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JENNY LOPEZ HAS A BAD WEEK: AN I HEART SHORT STORY
Lindsey Kelk


SHORT STORY - digital exclusive: if you love Lindsey Kelk and the I Heart books, you’ll love this fun short story about Jenny.*Short story on ebook only.*Jenny Lopez is miserable. Having spent the summer working in LA, she’s back home in New York, and missing the three key elements in a girl’s life – a roommate, a job and a boyfriend. Jenny formulates a plan; surely someone must need a roommate and surely someone must need a girlfriend?By the end of the day, she has arranged a viewing for a potential roommate, the gay blond aka the Sex God,secured two dates, and work looking after a top supermodel. Things look like they are back on track; everything is going to work out great. If only life was so easy…









Lindsey Kelk

Jenny Lopez Has a Bad Week

Exclusive Short Story










Copyright


This short-story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in GREAT BRITAIN by

HarperCollins 2011

JENNY LOPEZ HAS A BAD WEEK. Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

EBook Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780007444809

Version: 2017-08-10




Contents


Title Page (#u2cfe60d0-ab34-52da-b5a9-815188525b88)

Copyright



Chapter One

‘Jenny Lopez, you are a delight.’

Chapter Two

‘Oh my god, Jenny, you look like shit.’

Chapter Three

I crashed through my apartment door the next morning after…

Chapter Four

‘What is this?’ I stood in the bar of Hotel…

Chapter Five

‘Oh god,’ I groaned when my alarm rang the next…

Chapter Six

I wasn’t sure what I enjoyed the most. The epic…

Chapter Seven

The Boyd & Norrell show was a huge success. Sadie’s…

Chapter Eight

‘And then he slammed the door and vanished.’ I relayed…



Read on for a sample of I Heart New York (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Read on for a sample of I Heart Hollywood (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two

Read on for a sample of I Heart Paris (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Read on for a sample of I Heart The Single Girl’s To-Do List (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

About the author

About the Publisher




CHAPTER ONE


‘Jenny Lopez, you are a delight.’

It had been a really bad week. I was broke; I was bored and boyfriendless. At least I had been, until now.

My date sat back in his chair and gave me a beaming smile. I couldn’t help but smile back. This was going down in the record books as one of the best first dates ever. Brian Williams was 35 years old, single and so, so cute. We’d met a couple of weeks ago at my friend Erin’s birthday party and, even though I hated to admit it, I’d pulled out every weapon in my flirting arsenal to get this date. It had taken until we walked (staggered) out to get cabs at four in the morning, but goddamn it, I’d got his number.

We’d been hidden away on the tiny back patio of Brooklyn Social for the last hour, laughing over the trials and tribulations of our day, screwball subway adventures and the general ridiculousness of Brooklyn. Time was flying by and I was a delight. Who didn’t love being told that? I’d made a hell of an effort. My hair was freshly washed, a few strands pinned back to tether the curls away from my glowing skin – I’d bought a new bronzer – and sparkly, lots-of-rest-because-I-wasn’t-working eyes. On the ensemble front, I’d gone pretty low-key, but the girls were making an appearance. Skinny jeans, white button-up tank top and heels. I looked as good as I was gonna get. Not that looking good had helped since I’d gotten back from LA. At least not until tonight …

‘So what do you do?’ I asked, readying myself for the bad news. In days gone by, it used to be my first question, but these days it didn’t mean anything. Bankers were broke, musicians were loaded; the world was topsy-turvy.

‘I’m a writer.’ He nodded slowly as he spoke and placed his hands on his knees. ‘Wow, it’s taken me a really long time to be able to say that out loud and mean it.’

‘That’s great.’ A writer, OK, I could work with that. What I couldn’t work with was the fact that my drink had been dry for at least fifteen minutes. Red flag maybe, but hardly a strike. ‘What sort of stuff do you do?’

‘Yeah, so I guess I identify most closely with like, Nietzsche or Kierkegaard.’ He pushed his elaborate black glasses frame back up his nose. ‘And you know, Ayn Rand changed my life. Ayn Rand and Bukowski, you know?’

And there it was. Strike number one.

I nodded, staring into my empty glass before taking another sip of the gin-flavoured melting ice and closing my eyes. One strike in one hour, though – not too shabby really.

‘I guess it’s difficult for a woman to understand those writers,’ he said, before I could fathom a response. ‘So you’re not a reader; not a deal breaker.’

Strike two.

I thought about the stack of dog-eared books piled up at the side of my bed but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t need to defend my library of self-help guides, travel guides and each and every book in the Twilight series to my formerly awesome date. Besides, I’d read Bukowski and Rand and, in my humble opinion, they were books for assholes.

‘It’s not great but,’ he lifted the dregs of his locally brewed beer to his mouth, ‘not a deal breaker.’

Something terrible had happened to the city while I’d been away. Five months in LA and all the eligible men had vanished. That, or I’d become invisible. Or a troll. And since I was literally running my ass off every morning in the ninety-degree heat, it couldn’t be that. I figured they could still smell LA on me. Nothing like some time on the West Coast to poison New York men against you.

I studied Brian Williams from across the tiny cast-iron table on the back patio of Brooklyn Social. Usually I refused to venture out of Manhattan for a first date, but I’d been back for almost a month and it had been slim pickings. He was cute. Tall enough (that is, taller than me in heels), short dark hair, the heavy framed glasses I’d thought were quirky at Erin’s party. Now they just seemed like some awful affectation. They were so non-prescription. This was what happened when you had nothing to say for yourself, I realized, you hid behind props and buzzword authors. Saved a lot of time and effort in becoming a useful human being.

‘So, who do you write for?’ Ten points to me for at least trying. There was a vague, vague, vague chance he was just a little awkward and not a total ass-hat after all. ‘My best friend writes a column for Look magazine.’

‘Look magazine?’ He smiled to himself. ‘Interesting. Well, my writing runs a little deeper.’

Because badmouthing my best friend was a sure-fire way to secure a second date. Strike three.

‘And you’re published?’ I asked with as much innocence as I could muster.

‘Uh, no,’ he was getting less cute by the second. Thirty-five? Really? ‘It’s about the craft, not the reward.’

‘So what do you actually do?’

What I really wanted to say was: ‘Then maybe you should stop introducing yourself as a writer, dickwad.’

‘Right now I’m spending a little time in photography retail.’ He waved his hands around a lot, the sleeves of his vintage Strand bookstore T-shirt rolling up his skinny arms. ‘That’s my other passion. I actually show my work in a real-time gallery, on tumblr. You should check out—’

‘You work in a camera store?’ I translated. ‘And you have a blog?’

He gave me a cool, level stare. Amazing how quickly things could go from great to ‘I’d rather gouge out my own eyes with splintered chopsticks than look at you for one more second.’

‘So what do you do with your spare time?’ He sat back and took a good look at my rack, apparently deciding my boobs made it worth hanging around a little longer. I was regretting my choice of tank top now. ‘And don’t say watch TV because I don’t even have one. Television is a cancer.’

