I Heart New York. Lindsey Kelk
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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 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