or something, he doesn’t think I’ll call. And I won’t anyway, will I?’
Jenny looked at me for a second and then sat down. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I haven’t called anyone in, well actually ever. I’ve literally just had a monumental break-up, I don’t need to start dating right away.’
‘You know what? A couple of dates might be the best thing for you. This is kind of a vacation, right? So let’s find you a vacation fling, a holiday romance.’
‘I don’t know, I mean, isn’t dating really hard?’ I pulled my top down over my knees. ‘I’ve only ever, well, you know, been with Mark. I don’t know if I can do “dating,” like proper going out and dating.’
‘Seriously? And don’t stretch that,’ Jenny asked, pulling my top back off my knees like my mum. ‘If that’s the case honey, we definitely have to get you a couple of dates. You need to realize how much fun it is! A couple of non-pressure, well behaved gentleman-type dates. Just some fun. Nothing big.’
‘Are you sure?’ I certainly wasn’t.
‘Totally,’ she said, easing up off the floor and pulling me up with her. ‘Now, you go upstairs, call down when you know what you want to eat and read this over dinner.’ She handed me a notebook with my name written across the front in big lettering, decorated with glittery star stickers and a huge ‘I Heart NY’ postcard.
‘What’s this?’ I asked. Wasn’t I a little too old for star stickers?
‘It’s for you to write in,’ Jenny explained, opening the notebook to the first page. ‘You said that you didn’t really know what your ambitions were earlier, now I want you to work some out. And make sure you include getting laid. Now upstairs, dinner, ambitions and then sleep.’
She shooed me away and turned to a hotel guest waiting patiently in front of the counter with a megawatt smile. ‘How can I help you, Mr Roberts?’ I heard her purr as I slipped into the lift, my nose already in the notebook.
Name: Easy, Angela Clark.
Age: Twenty-six and six months. More of a wince with that one.
Ambition: To be a published writer.
Next to published writer, I added, ‘To be happy’.
And next to that, ‘Get laid’.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_5d9109e8-39ef-51e2-b5d0-35ba3fd7c8b8)
The next morning, I woke up feeling I had to meet my new life head on. So what if I’d never done anything impulsive before today? I was now a born again New Yorker and a New New Yorker needed a New Handbag. I’d put together a simple outfit, short shorts, a beautifully cut white shirt and cute little lemon ballet slippers. My make-up and hair might not have been up to Razor/Gina standards but I still looked better than I had in, well, since the last time I’d actually bothered to look in a mirror.
Jenny had been insistent that I travel everywhere by subway until I knew the system as well as the London Underground. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that even after nearly seven years in London, I could still pretty much only find my way from Waterloo to Top Shop Oxford Circus without looking at the map. Cautiously, I slipped down the subway steps, scoping out a Metrocard machine and feeding in my cash. So far, so London. Twenty-four dollars for a one week pass? Not so London. I knew TFL had been ripping me off …
According to my notes, I was supposed to take the 6 train to Spring Street–easy. But looking at the map, I was sure it would have been quicker to walk. Immediately I was confused, why didn’t the lines just have names? What was with the colours, the letters and the numbers? And how did I know what stopped where? Jenny’s notes expressly forbade asking anyone for directions or getting a guidebook out. Halfway around Bloomingdale’s the day before, she had grabbed my Rough Guide out of my handbag and ceremoniously dropped it in a rubbish bin.
The subway was hot in the sticky August heat, but the platforms were much bigger than the Underground. When the train arrived, it was huge inside compared to the cramped little District line. At first I couldn’t work out why the carriage looked so familiar and then I remembered, Ghost. This is my train! Louisa and I must have watched that film a thousand times as teenagers. But Louisa’s not here, I reminded myself. She’s probably playing mixed doubles with her husband, your ex and his mistress. The fact that I knew she was probably on her honeymoon in Grenada did nothing to dispel the ugly fantasy I’d created for myself. Before I could slink off the train and back into the hotel, the doors closed and we pulled off. I dropped backwards onto the hard metal bench and studiously avoided eye contact with the other travellers while sneakily trying to get a good look at them.
