I Heart New York (21 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The thirty-minute journey to Brooklyn felt like an eternity. What if Alex hadn’t rushed to call because it wasn’t as incredible for him as it had been for me? After all, he wasn’t the one who had tripled the number of people he had ever slept with inside the last fortnight. Just before the train stopped, I pulled my compact out of my handbag, quickly swiped at my shiny nose with powder and ran my fingers through my hair. Thank God it was supposed to look messy.

I skipped up the steps of the subway station, pulling Jenny’s sunglasses down off my head and over my eyes, searching for Alex. Despite the oddly high numbers of hipster types littering the streets at a time they really ought to be at work, I spotted him almost immediately. He was leaning against a lamppost, arms folded, bobbing his head gently to whatever was on his iPod. His black hair shone almost blue in the sun, and his daily uniform of jeans and T-shirt clung to him like a second skin. I lifted up my sunglasses and watched him, bleached out by the sun for a moment. The whole scene was almost too perfect to disturb.

‘Hey,’ Alex shaded his eyes with his hands, when I finally burst the bubble and went over. ‘I didn’t see you sneaking up on me.’

‘Well, that’s the point in sneaking up on you,’ I smiled, kissing him hello. Hopefully, there would be lots more kissing. ‘You OK?’

‘Yeah, a little tired, but really good,’ he took my hand and we started down the street, passing cute little boutiques, dark vintage clothes emporiums and poky record shop after poky record shop after poky record shop. ‘You want to get something to eat?’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I said. For the first time in the last couple of days, nothing felt complicated. I was in the sunshine, I was holding hands with a beautiful boy and I was happy. Yay!

We ducked into a tiny diner for coffee and bagels while Alex gave me a brief history lesson on his neighbourhood. Williamsburg had been home to hundreds of artists and musicians, he told me, generally all kinds of creative types that had been driven out of Manhattan due to the crazy spiralling rents. It had been his home for almost ten years, and he loved it. He loved going to bars where he knew everyone, he loved feeling like he had a neighbourhood, and he loved that in less than fifteen minutes, he could lose himself in the city. Unfortunately, he hated the fact that property prices were starting to go crazy around him, that the musicians and artists were being replaced by rich hipsters with nothing to do but buy up real estate and make it harder for people to live there. And most of all, he hated that a lot of his friends had started moving away again, either further into Brooklyn or back to Manhattan.

As the sun slipped over the Manhattan skyline, we stopped in a dark little bar back on Bedford Avenue. The walls were lined with tankards and beer mugs, the dim lighting was only boosted by a TV screen showing sport, and someone, somewhere was cooking chips. It felt scarily like a real pub.

‘Beer?’ Alex asked as I slid into a chair. Wandering around, blissfully happy, was exhausting. Sitting in a chair, staring at Alex’s rear bent over the bar in his sexy low-slung jeans, was much easier. He returned with two pints, actual pints, while I tried to pretend I hadn’t been totally ogling him. ‘So, you like it here?’

‘I do,’ I said, gratefully sipping the cold lager. ‘I would never have thought to have come here. It’s so different to the city.’

‘You can still get this stuff in Manhattan.’ Alex sipped his beer thoughtfully. ‘It’s just a little harder to find, a little harder to afford.’

‘Well, I’m glad I got to see it,’ I said, squeezing his hand. ‘I’m glad you offered.’

‘Me too,’ he smiled, squeezing back and holding my gaze for a moment too long. ‘How long are you going to stick around for, Angela?’

‘You know, I’ve managed to go a really long time today without thinking about that.’ I nursed my beer and tried a wry smile that wouldn’t stick.

‘Sorry.’ He looked down into his drink. ‘What can I say, I’m a planner?’

‘That’s not very rock and roll, is it?’ I asked, pushing my hair behind my ears, really wanting to comb my fingers through his. ‘What happened to living for the moment?’

‘Living for the moment doesn’t really work if what’s making this moment so great might disappear to another continent in a couple of weeks,’ he smiled, taking my hand back and shrugging. ‘I really like being with you.’

‘Yeah.’ I looked at him, not knowing what else to say.

‘Too much?’ He half smiled, half frowned. ‘Sorry. I forget the real world isn’t ready for my over-emoting sometimes. Fuck, that even sounded pretentious to me. Sorry.’

