Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (110 page)

‘Angie!’ Jenny squealed and jumped up from the sofa as though I was the only suitable kidney donor in all the world and I’d just walked into the hospital to save her life. From the glazed look in her eyes, she’d more likely be looking for a new liver under her tree. She was hammered. ‘You look adorable. Are those my shoes?’

‘They are your shoes,’ I confirmed. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind since you made me wear a PVC maid’s outfit last night.’

‘Did you burn it?’

‘I did.’

‘Good.’

It was nice to be considered adorable, but I couldn’t help but think that sometimes it might be nice to be considered a stone-cold fox like Jenny. If I’d known she was going to be wrapped up in a red Herve Leger bandage dress, I might have worn a different colour, but, like Delia and Cici, though with considerably less vitriol, there was no point in competing with Jenny.

‘There are so many people here.’ I waved a hand at my face, fanning warm air right back at myself. Last winter, I’d spent more than one day wearing a scarf and mittens indoors. Our building suffered from a severe case of knackered boileritis, but the sheer number of bodies in the room was keeping things nice and toasty. And speaking of bodies, I peered around her hair to look for Jenny’s very beautiful boyfriend. ‘Is Sigge around?’

‘Over there.’ Jenny pointed at the trifecta of half-naked men by the window as she gave Alex a kiss on each cheek and a perfunctory hug. He was scared of her for a reason. She insisted on keeping what she referred to as a professional distance with regards to their being friends. According to Jenny, it was her job to keep Alex on his toes, a fact that wasn’t lost on him. He was on his tiptoes whenever Jenny was around. He always tried his best with her, but I could feel he was on edge, hence the suit and tie. I was under no illusion that the dress-up was for me, but the two of them getting along so well gave me a happy.

‘I didn’t recognize his abs,’ I said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. I wasn’t terribly good at it. ‘It’s so different seeing them in person.’

‘Right?’ Jenny sipped her champagne. It looked like love in her eyes, but it could just have been booze. ‘He thought it would be funny. I tried to explain to him it was a little Zoolander, but that just made it worse. Now they keep flashing each other Blue Steels and giggling like women.’

The three of us looked over at the model playpen across the room. Such sharp cheekbones.

‘That’s my boyfriend,’ Jenny sighed. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘I’d totally date that dude,’ Alex replied. ‘And I know Angela would.’

‘I’m not going to lie – if you weren’t here I would be sitting on Santa’s lap right now,’ I admitted, eventually dragging my eyes away to begin the search for booze. There was no way I would be able to stay at this party for more than fifteen minutes unless I got very drunk, very quickly. I’d been on a bit of a non-drinking kick while Alex had been on tour, but not drinking at one of Jenny’s parties was basically self-harm. It would have been a good idea to have had a couple of drinks at home to take the edge off, but I wasn’t that bright.

‘The apartment looks nice,’ I told Jenny, sending Alex off to the bedroom with our coats and a clear message not to come back without two glasses of something cold and bubbly. As well as whatever he wanted. ‘You’ve painted?’

‘Sadie painted,’ Jenny corrected. ‘I told her we were gonna have a holiday party, and she said she’d get someone in to tidy up a little. I figured she meant a cleaning service, but then I get home from the office and the whole damn place has been covered in White Out. In a day. She couldn’t run the vacuum around?’

‘I can’t imagine someone who gets paid thousands of dollars to stand around in their pants is particularly big on domestic chores,’ I said, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t either. ‘Does she know what a vacuum is?’

‘Sigge changes light bulbs,’ Jenny said, looking doubtful. ‘But he’s not so good with actual appliances. I guess that’s why the house always ends up so gross on America’s Next Top Model.’

‘Tyra isn’t very handy with a can of Pledge,’ I nodded. My feet were starting to hurt. ‘But given how you two met, I’m not too shocked. Where is Sadie, anyway?’

If I had met Sadie the way Jenny had met Sadie, I would have had a restraining order issued, not invited her to move in. Jenny had landed the lucky role of Sadie’s ‘handler’ at one of Erin’s events, and now she was living that role. As far as I was concerned it sounded like a living nightmare, but Jenny thrived on a project. She loved a challenge; she always wanted to fix something. And man alive, was Sadie broken. I’d always laughed when people said models were like racehorses, but she was the most highly-strung racehorse of the modelling world; except that instead of refusing hurdles, she refused common courtesy and basic human compassion. The first time we met, she looked me up and down, asked where I lived, then asked if I knew Agyness Deyn, and then actually answered for me with a massive laugh and ‘of course you don’t’. She was a charmer.

