by Lindsey Kelk
‘I love you too,’ Alex said. ‘Goodnight, Angela Clark.’
I was asleep before he finished his sentence.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Even though I had assured Alex I was OK before I went to sleep, when my alarm went off the next morning, I most certainly was not. I was just about to throw the alarm clock through the French doors and straight into the ocean when I remembered why I’d set it in the first place.
Luka Pierce.
I had to call Luka Pierce at Cooper & Bow Publishers with the worst hangover anyone had endured in millennia. Jenny was already gone, her pillow covered in mascara, and a note on the desk informing me that I owed her a new pair of shoes. Couldn’t wait for the memory as to why to come back to me. Forcing myself into the bathroom, I peed, cleaned my teeth, gipping with every brush stroke, and poured myself a huge glass of water from the glass bottle of Evian in my mini fridge. Setting out a pad, a pencil and a stray strip of Advil I’d found in my suitcase, I settled myself down at the desk and prepared to make the call.
It took some people years to find a way into the world of publishing. I’d been emailing agents and exchanging cards with editors for years and never had so much as a LinkedIn request. But just like that, Perry Dickson pulled one string and here I was, calling a publisher who actually wanted to talk to me. If I hadn’t wanted to throw up quite so badly, it would have been a dream come true. I was such an idiot.
‘Luka Pierce.’
‘Hi, Luka, this is Angela Clark,’ I said, taking slow, shallow breaths. ‘I had a message from Perry Dickson asking me to call you.’
‘Angela, right, right.’ The voice on the other end of the phone snapped to attention at the mention of Perry’s name. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Going great, going great.’ I lied. There was no need to overshare during a first chat. ‘How are you?’
‘Great, thanks for asking.’
Small talk, brilliant, loved it, couldn’t get enough.
‘Perry gave me a call to say you were interested in writing a book,’ Luka said. ‘Tell me about it.’
Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck.
‘Um, I’ve been writing for a long time, all my life really,’ I said, catching sight of my face in the mirror. Good job this wasn’t a video call. ‘I’m from England originally. I used to write children’s books when I lived there, then I moved to New York and I’ve been working more on the journalism side of things for the past two years. And blogging, you know, I love to blog.’
I love to blog. Why didn’t I just tell him I’d carried a watermelon?
‘That’s great,’ he replied. ‘And the book you’re working on now?’
The book I was working on now? There was no book.
Perry bloody Dickson.
‘Yes, my book,’ I said, scrambling for a plot to a book that did not exist. Usually I wasn’t too bad at bullshitting my way through important conversations but every door in my brain was bolted shut and, no matter how hard I knocked, none of them would open. ‘Well, it’s fiction, it’s about a woman in New York.’
‘OK.’
‘And she is English,’ I said, wincing at myself in the mirror. Shit shit shit shit shit. ‘And she shows up with nothing, has to start from scratch.’
‘Would I be right in thinking this is kind of autobiographical?’ Luka asked.
I opened up my laptop, blinking at the bright white of the search page, and quickly searched Luka’s name. Publisher of his own imprint at Cooper & Bow, specializing in contemporary fiction.
‘It’s definitely fiction,’ I said quickly. ‘Inspired by true events of recent times. So contemporary fiction.’
Oh yes, how could he resist a pitch like that?
‘Could be interesting,’ he replied. ‘What do you have ready right now?’
‘Right now?’ I stuttered. ‘I’m actually in Hawaii on a press trip, it’s for work. But I could get something over to you for next week?’
‘That works,’ he confirmed. ‘I already took a look at some of your online work and it’s good, I liked it. It’s relatable, it’s funny. But you never really know whether or not someone has a book in them until they write it, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do know what you mean,’ I said, no idea what he was talking about. ‘Thank you so much, Luka.’
‘If Perry thinks you have a book in you, I want to read it,’ he replied. ‘God knows she was right about Michelle Obama.’
‘Right,’ I squeaked.
‘I’ll let you get back to your work trip.’ Even though I couldn’t see him, I could hear the inverted commas he put around his words. ‘And you’ll get your pages to me a week from today. Looking forward to it, Angela, I can’t wait to see what you have to say.’