‘Over-Emoting is OK,’ I said, biting my lip. ‘It’s just all so weird. I keep getting these flashes where this starts to feel like real life, like this is something I could have, and then, bang, I come back down and remember this is actually just a glorified holiday.’

‘Doesn’t have to be,’ Alex said. ‘There’s nothing stopping you from getting a visa, getting a job. There are always options if you’re prepared to work for them. If living here, having a life here, is what you want.’

‘Apparently, my problem is not knowing what I want,’ I sighed. ‘Just the idea of having to go back there…’ The thought of home was instinctively tied to thoughts of Mark and my stomach seized.

‘So don’t go,’ Alex shrugged. ‘Seriously, you could at least look into it. If you could do absolutely anything, nothing at all stopping you, what would it be?’

‘I asked someone else that question once,’ I smiled, shaking my head. ‘And they said they’d follow the Yankees for a year.’

‘Then they had no imagination.’ Alex squeezed my hand. ‘And that’s why you’re here with me. What would you do?’

‘Right now? If I could do anything?’ I asked. He nodded. ‘If I could do anything, I would magic myself a work permit, start getting paid real money for writing at
The Look
, and stay here as long as I wanted. Not running away, not being on holiday, just living. Going to the supermarket, paying bills, doing the washing, just having a life.’

‘Then do it. You’re young, you’ve got work here, just apply for the visa. Stay.’

‘Everyone likes to make things sound so easy,’ I said, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. ‘I wish they were.’

‘You know what would be easy?’ he said, reaching a hand across to my cheek, guiding my eyes back into his. ‘Just going back to mine. Just not thinking about any of this right now.’

I put my drink down, not even half finished and stood up. ‘I’m so sick of thinking,’ I nodded, holding out my hand.

That evening, that night, the early dawn hours, everything was just as intense as the first time. By Thursday morning, I was emotionally and physically knackered, but in so deep, I didn’t know how I was supposed to find a way back out. It was hard enough finding a way out of the bedroom. After several attempts, we finally managed to install ourselves on his sofa in T-shirts and underwear, to listen to his new demos. They were totally stripped back, just Alex and his guitar, nothing like the songs I was used to hearing from his band.

‘Is this how all your songs start out?’ I asked, my head resting in his lap.

‘Yeah,’ he nodded, gently tapping out the rhythm on my collarbone. ‘They all start this way. Sometimes they get built up, sometimes they get thrown away. These are still really new though.’

‘I think they’re beautiful,’ I said, nodding along. ‘They’re so soft.’

‘Glad you think so,’ he said. ‘They’re kind of about you.’

‘Really?’ I craned my neck up and looked at him. ‘They are?’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said, pushing me up gently and curling his body around mine. I could feel his heartbeat speeding up against my shoulder blade. ‘About you, me, about this. Meeting you has really helped me clear my head up. I think I’ve figured out what I want again.’

‘That’s funny,’ I felt my heartbeat find its rhythm against his, ‘you’ve managed to have the completely opposite effect on my life. I don’t have a clue what I want.’

‘I think you do,’ Alex said, ‘you’re just not ready to deal with it yet. That’s OK. I’m just ready, that’s all.’

‘You’re not going to split up the band, then?’ I asked, resting my head against his chest just underneath his chin.

‘I’ll give it another shot,’ he said. ‘It was me that was messed up, not the band. I wasn’t being fair.’

‘Well that’s good news. You’re really feeling better?’

‘Really, really,’ he nodded, stroking my hair. ‘What about you, how you doing working your stuff out?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, rolling over and looked at him, all sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. ‘I’m getting a fairly certain feeling about some stuff.’ I stretched up and kissed him gently. ‘And I can’t stop thinking about what you said, about staying here. Maybe it is possible.’

My hair dropped down into my eyes as I turned, just as Alex’s long, messy fringe flopped into his. Before I could reach out to comb it back, his long fingers were brushing the hair out of my eyes.

‘Well, why don’t we just work more on the stuff you’re certain about?’ He kissed my forehead gently. His hand stroked my hair, then moved back down my cheekbone, tracing the line of my face all the way down my chin, my throat, my collarbone. I pushed against him, wedging my body underneath his, forcing him on top of me. ‘And once you’re absolutely positive about that,’ Alex whispered, ‘we can start thinking about everything else.’

