I Heart New York (2 page)

‘Hmm,’ I pecked her on the cheek. ‘I think I’m actually going to go with my first idea.’

Mum shook her head. ‘But where is better than home at a time like this?’

CHAPTER THREE

The plane landed at JFK without a hitch and, while the homeland security guard didn’t seem that interested in my break-up (business or pleasure didn’t seem to cover why I was there), he did let me into the country. Good start. Once I stepped out into the sunshine, everything began to feel real. The cabs were yellow, they were on the wrong side of the road, and my taxi driver even swore a blue streak tossing my bag into the boot of his car. Man alive, it was warm. If women glow, men perspire, and horses sweat, right at that moment, I was one sweaty bloody horse.

‘Where to?’ the driver asked.

‘Erm, a hotel?’ I asked, plugging in my seatbelt as we took off. ‘I need a hotel.’

‘You fuckin’ serious?’ he asked, swerving onto the highway before I could even reply. ‘Which fuckin’ hotel? There are fuckin’ millions of hotels.’

‘Oh, yeah, I–well–I—’ before I could finish my sentence, I started to tear up. ‘I don’t know anywhere. I just sort of got here.’

‘Well, guess what lady?’ the driver yelled back at me, ‘I’m a fuckin’ taxi driver, not tourist information. You want me to fuckin’ drop you here in the middle of Queens or you want to give me the name of a hotel?’

In response, I burst into tears. Witty comeback, thy name is Angela.

‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m dropping you off at the first fuckin’ hotel we pass,’ he muttered, turning the radio all the way up.

Twenty minutes of talk radio later, I was hanging out of the window like a dog in a bandana, and I had
just
about stopped crying when I spotted it.

The New York City skyline. Manhattan. The Empire State Building. The beautiful, beautiful Chrysler Building. The Woolworth Building with its big old churchy steeple. And I fell in love. It hit me so hard that I stopped crying, stopped thinking, stopped breathing. I felt as if I’d been winded. Winding the cab window all the way down, I breathed in the skyscrapers, the giant billboards, the industrial riverside stretches and the sweaty, steamy air. I was in New York. Not at home in London, not at Louisa’s wedding, and nowhere near my filthy, cheating fiancé. And so, for the want of something else to do, as we disappeared down into the midtown tunnel, I burst into tears again.

The first hotel we passed turned out to be the last hotel the cabbie had dropped off at, and it was beautiful. The Union was set just off Union Square Park, with a lobby dimly lit to the point of a power cut, and filled with the overpowering scent of Diptyque candles that smelled like fresh washing on the line. Overstuffed sofas and ancient leather armchairs filled the space, and the reception was picked out in fairylights. Suddenly finding myself in such perfect surroundings, I was very aware of the state of my hair, my dehydrated skin and my rumpled clothes. I really, really did look like complete crap, but this place couldn’t be further from a two-bedroomed terrace in south west London. It was just what I needed.

‘Welcome to The Union,’ said the incredibly beautiful woman behind the counter. ‘My name is Jennifer, how can we help you today?’

‘Hi,’ I said, pulling my handbag high up on my shoulder and kicking my travel bag towards the reception desk. ‘I was wondering if you had a room available?’

She smiled serenely and began clicking away on a keyboard. As she tapped, her glossy spiral curls bounced away behind her. ‘OK, we are a little busy but…I have a junior suite at $800 a night?’ She looked up. My expression apparently suggested that was a little bit out of my price range. ‘Or I have a single at $350. But it only sleeps one.’

‘Oh, OK,’ I fished around in my battered old bag for a credit card and tried not to work out the cost of the room in real money, ‘it’s just me. Well, I just found out my boyfriend was cheating on me and we broke up and I had to leave home and I thought, well, where’s better to get away to than New York? And,’ I paused and looked up. She was still smiling at me, but with a healthy dose of terror in her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. A single would be fine.’

‘And how long would you be staying with us?’ she asked, tapping away again. I guessed she was alerting everyone to the fact that there was a desperate woman checking in. My photo was probably being distributed to the whole staff with a ‘do not engage in conversation’ note.

‘Sorry?’ I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

‘When will you be going home?’ she said slowly.

‘I–I don’t have a home,’ I said, equally slowly. ‘So, I don’t know.’ I was dangerously close to tears and really didn’t want to let them go in the reception of the swankiest hotel I’d ever stepped in. But, wow, I really didn’t have a home.