‘She forgot she had an event tonight.’ Jenny made tired-looking air quotes around the ‘forgot’. ‘VS, I think. It’s fine – it’s not like the modelling industry is under-represented.’

She was right. For an at-home Christmas do, there was a disproportionately large number of very pretty people in Jenny’s front room. Not that I would ever describe any of our friends as dogs, but these were the kinds of girls and boys that you wanted to stare at until you could work out exactly what it was that made them so transcendentally beautiful. And then maybe poke them a bit.

‘So did you talk to Alex?’ Jenny asked, pushing some random off the sofa so we could sit down. It was still weird to me that there was someone I’d never laid eyes on sitting on what was very recently my sofa. I didn’t like it.

‘No, I didn’t talk to Alex, and I distinctly remember banning you from mentioning that subject,’ I said, slipping the balls of my feet out of my shoes. Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger, that felt good. ‘So shut up. I’m working on it. This time next week, it’ll all be sorted out.’

Jenny leaned her head to one side. ‘How so?’

‘Because I’m due a Christmas miracle,’ I replied with confidence. ‘And I’m cashing in my voucher. Everyone gets one, don’t they?’

‘Angie, honey –’ She gently rested a hand on my knee in a very clear ‘you’re blatantly a little bit mad’ move. ‘I know you’re super into this whole “I need to get the visa on my own merits” thing, and you know I think that’s awesome, right?’

‘Right.’

It was awesome. I was awesome. Take that, Lawrence.

‘And I know you don’t want Alex to ask you to marry him just to get the visa, right?’

‘Right.’

At least we were clear on that.

‘But you do love this dude?’

‘Correct. I do love the dude.’

‘And he loves you.’

‘I believe that to be the truth.’

‘So just ask him. People don’t meet in the rain trying to jump in the same cab these days, they meet online, they get engaged on reality TV. They hook up with their friends and they get knocked up. They get married because they need a visa. When and where he puts a ring on your finger isn’t important, as long as he loves you.’

‘That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,’ I said, slapping her hand off my leg. ‘You will never have bedtime story privileges with my kids.’

‘Be real hard to tell a bedtime story to kids in England.’ She raised an eyebrow then looked away. ‘No one’s arguing with the fact that you could get a visa another way, but there’s no need to make it harder for yourself. You don’t have anything to prove. Just ask Alex.’

‘Just ask Alex what?’

Two glasses of champagne appeared in front of me. Since he didn’t seem to be carrying anything else, I only took one. Begrudgingly.

‘Your beloved Angela Clark and I were just talking.’ Jenny beamed up at my boyfriend as she spoke.

‘About Christmas dinner,’ I squeaked. ‘I was saying Jenny and Sigge should come over to our place for Christmas dinner.’

‘Sure.’ Alex aimed his champagne glass in the giant Swede’s direction. ‘I will totally get into an eating contest with that guy.’

‘Dude, your waist is skinnier than one of his thighs,’ Jenny scoffed. ‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Oh, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, you have no idea,’ I said, proudly wrapping an arm around Alex’s waist. ‘He’s got hollow legs. Honestly, it’s disgusting the amount he can eat and stay this thin.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get real fat when I’m old,’ he replied, kissing me on the top of the head. ‘Good and fat.’

‘Awesome.’ I leaned into him and tried to envisage a porky Alex on a porch swing playing a banjo.

Totally hot.

Some hours and several glasses of champagne later, I wandered out of the front room, leaving Alex to protect my lovely friend Vanessa from the advances of his disgusting friend Craig, who had somehow found his way into the party. Facebook had so much to answer for. After a liberal application of lip balm and a tipsy spritz of Jenny’s Gucci perfume, I checked my phone. It was admittedly a slim possibility that anyone would have called to offer me a job at half-past eleven on a Saturday night, but you never knew. Shit. Three missed calls. All from my mum. I did a quick calculation on the time difference: the last call was an hour ago, making it three-thirty in the UK. I sobered up in a heartbeat and pressed redial. Cooling my warm forehead against the window, I stared out at the Chrysler Building, all lit up, well, like Christmas, and wished on every star I could see that everything was OK.

‘Hello? Angela?’