And yet all I could think about was whether or not there would be a Glee rerun on when I got home. In thirty minutes.

‘You know, I’m gonna get a drink.’ I gave him a dazzling smile, pulled my long, loose curls into a ponytail and then let them drop around my shoulders. My best friend Angela referred to this as my signature stripper move, but hey, I might as well give him something to really regret. ‘Can I get you one?’

‘I thought you were never going to ask,’ he said with a smirk. Dates might have been thin on the ground but going Dutch on the first date? More like going douche. And now it was time for me to go home. ‘I’ll be right back.’

Generally speaking, I didn’t like to lie. It was bad for the soul and – way more importantly – it was bad for the complexion, but there was no polite way of saying, ‘Hey pretentious asshole, you’re wasting precious seconds of my life. I need them. Byesies.’ I didn’t care that he worked in a camera store and I certainly didn’t care that he wasn’t a published writer – if you refused to date everyone who had ever put pen to paper but never had their work published, you’d be limiting your dating pool to investment bankers and men without hands. And even the guys without hands probably had some sort of app on their iPad to type for them. Actually, a guy without hands might actually be a better bet than an investment banker these days.

What I cared about was that he was the kind of guy who would always think he was better than you, no matter who you were, what you did or how awesome you were at doing it. I could have told him I was Florence Nightingale and he would have taken issue with the fact I was working with the troops instead of impoverished kids in the projects.

It had been so long since I’d met anyone who, well, wasn’t. I knew it was possible – most of my friends had awesome boyfriends and husbands – but all I seemed to find were the kind of sleazebags who thought they could slap you on the ass on the way to the restroom, or Brian Williamses.

I skipped up the steps out of the garden and sidled through the narrow bar, my heart beating harder with each step I took closer to freedom.

‘Hey!’ I turned around – as did everyone sitting at the bar – to see Brian Williams following behind me. ‘I was just going to change my order – where are you going?’

‘Home,’ I admitted. ‘Order from the bartender.’

Before he could reply, I leapt out of the door and into a passing cab.

Bye Brian Williams.

‘Thirty-Ninth and Lex?’ I asked the driver as I threw myself across the back seat. It wasn’t that I hadn’t come to love Brooklyn, I had. Sort of. Ever since my former roommate and current BFF, Angela, had moved out here, I’d kind of had to. But as soon as the tyres of the taxi hit the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan’s skyscrapers twinkled in the twilight, I felt better. It was as if a tightness in my chest eased, like I could breathe again. If only I weren’t headed home alone. Again. I dug my cell phone out of my eye-wateringly beautiful watermelon leather Mulberry Alexa and relaxed.

‘Pick up, Angie.’ I sang into the handset while slipping my foot out of my shoe and turning off the in-taxi TV. Worst invention known to man.

Angela Clark, my best friend and confidante, picked up on the first ring. She had just the right touch of OCD about things like that to make her near perfect. If only she’d had the same OCD about doing the dishes when we’d lived together.

‘Hi, are you OK? Is everything OK?’

There hadn’t been one phone call that didn’t start with that exact same sentence since she moved out a month ago.

‘Everything’s fine.’ I saw the Woolworth Building and knew that it was. ‘Just another bad date.’

‘It’s summer,’ Angela theorized. ‘The heat makes boys crazy.’

‘Maybe.’ I shucked my purple Jimmy Choo mules to the floor and held my toes up for pedicure inspection. Flawless. As toes should be. ‘I’m just kinda sick of it.’

‘Any news on the job front?’ she asked. ‘Did you hear back from anyone yet?’

The only subject I might have preferred not to discuss than my date was my search for gainful employment. I’d spent many happy years working as a hotel concierge until I’d finally given in, reached for the stars and spent six months in LA working as a stylist. Between a little natural talent (OK, I’m being modest, I was awesome) and a lot of luck, I’d managed to bag some pretty sweet gigs. But when you weigh that up against living with a high-class hooker, there really wasn’t a lot of choice when my lease came up for renewal. And besides, as I told myself at the time, it was styling. I could be a stylist anywhere. Except, uhh, no.

‘Everyone in New York hates me,’ I whined. Hyperbole? Me? Didn’t you hear, I’m not a reader. ‘They’re all like, oh, we were hoping to work with someone with more experience. The only place that called me back was MTV.’

‘To style Jersey Shore or Teen Mom?’ Angela asked with a laugh.

‘Jersey Shore,’ I whispered back.

‘Oh, Jenny.’ She didn’t know it, but on occasion Angela Clark sounded exactly like her mom on the phone. ‘You get out what you put in, you know that. If you’re putting negative energy out there, you’ll get negative results.’

And sometimes she sounded just like me.

‘Thanks for the pep talk.’ The Lower East Side was alive with people as the cab cruised through town. Well, it was a Tuesday. And wasn’t Tuesday the new Friday? Or was that Thursday? I was so out of touch. ‘I just don’t want to have to go back to the hotel.’

‘You loved working at The Union,’ she reminded me. ‘And they would totally take you back.’

‘But that’s just it,’ I replied. ‘It’s going back. I … I just can’t.’

‘I understand, I do. I just don’t want you to be bored and miserable.’

It was a uniquely English ability to know how to point out the obvious problem without being, well, obvious. I was bored. I was miserable. But I wasn’t going back to The Union. Besides, the lack of work was only half the issue. Both Angie and I knew the real reason I’d come back from LA, and it was six feet tall, blond and went by the name of Jeff. Heartbreak beat out hookers and homesickness every time.

‘I know.’ I was too tired to get into it. At 9.15 in the evening. Jesus. ‘We still getting lunch tomorrow?’

‘Yep,’ she confirmed. ‘Twelve, Noho Star. Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want to come over?’

An evening in front of the TV with my best friend and her perfect boyfriend? I’d rather go back and apologize to Brian Williams. I was happy for Angie, I was, and it wasn’t like she and Alex hadn’t faced their ups and downs, but I still hadn’t figured out how she got to move here from England and hook up with one of the hottest guys in the city right away. Some of us had been putting in the groundwork for years. Actually, there was a chance I’d put in a little too much groundwork and that was part of the problem, but you know what they say: practice makes perfect.

‘I’m good,’ I gave her a yawn to demonstrate just how fine. ‘Just gonna take a bath and hit the hay. An early night won’t hurt me.’

‘No, but five in a row will,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re going out this weekend.’ It sounded more like a threat than a promise. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

I dropped the phone back in my bag just as we pulled up outside my apartment. Just two minutes and seven flights of stairs until I was snout deep in a tub of Chunky Monkey. Live the dream, Jenny Lopez, live the dream. Yeah, it had been a pretty bad week.




CHAPTER TWO


‘Oh my god, Jenny, you look like shit.’

Erin and I had been friends for years but still, that kind of hello was not going to fly.

‘Hey Erin,’ I replied with two breezy kisses. ‘Your ass looks fat. How’s married life working for you?’