It would be such a New York cliché to call the subway a melting pot but it really was. Businessmen in suits clung to the straps, tourist shoppers from Fifth Avenue clutched their Saks and Tiffany’s bags nervously, while a group of Hispanic girls with truly gravity defying hair backcombed each other beside me. In between them, older travellers rode the train with their eyes closed. Before I knew it, we were at my stop. I dashed through the open doors and headed up the steps, trying not to look around with too much confusion. As I exited on to Spring Street, the super strong sun caught me off guard and I almost toppled backwards into a girl, so cool looking I felt sure that she must be famous. Or at least sleeping with someone famous.
‘Sorry,’ I gave her my best ‘what a tit’ grin.
The girl gave me an uncomfortable stare and moved on. Watching her lithe limbs saunter on down the street as if she owned it, I wondered how much I would have to offer her for a blowjob. If I was commanding a hundred dollars, she could be into five figures.
Jenny had told me I’d love Soho and she was right. It was so different to the strict, structured grid system of midtown. I loved being able to see for what seemed like for ever, up and across Manhattan, but this was like stepping into a film set. Even though I’d never been here, the streets seemed so familiar. Either I’d found my spiritual home or I’d watched too much TV. I wandered down the street, towards what I hoped was Broadway, peering in windows, watching the people and intermittently looking down at my shameful old handbag. Before I could decide what to do with it, I found Broadway. And another Bloomingdale’s. Hurrah.
I fought my way through the cosmetics counters, trying to strike a balance between peeping at the magical make-up on the counters without attracting the attention of the vulture-like assistants. Dashing past the Bliss counter, I bounded onto the escalator, sailing up and away to credit card safety. For the moment at least. The bags were helpfully right where I stumbled off the escalator, but the number of bags crammed into this small space was completely overwhelming. Stalking around the counters and shelves, I evaded the gaze of the assistants for as long as I could before I braved a young brunette with approximately three hairs out of place. A relative slattern by Soho standards.
‘Hi, can I help you find something?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking for a bag,’ I nodded, trying not to sound like someone who really didn’t do this often, but at the same time not wanting to get fleeced out of my entire wedding savings for a handbag. ‘Something I can use for everyday really, for carrying my laptop, my wallet, phone, stuff like that.’
‘OK.’ She began rocketing around the department, pulling out various bags of various sizes, all extra-ordinarily expensive, I was sure. ‘You’ll probably want leather if it’s for everyday. It’s the most durable material and it wears well. And you want room for your laptop …’ she paused, biting her full bottom lip and glancing around the shelves before pulling some more bags out from hidden drawers behind her counter. ‘Any favourite designers?’
‘Marc Jacobs?’ I offered, thinking back to yesterday’s induction into the fashion floor. It seemed to be the right answer because she smiled and finished off the collection of luxury leather in front of her with the most beautiful, beautiful bag I had ever laid eyes on. I reached out to stroke its buttery softness, the dark brown of the leather looked like milk chocolate and the subtle gold detailing winked at me.
‘Buy me,’ it whispered tantalizingly. ‘I complete you.’
The sales girl was making noises about updated classic satchel design, Italian leather and brass fixings but I was already working out how much I could ram in there and still wedge my arm through the strap.
‘How much?’ I asked, picking it up delicately. It was heart-stoppingly beautiful. Was it wrong that I felt more passion for this bag than I had felt in my and Mark’s bedroom for the last three years?
‘It’s $895.00,’ she said, sensing the commission. I figured she could smell a sale like a horse smells fear. ‘Plus tax.’
My shoddy internal exchange rate brought that out at more or less £500. I’d never ever spent more than thirty quid on a bag. But I needed it. I thought back to when Louisa and I went shopping for bridesmaid shoes in Harvey Nicks and reasoned with myself. If she could spend £400 on my shoes for one day (albeit guilt shoes, I realized now) I could invest £500 in a bag I would use for the rest of my life. I’d just use it all the time. For every occasion. Every single day.
‘Anything else?’ the girl piped up.
I smiled feverishly back at her. ‘I need a clutch.’
