by Lindsey Kelk
‘We were just having a nice night in with Sheila and George and your Uncle John and Aunt Maureen came over,’ he explained slowly. ‘And, well, your Aunt Maureen had made some special cakes. For a laugh.’
‘Special cakes?’
‘Yes.’
‘For a laugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dad …’ It took a very long time for me to understand what he was saying. And then just as long again for me to accept it. ‘Were you and Mum doing space cakes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh dear God.’
The desire to go home and nurse my poor old dad to health transformed into a desire to go home and slap my stupid old dad around the head whilst tutting at my mother and shaking my head in disappointment.
When I was seventeen, my mum marched into Gareth Altman’s eighteenth birthday party, saw me standing next to Briony Jones, who was holding an unlit hand-rolled cigarette, and shrieked, ‘Angela Clark, I will not have a drug user in my house!’, then dragged me out by my borrowed Radiohead T-shirt. Which was subsequently thrown out because they were a ‘druggy band’. Explaining this to my then boyfriend was a bit tricky, but we were seventeen and the promise of a hand-job cured all. If only life was still so simple: I’d have a green card by now.
‘So let me get this straight. You’re in hospital because you ate too many space cakes and overdosed on marijuana?’ I just wanted to be clear.
‘I know, I know,’ he giggled. Brilliant. He was still high. ‘You’d think it was the Seventies.’
‘Dad, you know we don’t discuss anything that happened before I was born,’ I reminded him. As far as I was concerned, my parents came into existence in the early Eighties, my mother already pregnant with me and my father just a lovely, middle-aged Ken doll. They didn’t have sex and they certainly didn’t do drugs. He was really killing my champagne buzz. I was not beyond seeing the irony in that. ‘Just get lots of rest and I’ll call you tomorrow. When we will discuss the concept of “Just Say No”.’
‘Your mother wants to say goodnight,’ he said, giving me a huge yawn and ignoring my sanctimonious tone. It was a shame, really, because if I was being honest, I was quite enjoying it. ‘Call tomorrow, love.’
Even though my mum couldn’t see me, I took a moment to put on my best ‘Would you like to explain yourself to me, young lady’ face.
‘So, I’ve got to let your Auntie Sheila know if you’re going to be back for Boxing Day dinner at hers, because she’s buying the beef next week and needs to know.’
I was actually quite impressed at her attempt to get on with business as usual.
‘And obviously she’ll want to know how much weed to score,’ I added. ‘For dessert.’
‘Oh, very funny, Angela.’
‘Or will we be going straight on to the crack, what with it being Christmas?’
‘Angela, are you coming home or not? I’m sick of asking.’
‘I can’t.’ I tried to say it without whining, but it was difficult. ‘The flights are so expensive. Next year, I promise.’
I didn’t feel like explaining that next year I could be back for good. She didn’t deserve a shot of Schadenfreude: she would just love to hear all about my general failure as a human. I hadn’t been entirely honest with my parents about my professional status for the last few months, and by ‘not entirely honest’, I mean I’d been flat-out lying.
‘Oh, Angela Clark, you worry me sick,’ she moaned. ‘All the way out there, no money, spending Christmas on your own.’
‘I’m not on my own,’ I replied. ‘And I’m not broke.’ Only half of that was a lie. Pretty good going for a conversation with my mother.
‘Of course, this boyfriend of yours. When are we going to be meeting him? Is he back from gallivanting around the world without you?’
‘He was on tour, and you’ll meet him when you meet him,’ I said. The sound of Jenny shrieking in the other room reminded me I wasn’t in the middle of a very odd Nineties anti-drug after-school special but actually at a party. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m at Jenny’s – we’re having a Christmas party. Without any drugs.’
There was no way I could know that statement was true.
‘Fine, you go off and have your party and I’ll sit in the hospital with your father. Don’t worry about us.’
I paused and counted to ten before I spoke. ‘He’s not dying, Mother, he’s as high as a kite.’
‘No, it’s fine. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Love to Jenny.’
And she hung up.