‘Well, I kinda just wanted to know when you would be checking out, but the room is free for the next week, shall I put you in for seven nights and see where we go from there?’ she suggested. I nodded and handed over my credit card. Jennifer exchanged it for a sexy black room pass key, emblazoned with a silver U. ‘Room 1126 on floor eleven, take the elevator and then turn left. It’s at the end of the corridor.’

I nodded numbly and took the key, tripping over my own bag as I turned.

‘Do you need anything at all, Miss Clark?’ Jennifer asked. I turned and tried to smile, shaking my head.

‘Head check?’ I could only make jokes for so long before I evaporated.

‘Just phone down if you want anything at all,’ I heard her call. Hopefully, she wouldn’t send up a therapist, I had always been warned that Americans didn’t always get sarcasm.

If the room was a single, Mark’s house was a mansion. A huge, white bed dominated the tastefully painted cream bedroom, topped off by a dramatic brown leather headboard. Past the bed, a floor to ceiling window with beautiful views of Union Square Park below. A walk-in wardrobe was tucked away to my left, and to my right was the bathroom. I dropped my travel bag and opened the door. It was beautiful. White tiled walls, black slate floor. The toilet and sink were tucked neatly away against the wall, while the rest of the room was completely taken over by a glass encased bath and shower. Two chrome showerheads jutted out from opposite walls, and a glass shelf held small but perfectly formed designer toiletries. A chrome shelf by the sink groaned under the weight of fluffy towels, and a thick waffle robe hung behind the bathroom door.

I backed back into the bedroom and looked out at the window, but paused before I got there. This was just what I’d been looking for, but between being completely exhausted and suddenly incredibly hungry, I just couldn’t bring myself to look outside and see a strange city. Instead, I headed back into the bathroom, via the well-stocked mini bar, and ran a bath, using the whole bottle of bubbles. Stripping off my clothes, I stepped into the bath, wishing that my brain would stop ticking over for just a second. Using the edge of the bath as a makeshift bar, I mixed a $15 vodka and coke in the toothbrush glass and poured half a packet of $8 peanut butter M&Ms into my mouth. It was less than twenty-four hours since I was in that shower back in the UK, thinking how badly I needed to get away, and here I was. Away.

I lay back and sighed deeply, letting the ends of my hair soak through. Gradually the sigh turned into a whimper, and the whimper became a sob. I was allowed to cry, wasn’t I? I’d been cheated on by my fiancé, deceived by my best friend, and humiliated in front of all my friends and family. Reaching for the M&Ms, I managed to polish them off in one go, washing them down with a large swig of my drink. What was I thinking, coming all the way to New York on my own? I wasn’t being brave, I was being stupid. There was no one here to help me, to talk to me, to watch
Pretty Woman
,
Dirty Dancing
and
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
with me. I should towel off, call my mum and get a plane home. This wasn’t impulsive and exciting, it was immature and cowardly. Just a really, really elaborate version of hiding in my room and getting wasted. I’d made my point, and more or less paid a grand for a bath and a bag of sweets, now it was time to face reality.

Pulling myself out of the bath, I slipped on the robe and padded across the carpet, leaving miserable-looking footprints behind me. I rummaged around in my bag for my phone, half hoping it was old and crappy enough not to work in America. Bugger, five whole bars of reception. I stared at the screen. Three messages. Hmm. Did I really want to do this with only one vodka in me? Forcing myself to stand up, I walked over to the window. If I was just going to turn around and go home, I wanted at least to get my money’s worth out of the view. It really was beautiful, the sun was shining, people were wandering through the park, dashing to the subway, ducking into shops, carrying bags and bags and bags.

How weird would it be if I went home and it was as if nothing had happened? If I’d been confused somehow and it wasn’t what I thought. Or Mark had realized what an idiot he was and did everything he could to win me back. And in years to come, we’d be able to smile ruefully, maybe even laugh, at Mark’s mad moment and the time I ran away to New York for fourteen hours.

‘Angela, it’s your mum, just calling to say I got the hotel to refund the cost of my room since I stayed with you, so that will go back on your credit card.’ Bless my mother for always thinking of the practical things in life. ‘I spoke to Louisa and she was very apologetic–very, oh Annette, I don’t know what to do–well, that young lady should know better, and I spoke to Mark as well. The less said about that right now the better, I think. Anyway, call me when you can and give me your flight details for coming back. Dad’ll come and get you and I’ve made up your room. Call me when you get a chance, I hope you’re having…’ cue slightly awkward pause while my mother looks for the right word. ‘I hope you’re safe. Love you dear.’