‘It’s me, Mum. What’s wrong?’ I closed my eyes and wished harder.

‘It’s your dad,’ she replied. ‘He’s been taken poorly.’

I closed my eyes as I tried to strike a deal to change my Christmas miracle.

‘What’s wrong?’ A million different scenarios were running through my head. Heart attack? Stroke? Had he fallen downstairs? Dad was fit and active for a man in his sixties, but you could never be certain. What if it was some horrible illness? I’d give him a kidney. A kidney for Christmas. Anything for my dad.

‘I don’t want you to panic – the doctor says he’s probably going to be all right,’ she went on, her voice pale and grey. ‘But basically he had a bit of a funny turn at Auntie Sheila’s Christmas do, so we had to take him into hospital.’

‘A bit of a funny turn? Are they the words the doctor used?’

‘Not exactly,’ she hedged. ‘But I thought you’d want to know. So you could come home.’

Home.

Before I could reply, I heard Dad’s voice in the background demanding to be given the phone. After what sounded like a relatively non-violent altercation, my dad’s voice came on the line.

‘Angela, I told her not to call you, I’m fine.’ Aside from sounding a bit tired and rough around the edges, he did sound like himself. I relaxed by one-eighteenth of a degree. ‘I’m just in overnight for observation. There’s nothing wrong.’

‘But what happened? What sort of funny turn? Do I need to come home?’ I wiped the tears away before they could ruin my mascara and tried to work out how I could manage to squeeze a flight back to the UK out of my meagre bank account. Flight prices in December were obscene. I had a better chance of someone lending me a private jet. Actually, Erin’s husband had a private jet. Maybe if I got really drunk, I could forget I was English and ask for a quick borrow.

‘You don’t need to come back for this – I’ll see you when I see you,’ he replied. ‘Really, I had something I shouldn’t have and, like your mum said, I had a funny turn. I’m fine.’

‘You’re allergic to something? Might I be allergic to something?’ Obviously, I was very concerned for his well-being. And a little bit about mine. ‘What was it?’

‘I don’t think you need to worry, really. You’re fine, love. Now, when are you coming to see us? Your mother is still insisting on buying the world’s biggest bloody turkey in case you decide to grace us with your presence for Christmas dinner.’

Hmm. Was it me or was he being weird?

‘Dad?’

‘Angela?’

‘What did you eat at Auntie Sheila’s that put you in hospital?’

‘We were just having a nice night in with Sheila and George and your Uncle John and Aunt Maureen came over,’ he explained slowly. ‘And, well, your Aunt Maureen had made some special cakes. For a laugh.’

‘Special cakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘For a laugh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dad …’ It took a very long time for me to understand what he was saying. And then just as long again for me to accept it. ‘Were you and Mum doing space cakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh dear God.’

The desire to go home and nurse my poor old dad to health transformed into a desire to go home and slap my stupid old dad around the head whilst tutting at my mother and shaking my head in disappointment.

When I was seventeen, my mum marched into Gareth Altman’s eighteenth birthday party, saw me standing next to Briony Jones, who was holding an unlit hand-rolled cigarette, and shrieked, ‘Angela Clark, I will not have a drug user in my house!’, then dragged me out by my borrowed Radiohead T-shirt. Which was subsequently thrown out because they were a ‘druggy band’. Explaining this to my then boyfriend was a bit tricky, but we were seventeen and the promise of a hand-job cured all. If only life was still so simple: I’d have a green card by now.

‘So let me get this straight. You’re in hospital because you ate too many space cakes and overdosed on marijuana?’ I just wanted to be clear.

‘I know, I know,’ he giggled. Brilliant. He was still high. ‘You’d think it was the Seventies.’

‘Dad, you know we don’t discuss anything that happened before I was born,’ I reminded him. As far as I was concerned, my parents came into existence in the early Eighties, my mother already pregnant with me and my father just a lovely, middle-aged Ken doll. They didn’t have sex and they certainly didn’t do drugs. He was really killing my champagne buzz. I was not beyond seeing the irony in that. ‘Just get lots of rest and I’ll call you tomorrow. When we will discuss the concept of “Just Say No”.’

‘Your mother wants to say goodnight,’ he said, giving me a huge yawn and ignoring my sanctimonious tone. It was a shame, really, because if I was being honest, I was quite enjoying it. ‘Call tomorrow, love.’