I looked out at the busy Manhattan street below me. How was it that my father was in hospital after having an adverse reaction to a vast quantity of an illegal substance of which my mother had also partaken, and yet I was the one being made to feel like the irresponsible teenager? I watched someone come out of Scottie’s diner across the street and my stomach rumbled. Brilliant. I had sympathy munchies.
Only ten minutes in real time had passed since I’d left the room, but that equated to about three hours in party time. There were at least another dozen people squished into the front room, perching on windowsills and poking their heads into the fridge, and no one was where I had left them. Instead of finding my lovely friend, my wonderful boyfriend and his regrettable band mate on the sofa, it was populated by some very drunk male models and the man who swept the lobby every other morning. He seemed to be enjoying the male models. Who knew? The apartment wasn’t big enough for me to lose anyone, so if they weren’t in the front room and they weren’t in the kitchen, that left the bathroom or my old bedroom. Sure enough, while the rest of the flat was overrun with beautiful strangers, my old bedroom was populated with all of my friends. Erin and her husband, Thomas, Vanessa, Sigge, Alex and Jenny were all draped across the bed, laughing like loons. It was a fairly wonderful sight.
‘What did I miss?’ I asked, forcing my way into the throng. Everyone shuffled up and rolled around until we all had our own bit of bed. ‘Why are we in here?’
‘Because I just remembered I hate everyone I invited,’ Jenny said with delight in her eyes. ‘So we’re hiding.’
‘In that case, I propose we go over the road and get some chips – I’m starving,’ I said, resting my head against Alex’s chest and trying not to purr as he ran his hand through my hair. ‘I just talked to my mum and dad. Booze won’t be enough – it’s time to bring out the big guns.’
‘Ooh, I want a chilli dog.’ Jenny kicked me from across the bed. ‘Are they good? Are they coming over?’
‘Dear God no.’ Perish the thought. ‘My dad is in hospital because they went to a party and he got stoned and had a “funny turn”, and my mum is my mum. Apparently weed has absolutely no effect on her whatsoever.’
‘Your parents are awesome,’ Vanessa said to the ceiling.
‘My parents are dickheads,’ I replied.
‘Is he going to be OK?’ Alex asked.
‘He is.’ I was suddenly sober and shattered. There was only one cure.
‘Let’s get you something greasy,’ he said, sliding off the bed and holding out a hand.
‘I love you.’ I let him pull me off the bed. I wanted chips. I wanted chips so badly.
‘Angela?’ Sigge’s tone was innocent. ‘Were your parents at a swingers’ party?’
His question was not.
I turned to Alex with pursed lips and a glare that meant business. ‘I need to be eating right now.’
‘We have to do gifts before we leave.’ Jenny bounced up off the bed, bumping Thomas onto the floor and Erin onto her face. ‘Wait right here.’
‘Presents?’ I looked at Erin and Vanessa, alarmed. ‘We’re doing presents?’
Quite aside from the fact that I hadn’t bought any presents yet, it wasn’t Christmas, and I had very strict rules about opening presents before the twenty-fifth. This was only acceptable if the gift giver was going to be either out of the country or dead by Christmas morning. Clearly Jenny didn’t fall into either of those categories. In theory.
‘Appreciated.’ I mentally took her Marc by Marc Jacobs scarf out from under the tree and put it back on the shelf. And then mentally took it off again and put it back under the tree with my name on it.
Jenny sailed back into the room carrying a small blue chequebook-shaped box wrapped in silver ribbon. Since a chequebook would be a fairly odd gift, I assumed it was something small and wonderful. Possibly shiny. I immediately forgot my rules and snatched it out of her hands. Christmas could do terrible things to a girl’s manners.
‘So, I know you’ve been super-stressed lately,’ Jenny started explaining as I tussled with the tightly tied ribbon. ‘And I was like, what would totally chill Angie out?’
Massage vouchers? A weekend away in the mountains? Lots and lots of drugs? No, that would be from my mum.
‘And I thought about the things that help me when I’m freaking out. The places that make me feel like Jenny again.’
Uh-oh. Pole-dancing lessons? Tickets to Vegas? Lots and lots of drugs?
‘And I came up with this. It’s going to be the shit, doll.’
I wasn’t sure about ‘the shit’, but the fevered look in Jenny’s eyes scared me. Everyone was silent while they watched me give up and rip the ribbon from the box with my teeth, because I’m so classy, and tear into the box.