‘My ass is twice the size it was a year ago and I’m fucking ecstatic.’ She pushed a bellini across the table towards me. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘I’m having tons of super-hot sex with super-hot strangers all the time,’ I lied. ‘Ten orgasms a night take their toll on a girl.’

She narrowed her eyes, flicked her newly bobbed blonde hair behind her ears and shook her head. ‘Right.’ She tapped the platinum bands of her engagement ring and wedding band against the stem of her glass. ‘Only, I can tell by looking. If ever anyone needed to get laid, it’s you.’

‘She told you about her dating drama then?’ Angela dropped into the spare seat on the opposite side of the table with a cheery smile. A cheery smile that vanished as soon as she registered my expression. ‘What? What did I say?’

Erin laughed happily and ordered another round of cocktails, even though it was Wednesday and even though we still had full glasses in front of us. Oh to be a married PR maven in Manhattan.

‘So, bad date?’ She had the decency to wait until we’d ordered before quizzing me any further, but curiosity finally got the better of her. ‘Tell me everything.’

‘I’m glad my tragic encounters with the opposite sex keep you guys entertained.’ Even though I was thoroughly depressed about my single status, I couldn’t deny that I loved being centre of attention, and when you’re the only single lady at a table full of coupled-up gals, you’re pretty much the star attraction. ‘It was nothing, that Brian guy I met at your birthday party.’

‘The cute geek?’

‘He had glasses, yeah,’ I frowned at the definition. It was a slur against geeks. ‘He wasn’t a geek though. Just an asshole.’

‘Example?’ Angela requested.

‘He didn’t own a TV.’

‘Ouch.’

‘And he said he most closely identified with Kierkegaard.’

‘Oh, no.’

‘And he said women couldn’t understand Ayn Rand.’

‘Strike three,’ Erin said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Hang on, wasn’t Ayn Rand a woman?’ Angela looked confused.

‘She wrote the book Robbie tried to loan Baby in Dirty Dancing,’ Erin replied.

‘You went on a date with the Brooklyn equivalent of Robbie the Creep?’ Angela shook her head sadly. ‘I can’t believe it’s come to this.’

‘Some people matter and some people don’t,’ I confirmed. ‘So, yeah, he wasn’t the one.’

‘Did he at least have an Alfa Romeo?’ Erin couldn’t help herself. ‘That’s my favourite car.’

I coiled a loose chocolate-brown curl around my finger and tried not to think too much about what she’d said when I came in. Did I really look like shit? Maybe my tan had faded a little since I’d gotten back from LA, and my hair could use the teensiest trim, but my Ella Moss sundress was totally cute and everyone loved a gladiator sandal. Another glance at my pedicure confirmed it remained unchipped and I was even wearing mascara. I was officially making an effort. There was no room in my dating timetable for leaving the house looking shitty from here on in. You never knew who was around the corner in this city. Lest we forget, Ryan Reynolds was single now.

‘I feel responsible.’ Erin smiled at the waitress as our food arrived. Prompt and plenty of it. I loved this place. ‘He was at my party, after all. Let me hook you up with one of Thomas’s friends.’

Thomas was Erin’s husband, one of the few Wall Street traders I knew who hadn’t been totally stung in the recession. Not that my address book was teeming with Wall Street traders.

‘Maybe.’ I took a deep breath, readying myself for the inevitable reaction I would get to my next statement. ‘You know, I kinda thought maybe I might give Jeff a call.’

Their choruses of negativity were loud and indecipherable but the general theme seemed to be a no. I sighed and poked at my eggs, suddenly not so hungry any more.

‘Jenny, you know that’s a bad idea.’ The blonde began her practised argument.

‘I know but I need to do it, OK?’

To be fair, it wasn’t as though this wasn’t old ground. Jeff and I used to date, used to live together, but we’d broken up a couple of years earlier when I’d been dumb enough to confess a drunken one-night dalliance and he’d completely flipped. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t ready to take responsibility – yes, technically I’d cheated, but a) I was wasted and b) I’d told him about it right away. But apparently that didn’t help. He didn’t trust me any more and that was even more hurtful than if he’d stopped loving me. Because he hadn’t. And knowing that was the worst.

‘Jeff is the past, Jeff is bad times, Jeff is staggering around at four a.m. singing “Hopelessly Devoted” in every karaoke bar in the East Village.’ She shook her head. ‘Jeff isn’t happening.’

‘But if I just called him,’ I suggested weakly. I was playing to the wrong crowd. ‘Or send, like, a Facebook message?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Angie said, sounding nervous. ‘Really, I wouldn’t get in touch at all.’

I bit my lip. ‘Is that girl still living there?’

It was hardly Angela’s fault, but her boyfriend had the misfortune to live in the same building as my ex. Which of course meant that Angela now lived in the same building as my ex. Awesome.

‘Uh, yep.’ She looked down at her burger and then at the ends of her shiny bob. ‘I need a trim. Shall we see if we can get a trim this afternoon?’

She was about as good at hiding something as Lindsay Lohan was at shoplifting, i.e. not very.

‘Spill.’

She gave me a pained expression before dropping her head to hide her blue eyes behind her hair. ‘They’re engaged. They got engaged.’

If driving into Manhattan had been like taking a breath of fresh air, this was like getting every breath kicked out of me. By a pissed off mule. Onto train tracks just as a train was pulling in. I did the only thing a girl could do with that kind of news. I sank my first bellini and made a pretty good attack on the second.

‘He proposed?’ I asked, twisting the knife that was suddenly wedged in my chest. ‘He got a ring?’

‘I assume so.’ She raised her shoulders up to her ears in a dramatic shrug. ‘Alex told me. He saw them in the lift yesterday and she was wearing a ring.’

‘Alex noticed a girl was wearing a new ring?’ Erin asked. ‘Damn, that guy’s a keeper. You need to lock that down, honey.’

‘One problem at a time,’ I responded, my voice becoming ever so slightly hysterical. ‘He’s definitely engaged? She’s not just some tacky ho who wears jewellery on her wedding finger?’

‘Definitely engaged.’ She held her hands up in front of her. ‘I don’t know any details; please don’t shoot the messenger. Or punch the messenger. Or anything the messenger. Please. I’m sorry.’

In Angie’s defence, my first thought was violence. I really, really wanted to hurt someone. It was a long time since I’d had to pull out a bitch-slap – but I wasn’t above it. What was I supposed to do in this situation? The love of my life had got engaged to someone else. The way I saw it I had three choices. Beg him to take me back, cry myself blind or kill them both. Now begging hadn’t worked in the past, and while I could totally beat that man-stealer down, killing her might be a little far-fetched. Besides, there was a teensy chance that Jeff would hold it against me instead of being won over by the romance of the whole murder thing. Which left crying myself blind. Hmm.