‘Neither can I,’ I said as he ended the call and left me staring at my laptop. ‘Neither can I.’
Lanai was the most magical place I’d ever been in my entire life. The sky was painted with shades of blue I’d never seen before, the sand felt like baby powder between my toes, the rainforests were Disney movies come to life and every tree, every flower, every plant and every person all looked as though they’d been through an Instagram filter that turned saturation up and misery down. It was an all-consuming, magical paradise that dealt only in joy-inducing fever dreams of bliss.
Which made dealing with the worst hangover of your life even more painful.
‘You’ll feel better if you eat something,’ Louisa insisted as I sat in a makeup chair, resisting the urge to eat her.
At some point while I’d been on the phone with Luka, Jenny and Paige had agreed Monday morning would be the best time for us to take a bunch of photos for my website. Everyone else was doing something on a boat (I wasn’t sure what because I was throwing up when they told me) and we had the estate to ourselves for a couple of hours. I’d begged and pleaded to be let off but they would not have it. Proof, if ever it was needed, that they hated me. Tess, the photographer, and Rachel, the makeup artist, had only arrived that morning and the poor things had their work cut out for them.
‘You need to drink more coconut water,’ Paige replied, art-directing from a lounge chair beside the pool. ‘That always does the trick for me.’
‘Nah, she needs grease. Bacon, egg and cheese, doll,’ Jenny said. ‘I’ll call the kitchens and see what they have.’
‘What I need is to go back to bed, watch seven episodes of Friends with a cup of tea, a can of Pepsi, a glass of water, and quietly cry until my head returns to its normal size,’ I whispered. Even speaking in a normal voice was too much.
‘You can’t go back to bed,’ Lou said, pulling down her sunglasses to give me the full force of her glare as she lounged back on her sun bed. ‘This is our last full day, you have to make the most of it.’
‘The fact you’re not hungover is genuinely offensive,’ I replied, taking short shallow breaths.
‘The fact I’m not hungover is largely due to the fact I didn’t take an unknown pill from an unknown man,’ she said sternly. ‘That doesn’t stop being a real thing just because you’re over thirty.’
‘He isn’t an unknown man,’ I mumbled, flapping my arms up and down against my billowing skirt. ‘He’s … oh god, I’ve forgotten his name.’
‘Kekipi,’ said Jenny, Louisa, Paige, the makeup artist, the photographer and the photographer’s assistant, all at the same time.
‘Angela’s right, he’s not a stranger. I’ve known him for ages.’ Paige peered at me over the top of her tiny sunglasses, her red-lacquered lips puckered up into a tight frown. ‘And I still wouldn’t take anything he offered me.’
The thudding in my head drowned out her words as Rachel, Précis Cosmetics’ head makeup artist, fussed around me.
‘I’m so excited about your book,’ Louisa said. I instantly regretted telling anyone about my phone call with Luka but I’d been worried if I didn’t tell someone I wouldn’t remember it and then I’d be right up a certain creek without a paddle. ‘Any idea what the book is going to be about?’<
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‘No idea,’ I told her, rearing away from a black kohl pencil. ‘Literally, no clue.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Jenny declared, a glass of fresh-pressed orange juice in her hand. ‘You could write a dozen books without even blinking. What I’m curious to know is where this puts you with Perry Dickson and The Mothers of Brooklyn?’
‘When The Mob does you a favour, you usually have to do them one back,’ Louisa said in a grave tone. ‘Although I will admit the only frame of reference I have for this kind of thing is the first two seasons of The Sopranos. It was too tense for me after that.’
‘They’re not the actual Mafia,’ I said. ‘I don’t think they’re going to ask me to bump off Kim Kardashian and chuck her into the East River.’
‘I might,’ Jenny said. ‘So over her.’
‘All I would say is, I know this is very exciting, but you don’t want to take on too much,’ Lou warned, spritzing her shins with not enough sunscreen. ‘You’ve only just started back at work and it’s not that easy to juggle a job and a very demanding baby.’
‘Not to mention Alice,’ added Jenny, holding out her hand for a silent high five from Lou.
