Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (29 page)

‘Sounds good.’ I smiled to a passing stranger who looked at me oddly. ‘Where should I meet you?’

‘Uh, at the Bedford Avenue station? About eleven?’ he yawned again. He really was too cute.

‘I’ll see you there.’ I yawned a little myself. It was even contagious on the phone. ‘Hope you sleep well.’

‘I will, I’ll be saving my energy for tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Sleep tight.’

I smiled as I hung up, date with Tyler forgotten, date with Alex buzzing around my mind.

It was still so early, I’d beaten Jenny home from work. I grabbed my laptop and lay on the sofa, thinking about what to write. If I stored a blog entry now, I could just email it from Alex’s without interrupting our day tomorrow. I quickly bashed out the details of my date with Tyler and made some vague references to my day out in Brooklyn with Alex, Balthazar or Brooklyn? before logging off and dozing on the sofa. Mary had said her readers would go crazy for a Wall Street type, so after all, I was just giving the people what they wanted.

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 Tshirts 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.

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.