Meep.
Inside the box was a copy of Gambling for Dummiesand three plane tickets.
‘Vegas, baby!’ Jenny bounced up and down on the bed. ‘Me, you and Erin. Girls’ weekend away, just a total, awesome blow-out. We’re going to go crazy. No over-thinking, no panicking, no worrying. Just fun. It’s exactly what you need.’
‘It is?’
It was?
‘Totally,’ she said, landing on her arse right next to Vanessa’s face. ‘We’ll get drunk, we’ll dance, hang out by the pool, go to the spa. It’ll be awesome. No one needs to get on the pole like you do, honey.’
‘Yeah, Ange,’ Alex contributed. ‘You do need to get on the pole.’
I could have punched him, but I was all Rocky’d out for one week. Instead, I took a spectator’s stance and watched as Vanessa pushed Jenny off the bed and onto the floor, right on her backside. She did have it coming.
‘And when Jenny’s finished trying to kill us all, I have a client opening a store in the Crystals, so there is going to be some intense window shopping going on,’ Erin said. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t let her make you pole dance.’
After a moment of fear had passed, I started to smile. I was more concerned that it wouldn’t be a case of ‘making me’ so much as ‘stopping me’. I’d always wanted to go to Vegas, always. It just sounded so fabulous: all girls in feathered headdresses serving elaborate cocktails to shady blackjack players while Frank Sinatra belted out ‘Strangers in the Night’ on stage. Somewhere, I was semi-aware that these days, Vegas was more Kim Kardashian knocking back jello shots while P. Diddy set his iPod to shuffle in the DJ booth, but still. Surely there was still a good old glamorous time to be had somewhere on the Strip?
‘So.’ I held up the tickets. ‘When do we leave?’
CHAPTER SIX
When Monday rolled around, I was all business. Being the lovely, loyal girlfriend that I was, I waited until midday for Alex to wake up before I callously abandoned him and headed out to Bedford Avenue for a bagel. I wasn’t entirely heartless; I did leave a note.
After I’d woken up, cleaned up and successfully dressed myself, I’d decided today would be the day when I put everything right. So what if my parents were car-key-party-throwing junkies? So what if my visa was about to expire? So what if I hadn’t got a proper job? As long as my dad stayed off the meow meow and out of hospital, I could cope with their extracurriculars. And as for the visa-slash-job drama, I was on top of it. So on top of it that I’d cracked open a brand new notebook, bought a new pen and set up shop in the living room. I was going to work out what made me an extraordinary alien if it killed me. Just as soon as I’d finished writing my Christmas list. And my Christmas shopping list. I looked around my workspace – it was missing something. In fact, it was missing everything. I needed to go out and buy vast quantities of food and some magazines to motivate me. And pad out my wish lists. Nothing incentivized me like the allure of the latest It bag or a massive packet of Haribo.
Joy of joys, the terrible weather had broken and it was a clear, cold, beautiful day in Brooklyn. The hipsters of Williamsburg were still as colourful and ridiculously dressed as ever, swathed in neon scarves, Moon boots and giant furry hats. Their heavy black-framed glasses were a constant. It was reassuring. I dug my hands deep into my pockets, trying not to look into shop windows; each one was more tempting than the last. But I was strong. And, more to the point, hungry. I powered down the uneven sidewalks, past the Music Hall where I’d seen Alex play one time, past The Cove where Alex had seen me sing drunken karaoke lots and lots and lots of times. Oh, memories.
The guy behind the counter of the magazine store sighed as I walked in. I nodded curtly and walked quickly down the aisle to hide behind the Popchips. Every time I came here, I was expecting a ‘this is not a library’ sign to have appeared. Shopkeep enjoyed my work even less than the editors of Spencer Media, but it didn’t matter. I was here on an urgent journalistic mission. Yes, I’d emailed everyone I knew in publishing, but there had to be millions of people I didn’t know, and what better time to get in touch than in this season of goodwill? I had a plan. Now I just needed names. But if I was going to take New York’s magazine world by storm, I was going to have to know the magazines. What a chore – an afternoon poring over fashion mags. My eyes darted around the shelves and my breath caught in my chest. Every single cover looked magical. Dark reds, forest greens, gold and silver everywhere. Covers with foil. Covers with glitter. Ahh, all the underage mothers from MTV’s Teen Momstanding next to each other under the tree. Christmas brought everyone together. While I covetously fingered the current issue of Vogue, my eyes started to stray. Oooh. Wedding magazines.