Rachel stared at me, a huge palette of different-coloured concealers in her hand.
‘What do they do?’ I asked.
‘Fix this,’ she said, waving a hand in front of my face. ‘Hopefully. I’m a make-up artist not a miracle worker.’
‘Thanks,’ I grumbled. ‘Do we have to do this now? I should be in my room writing.’
‘You can write on the plane,’ Jenny said from underneath her huge parasol. ‘Stop whining and let that woman do her job.’
‘Thank you,’ sighed Rachel, dabbing a brush into a worryingly bright shade of peach cream concealer. ‘She’s worse than my kids.’
I looked down at her with forced surprise.
‘Hungover often, are they?’
‘All toddlers are just tiny drunk adults,’ she replied, tapping the makeup under my eyes. ‘How old is yours again?’
‘Almost eleven months,’ I said, looking upwards. My eyeballs felt like they’d been licked clean by a rabid badger in the night.
Rachel smirked as she took a step back. ‘You’ve still got all that to look forward to then.’
‘Angie, you look amazing,’ Jenny shouted, waving a rapidly melting ice lolly at me. ‘These pictures are gonna be bomb.’
‘You would never know she spent half the night puking in a bin,’ Louisa said in admiration. ‘Well done, Rachel.’
‘I’ll know,’ Jenny muttered darkly as Rachel took a bow. ‘I will always know.’
I couldn’t even begin to guess how many times in my life I’d said, ‘I’m never drinking again’, but for the first time, I thought it might be true. Motherhood was an amazing experience but it also took away as much as it gave; important things like your independence, the ability to wear leather leggings without second-guessing yourself and now my tolerance for alcohol. Not that I’d ever been a heavyweight in the drinking department, but what had happened in my bathroom between four and six a.m. had been like something out of a horror movie. I didn’t know about Bertie Bennett selling Hala Lanai any more. If he had any sense, he’d burn the place down and start from scratch.
‘It’s not that I don’t love the makeup and the dress,’ I said, checking myself in the mirror and finding a much hotter version of myself staring back. Hotter and surprised. ‘But I’m not sure how this ties in with what I’ll be writing. If I saw someone looking like this telling me about her life as a mum, I wouldn’t find her relatable, I’d find her punchable.’
‘You want relatable but you also want aspirational,’ Paige explained, standing behind Tess as she set up for the first shot. ‘For instance, take Jennifer Aniston.’
‘I could totally take Jennifer Aniston,’ Louisa muttered behind her sunglasses. It was then I realized that the reason she wasn’t hungover was because she was still drunk.
‘This will be the first and only time anyone has ever compared me to Jennifer Aniston in my entire life, so please go on,’ I nodded, motioning for her to continue.
‘She’s a megastar,’ Paige went on as we all studiously ignored my friend. ‘She’s absolutely gorgeous and she’s got to be worth millions, hasn’t she?’
‘Probably billions,’ Jenny said. ‘She owns a bunch of real estate, like half of LA.’
‘And she’s still completely relatable,’ she said, adjusting the neckline of the insane gown she’d trussed me up in. ‘Even though she’s Hollywood royalty, I always feel as though we’d get on. Like, if you met her at an airport bar, you’d be sharing a bottle of white wine within fifteen minutes while she solved all your life’s problems. Perfect mix of aspirational and relatable.’
‘And she was married to two of the hottest men I’ve ever seen with my eyes,’ Tess added. ‘Ross wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘Lou, we just came super close to passing the Bechdel test,’ Jenny said sadly. ‘But since we didn’t, I’m all in. Fuck marry kill, Brad, Justin and Ross. Angie, you first.’
Paige beckoned me over and I tottered around the pool in a pair of dangerously high Gianvito Rossi crystal-embellished heels. High heels, designer dresses and swimming pools did not mix.
‘So you want me to be Jennifer Aniston?’ I said, allowing her to fuss around me, feeling like a second-hand Girl’s World.
‘You’ve got it,’ Paige replied, biting her lip as she fluffed up my skirt.
‘Jennifer Aniston, if she lived in Brooklyn and was English and worked for a website for a living?’