No, I was not going to bawl over brunch. It was not an appropriate sobbing meal. I’d find a quiet spot in Saks to weep over some twelve-hundred-dollar purses later. No, right now, I required a plan. That’s what friends were for. Might not have been in the lyrics to that song, but still, fact.

‘Ladies,’ I gave my friends an affirmative nod, ‘I can’t freak out over this. I’m going old-school Lopez on this shizz. What would Oprah do? I have a great network of people around me, I just need to put it into action, right?’

‘Very sensible of you,’ Angie replied. ‘What can we do?’

This was my forte. Getting over break-ups. Moving on. Having a plan. I could do this. Gut-wrenching, desperate urge to vomit because the man I loved was engaged. To someone else.

‘You,’ I pointed at her with my fork for emphasis, ‘can get me a date. Seriously, Angie, you’re living with some hot-ass guitar boy and you haven’t even once tried to set me up with any of his friends?’

‘All his friends are arses.’ She managed to make the ‘r’ in arses last for a lifetime. ‘Really, don’t make me do this.’

‘It’s done.’ There was no time for refusals. When I was on a mission, I was on a mission. ‘I want a date by Friday night. Which brings me to you,’ I smiled sweetly. ‘Give me a job. Any job. Seriously, you must have something? Anything.’

While Angela flicked through the contacts in her cell phone, pulling a face at each and every one, Erin looked to the heavens for an answer.

‘OK, there’s something.’ She was making pretty much the same face as Angela. ‘But it’s not styling. I mean, it’s fashion but it’s really events management.’

‘I can manage events.’ I slapped the table so hard, the lid popped off the ketchup pot. ‘For real, I’m awesome at events. I was a concierge, for Christ’s sake, what’s that if it’s not organizing? Tell me everything.’

‘I guess.’ She didn’t look quite convinced. ‘We’re working with this new design house, Boyd & Norrell, and they’ve managed to bag Sadie Nixon as their spokesperson.’

‘The model?’

‘The supermodel,’ Erin corrected. ‘The Victoria’s Secret model, the Maybelline spokeswoman and, if rumour has it right, the world’s biggest asshole.’

‘Nope, I went on a date with that guy last night,’ I reminded her. ‘So she’s a difficult model. They’re all difficult; that’s what happens when all you eat is one packet of Nutrasweet in seven years. What do you need me to do?’

‘I need someone to handle her for the showcase we’re running on Friday.’ She took out her own phone and pulled up an email. ’I’ve just forwarded you the details. You pick her up at the hotel, bring her to the event, make sure she’s there for fittings, feed her, water her, Nutrasweet her, whatever, and make sure she doesn’t do anything crazy until she’s off the clock for the client.’

Now, it seemed like a ‘famous last words’ kind of a situation, but really, how hard could it be? I was great with people and I loved fashion. Hang out with a model all day for money? Yes please. And the more demanding the better – the less time I had to sulk right now, the better.

‘I always need extra hands for events,’ Erin said. ‘But really, it’s no fun. It’s a lot of pressure, a lot of stress, and people are, for the most part, dicks. Including me.’

‘Dude,’ I placed a hand over hers, dodging the rocks. ‘I have seen you at your dickiest and I am not afraid.’

‘Dude,’ she turned her hand over to give mine a squeeze. ‘You have no idea.’

After lunch, Erin took a cab to work and Angela and I took the subway back to Williamsburg. If my days as a slacker were numbered, I wanted to slack as much as humanly possible. And where else to do it but the slacker capital of the world? Angie could try and pass them off as hipsters and artists as much as she liked, but all I could see were two dozen thirty-year-old white boys in too tight jeans, sponging off mommy and daddy. I wondered if any of them were single. Once we were in possession of vomit-inducing ice-cream cones, we took to the bench outside the ice-cream parlour to watch Bedford Avenue’s crazies pass us by.

‘You really all right about the whole Jeff thing?’ Angela asked. “I didn’t know if you were just putting on a brave face for Erin.’

‘She has been known to be less than tolerant about my Jeff issues,’ I acknowledged. ‘But what can I do? I guess maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet?’

She gave me her best sympathetic expression. It was kind of ruined by the chocolate ice cream on her nose, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. ‘Maybe it’s for the best, you know,’ she suggested. ‘You can finally draw a line under it.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ I couldn’t start talking about it here. Because the moment it did actually sink in, there was every chance I’d have a complete emotional meltdown and I was really hoping to keep that between me, a pinot noir and my Vampire Diaries DVD. Ian Somerhalder made the hurt go away.

‘So, names, Facebook profiles, phone numbers. And don’t think anyone’s not good enough. For the first time ever, my standards are officially way low.’

‘Honestly, Jenny, even when after that time you ate all my Ben & Jerry’s, drank every bottle of wine in the house and broke my MacBook searching for gay porn, I wouldn’t have set you up with a single one of Alex’s friends. The ones that show any sign of humanity are already coupled up and the others are either gross, gay or evil.’

‘I’ll take evil,’ I rationalized. ‘Evil might be hot.’

‘You want evil? Is that on your Match.com profile?’ Angie messed with the fraying seams of her purse to avoid making eye contact with the guy who had paused in front of us. Although, if you asked me, wearing tiny Seventies running shirts, a tuxedo shirt and a bow tie meant you wanted to be looked at. I didn’t know how she could live in this crazy neighbourhood.

‘I’m looking for cute and smart and funny and awesome, but that’s kinda hard to come by,’ I replied. ‘But we all know it’s easier to find a man if you have a man. And you know I don’t have a Match.com profile. Too depressing.’

‘So, cute, smart, funny and awesome,’ Angela checked off the qualities on her spare hand. ‘Anything else while I’m taking notes?’

‘Tall would be nice,’ I closed my eyes and conjured up my dream guy. ‘Blond. Tan. Handsome but, you know, like in a goofy way? Maybe he has crooked teeth or something?’

‘But nothing that would push him out of the handsome category?’

‘Oh god no,’ I said, my eyes still closed. ‘I don’t know, maybe he’d be an architect or something. Or a teacher. Something he was passionate about.’

‘Location preferences?’

‘I’m not that picky,’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘But Manhattan would be convenient.’

‘Oh, you know what!’ Angela’s voice was full of delight. ‘Alex has a friend who meets those requirements exactly!’

‘He does?’ I opened my eyes to see her deadpan expression.

‘No. Of course he bloody doesn’t.’

‘Bitch.’

We ate our ice cream in silence for a while, making as much headway as possible before it started to melt. It was super-hot for the time of year but I was fine with it. I could handle a lot more heat than Angie. Between May and September, she pretty much always looked as if she was on the verge of passing out.

‘Have you put the ad on Craigslist for a roommate yet?’ She changed the subject successfully. ‘You can’t afford to keep that apartment on your own. Especially if you’re not working.’

‘Well, Debbie Downer, no, I haven’t.’ Our friend Vanessa had been renting the spare room in the apartment formerly known as ‘our place’, but now it was just me. Cue violins. ‘I was really hoping someone would turn up, like a friend of a friend or something? I’m terrified I’m gonna end up with the Craigslist Killer as a roomie.’

