Lindsey Kelk 3-Book ‘I Heart’ Collection: I Heart New York, I Heart Hollywood, I Heart Paris. Lindsey Kelk
if you’re not doing anything at the weekend, you could give me a call or something. We could, like, go to a show or something,’ he said, flicking his fringe back the other way. ‘Or you know, if you just want some coffee, I’m usually here.’
I gulped my coffee and broke off the edge of the muffin as Johnny sauntered back behind his counter. Had I just been asked out by a cute boy? Since I’d been engaged, I’d assumed (or hoped) I was giving off an ‘I’m taken’ vibe that put off all reasonable men. There had been the odd sleaze who would have a crack at the end of the night, or the dodgy friend whose best mate had already got off with someone, but I really couldn’t remember the last time an actual honest to God, good-looking man had even attempted to have a go.
‘But you’re not engaged any more, you’re single,’ whispered the increasingly irritating devil on my shoulder, who apparently had not done enough damage in the bank. I drained my coffee quickly and nibbled the other edge of my muffin, my appetite gone. Johnny was serving another customer as I left. He gave me a quick wave, I nodded and smiled back shyly.
Outside it was starting to cool a little at last. I crossed over the road into Union Square Park and sat down on the first bench I passed. For a split second, I couldn’t feel my cash card in my pocket. I fished around the oddly deep back pocket of the implausibly short shorts until I gripped the card, my room key and the roll of cash I’d just withdrawn. People were still streaming out of the subway, looking harassed, hot and tired, while a younger, cooler crowd surged down the steps. I wondered where they were all going when a short, suit-wearing middle-aged man sat down on the bench next to me.
‘Hi,’ he said, sitting at the far end of the bench.
‘Hello,’ I replied, grasping the roll of cash in my hand. He didn’t look like a mugger but I couldn’t be sure, I was in a strange city after all.
‘So, I don’t usually do this kind of thing, but how much for a blow job?’ he asked quietly, talking to my knees.
‘Sorry?’
‘A, ah, a blow job. I have a hundred bucks or so,’ Sweat was beading on his top lip but I didn’t think it was from the heat. ‘I’ve had a hell of a day.’
‘I – I’m not a, not a prostitute,’ I spluttered, unable to move.
‘Oh,’ he stood up quickly, shuffling backwards but still staring at my legs. ‘I’m sorry, I just thought, because the cash and – and … I’m sorry.’
Before I could get up, he had shuffled away, out of the park and down the street. I stared after him. Did I look like a prostitute? Quickly, I shoved everything back in my pockets and ran back across the road and into the safety of the dimly lit hotel lobby.
‘Hey,’ called Jenny from the concierge desk. ‘Where have you been? I called up to see what you wanted for dinner.’
I stopped dead in the middle of the busy lobby and turned to face her. ‘These shorts are going back.’
It took an emergency cup of tea and full packet of Chips Ahoy! cookies on the floor behind the concierge desk, before Jenny could get any sort of sense out of me. Naturally, she managed to find the positive in my being mistaken for a hooker who gives blowjobs in public parks.
‘A hundred dollars is way above average, I’m sure,’ she said, topping up my tea with hot water. I’d already had to demand a mug, no matter how against cute English stereotype, I didn’t want to have to get into the ‘we don’t top it up with hot water, we make more tea’ conversation when I was having absolutely the wrong kind of Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman moment. ‘And more importantly, Starbucks Johnny totally hit on you! You hit one out of the park on your first try, honey!’
‘Do you know him?’ I sniffed, necking the weak, milkless excuse for tea. ‘He was quite cute.’
‘Know him?’ Jenny whistled. ‘Half the girls working in this hotel would like to know him a whole lot better. He’s the reason we all have caffeine addiction. Ask Van next time she’s on the desk. She’s got a four machiatos a day habit because of that boy.’
‘It was just so weird, I don’t think I handled it that well. I don’t think I’ve even got his number still.’
‘He gave you his number?’ she shrieked, scalding me with more unnecessary hot water. ‘Jesus, Angie! What do you need me for? You’re already picking up grade A guys on your second day in the city. I don’t think anyone here got his number.’
And admittedly, that did make me feel quite good. ‘It’s only because I’m English or something, he doesn’t think I’ll call. And I won’t anyway, will I?’
Jenny looked at me for a second and then sat down.‘Why not?’
‘Because I haven’t called anyone in, well actually ever. I’ve literally just had a monumental break-up, I don’t need to start dating right away.’
‘You know what? A couple of dates might be the best thing for you. This is kind of a vacation, right? So let’s find you a vacation fling, a holiday romance.’
‘I don’t know, I mean, isn’t dating really hard?’ I pulled my top down over my knees. ‘I’ve only ever, well, you know, been with Mark. I don’t know if I can do “dating”, like proper going out and dating.’
‘Seriously? And don’t stretch that,’ Jenny asked, pulling my top back off my knees like my mum. ‘If that’s the case honey, we definitely have to get you a couple of dates. You need to realize how much fun it is! A couple of non-pressure, well behaved gentleman-type dates. Just some fun. Nothing big.’
‘Are you sure?’ I certainly wasn’t.
‘Totally,’ she said, easing up off the floor and pulling me up with her. ‘Now, you go upstairs, call down when you know what you want to eat and read this over dinner.’ She handed me a notebook with my name written across the front in big lettering, decorated with glittery star stickers and a huge ‘I Heart NY’ postcard.
‘What’s this?’ I asked. Wasn’t I a little too old for star stickers?
‘It’s for you to write in,’ Jenny explained, opening the notebook to the first page. ‘You said that you didn’t really know what your ambitions were earlier, now I want you to work some out. And make sure you include getting laid. Now upstairs, dinner, ambitions and then sleep.’
She shooed me away and turned to a hotel guest waiting patiently in front of the counter with a megawatt smile. ‘How can I help you, Mr Roberts?’ I heard her purr as I slipped into the lift, my nose already in the notebook.
Name: Easy, Angela Clark.
Age: Twenty-six and six months. More of a wince with that one.
Ambition: To be a published writer.
Next to published writer, I added, ‘To be happy’.
And next to that, ‘Get laid’.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, I woke up feeling I had to meet my new life head on. So what if I’d never done anything impulsive before today? I was now a born again New Yorker and a New New Yorker needed a New Handbag. I’d put together a simple outfit, short shorts, a beautifully cut white shirt and cute little lemon ballet slippers. My make-up and hair might not have been up to Razor/Gina standards but I still looked better than I had in, well, since the last time I’d actually bothered to look in a mirror.
Jenny had been insistent that I travel everywhere by subway until I knew the system as well as the London Underground. I hadn’t had the heart to tell her that even after nearly seven years in London, I could still pretty much only find my way from Waterloo to TopShop Oxford Circus without looking at the map. Cautiously, I slipped down the subway steps, scoping out a Metrocard machine and feeding in my cash. So far, so London. Twenty-four dollars for a one week pass? Not so London. I