by Lindsey Kelk
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, revie
wing 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.