‘I think he was mostly operating out of Long Island,’ Angie reasoned. ‘Although we are relatively close to Grand Central, so the commute wouldn’t be too bad for him.’

‘True.’ She made a good point. ‘I’ve always been so lucky with friends or friends of friends, you know?’

‘Or complete strangers who just arrived in the country?’

No reply necessary. Just a look.

‘Excuse me?’

A heavily accented voice disturbed my death stare. But I didn’t mind. When I turned to see who was so rudely interrupting my non-verbal smackdown my eyes hit one of the hottest guys I had ever seen. At crotch level. Skinny black pants ran into a slim-fit pale denim shirt, the top two buttons unfastened to reveal a tastefully tan chest. A chest that was connected to a neck that was connected to a breathtakingly pretty face. A face shaded with jaw length, silky, silky blond hair.

‘Oh,’ I heard myself say out loud. Angela nudged me hard in the ribs. I dropped my ice cream. The man smiled. I believed all of these actions to be related.

‘Excuse me, I am sorry to interrupt.’ The sun shining through his almost white-blond hair did nothing to persuade me he was in fact not a god. ‘I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation and I had to jump in.’

‘Had to?’ Angela hadn’t got the memo about super-hot guys never being suspicious in any way.

‘Yes.’ He missed her sarcasm, thank god. ‘I just moved to New York from Sweden. I’m a model.’

I turned to smile at Angela with eyes as big as saucers. Happy, happy saucers. ‘He’s a model,’ I repeated.

Regardless, the model went on. ‘My name is Sigge and, so far, I haven’t really met anyone other than the other models in the apartment I’ve been crashing at. But I hear you’re the person to come to for friends when you’re new to the country?’

It wasn’t the best pick-up line ever, but damn it, the boy was only a model and he was working with what he had.

‘Yes, sir.’ If this was my karmic gift for getting my shit together after Angie’s big Jeff announcement, I was fine with it.

‘She’s the best,’ Angela confirmed. ‘New York’s finest tour guide and roommate.’

‘You’re looking for a roommate,’ Sigge nodded. ‘This is what I heard when I was coming out of the nail salon. I am looking for somewhere to live.’

Ahh, maaan. Hopes dashed. Heart broken. Everything falling into place. Dude needed a place to live, not me by his side, forever and ever.

‘Anyway, could I have your number?’ He asked. I tried not to show how badly I wanted to get up and punch karma in the balls. Not cool, karma, not cool at all.

‘Sure.’ Scribbling my cell down on the receipt from the ice-cream place, I handed it over with as much of a smile as I could muster. ‘I’m around Friday if you want to come over then?’

‘Friday is perfect,’ he replied. Seriously, I was so the New York welcome wagon. Except, uh, that didn’t sound ok. ‘And I am so sorry, I did not get your name?’

I closed my eyes and smiled politely. ‘Jenny. Jenny Lopez.’

Awkward pause.

‘Like the pop singer!’ He tucked the number into the back pocket of his pants. ‘She is one of my favourites.’

‘Yeah. She’s great.’

One day, when I was the new hipper, hotter Oprah, I would destroy the producers of American Idol for resurrecting that woman’s career. Doesn’t matter how cute you are if every time you introduce yourself to a guy they immediately compare you to People magazine’s most beautiful person on the planet.

‘I am so glad I got my manicure here today.’ He leaned down to kiss me on both cheeks. Forward, but still, if we were going to be roomies … ‘Friday.’

‘Partyin’ partyin’ yeah,’ I sighed.

As soon as Sigge’s perfect ass had disappeared around the corner, Angela burst out laughing.

‘Oh maaan,’ she said, in between fits of hysteria. ‘You’re really going to move in with a gay male model who cares more about his cuticles than you do?’

‘I care about my cuticles,’ I pouted, reviewing my manicure. ‘And what makes you think he’s gay?’

Aside from the manicure, the fact he’s a male model, a lover of Jennifer Lopez, and that when he walked off down the street every gay man in Williamsburg checked him out?

‘Do I really have to dignify that with a response?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it because he’s really gay?’

‘That’s probably it.’

‘Maybe I could turn him?’

Angela gave me the look. ‘Not even you, gorgeous.’

She eyed my ice-cream casualty on the sidewalk and handed over the remains of her cone.

‘I really did think the universe had come through for you,’ she said. ‘When he said hello, I nearly wet myself. Tall, blond, tanned. Too handsome, obviously, but still. It was like you’d manifested the man.’

‘Cosmic ordering,’ I agreed. ‘Note to self for next time. Must specify, not gay.’

‘It helps,’ she nodded. ‘It helps.’




CHAPTER THREE


I crashed through my apartment door the next morning after my run, and threw myself into the refrigerator. It was hot as balls outside and it wasn’t even nine a.m. Pulling out my earbuds, I dropped my iPhone on the counter and my ass on the couch. I would never be one of those girls who loved to work out – every step was agony for me – but, as my mom liked to remind me, it took the right kind of bait to catch the right kind of fish and there was a whole heap more bait in NYC than there were fish. And so I ran.

My list of chores for the day was unbelievably long and so, instead of even looking at the pile of laundry in the corner, the dishes that needed doing, the cheques that needed mailing, I grabbed my laptop and rested it on my not-quite-as-flat-as-it-could-be belly. Tomorrow I’d run another mile.

Sigge the Sex God was coming over to look at the room on Friday evening, which gave me thirty-six hours to get the place into some sort of viewing order, but if he was coming from a model apartment, populated exclusively by Derek Zoolanders, I was probably OK as is. Just a quick wipe around and a spritz of air freshener, the place would be a palace. But still, I couldn’t rely on him taking the place. Or me wanting to give him the place. The ladyboner part of my brain rejoiced at the idea of a half-naked man-stud wandering around the place, but the potential spinster section was warning me that having the world’s hottest gay in my apartment while my vajayjay remained retired, was not the best idea I’d ever had. I might as well get a cat and some sensible shoes and just accept defeat.

And so to Craigslist.

‘What am I supposed to write?’ I asked the computer. It whirred a little in response but, really, it didn’t have anything helpful to say. It never did. Instead of putting up my ad, I read a couple of others. Everyone had a relaxing, cosy room to rent. Which my bullshit translator read as dark and small. This was too hard. And besides, if I left it long enough, Angie would totally do it for me. She was the writer, after all. I was the do-er. The planner. The action gal. I was much better at browsing the Bergdorf’s website than I was at finding a roommate. Man, Brian Atwood made some nice shoes. I did miss styling. Shopping for free? Amazing. Even if it was shopping for other people.

‘Speaking of shopping for people … ’ I muttered. Online dating. Everyone was doing it, right? It was no big deal? I pulled up OK Cupid, the site I’d heard most of my friends talk about and entered in my search criteria. There was no box for ‘not an asshole’ so I was on my own with that filter. Huh. Just from the photographs, I could tell why they didn’t offer the ‘no asshole’ checkbox. Because every guy on here was a douche. Any second now I was going to come across Brian Williams’s picture.