Checking my blind spot over both shoulders, I grabbed a copy of The Knot: New York. It was heavy. It made my heart pound. I opened up on a random page, landing on a super-cute bride and groom and their Christmas wedding at New York’s Rainbow Rooms. Ohh. The bride wore Romona Keveza, the groom wore YSL, and the rings were from Cartier. Immediately, I started to tailor the details to a more Angela-friendly ceremony. Tiffany bands, for a start. And Alex would probably wear vintage. I’d want something I designed myself. And then threw away only to replace it with something I couldn’t possibly afford at the last minute. And also some Valium, I thought, slamming the magazine shut. It really was weighty. Satisfying. It would definitely cause a very serious injury if hurled at someone.
‘You getting married, miss?’ The man behind the counter suddenly appeared over my shoulder, eyeing my wedding porn.
I replied with a perfectly justified shrill cackle.
‘Me? No.’ And yet for some reason, I was entirely incapable of putting the magazines back. ‘Not right now.’
‘Right.’ He started to back away slowly and hid behind the counter again. Clearly any goodwill I’d earned from my potential betrothed status was ebbing away fast. ‘But you like to read the wedding magazines?’
Who was he, the publishing police? I’d been treating this shop like a library for months and not had a peep out of him, but today was the day he wanted a natter?
‘I’m a journalist, it’s research,’ I announced, dumping all the magazines on the counter. ‘I’m a very important journalist. Extraordinary.’
He was buying it as much as Lawrence the Lawyer.
‘OK.’ He rang up the mags with eyebrows raised. ‘Some ladies, they just like to read the magazines. That’ll be thirty-nine dollars.’
‘Fucking hell.’ I pulled almost every penny I had out of my pocket and handed it over. Clearly I needed to get into the wedding ma
gazine business. Wasn’t Heatlike a quid or something? ‘I mean, thanks.’
‘Thank you.’ He gave me my change and slid my purchases into the slightly seedy brown paper bag in which they belonged. I’d be less embarrassed walking around this neighbourhood with a copy of Juggs.
Deviant mags in hand and head held high, I walked confidently out of the shop. And then practically ran into Bagelsmith, heart pounding, hands sweating, desperate to get another look at that artisan sterling silver favour box. I wanted to see some red hot nuptials.
‘Angela.’ Ronnie the Bagel Boy raised a hand from behind the counter. ‘Usual?’
‘Usual,’ I waved back, hopping straight onto one of the bar stools in the window and pulling out my stash. This was one of my favourite places to sit in the winter. Come summer, I’d be outside the ice-cream store up the street. Spring and autumn saw me sitting beside the East River, watching the ferry sweep back and forth between Brooklyn and Manhattan. But inside Bagelsmith, peering out of its steamy window, was my favourite place when the weather turned against me.
I watched every kind of person walk by while I panted over wedding dresses, chair coverings and place cards. We had models, musicians, delivery men, students, yummy mummies, ancient locals bemoaning the influx of yuppies and hipsters alike. There was always something new, but never anything surprising. Until today. An unmistakeable mop of curly brown hair, clad in a scarlet trench coat, standing across the street, staring directly at me. Jenny. I waved madly in the window while pulling my phone out of my bag to dial in case she was blind. But my excitement at seeing her shifted from a simmer to a boil and I started to panic. Why was she here? Why hadn’t she called first? What was wrong? Her apartment had definitely burned down. After a moment, she waved back and started across the street. I looked down at my magazine. Shit. She could not see this. Panicked, I rammed it into my MJ satchel as fast as the fraying seams would let me.
‘Hey!’ She rushed in, rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’ I gave her a quick hug and moved onto the second stool, bearing the brunt of a filthy look from the Mexican guy now squished into the corner. ‘What are you doing out here? Is everything OK?’