A thousand dollars down and two amazing handbags up, I sloped down Bloomingdale’s steps into the searing summer heat. I figured at £500 I had to get my money out of this bad boy by using it absolutely immediately, rolling my Next pleather wonder into as small a scrunchy ball and dropping it into my Big Brown Bag. Compared to midtown yesterday, Broadway was relatively quiet. A few tourists wandered around in combat shorts and red shoulders with digital cameras constantly clicking, while the beautiful and hip with no perceivable employment, swanned in and out of the shops, weaving around Mercer, Spring and Prince Streets, weighing down their skinny forearms with massive stiff paper bags. It took staring at these girls for less than a minute before I realized how starving I was. Luckily, this was New York City and Starbucks was never more than two minutes away. One quick muffin, I promised myself as I stumbled gratefully back into multinational air-conditioning, and then I’ll head back to the hotel.
My promises were short-lived. If the people watching outside Bloomingdale’s had been good, standing in the ten minute queue at Starbucks was like watching a David Attenborough documentary. I’d never seen such a mix of people. More skinny women ordering non-fat caffeine shots, businessmen holding meetings over blueberry scones, cute muso types intensely discussing the newest guitar band (and not even ordering coffee–rebels.) But the most popular customers were the men and women studiously ignoring the rest of the patrons and desperately tapping away on laptops, intermittently stopping to check their WiFi connections, sigh loudly and sip their huge drinks.
‘You can never get a fuckin’ seat in this fuckin’ place,’ breathed the man behind me. ‘Fuckin’ bloggers.’
I turned and smiled politely even though I didn’t know what he was talking about, assuming he was addressing me. He stared back at me as if I were mentally ill.
‘Bloggers?’ I enquired, suddenly feeling very English as he stared me down.
‘What?’ he snapped. Apparently, he was not talking to me.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, turning away, looking for a rock to crawl under.
‘You said something about bloggers, I thought you meant …’ and I let myself trail off with an intense stare into the pastry cabinet.
‘Oh,’ he said, still not exactly what you’d call friendly. ‘Just thinking out loud. You can never sit down in a Starbucks for all these cock sucking bloggers posting their whiny diatribes about how shitty their lives are. No one cares, people! Go find some real friends to talk to!’
At this point he was really shouting at the laptop brigade and I was really, really wishing I hadn’t encouraged the conversation.
‘Next?’
Saved by the coffee order.
I ordered my muffin and Americano to go and immediately hailed a cab. I’d taken the subway once today and my Marc Jacobs satchel really didn’t feel like slumming it.
‘The Union hotel, on Union Square,’ I said, settling back as we turned off Broadway. I watched carefully for street signs, trying to ignore further credit card destroying shopping opportunities. Down East Houston and then up the Bowery, or was it Fourth Avenue? I was confused but happy confused.
‘You on vacation?’ the cabbie yelled through the grid.
‘Yes,’ I called back, happily taking in the sights. ‘I am on vacation.’
‘Girl like you on your own?’ he asked. ‘Don’t get many girls on their own. Mainly get the packs of three or four doing the Sex and the City thing. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been down to Magnolia Bakery.’
Oh. Cupcakes! ‘I haven’t been there yet.’
‘Yeah, I don’t get it,’ he laughed. ‘They sit in the back of the cab complaining about not being able to get into some dumb dress they can’t afford and then they go eat cupcakes. I just don’t get it.’
The cab ride was so short, I hardly had time to find my wallet inside my beautiful new bag when we pulled up outside the hotel. And it was only six dollars! This was the best city and clearly, clearly offset the insanity of my purchases.
The thing I loved best about my hotel room was that no matter how messy I left it, how many towels I’d used and how many of the mini Rapture toiletries I’d used up in the shower, it was always blissfully restored to pristine condition when I returned. I gently placed my Marc Jacobs bag on the side table and pulled my laptop out of the desk. Setting up a selection of soft drinks and snacks on the tiny table I’d dragged across the room, I grabbed a pillow from the bed and perched the computer onto my knee. The hotel had supplied me with a UK power adaptor without me even asking. Wow. I couldn’t remember the last time Mark had so much as intuitively supplied me with a cup of tea. I also spotted a note from Jenny, reminding me tonight was Gina’s leaving party and that I was to meet her in reception at nine.