‘Asshole … ugly … short … ugly and short,’ I said out loud, scrolling through profiles. ‘Short ugly asshole … OK … OK … dumb looking … can’t spell.’

It was like shopping online for guys but with zero quality control. If you wanted designer duds, you went to the Barneys website, not Forever 21. But online dating? There was everything in here, from Prada to Payless. How were you supposed to choose? But still, it was better than doing what actually needed doing …

Twenty minutes later, oprahlopez2011 had a live profile. The photos were cute, my answers to the dumb-ass questions were brief but fun (‘on a Friday night I am mostly … ’ – surely anyone who could answer that without sounding like a total loser wouldn’t be using an online dating site) and now, to wait. Only, waiting wasn’t something I was good at.

‘How hard can this be?’ The computer still didn’t answer. Ass-hat. ‘I just message them and they message me back?’ I really had to get a goldfish or something, just so I had a living entity to direct my banter at.

‘Height, six feet minimum.’ It was time to take destiny into my own hands. Let’s see what this baby had hiding away. ‘Hair, blond. Age, thirty to thirty-seven. No kids, likes kids, athletic build, sign, Aquarius, and income, one hundred thousand dollars minimum.’

Like OK Cupid was going to have anyone who matched these criteria.

Oh. Oh my God. Sweet baby Jesus in the manger.

Suddenly, my dream man appeared on screen. Just one look into his baby blues and I was lost in a fantasy of Hamptons summer houses, candy-striped pinafores and two cute kids, gambolling around the garden. Did kids gambol or was that just lambs? Whatever, it was instant. I was in love.

I had met my future husband. And his name was AJJ78. A brief perusal of his profile suggested he wasn’t a psycho, he had a healthy distaste for the whole online dating thing and he didn’t have any douche-bag flags flying, i.e. he didn’t at any point suggest that Ayn Rand had changed his life. This guy had to be worth a message. Or a wink. Just because the idea of someone winking at me in the street would make me run and hide didn’t mean I couldn’t bust one out here, right? I mean, if it was a valid option? And so, with one very fast, before I regretted it, click of a mouse, it was done. I, Jenny Lopez, had virtually winked at a man.

There was no going back.

A few hours, a short nap and two tacos later, my phone trilled on the kitchen counter.

‘Hey, Erin,’ I tried to keep the sleep out of my voice. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’m calling about tomorrow,’ Erin did not sound even faintly fatigued. Erin sounded all business. ‘I’ve emailed over the call sheet for the event and the number of your driver?’

‘I have a driver?’ This whole gig was sounding better and better.

‘Sadie Nixon has a driver,’ she replied. ‘And you have Sadie Nixon.’

Oh yeah. The demonic supermodel spawn of Satan. Allegedly.

‘And I’m to do what? Pick her up, get her to the show, get her out of the show and ditch her again?’

‘Precisely.’

I really couldn’t see what the big deal was.

‘And just invoice me your day rate when you’re done,’ she said. ‘And any expenses. Sadie doesn’t usually carry cash.’

‘Who does she think she is? The queen?’

‘Pretty much,’ Erin confirmed. ‘Listen, Jenny, I know you can do this, I know you’re not dumb but I cannot, cannot emphasize enough how important it is to me to have this walking clothes hanger in the right place at the right time, do you hear me?’

Jesus, she was more on edge than she’d been at her first wedding. Way more chilled out than at the third, though.

‘I hear ya, chief.’

Yeah, I might have saluted into the mirror.

‘It’s a new client for me and it’s a client I need to keep. They’re not going to stick with me if I lose their top attraction, are they?’

‘Erin, relax,’ I wanted to reassure her, but she was past it. ‘This is important to you, I get it. I won’t fuck it up.’

‘She’s just … ’ Erin searched for the right words. ‘I’ve worked with her before and Jenny, I can’t tell you. She was such a difficult bitch. And that was pre-supermodel Sadie. There’s no way fame and money have made her a better person.’

So, this wasn’t looking quite so appealing all of a sudden. But still, a driver.

‘I worked with tons of tough clients in LA,’ I lied. ‘Honestly, honey, you think it’s easy being a stylist in the carb-free land of the size zero? We’re gonna be just fine. I’ll pick her up, I’ll tell her how great she looks, we’ll do wheatgrass shots, I’ll keep her off the coke and deliver her in one piece.’

‘Don’t joke about the coke.’

‘Keeping her off it or making sure she’s got it?’ I wasn’t sure what the protocol was with supermodels right now. Personally, I didn’t need to pay a hundred bucks for an inflated sense of self-esteem and crashing misery the next day. I could just knock back a couple of dirty martinis and then check Jeff’s Facebook page for the exact same effect, but the models? Sometimes, they expect you to look the other way. And I’d lived with a hooker. I was an expert at looking the other way, even if I didn’t like it.

‘If she even alludes to taking anything stronger than a Red Bull, you stop her,’ Erin ordered. ‘In fact, I don’t even want her on a Red Bull. I don’t want her on anything harder than green tea. You hear me?’

‘Green tea, got it.’

‘On your head be it, Jennifer Lopez.’ Erin resigned herself to her fate. And not a minute too soon, my ‘call waiting’ buzzed in my ear. ‘I’ll see you at the venue tomorrow.’

‘Y’ello,’ I flicked from Erin’s call to the call waiting. ‘Jenny speaking.’

‘Hey, it’s me,’ Angela replied. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Oh, the kitchen’s on fire and my leg is hanging off but apart from that? Sure.’

‘JENNY.’

‘Fine, I burned some toast and cut my leg shaving. But you keep freaking asking.’

‘Whatever.’ Angela sounded just as resigned to her fate as Erin. ‘What are you doing tonight?’

‘It’s three p.m. and I’m about to eat a grilled cheese.’ I looked over at the slightly dubious two-week-old loaf of Wonder Bread on the counter. ‘And I already ate two tacos. I’m going to be a heifer.’

‘Step away from the sandwich, we’re going out.’ Angie didn’t sound nearly as excited as she should. ‘Alex got you a date.’

‘And it’s you?’ I was understandably confused by the ‘we’ part of her last sentence. ‘And he’s OK with that?’

‘It’s not me, you arse. It’s a boy.’

‘What boy?’

‘What happened to you not being picky?’

‘Touché.’

That statement was of course made before I met my online prince charming.

‘Just be at Hotel Delmano at eight.’

Ooh, nice. I liked Hotel Delmano.

‘And don’t wear stupidly high heels, we probably won’t stay there.’

Oh.

‘It’s like fifteen dollars for a cocktail,’ Angela defended herself against my silence. ‘I’m unemployed and dating an impoverished musician.’

‘You’re freelance and he’s loaded,’ I argued. ‘Fine, whatever. I’ll meet you there. This guy’d better be awesome.’

