by Lindsey Kelk
‘I won’t hold my breath.’ It was a lie. I was holding my breath while I said it and I would be holding my breath all the way to Nevada.
‘How about a beer for now?’ He clambered over the back of the sofa to avoid my magazine madness. ‘Looks like you’ve been working hard.’
‘Very hard,’ I confirmed, tearing out an article on how to make your own Christmas crackers. ‘Some of us can’t hibernate through winter.’
I turned back to my pile of magazines and waited to be inspired. And waited. And waited.
‘Angela?’
‘Alex?’
Hmm. Was I interested in a feature on transforming your life through fish ownership? Maybe not.
‘What the fuck is this?’
I froze. Tongue sticking out. Sharpie in hand.
‘What the fuck is what?’
Ohhhhhh shiiiiit.
I’d left my handbag on the kitchen top. My handbag full of wedding magazines.
‘This?’
I turned slowly, ready to launch into my ‘they’re research!’ speech, but instead of finding Alex with a fistful of bridal porn and eyes full of fear, all he had in his hand was a white sheet of paper. Oh. The Letter. I really had to stop carrying that around with me.
‘Right.’ I uncrossed my legs and crossed them again. ‘That.’
‘This.’ He waved The Letter at me. Unnecessary, really – I was already very aware of what it said. ‘What the fuck is this?’
‘It’s a letter,’ I replied. ‘From the INS. It’s not a big deal.’
It was quite amazing how I was able to utter those words given my initial reaction to The Letter, but as I said them now, I almost believed them. I was very, very good at deluding myself.
‘Not a big deal? It says here they’re gonna kick you out,’ Alex reread as he yelled. Quite the multitasker, my boyfriend. ‘In a month. In less than a month. That’s your idea of not a big deal?’
‘Well, it has the potential to become a big deal,’ I replied calmly. ‘But it’s going to be fine.’
‘How? How is it going to be fine?’
I couldn’t remember a time I’d seen him this angry. The edge was taken off his rage by the fact that he was still only wearing a T-shirt and boxers, but still, he was not a happy bunny, and that fact was weaving a very unpleasant knot in my stomach.
‘I just have to get another visa,’ I whispered. The louder Alex was, the quieter my voice became.
‘And I’m gonna guess there’s more you haven’t told me about that too?’ He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes off the piece of paper in his hand. Well, it was that or he was just too mad to look at me, and that didn’t make me feel any better. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on, or should I hope some more pieces of paper fall out of your purse when I walk by?’
Fall out my arse. I knew he’d been rooting around in there for sweets. Hopefully, he hadn’t found them. I had a feeling I would want them later.
‘Well, maybe the lawyer wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about me getting a new visa as I might have suggested,’ I said slowly. ‘But it’s not like he said it was impossible. I just need to put together a case. Or get a contract from a UK magazine. And some references. And a portfolio. And some other stuff. But it’s not impossible.’
‘It isn’t? Because it sounds pretty tricky.’
He had a point. When I put it like that, it did sound quite impossible. Or at the very least, a bit difficult.
‘What the fuck, Angela? Why didn’t you tell me about this?’ He was really very mad. This close to naptime, Alex was usually as mild-mannered as a man could be. Between his sleepy demeanour and floppy indie-boy fringe, the most he could manage was crossing the street without getting run over, but right now his eyes were bright and sparky with rage. He looked like he could quite easily go Godzilla on the street.
‘OK, please calm down,’ I said. Stupid. I was waving a metaphorical red rag at the metaphorical bull. ‘I just haven’t had a chance to tell you yet, that’s all. I was going to. Honestly, it’s not going to be a problem.’
‘Bullshit you haven’t had a chance. And how is it not going to be a problem?’ He threw The Letter back into my bag and his hands into the air. ‘How is you getting your ass thrown out of the US not going to be a problem?’
‘This really isn’t helping,’ I pointed out. ‘Shouting at me isn’t going to get us anywhere.’