‘Angela, it’s Louisa, please call me back? It’s Sunday morning and I know you must be really angry and everything but, well, I’m sorry. And I didn’t know what to do and, oh God, I can’t do this over the phone. I’m such a shit friend.’ Yes, you are, I thought. She sounded gutted, but I really couldn’t have cared less. ‘I spoke to your mum, it was horrible, she hasn’t been that mad with me since I brought you home drunk from that sixth form party at Tim’s house…Oh and Tim’s hand is broken, but he’ll be OK in a couple of weeks. It’s not a serious fracture. Erm, call me?’

I decided she could stew for a while longer.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he started. I pressed my hand against the window and watched the people below. ‘I had to call and say something.’ Even from way up on the eleventh floor I could see people emerging from Starbucks with huge vats of coffee. Coffee would be great right now. Coffee or Sambuca. ‘I’m so sorry for what happened, it was incredibly stupid of me and heartless and, well, just awful.’ There were so many shops around the square. I would definitely feel better if I could go shopping. ‘I should have told you what was happening.’ Even though the aircon was high in the room, I could see how hard the sun was beating down on all the gorgeous people in their tiny shorts and cute T-shirts. ‘Katie and I, well, I should have told you, it’s sort of serious.’ So many people were bustling around. ‘I think we need to have a really sensible chat about the mortgage and everything, I mean, you can’t just vanish, Angela.’ And I could see squirrels darting around in the trees. ‘Your mum said something about you being in New York? I don’t know, well, can you call me? I know I fucked up, but you have to call me, you can’t just hide. I’m not going back to the house, I’ll stay with, well, I won’t go back to the house until we’ve spoken.’ I spotted a subway station peeping out from the trees. Wow, the subway. ‘We have to talk about what’s going to happen. I do love you Angela, but, well, I’m just not in love with you any more. Anyway, call me.’

I rested my forehead against the glass and hung up. So much for him doing anything he could to get me back. Just because this was all a big shock to me, didn’t mean it was a shock to him, more like a relief. Shit. What the hell was I going to do now? I couldn’t stay with my mum for the rest of my life and I couldn’t rely on my friends any more. I couldn’t even throw myself into my work, I was freelance, and it was a really slow time for me. I breathed in deeply and stepped back from the window, keeping the tips of my fingers on the glass as I dialled Mark’s number.

‘Hello?’ His voice.

‘It’s me,’ I said, pressing my fingers harder against the window, against the skyline. ‘I’m sending Mum over for my stuff, she’ll pack it up.’ I traced the tops of the opposite buildings and carried on breathing. ‘I won’t be coming back to the house, so do whatever, just, I’m not coming back.’

‘You’re at your mum’s?’ he said hesitantly.

‘I can’t talk to you,’ I said, looking down on the park and breathing deeply and slowly. ‘And I’m not at my mum’s, I’m in New York and I don’t know when I’m coming back, so go and do whatever you want to do with whoever you want to do it with, and don’t ever, ever call me again.’

I hung up and leaned my entire weight against the window. So, I’d chosen New York, now I needed it to support me in that decision. And to celebrate, I dashed to the bathroom and threw up the vodka and Coke, followed by the peanut M&Ms. Nice.

‘Hi, Miss Clark?’ The door opened, leaving me just enough time to pull my robe tightly around me and push myself up from my comfy fetal position around the toilet bowl. The girl from reception pushed through the door with a trolley. ‘It’s Jennifer, the concierge? Is it OK for me to come in?’

‘Yes,’ I called, checking nothing was flashing in the mirror and staggering across the room to let her in. ‘Of course.’

‘I wasn’t sure that you would have all your essentials,’ she presented the trolley with a flourish. It was stacked with piles of giant cookies, boxes of cereal, a kettle of steaming water, hot milk, cold milk, pancakes, toast and a big box of beauty products. ‘And, you know, you mentioned a break-up and no one should be on their own after a break-up. This is our complimentary “All Men Are Shits” break-up service.’ She picked up a cookie, snapped it in half and grinned.

‘God, thank you, and it’s Angela, please,’ I said, feeling incredibly English. I took the half cookie she offered and stood awkwardly, taking it in. ‘This is wonderful, thank you, I was starving.’