‘He’s a music producer.’ She sounded quite proud of herself. ‘Alex met him while he was doing that soundtrack stuff for James Jacobs’s new movie and they’re apparently best friends now. He’s just moved back to New York from LA, like you. I thought you’d be a good match.’

‘Sounds good,’ I admitted. ‘OK honey, I’ll see you there.’

‘See you later,’ she signed off.

Five hours to make myself fabulous. I flopped back down on the sofa. There was so time for another nap.




CHAPTER FOUR


‘What is this?’ I stood in the bar of Hotel Delmano, Williamsburg’s swankiest, overpriced cocktail jaunt and pointed at the man in the chair next to Angela. ‘Is this supposed to be funny?’

‘You look hot, dollface.’ The guy, who blatantly was not a music producer just flown in from LA, stood up and gave me an offensively big hug. Ah, Axe body spray, Febreze and just a hint of BO. ‘I am so glad you asked me out.’

Angela dropped her head onto her forearms. ‘I’m so fucking sorry.’ She mumbled, face down. ‘He cancelled. This was the best we could do.’

‘This’ was someone I’d had the misfortune of meeting before. ‘This’ was Alex’s bandmate, amateur bass player and professional asshole, Craig. Cute, yes, blond, yes, potentially carrying the herpes virus, absolutely. I couldn’t believe I’d wasted my Robert Rodriguez LBD on this guy. And I couldn’t believe Angela would do this to me.

‘Hey, Jenny, let me get you a drink.’ Angie’s boyfriend, Alex, unfolded himself from his seat, further illustrating Craig’s shortcomings. Alex was skinny, sure, but he pulled it off by having actual biceps and broad shoulders. Craig was a good five or six inches shorter and just an out-and-out runt. How he was so popular with the ladies, I would never know. Hanging out with Alex couldn’t possibly be helping him. I’d never admit it to Angie, but the first night she’d taken me out to vet the dude, I’d nearly tripped over my own tongue. He was so ridiculously super-hot. But he was still on BFF probation with me after dicking her around on vacation in Paris. Long story short, even though she said everything was OK, as the best friend I was still duty-bound to be on his back until he proved himself. Plus he’d stolen my best-ever roomie, and for that I would never really forgive him.

Not knowing what else to do, I took Alex’s empty seat opposite Craig. There was no way I was sitting within touching distance of that guy. Angela gave me her big apologetic eyes and while I was impressed by her make-up application, I still wasn’t impressed by her choice of last-minute date.

‘I don’t know why you look so pissed.’ Craig settled back into his seat, not looking too pleased with proceedings himself. ‘You’re the one who can’t get a date. I’m doing you a favour.’

‘OK, I’m out of here.’ I stood again but Angela placed her hand over mine and gave me the look one more time.

‘Just one drink,’ she said quietly. ‘Craig’s just joking.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘No he isn’t.’

I wasn’t sure which of us answered first.

This was going to be the longest one drink of my life.

‘And then, and then,’ Craig waved his arms around manically, ‘he tripped on his guitar lead and totally face-planted onto the stage. It was awesome. Right, Alex?’

It turned out that if you were to drink three cocktails, real quick, Craig wasn’t nearly such a bad date. Through my gin-flavoured fug, he was funnier than I remembered. Maybe I was just giving him a bad rap. It was Angela that was always telling me what an asshole he was, but it wasn’t as though dating a band boy had gone badly for her. If you overlooked the fact that he was thinner than one of my thighs, he was cute.

‘Yeah, and I dislocated my shoulder and we had to cancel three shows,’ Alex replied. I noticed he and Angie were drinking way slower than Craig and I. Lightweights. ‘It was hilarious.’

‘So tell me about this job tomorrow.’ Angela changed the subject without much subtlety. As was her way. ‘This super-important job that is an epic responsibility and carries one of your best friend’s careers on its shoulders.’

‘It’s nothing.’ I waved her concerns away, almost waving my drink off the table in the process. ‘It’s babysitting. Fancy babysitting.’

‘Babysitting with a hangover is always a good idea,’ she commented, sipping her cocktail. ‘Do you want to get something to eat? We could go over to Café Colette?’

‘No way,’ Craig slammed his beer and banged the empty glass on the counter. ‘Eating’s cheating. Let’s move this party on.’

‘Yeah,’ I pushed myself up to my feet. Maybe I should have had that grilled cheese earlier. Eating might be cheating, but throwing up in the street was not OK. Not even in Williamsburg, As far as I was concerned. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Manhattan Inn?’ he suggested. I was impressed. Yes, the bar was in Greenpoint, but it was also kind of classy for Craig. There was a live jazz pianist and actual candles on the tables despite the risk of hipster-induced arson. ‘I know a guy there.’

‘He knows a guy everywhere,’ Alex replied, nodding to the girl behind the bar for the check. ‘It’s only usually a problem if their girlfriend knows too.’

I was genuinely surprised. After the rocky start, Craig had been a perfect gentleman. He picked up my drinks, held the door open and even asked if he could hold my hand on the way to the next bar. It couldn’t just be booze that was making my head swim. This was sort of sweet. Wandering through McCarren Park, holding hands with a cute boy at twilight was so nice. I’d almost forgotten how nice.

‘You know, I don’t really know all that much about you,’ Craig said, slowing his pace a little to let Angie and Alex get a head start. ‘Like, where are you from, originally I mean?’

‘I grew up upstate.’ I took in the groups of kids sitting on blankets in the park, almost every single one of them with some tiny instrument or other. Oh, Williamsburg. ‘Moved here for college.’

‘They’re still upstate? Still married?’ he asked.

‘Binghamton and yeah, thirty-five years and counting,’ I nodded. ‘My dad runs a construction company up there. My mom runs my dad.’

‘That’s awesome. My parents divorced when I was three. I never really knew my dad.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ I immediately felt guilty for having a functional family. Something that happened more often than I’d like. ‘Did your mom remarry?’

‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘It was just me and her. She’s amazing, you know? Strongest woman I ever met. I owe her everything.’

‘Doesn’t seem like you’ve suffered for the lack of a male role model,’ I smiled and rubbed his arm.

‘You’re funny,’ Craig said, squeezing my hand.

It wasn’t often that I was lost for words, but in this instance I just didn’t know what to say. I mean, sure, I was as funny as the next girl, but it wasn’t something guys often threw into the middle of a conversation. Not when they could be looking at my boobs.

‘Thanks?’

‘You don’t know how to take a compliment, do you?’ He slowed down until we were standing in the middle of the park, all alone.

Now that was not true. I loved compliments. I actively encouraged them at all times. But for some reason, my mouth was glued shut. I could feel myself blushing under Craig’s steady gaze, his half-closed eyes, his slightly too long hair. Even his weird smell was growing on me – less BO, more man-scent. Yeah, I’d had too much to drink.