‘I have to shout because you don’t talk,’ he shot back. ‘I’m not helping? You’re not helping. You not dealing with things like an adult, as usual, isn’t helping. You not telling me shit again. Again, Angela! That’s what’s not helping. Jesus Christ.’
It was everything I could do not to cry. I hated to row, but he was right. I’d brought this entirely on myself.
‘Alex, don’t,’ I sniffed. ‘It’s not like I wasn’t telling you for fun. I really thought I could work it out on my own.’
He opened the fridge calmly, took out a beer, popped the cap and then slammed it shut again. Inside, everything rattled.
‘Because that’s worked out so well for us in the past?’
Ouch.
‘Alex –’ I started, but he just took a deep swig from his bottle and held out a hand to keep me away.
‘I’m going to take a bath.’ He shook his head to shut me up. ‘You didn’t want to talk to me, and I can’t talk to you right now.’
I turned back to my piles and piles of paper, my heart sinking down into the pit of my stomach. Every second that passed made it more and more difficult to try to speak. Instead of saying sorry, I sat with my mouth open, guppy-like, second-guessing myself into silence.
Looking around at the chaos I’d created, my confidence started to ebb away. I wasn’t extraordinary. I wasn’t even really a journalist. I was just a chancer who got lucky and my luck had run out. Also, I was a petulant brat who thought kicking the stack of magazines to the floor would make her feel better. It didn’t, it hurt my knee and gave me a paper cut on my big toe. See, this was why I shouldn’t have moved in with a boy. Jenny would have had at least two inspirational spreadsheets, an action plan and a flip-chart displaying my progress on the go by now. Alex was sulking in the bath with a beer. Admittedly I would much rather have been moping in the tub, but as I had learned, that didn’t get you anywhere in life. Baths were for wallowing like a grumpy hippo, and I did not have time to be a grumpy hippo. I didn’t have time to sit here and fret over Alex’s really quite extreme reaction. And I certainly didn’t have time to keep being distracted by the new YSL bag in Marie Claire. Adopting the tried and tested ‘What Would Jenny Lopez Do’ approach to life, I wiped away a stray tear, banished Alex’s angry words from my memory and opened my notebook to a blank page. And pushed Marie Claireright under the sofa with my foot. I was going to do this. I was going to get my visa. And then I was going to punch Alex in the arm for being such a tit.
I looked at the blank page. It looked right back at me. OK, maybe he wasn’t being a complete tit. He was angry because he was scared I was going to have to leave, right? And not because I had accidentally forgotten to tell him about my getting deported, although I was prepared to accept that might be a possibility. A slight possibility. Well, maybe it was a bit of both. I took the lid off my pen. I looked at my pen. I wondered how people got over writer’s block when all they were trying to write was a list. I pulled Marie Claireback out from under the sofa to inspire me.
Angela’s Action Plan
1. Identify relevant magazines
2. Write proposals
3. Contact editors
4. Write my blog
5. Pray to all known deities
There. That was enough to prove I was serious, wasn’t it? And I could definitely accomplish something within the next four weeks, give or take a weekend in Vegas. But that still didn’t resolve the problem of the angry boyfriend. Naturally, my reaction to our first proper argument was to stay on the sofa, bottom lip out and wait for him to surface, hopefully pretend it had
never happened and let it stew until one of us threw it in the other’s face during a completely unrelated row in seven years’ time. That was the British way, after all. But if I was going to be a big girl, I figured I might as well start acting like one sooner rather than later. First time for everything.
‘Alex?’ I knocked lightly on the bathroom door, knees pulled up under my chin, back against the wall. Better get comfy for this.
No answer. Time to pull out the big guns.
‘Alex, I’m sorry.’
Cue the sound of water sploshing around the bath and a rather loud sigh.
‘Can I come in so I can talk to you, please?’
‘Door’s locked.’
‘You could unlock it?’
‘I’m not getting out of the tub to let you in.’
I was so glad he bothered to clarify his reasons.
