Lindsey Kelk 5-Book 'I Heart...' Collection (7 page)

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’.

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 TopShop 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.