Within fifteen minutes of settling into my chair and not typing a single word, my laptop had gone to sleep and so had I. I was back to dreaming my New York life, instead of living my New York dream. For the last six months or so, while Mark had been putting in extra hours at the office and at the tennis club (and in Katie as it turned out) I’d thought about joining gyms, taking yoga classes, even teaching creative writing classes, but I hadn’t actually acted on any of them. Maybe, if I tried, I could genuinely see the positives in what had happened. I had already made a friend in Jenny, even if I didn’t really know her that well. I’d got a new do, a new wardrobe and I was now in possession of the most beautiful handbag I’d ever seen in almost twenty-seven years of life. Who needed what I’d left behind?
While all these thoughts ran through my head, I started typing. For the want of a plot or a storyline, I started writing every single thing that had happened to me in the last week. It seemed like a good place to start, documenting everything for fear of a single second of it escaping. It all came out, the wedding ceremony, the dinner, the toasts, finding Mark in the car with his pants down, bashing Tim’s hand, and my bolt to New York. Before I knew what had happened, it was almost eight, I’d been typing for more than three hours and in just over one, I had to meet Jenny, Gina and Vanessa.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_0638303d-9afe-5d0d-8e7f-5b7b0cbb1924)
Dead on the dot of nine, fuelled by a hastily necked vodka from the mini bar, I stepped out of the lift and into the lobby.
‘Jesus, Angela Clark,’ Jenny said as I skulked into the bar. I’d never in my life been one of those girls who can look in a mirror and think, yeah, I look good. Even at Louisa’s wedding, after an hour and a half at the mercy of a hairdresser and make-up artist, I hadn’t looked good–I’d looked like a bridesmaid, but things were changing. If I didn’t look at least OK tonight, I knew I never would. It had taken me twenty minutes and three attempts at Razor’s smoky eye make-up tips, but I was more or less there (and he’d promised it would only look better the more smudged it got). My hair was elegantly messy and I’d gone for a simple black v-neck dress I’d bought that afternoon, with my Louboutins, new clutch and bare legs. I’d never felt so great but so nervous in all my life.
‘Hey,’ I held my hand out in a small wave.
‘Remind me again why I’m giving you shopping advice?’ Jenny kissed me on both cheeks and presented me to the girls. ‘Gina and Vanessa, you know, this is Erin.’ They all raised a hand and I ordered a vodka and cranberry hoping it would come soon. ‘I’ve told the girls all about you but I didn’t tell them you were a complete glamazon,’ Jenny said, checking me out from every angle. ‘You did me proud, doll!’
‘I didn’t really know what I should wear so I just went for black. And I didn’t have to make too many choices about going out shoes,’ I held out a foot for inspection to approving hums and nods.
‘Well, you did good, honey,’ Gina said, sipping her cocktail. ‘You’ll be just fine.’
At least I’d got the level of dressing up right. Gina looked ridiculously sexy in high, high heels and a knee-length, skin-tight silk dress in a rich purple. Jenny was putting her namesake to shame in a plunging cream dress that cut way past her cleavage and the other two girls had really taken the ‘short is the new black’ mantra I’d seen in fashion magazines to heart. Individually they looked super sexy but as a pack, they looked unreal. If I were a man, I’d have been terrified.
Not at all strangely, for five scantily-clad women, we found cabs right away and were climbing out at the Soho Grand in minutes. From the outside, nothing really looked that grand but the ordinary fa¸ade belied an amazing interior. Like The Union, it was dimly lit but decked out with chandeliers and amazing wrought ironwork. The Grand Bar was lined with chrome stools that were occupied by equally beautiful people befitting the decor. Jenny had reserved a section of the lounge, which was already spilling over with people I recognized from the hotel and people I didn’t. Everyone was all about the hugs, kisses and ‘you rock’ affirmations, but I wasn’t drunk enough not to feel self-conscious.

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