‘Fine, I’ll talk out here,’ I started. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the letter. I’m not making excuses – I should have told you right away, but it only came the other day and you’d only just got home. Then we had such a busy weekend and you’ve been so jet-lagged, I didn’t want to stress you out with it. I really did think I could sort it all out. I really do think I can sort it all out. There is a plan, you know.’
‘There’s always a plan,’ he replied. ‘But your plans suck.’
‘They don’t all suck,’ I frowned, trying to come up with a plan that was unsucky. Just because I couldn’t think of one off the top of my head didn’t mean there wasn’t one.
‘Tell me a plan of yours that didn’t involve either violence or leaving the country,’ he retaliated. ‘And every single time you’re in this situation it’s because you don’t talk to people.’
To be fair, he wasn’t wrong. The last eighteen months or so had been heavy on the air travel and slapping people about a bit. First I hit my best friend’s husband with a shoe and ran away to New York because no one had bothered to tell me my ex was a cheating scumbag and I had chosen not to notice. Then I went to LA and accidentally outed a gay actor. Didn’t hit anyone that time but I really had thought quite hard about it. And then there was the trip to Paris where I slapped one girl around the chops, took a train back to England, raided M&S Simply Food and went straight back to Paris to have an out-and-out brawl with another girl live on stage at a festival. That had been a high point. Oh. And my recent Cici-slapping situation. But if ever there was a deserved decking, it was that one. So perhaps my plans hadn’t been terribly well laid out to date, but this time I had a real live actual action plan. And a notebook! How could I fail?
‘I’m talking to you now?’
‘Nice try.’
‘If I promise to discuss all important decisions with you from now on, not leave the country, hit anyone with a shoe, buy any shoes or throw drinks at anyone, will you please open the door so I can come in and talk to you properly?’ I asked.
There was a moment of splishy quiet while he considered my offer.
‘It’s open,’ he said finally. ‘I lied about locking it.’
‘Arsehole,’ I muttered, pushing the door open and crawling along the bathroom floor to lean against the side of the tub. Alex was a picture. Bubbles up to his chin, hair wet through, mardy look on his face and beer in his hand. On the upside, it was impossible to be mad or upset at him. Unfortunately, it was also very hard to make puppy-dog eyes at someone when (a) all you wanted to do was laugh and (b) the recipient of said expression was refusing to look at you.
‘Nice bath?’ I asked, flicking a handful of bubbles into the air.
‘Yes.’ He readjusted his bubble blanket. He had achieved excellent coverage. ‘Thanks.’
‘The beer really makes it very macho.’
‘Screw you.’
‘Charming.’
We sat in a semi-comfortable silence for a moment, Alex drinking his beer, me resting my chin on the side of the bath. I would have let it play out longer but the bathroom floor was not a comfortable place to hang out and his bubbles were disappearing at a rate of knots. I had a feeling I’d struggle to keep up my end of a serious conversation once I could see the goods.
‘Are you really mad at me?’
‘Yes,’ Alex said, pushing his wet hair off his face. ‘I am really mad at you. But I’m sorry I lost my shit. I shouldn’t have shouted. What is it going to take for you to actually start telling me stuff?’
I shrugged and wiped a drop of water from his forehead before it fell into his eye.
‘There’s nothing you don’t know now,’ I said quietly. ‘And I promise this won’t happen again. I’ll tell you everything. You’ll be so sick of hearing about my every thought, you’ll want a mute button for my mouth.’
He took my hand in his, all warm and wet from his bath, and squeezed it tightly.
‘I’m not joking,’ he said, his eyes all serious. ‘I know you’re on this. And I’m pretty sure Jenny’s on this too, right?’
I nodded.
‘And as we all know, Jenny always gets what she wants. But I need to know about these things. It’s important, Angela. How do you think I feel, finding out you could get thrown out of the country and you didn’t even bother to tell me even though all your friends know about it?’
‘Not brilliant?’ I suggested.
‘Not brilliant,’ he confirmed. ‘You’re my girlfriend. We live together. We’re supposed to deal with this stuff together.’
‘I know.’ I was trying not to whine but it was quite hard. ‘I’ve just got used to sorting things out for myself over the last year, and I suppose I’m not good at asking boys for help. And I really didn’t want you to worry.’