Afterwards, when Alex had dozed off, I slid off the sofa, pulled my underwear out from its hiding place under the coffee table, and logged on to my Gmail. I sat, gazing at him sleeping and really didn’t know what to write. I didn’t want to pretend this wasn’t happening any more, even on the blog. I absolutely had to end it with Tyler and find out where this was going. I looked at the empty screen and decided to be honest. With Tyler, with Alex, with Mary and with myself.

The Adventures of Angela: Last Exit to Brooklyn

So, I’ve been writing to you for about two weeks now. Does it feel loads longer to you? I feel like I’ve been here for ever.

Since I left London, it’s been the craziest two weeks of my life. I’d forgotten that there were lots of cool and interesting people out there who can make your life incredibly exciting if you let them. I’ve had the most amazing opportunities and well, between me and you, I’ve met a couple of people I think might change my life for ever. Even as someone who loved London with a fiery passion when I moved there, I can’t get over what an unbelievable place New York City really is.

When I found out about my ex and his extracurricular tennis lessons, all I could think about was what a horrible, awful thing he had done to me. And I’m not making excuses for him, he still is a great big giant scumbag, but, and this didn’t even occur to me until today, if he hadn’t done what he did, if I hadn’t caught them at it in my car, if I hadn’t completely destroyed my best friend’s wedding (that actually feels worse every time I mention it) I wouldn’t be here today. I wouldn’t be writing to you at all. I wouldn’t be in Brooklyn, blogging in the living room of a wonderful man who is asleep on his settee with a smile on his face. A man I would never even have met if it weren’t for that turd and his two-timing.

So, and I really mean this, thank you, Mr Ex, you hateful little scumbag, I hope you’re having fun back in England.

I’m learning how to have fun again and it feels nice.

I emailed the entry to Mary. It felt good to get that out, but it hurt to admit it. At least some stuff was finally starting to make sense, I had to let go of the past before I could move on to the future.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

For someone who had flat out refused to go to Brooklyn for one evening only one week ago, I returned to the apartment on Friday morning to find a note from Jenny saying she was staying at Jeff’s for the weekend. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t been in our apartment since we’d had dinner at Scottie’s on Monday, but it was weird how the place already felt like home to me, whether she was there or not. Jenny had been quick to add some photos of us from Gina’s leaving party to her clip-frame montages, and since we had terrifyingly similar taste in films and TV (read hot actors), heaps of my favourite DVDs were lying around the place. I’d even picked up some copies of books by my favourite authors at The Strand second-hand bookshop. I couldn’t think of a single thing I needed from the flat in London. Not one single thing.

Necking what was left of my iced coffee, I logged on to check my email. I had precisely two hours before my meeting with Mary and in that time I needed to shower, choose an outfit that said ‘please don’t fire me’, and come up with my very first ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech for dinner with Tyler that night. Flicking through the acres of spam in my Gmail account, I played the scenario over and over in my head. I was sure he would be fine, we could just be friends, it would be great. Absolutely fine. And I definitely wasn’t going to be terribly terribly English if he wasn’t OK with it, and accidentally sleep with him. Nope. Wasn’t going to happen. I was just reassuring myself that one single polite goodbye kiss would probably be OK, when I spotted an email from
The Look
. But it wasn’t from Mary or Cissy, it was from someone called Sara Stevens.

Dear Angela,

I hope you don’t mind me emailing, this was the only contact information on
The Look
server.

Firstly, I just want to say I absolutely love your blog–so much fun! I really feel like Im in New York with you.

So here comes the exciting bit. We’re currently setting up the UK version of
The Look,
launching in January and I would absolutely love to talk to you about you working with us as senior staff writer. Everyone here thinks your style is perfect for our magazine, and we’ve been tracking the popularity of the blog here in the UK as well as in the US, you’re a hit!

Obviously I’m not sure how long you’re planning to be in New York, but we’d need you back in the UK by the end of August to prepare for the launch issue.

Give me a call, my numbers are at the bottom of the email and we can talk over any questions you might have, salary, benefits, etc.

It was almost one-thirty here, so six-thirty in London. Only one way to find out if she was a late worker.

‘Sara Stevens.’

Yes, yes, she was.

‘Hi, Sara? It’s Angela Clark here.’ This was officially the last time I was going to dial a phone number without having a blind clue what I was going to say if someone answered. ‘I just got your email.’

