I Heart New York. Lindsey Kelk
looked too formal, too structured and altogether too much like it came from Next to wear with the outfit, so I slipped my room key and cash card into my back pocket and hoped for the best. Sporting a big black pleather handbag with flip-flops and hot pants did seem a bit silly.
Jenny wasn’t on the desk when I passed through reception so I escaped without questioning and, even though it was past seven, the air outside was still balmy and dense. I visited the bank first, struggling for a second with having to put my card in and take it back out again before the buttons would work. Just before I could withdraw some cash, the related accounts link danced in the corner of my eye. The joint account. I pressed the button, just to check. It was looking really, really healthy. Mark and I had always had an agreement that I put in a certain amount each month to cover the mortgage and bills and then he paid them all. From the looks of this, he’d been covering a lot more than half the bills for some time and never mentioned it. For a brief moment, I felt a pang, maybe he wasn’t all bad, he did look after me after all.
And then a devil appeared on my shoulder with a quick reminder of his sweaty, pathetic face. Before I even knew what I’d done, I moved half the cash from the joint account over to my personal account. He was hardly going to miss it, he earned a fortune, and by rights, half of it was allegedly mine. And more importantly, it covered my shopping spree. Result.
Breathing fast and heavy, I withdrew a couple of hundred dollars, not knowing what I’d be doing for the next few days, and dashed into Starbucks with my ill-gotten gains.
‘What can I get you?’ asked the cute assistant. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been flustered and blushing, he was absolutely my crush type. Tall, skinny, floppy brown hair and had the look of a man that new his way around a Stratocaster. The complete opposite of Mark, to be specific. But I was too confused by the coffee menu to take in his messy prettiness.
‘Er, I just want, a, erm,’ this wasn’t me projecting my most confident and beautiful self, as recommended by Jenny, ‘a large coffee?’
‘A regular coffee?’ he asked. ‘Like, a Venti Americano?’
‘Very possibly? And a muffin, blueberry muffin.’
‘Five thirty-five,’ he said, flipping the fringe across his eyes. Now the coffee issue was out of the way, I had a chance to check out just how good-looking he was. And he really was. ‘I’ll bring them over.’
I scooted over to a table for one by the window and tried to relax. Looking at the bank account had actually been even worse than talking to my mum. I felt as if I’d actually taken money out of his wallet. I rested my head on my forearms and breathed deeply. Sod it, he could consider that his Dickhead Tax.
‘Venti Americano and a blueberry muffin.’ Starbucks boy deposited my drink and snack on the table in front of me with a flourish.
‘Thanks,’ I said, suddenly as hungry as Jenny, looking at the giant, berry-studded muffin.
‘So, are you on vacation?’ he asked.
I wasn’t really used to getting into conversations with strangers, let alone fit male ones. Working from home limited my access to the outside world and the people in my local Costa were not chatty. I don’t think they liked me using their place of work as a makeshift office.
‘Sort of, I suppose.’ I didn’t really want to get into the reasons behind my visit to the city with a hot barista. ‘I’m staying here for a while. With a friend.’
‘Cool,’ he nodded. ‘So you’re from England right? I really want to go to London. The music scene there is so cool right now.’
‘I am,’ I nodded back, sipping my bucket of coffee, wishing I’d asked for a decaf and trying to think of something cool to say. ‘It’s really–cool.’
‘Yeah, totally,’ he agreed. ‘If you’re around next month, you should check out my band. We’re playing at the Cake Shop in a couple of weeks.’ He pulled a napkin from under my plate and took a pen out of his pocket. ‘Give me a call and I’ll put you on the guest list. I’m Johnny.’
I took the napkin, turning bright red and not from the sunburn I’d picked up in Battery Park. ‘Thank you,’ I said, tucking it into my pocket and looking hard at my coffee.
‘And, 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