‘Spot on.’
‘But who also lounges around next to private swimming pools in Hawaii in a thousand dollars’ worth of dress?’
‘That’s at least ten thousand and you’re going to have to trust me,’ Paige said. ‘Now shut up and smile.’
No matter how awful I felt or how uncertain I was about Paige’s plan, I was still me and, if there was one thing I knew about myself, it was that Angela Clark liked pretty dresses and this, this was a pretty dress. Acres of delicately sequined, powder-blue tulle floated around me as I moved into place. A tight strapless bodice, which somehow put everything back where it once belonged, nipped me in at the waist before flowing out into a long Disney princess dream of a dress. I would have gladly fucked, married and killed Brad, Justin and Ross for this frock if I hadn’t already been wearing it.
‘This is the way forward, AC,’ Paige said, hands on her hips. ‘I know what I’m doing, that’s why I’m the VP of content.’
She was so sure of herself, I almost began to doubt my own feelings. I had to find out what star sign she was. Presumably it was the same as Jenny or Kris Jenner or Donald Trump.
‘You’ve got a lot on your plate, haven’t you?’ she went on. ‘Let me do my job and help you.’
‘So, what now? I just stand around while Tess takes pictures?’ I said, awkwardly slapping the railing of the main pool’s diving board while Paige peered over Tess’s shoulder.
‘Yep. Walk around, try some stuff, do what feels right.’
‘I was quite clear that what feels right is a Friends marathon in bed,’ I mumbled as I attempted to pull myself together. ‘And would also help with some essential What Would Jennifer Aniston Do research.’
‘These look gorgeous, Angela.’ Tess followed me as I tottered around, trying to keep the hem of the dress off the wet floor. ‘Really stunning, Angela.’
‘You’re amazing,’ Paige yelled, as though the louder she shouted the more likely I was to believe it. ‘You’re gorgeous, you’re clever, you’re funny, you’re killing it at everything you do. You’re the Carrie Bradshaw of mums.’
Jenny pushed her aviator sunglasses onto the top of her head, squinting at my creative director.
‘But, like, if we’re being brutally real, wasn’t Carrie Bradshaw a selfish, narcissistic monster who used her friends and abandoned all her ideals for a total asshole who messed her around for ten years?’
‘I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up with the reruns,’ Jenny said, her words tailing off. ‘It’s not a show that has aged super well is all I’m saying.’
‘Jenny,’ I said, making a slashing motion with my hand across my throat. ‘Not everyone is ready for that kind of truth.’
‘Ah,’ Jenny said, picking up her cup of coffee and taking a sip. ‘Next you’ll be telling me she shouldn’t have ended up with Aiden.’
‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,’ Paige said, grabbing her giant iPhone Plus from the little wicker table next to Louisa. ‘AC, I’m going to take some behind-the-scenes video to go on the site. So, you know, just be yourself.’
‘Be yourself’ fell into the same category as ‘try to relax’. Easier said than done.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked, suddenly static.
‘You know, be funny,’ she replied, holding the camera in front of her face. ‘Quirky. Be adorable.’
I frowned, too aware of my arms and legs. The dress felt too tight and my make-up felt too much and I really, really did want to go back to bed.
‘Quirky means you’re weird but you’re cute,’ I said, angling one arm behind my back and the other up over my head, no idea what I was doing. ‘And you’re not allowed to attempt adorable once you have a baby of your own. It was in the secret rule book they gave me when I left the hospital.’
‘I don’t know, just be you,’ Paige shouted back, very close to losing her temper. Interesting. ‘Do Angela stuff.’
‘What’s Angela stuff when it’s at home?’
‘Breaking my husband’s hand at my wedding,’ Louisa suggested.
‘Punching a girl on stage in Paris,’ Jenny added.
‘Losing my daughter in New York on Christmas Eve.’ Louisa again.
‘Falling in the Bellagio fountains,’ Jenny began counting off examples on her fingers. ‘Cancelling your last-minute wedding at an even later minute, attending a black tie gala dressed as someone from Game of Thrones, pole dancing in Las Vegas in an elf costume. You need more?’