Lindsey Kelk 8-Book ‘I Heart’ Collection. Lindsey Kelk
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woke up a little bit disoriented, the seams of my jeans sticking into my legs, but it only took a couple of seconds and a quick look at the bedside clock to remind me why I was in bed on a Wednesday afternoon. It was six in LA, nine in New York. Time was up. There was no way now to sort things out before Mary agreed to the Icon interview and Jenny took over as my personal kiss-and-tell stylist. At least I might look half decent in the photos that would be ruining my life next Tuesday. I did need a new Facebook profile picture.
One of my favourite things about staying in good hotels was their ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policies. Even though housekeeping had replaced several vomit-tinged towels from the bathroom floor, they had happily restocked the mini-bar. In fact, there might have actually been more vodka in there than yesterday. Clutching my mobile, I sat cross-legged in front of the fridge. For the want of a better plan, I mixed a vodka Diet Coke and drank it down in one. And mixed another. And drank it down.
After making it through the rest of the vodka, the gin and the white wine, I grabbed hold of the counter and pulled myself up. Hmm. Too drunk to stand up easily without support, but not drunk enough to move on to the Jack Daniel’s miniatures. I slicked on some lip gloss and changed my T-shirt quickly before grabbing my room key and barrelling through the door. There really was only one place to go in times of trouble. The place where everybody knew your name.
‘Angela?’
Of course, in this instance, there was only one person who knew my name and that was Joe. But a bar was a bar and a drink was a drink.
‘Hey,’ I said, dropping onto a stool in front of him. The pool bar was practically empty, sun-worshipping hotel guests gone in to get ready for the night ahead, local party-ers not even nearly ready to come out yet. ‘How are you?’
‘Uh, I’m OK,’ Joe replied, not looking convinced that the same could be said for me. ‘So what’s going on with you?’
‘Fucking. Nothing,’ I said, bashing my hand on the bar with each word. ‘He’s a knob, Joe. Everything on the internet, it’s all shit.’
‘I’m gonna go out on a limb and say you’re talking about my good buddy James Jacobs,’ Joe said, passing me a cocktail menu and some nuts. ‘So you’re not, you know?’
‘Mojito please.’ I scarfed a handful of nuts. How long was it since I’d eaten? ‘And ew, not even. I’m too good for him anyway. Not that he could, anyway. He wouldn’t know what to do with me if he had the chance. What’s that all about?’
‘I’m pretty sure I don’t know,’ Joe said with a grin. ‘But you are right, you’re too good for him.’
‘Yeah I am,’ I nodded enthusiastically, while Joe pounded away at the mint, sugar and lime. He really did have great arms. At least as good as James’s. ‘Are you OK, Joe? We haven’t seen you since Monday.’
‘I’m fine,’ he nodded passing the drink across the bar. ‘You get used to dealing with assholes in this town, Angela. But I guess you get used to dealing with assholes everywhere, right?’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ I agreed. It was a good mojito. ‘Everywhere.’
‘So, is there any chance I can convert you to LA?’ he asked. ‘Since the assholes are pretty much a global epidemic?’
I shook my head so violently, I had to grip the edge of the bar to keep from falling off my stool. ‘Nuh-uh.’
‘Still in love with New York, huh?’ Joe slipped another straw into my drink and took a long sip. ‘There’s nothing you like about LA?’
‘I don’t hate this,’ I said, bumping foreheads with him as I leaned in for another sip.
‘Me either,’ Joe said, holding my gaze for a moment. Nose to nose, eye to eye, I felt myself flush from head to toe.
‘I’m having dinner with Jenny later. You should come along.’ I pulled away, losing my balance again. ‘Or are you working?’
‘I actually get off at seven but you guys don’t want me along.’ Joe took out a pair of shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. ‘You’re gonna be talking about your boyfriends and shoes and shit. What am I gonna add to that?’
‘Shut up,’ I slapped his arm, spilling the tequila as he poured. ‘We would totally want you there. And trust me when I say there will be no boyfriend talk. Jenny doesn’t have one, you know.’
Joe held out my hand and kissed it. After an impossibly long second, he sprinkled salt along the damp lip print. ‘On three?’
‘Three?’ I whispered.
‘The tequila?’ Joe put a full-to-spilling shot glass in my free hand.
‘If I do the shot, will you come to dinner with Jenny?’ I stared at the gold liquid. I had some sense of awareness that this was a really bad idea but the salt was on my hand now, what was I supposed to do? I had been brought up not to waste food. Or drink. Or condiments.
‘I’ll come to dinner,’ Joe nodded. ‘One, two, three.’
‘Eurgh.’ Ignoring the sting of the tequila in the back of my throat and the instant urge to retch, I bit down on the lemon wedge Joe held out for me. ‘I hate tequila.’
‘But you did it like a pro,’ Joe said, refilling the glasses. ‘One more and then I figure I can get out of here.’
I nodded, taking the glass. The sun was starting to set behind the Hollywood Hills, the lights on the hidden homes of the rich and famous starting to twinkle. If I were to sit on the roof of The Union at seven in the evening, in March, in jeans and a T-shirt and, oh, I’d forgotten to put on shoes, I would actually freeze to death.
‘Angela?’
‘Yu-huh?’ I snapped back. Joe held up his own shot glass.
‘I said three, like, five times.’
‘OK then.’ I necked the shot, shuddered and slammed down the glass. ‘Where should we go for dinner? I’m starving.’
‘You might want to change first,’ Joe said, logging out the till and handing over to a tall blonde girl in a matching black collarless shirt.
‘We’re going somewhere posh?’ I asked.
‘No, but your shirt is inside out and there’s make-up all over it.’ Joe scooped me up off my stool and carried me over to the door.
I giggled, slight hysterics overtaking me at being held off the ground. ‘What? This is what all the hipsters are wearing in New York.’
‘Well in that case …’ Joe set me down and peeled off his own shirt, turning it inside out and slipping his arms back through the sleeves. Thank the lord, he didn’t fasten it back up. ‘… Better?’
‘Much,’ I agreed, falling into the lift as the doors opened.
‘You so can’t come in my room,’ I said, fighting with the key card and lock. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’
‘I’ll behave myself,’ Joe said, pushing in close behind me before I could shut the door, ‘I swear.’
‘Yeah you will,’ I said, stepping over the pile of bottles, glasses and dirty T-shirts I’d created by the mini-bar. ‘But my main concern was you seeing what a shit-tip I’d left this place.’
‘Angela, this is a hotel, I have seen much worse.’ He stooped down and retrieved my mobile from the sticky mess of discarded bottles. ‘You have missed calls.’
I took the phone and scanned down the list, holding my breath. Mary, twice, Jenny, once. No James. No Alex. I tossed it on the bed and turned back to the wardrobe, determined not to cry. Or fall over.
‘Not the right person, huh?’ Joe said. I screwed up my face.
‘Angela, I don’t know exactly what’s been going down but I do know that you would