‘Jenny,’ he said in a low voice, leaning in towards me. ‘Would it be OK if I kissed you?’

‘Yes?’ I squeaked. It came out as a question because I really, really wasn’t sure.

But to a guy, a yes is a yes. Even one with a very clear inflection. I stood on my tiptoes, both my hands in both of his and let him kiss me. Even half wasted, I could tell it was a good kiss. This boy was no amateur; he had laid one on many a ladyface before me. Breaking away, I saw the sun sinking behind the Empire State Building over Craig’s shoulder and sighed happily at my romcom moment.

‘Wow,’ he squeezed my hand and stroked my cheek. ‘That was kind of amazing, Jenny.’

‘Yuh-huh,’ I agreed, squeezing back and breaking his hold. For some reason, the way he kept saying my name was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and not in a ‘sexy times’ way. I just had a feeling that he needed to keep saying it for fear of forgetting who I was. ‘Let’s get to the bar.’

Because another drink was just what I needed.

When we finally caught up with Angie and Alex, they were already at Manhattan Inn and had a booth, drinks, and faces like thunder.

‘Nice walk?’ Angie asked. I nodded silently, slipping into the seat across from her. How could she be mad at me? This whole date was her fault. Wasn’t the fact that we were getting along a good thing?

‘I’ll get you a drink, sweet thing,’ Craig said into my hair, making me shiver. Although, again, not really in a good way.

‘Did you kiss him?’ Angela demanded, the second Craig was out of the room.

‘Oh, wow, I just suddenly really, really need the bathroom.’ Alex leapt out of his seat, rubbing his head awkwardly. ‘Ladies.’

‘Did you kiss him?’ she repeated.

‘Yes … ’ I admitted. ‘But it’s fine. Really. He’s sweet. You always painted him to be such a dick and he’s not. A little practised, maybe, but not a dick.’

‘Let me guess: he asked about your childhood, told you about his parents’ divorce and then told you that you were really smart?’ She stared at me across the table. ‘Classic Craig.’

‘He actually said I was funny.’ I pressed my fingers into my temples. ‘Man, am I so out of practice I don’t know when I’m being played?’

‘I want to say no but signs point to “You think?”’ Angie kicked me under the table. ‘You can get out of this any time. You have work tomorrow, I’m here to back you up and, bloody hell, it’s only Craig. You don’t even need an excuse.’

‘I guess.’ I couldn’t believe it. And I was trying to work out why he’d told me I was ‘funny’ if his standard line was ‘smart’?

Not giving me time to work anything out, Casanova reappeared with two large, garishly coloured cocktails. But it was too late. My buzz was officially killed and the idea of even sipping on that thing made my stomach turn over. I had another date scheduled for that evening and it was with a grilled cheese and my bed. Alone.

‘These are the best, baby,’ Craig’s hand slipped under the table and onto my thigh. I sat up straight, my eyes open wide. Why hadn’t I worn jeans? ‘One taste and you’ll never want anything else.’

‘What’s it called?’ I asked, trying to wriggle backwards into my fixed seat, but instead of loosening his grip, he took it as a come-on and his hand slid closer to something he would never, ever get his dirty paws on.

‘I call it the Craig,’ he crooned into my ear.

Dude, really?

‘You are so freaking hot. I cannot wait to get you home,’ he whispered. ‘If we even make it home. The bathrooms here are—’

‘I need to make a phone call.’ I shoved Craig out of his seat and pushed my way past him, heart beating fast, breath tight and ragged. No way. No way was I being propositioned to get it on in a public restroom on a Thursday night in Brooklyn. Or any night in Brooklyn. Or any public restroom. It had not come to this.

And so, for the second night in one week, I hailed a cab and ditched a date. So glad that this week was looking better than the last one.




CHAPTER FIVE


‘Oh god,’ I groaned when my alarm rang the next morning. ‘Just no.’

Even though I’d only had three drinks the night before, my brain was rattling around inside my skull as if I’d taken it out and freeze-dried it before bed when, in fact, I had actually cleansed, toned and moisturized. Score one for Lopez. Although, I probably lost any points gained due to my intense desire to vomit. Maybe I wouldn’t be running an extra mile that morning. Instead of lacing up my running shoes, I ran a bath, summer time be damned. There were times when only a bath would do.

I was so disappointed in myself. Old Jenny would never have suffered the trials and tribulations I’d endured this week. My gaydar was totally down, my asshole-recognition software was corrupted and I’d got drunk the night before an important job. Clearly I needed a kick up the ass. And a bloody mary. As soon as I was out the bath, skin moisturized, teeth cleaned and flossed, hair tied back in a practical pony, I turned to my wardrobe. If anything had the power to calm me, it was my closet. I’d spent five years in LA working as a stylist, but I’d spent thirty years living as a fashion addict. When I was broke, I would scour the newspapers for sample sales, hunt down every last designer thread in New York’s finest – and shittiest – thrift stores. No semi-precious stone was left unturned. As soon as I had a real job and real pay-check, I stepped up my game. I started saving, I started splurging, I started my collection.

The Union had been an awesome stepping-stone job to make connections. As head concierge, I’d had to meet the needs of a lot of persnickety celebs, and that meant hooking them up with ensembles on demand. Within weeks I had every one of the city’s top PRs, fashion houses and department stores on speed-dial and made it my business for them to love me. It wasn’t just my job that depended on it, it was something way more precious. Employee discount. Thanks to secret online checkout codes and special handshakes used in downtown boutiques, my wardrobe had swelled to mammoth proportions. And it was beautiful. Nothing hurt me more than the condition of Angie’s Marc Jacobs satchel. That thing was archive, totally irreplaceable, but it was a mess. I couldn’t even bear to look at the torn lining. Once, it had been a thing of wonder, but as far as I was concerned, it was approaching sad.

Today’s ensemble needed to be practical, stylish but not too flashy and, above all else, cute. One thing I’d learned working in LA was that no one who was professionally hot wanted to hang around with someone they considered to be gross. You couldn’t be hotter than them, but you had to make some kind of an effort. I settled on skinny black James Jeans pants and a black-and-white striped Rag and Bone tank top with my comfy black YSL Tribute 90 pumps. I was useless in flats. Throwing my Balenciaga motorcycle bag (a well-deserved gift I treated myself to from my old LA roommate’s collection) over my shoulder, I looked myself over in the mirror, gave myself an approving nod and moved over to my dressing table. And so to the make-up.

Sadie’s driver buzzed my cell just as I was walking through a light spritz of Gucci Guilty.

‘I’m coming,’ I said out loud. One more look in the mirror and I was out of the door. The sparkling black town car whisked me through the streets of Manhattan, all the way uptown. Erin was holding her event at The Union but Sadie was staying at The Hudson.

‘First time you’ve worked with Sadie?’ the driver asked me as we rounded the corner of 57th Street.

‘Yep.’ I checked my tasteful make-up in my powder compact and pressed my lips together to refresh my gloss. ‘I hear she’s a handful.’




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