‘Angela, I’m so excited that you called me! We absolutely
love
you here in the UK office. Are you excited? It’s exciting isn’t it?’

So far, so different from Mary.

‘Erm, yes? It is?’ I plopped down on the back of the sofa.

‘Oh my God, it SO is!’

I wasn’t sure I was OK with Sara showing such an early propensity for screeching.

‘So, when are you back, hun? I love that you nicked off to New York for a jolly instead of sitting around being a lil miss victim. Very fun. But we need you back here! When’s your flight booked?’ she yelled.

‘I haven’t actually booked a flight back.’ Sara might only need to stop for breath every seven minutes, I was struggling. ‘I don’t know if I’m actually coming back.’

‘What? You haven’t married that Wall Street banker have you? Not that I would blame you! No, really, it’s better. We will absolutely pay for your flight back, Virgin Upper Class all the way, baby! So the senior writer position is really exciting. You’d be writing about just about anything you think would be interesting to
The Look
readers, so there’s lots of scope for getting around. I was reading your blog and it just hit, pow! This girl can write fashion, dating, travel, food, sex—’

‘What did Mary say?’ I interrupted. Yes I know it’s rude, but she wasn’t going to shut up if I didn’t.

‘Mary?’

‘Mary Stein? My editor here.’

‘Oh,’ Sara actually paused, ‘I haven’t exactly spoken to her. It’s not really poaching is it? You’re British, you’re coming back to London, we need a writer. Really, we’re just keeping it in the family. I’m sure she’ll be pleased as. And I don’t want to be vulgar, but Angela, the money on this position is going to shit all over whatever pennies the web team are paying you.’

‘But you will speak to her?’

‘Oh yeah, right now, I’ll call her right now. I just need you to say you’re coming to work for me, you ridiculously talented woman!’

‘OK, well, this is really interesting,’ I just wanted to get off the phone as soon as humanly possible, ‘but I actually have to dash off to a meeting, and—’

‘I need to know by the end of the day, your time, on Monday,’ Sara said bluntly. All the giggles and enthusiasm gone out of her voice. ‘Unfortunately I don’t have time for you to think too long and hard about this–I didn’t think you’d need to actually–I have a writer to recruit in a very short space of time. I’ll email the job spec and salary and you can reply. Right?’

I suddenly realized she couldn’t see me nodding down the phone. ‘Yes.’

‘Right. I’ll speak to you Monday. Bye hun, have a great weekend in the Big Apple!’

‘Bye. You too. In London, I mean.’ But she had already hung up. I looked around the apartment, still holding the phone to my ear and softly bit my lip. ‘Bugger me.’

As if Sara’s phone call wasn’t enough to mess with my tiny mind, the tourists on their way to Times Square really didn’t want me to get to my meeting with Mary on time. I’d spent far too long scrubbing at my hair in the shower and troughing Goldfish crackers, watching The View instead of doing any of the things I was supposed to do, and now I was late. I could understand why Alex loved Williamsburg, it was so chilled out, but I was still in love with Manhattan, despite the maddening crowds. The noise, the people, the feeling that anything could happen at any given second. That was what inflated my blood pressure, that was what sent adrenaline surging through me as the streets got narrower, more congested. I loved the neon billboards, the giant Target ads, the garish Hershey store, Bubba Gump’s Shrimp Co, Virgin, Sephora, Toys
us. They were just adverts, stores, restaurants, but it was the clicking cameras and the pushing people with the happiest faces you’d ever seen that made the place what it was. And it was amazing to me.

Also amazing, was the hit of the air conditioning when I walked into the Spencer Media building. Bliss. I was late, but sent straight up to Mary’s office and without a lecture and shockingly, given coffee and iced water and, Jesus, a smile, by Cissy, as soon as I stepped over the threshold.

‘Angela Clark, get in here!’ Mary yelled from behind her desk.

‘I’m in,’ I said nervously, balancing the drinks, trying not to spill anything on my bag. ‘Hi, Mary.’

‘So yesterday’s post? Oh my God?’ She was actually grinning. Not a wry smile, not a disappointed frown. A big fat grin. ‘Great writing, Angela, I can’t wait to post it.’

‘So the blog is still going?’ I sighed with relief.

‘Of course it’s still fucking going!’ Mary stood up and gave me a hug that was much bigger than she was. ‘You’re my little success story. Do you know how many emails we’ve had about your column? More than about anything else on the website. Hell, more than most things in the magazine. Everyone at
The Look
loves your column.’