‘I’m not boys,’ he reminded me. ‘I’m your boyfriend. I want to help. I want to worry. I worry about you breaking your neck in some dumb pair of shoes, I worry about you choking on a pizza crust because you inhale your food so damn fast, I worry about you dying of exposure because you won’t wear a proper winter coat. At least this would have given me something real to worry about.’
I was quite touched. Mildly offended but mostly touched. And I wanted to tell him I worried about him too, but mostly I worried that some gorgeous, super-cool, super-skinny blonde girl was going to steal him away in the night, and that didn’t have the same sweet sentiment as his concerns, did it? I didn’t need to read Cosmo(again) to know that rabid paranoia and groundless jealousy were not attractive qualities in a girlfriend.
‘Your winter coats make me look like the Michelin Man,’ I said, giving his hand a gentle return squeeze.
‘That’s because it’s minus ten outside, you idiot.’ The frustration in his face broke into a reluctant smile and he stretched over to place a very light kiss on my lips. ‘Now get out so I can take my bath in peace, and go get a job before I kick your ass out of the country.’
‘You girl!’ I snatched the beer bottle out of his hand, jumped up and legged it out of the bathroom. ‘Do you want a candle lighting or something?’
‘We didn’t have any,’ he shouted back as I closed the door to.
Sipping what was left of his warm beer, I gazed at my very professional pile of shit in the living room. I had survived our first proper shouty row; arguing my way to a work visa would be easy. Provided I could survive Vegas.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bright and early on Thursday morning, I kissed Alex goodbye and skipped out of the front door into a shiny black town car, impervious to the bitter cold.
I’d had a great week. After our motivational tiff, I’d put together dozens of proposals for editors all over the place, offering myself up as their eyes and ears on the ground in New York. I was a great choice, I told them. Connected to the city’s cultural underground, Hollywood celebs, totally in the fashionable know and situated smack bang in hipster central. There was no better US correspondent than Angela Clark. So what if I was a bit biased? If you tell yourself something often enough, it starts to sound true, good or bad, and I was genuinely feeling so much better about things. A quic
k call to Lawrence the Lawyer confirmed that the media visa was all but in the bag if I could get a contract with a ‘recognized media outlet’, and what with all the phone hacking scandals, I was pretty sure loads of newspapers and magazines were looking for bright, upstanding young go-getters with their integrity intact. Who were perfectly happy to out celebrities for a living. An honest day’s wage for an honest day’s work. It was probably a plus that I couldn’t work out Twitter, let alone break into Hugh Grant’s voicemail.
Plus things with Alex were great. From the moment he had dragged himself out of the bath on Sunday, he’d been the perfect boyfriend. Winter walks in the park, playing teaboy, suggesting features for my proposals, bringing M&M’s back from Duane Reade unbidden. It was wonderful. My wedding mags were still stashed under the mattress, spines broken, corners folded over, automatically opening at the dirtiest pages (the dresses), but I’d put it out of my head. Yes, I wanted him to put a ring on it. Yes, I wanted to lock it down. But I wanted it done right. I’d been engaged before after all, but that time, when presented with a modest ring on the back of a horse-drawn carriage in Seville, my reaction had been sort of ‘Oh. Yes, I suppose so.’ When I thought about Alex proposing, I actually held my breath. And people needed to breathe, generally speaking. I wanted to share the rest of my life with him. The spectre of deportation had confirmed that for me, but what about Alex? I knew he wanted me with him – he’d said that over and over – but there was no mention of making it official. We shared an apartment. We shared a love of pineapple on pizza. We shared a razor, even though he didn’t know that. But did he want to share the rest of his life with me?
The more I tried not to think about it, the more it plagued me. All I could think about was weddings. A trip around the supermarket turned into a trial for the aisle. Every song on my iPod was a contender for the first dance. Every time Alex reached into his coat pocket, my heart stopped – phone or ring? Phone or ring? Quite often, it was ChapStick. What a girl.