Lindsey Kelk 5-Book ‘I Heart...’ Collection. Lindsey Kelk
easy to be OK, and I think yeah, this might be me, even if I’m a bit of a whiny cow. Tyler makes everything easy in a different way, like, I don’t even need to think because he’s already thought of everything. I don’t have to stress about anything, so I’m just kind of the same person I’ve always been, but with better sex and presents.’
‘And with Alex?’ Jenny asked, signalling the waitress and ordering more or less the whole dessert menu.
‘I really, really like how I feel when I’m with him, but realistically, I don’t know if I could keep it up all the time. It’s bloody hard work being on all the time,’ I said, surprising myself with my answer. ‘But maybe I’m just being lazy. It’s hard work, but it’s amazing. He makes me feel amazing. Bloody hell, you two must be so bored of me.’
They were quick to refute it, but even I was sick of hearing myself whine on. ‘Do you know what? Forget it, I just want to hear about Jeff and Jenny.’
Jenny was quick to pick up the baton. Unfortunately, it was a highly detailed and descriptive account of Jeff’s baton, which made eating a little bit difficult.
‘Did you have to give her an in?’ Erin grinned, ditching her diet and getting stuck into the cheesecake that had joined the ice cream on the table. ‘Honestly, I can’t listen to you two talk about your amazing sex lives any more. I’m over The Rules from right now.’
‘Man, I hadn’t even got started,’ Jenny laughed and pointed at me with her spoon. ‘And you should remember that Jeff and Alex’s bedrooms are only separated by about a foot of interior wall before you start calling me on my performance.’
I blushed, horrified. ‘Really? God, that’s so embarrassing.’
‘Pretty inspirational, actually,’ Jenny grinned, clearly enjoying watching me squirm. ‘I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen to you doll, but I do know you need a good night’s sleep tonight.’
She wasn’t wrong. Once we’d finished up, all three of us headed back to the apartment for a Friends marathon in the hopes of getting some sage advice from the thirty-five-year-old twenty-somethings, and before I knew it, I was out for the count.
Having passed out in a cheesecake coma so early the night before, I woke up at the crack of dawn on Tuesday determined to work out some answers. Erin and Jenny were right, I’d come to New York looking for something, and it hadn’t been men. I headed out early, passing Erin on the sofa bed, Jenny still snoring in her room, so pleased to have found some fellow anti-nine-to-fivers. I’d promised myself I would keep walking until something hit me, so I took the subway as far as I could go and still be in Manhattan and walked back to Battery Park. Seemed like a good place to start. Leaning back over the railing that Jenny had first brought me to, more than a fortnight ago, I reflected on how much life had changed, leaving out the boys. Yes, I had new hair, new clothes (and a fabulous handbag) but (almost) more importantly, I had my confidence. I was doing this, actually living. It didn’t matter that there was a legally imposed schedule, helpfully enforced by US immigration, I had lived more in the last two weeks than I had in the last two years. I gave the Statue of Liberty a thankful smile and headed back north, thinking about all the other things I had to be grateful for. Jenny, despite her mildly schizophrenic Jeff-related issues, was clearly a good person. Erin was a complete sweetheart. And I was actually writing. I was writing my own words for a massive international magazine’s website, not ghostwriting movie novels about mutant hero turtles or style advice for billionaire tweenagers.
Looking up I realized I was heading towards Ground Zero. As I passed through, I could hardly believe that so much life was going on all around this site of utter devastation. Shops, hotels, restaurants, offices, everything. It seemed like such a short time ago that I had watched this place literally collapse on TV, but the entire city had picked up and moved on, healing rapidly around this ugly scar. I almost slapped myself in the street. If everyone here could pick themselves up and dust themselves down, what did I have to be so mopy and introspective about? It was just like Jenny had said, New York wasn’t somewhere you came to find yourself again, it was somewhere you came to become something, someone, new.
In a Starbucks with wireless internet I logged on. My blog was short and to the point. The Adventures of Angela: Moving On From Moving On. Yes, I had a lot of crap to wallow in, and I could feel sorry for myself for the next five years if I wanted, but I also had a lot to be glad about and from here on in, that was what this diary was going to be about. I emailed it to Mary and sat staring out of the window, occasionally catching my reflection when a car parked up or someone paused to look inside. I didn’t look different any more, I just looked like me. One battle won.
‘Hey, excuse me,’ a tall, skinny girl stood at my shoulder, clutching a takeaway coffee cup. ‘Are you that girl from The Look website?’
‘Oh,’ I said, flustered. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
She sat down at my table and beamed, pushing curly red hair away from her lip gloss. ‘I knew it was you, I saw the Marc Jacobs bag. I was just reading your last entry. My friend is like, obsessed with blogs, she forwarded me yours. I’m Rebecca’
‘Oh,’ I repeated. It hadn’t occurred to me that people might recognize me. Eeep. ‘Sorry, I’m Angela. Did you like it? The blog?’
‘Shit, it was hilarious!’ She grinned. ‘It’s like, you’re totally living my life. My boyfriend cheated on me too, he was a complete shit. But your life is way funnier. And I didn’t hook up with two really hot guys, like, days later.’
‘Oh,’ I really didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t looked at the website since it went live, I just couldn’t bear to see that before picture of myself again. ‘It’s not totally like that, I mean, I’m not, you know.’
‘So it’s not real?’ She frowned. ‘You make it up?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘It is real, it’s just a bit weird talking about it. You’re the first person I’ve met who has read it.’ I managed a smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘No worries,’ she smiled again. ‘You’re just a total hero to me. I wish I had got up and done something amazing when I found out about my ex, instead of throwing up for three days and then burning all his stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t have been against burning his stuff. Between you and me, I might have peed in my ex’s toiletry bag. I know, it’s disgusting.’
‘Oh my God,’ she squealed. ‘That’s awesome. I didn’t think British people did shit like that. Are you going to be in the magazine?’
‘I don’t think so.’ This was fun, I was a minor celebrity! ‘It’s just a little online thing. I can’t believe you’ve even seen it.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Haven’t you seen how many hits your page has had? It’s like, thousands.’
‘Really?’ I asked, looking at my laptop. Was she serious?
‘Yeah, like, so many more than the other Look blogs. Yours is so the best thing on that site.’ She stood up, leaving her coffee cup half empty, behind. ‘I’ve got to run back to the office, but it was so cool to meet you. I hope they print the diary, I’m totally going to email them.’
‘Bye, nice to meet you!’ I called after her. The second she was out of the coffee shop, I was back online. There it was, TheLook.com, The Adventures of Angela. And according to the counter, there had indeed been thousands of visitors to the site. Hundreds of thousands. Thousands of people reading about me. It felt out and out weird. And then, when I thought about what I’d written, it felt scary. Forget Alex’s mum, what if my mum read it? And Mark. He had no right to know what I was doing. Who I was doing … The post about my night with Tyler, oh my God. Not good.
While I sat scanning my previous posts, wondering if Mary would let me go back and edit, an email popped up in my inbox from her Look email address.
Angela,