‘Everyone,’ I said cautiously. I couldn’t tell whether Sara had called yet. ‘I mean, that’s good. Isn’t it?’

‘It’s really fucking good. People love you, Angela, and they love to live vicariously through someone else. They don’t want to run away to another continent and leave everything they’ve ever known, but they love that you’re doing it for them,’ Mary nodded, perching on the edge of her huge desk and pushing me backwards into a seat. I managed to keep the coffee in the cup, but the water went everywhere. Except on my bag. Phew. ‘It’s good for me and it’s really good for you. So I need to put you on a contract.’

‘What?’

‘A. Contract,’ Mary said slowly. ‘We want to keep the blog going long-term, Angela. I won’t make you sign it in blood, but I will make you sign it.’

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit.

‘A Sara Stevens hasn’t called you from the UK office has she?’ I asked, gulping down the coffee in case Mary felt like taking it away shortly.

‘The UK
Look
? How do you know about that?’ Mary asked, hopping back behind her desk at lightning speed. ‘That hasn’t even been announced internally yet.’

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

‘Well, they called me today and asked if I would go and work for them. As senior staff writer.’

‘Are you shitting me?’ Mary’s face went from red to white to purple in what seemed like a heartbeat. ‘They tried to poach my fucking writer?’

‘She said it wouldn’t be like poaching…’

‘What else is it exactly? When was this? Why didn’t you tell me?’ Angry Mary was very, very scary.

‘It was just now, literally, like an hour ago,’ I explained hurriedly. ‘Right before this meeting. I didn’t think I should call to talk about it when we were meeting now.’

‘Right. I suppose I should appreciate your coming to tell me face to face, even if those sly London bitches couldn’t be respectful enough to tell me,’ she shook her head. ‘Congratulations Angela, it’s a great opportunity for you and I think you’ll be very good at it. I’m just fucking furious to have found you and then to lose you.’

‘But I haven’t accepted yet, I have until Monday,’ I bleated, jumping up off the leather chair and leaving half my thighs behind. Ouch. ‘I’m not sure I really want to go back to London, or work for Sara.’

Especially work for Sara, I added silently, she’s clearly nuts.

Mary stared over her desk, not speaking. I didn’t know whether or not that was a good thing.

‘Are you serious?’ she said eventually.

‘About?’

‘About not going home and taking up this huge opportunity to risk it all to write a blog in a city that you’ve lived in for three weeks?’

‘Well, when you put it like that, I know it sounds a bit silly.’ I sat back down, trying to pull my Velvet T-shirt dress underneath me.

‘Don’t you want to go back home to London?’ Mary asked.

‘Does it matter what I want?’ I bit my lip hard. ‘I’ve got to go, haven’t I? Everyone keeps telling me.’ Everyone but Alex, I reminded myself unhelpfully.

‘Well, you’re not a US national, so it wouldn’t necessarily be easy,’ Mary stood up and walked back around her desk. She bent down in front of me, forcing me to look at her. I was so embarrassed. ‘But if you wanted to stay, you would always have a job with me.’

‘Really?’ I blinked back a tiny tear before it could make a real break for it.

‘Angela, I’ve been reading your diary for three weeks now, and it’s quite clear that you really don’t know what you want,’ Mary knelt on the floor, one hand on my knee. ‘That’s why people are relating to your blog, they want to be there when you work it out. I don’t know if that’s going to be here in New York, or back in London, but I do know you don’t have for ever to work it out any more.’

‘I know,’ I said, taking a deep breath and wiping my eyes. I really had to pull myself together.

‘You know I’m pissed about the UK team,’ she said, ‘but if you’re planning on going home, you should go now. This really is an amazing opportunity. If you stay here, who knows? The blog isn’t going to pay as much as a staff job, but it will pay. We can help you apply for a visa, but I can’t tell you what will happen after that.’

I stared at the pavement all the way back to the apartment, only just aware of people and cars and any other potential obstructions. Fumbling my keys into the lock, I rolled straight over the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. I had just worked out I was happy, I had just worked out it was definitely Alex, not Tyler, and now this. Jenny would say it was life testing my decisions. My mum would tell me it was fate bringing me home. I would say, enough, have we got any more Ring Dings. And since I was the only person in the room, I went with my option.