It was a joy to catch up with friends who had nothing to do with media. They had chosen the Scottish-themed St Andrews bar off Times Square. Soho House could wait. Drinking Guinness with her pals Sean, Connor and Cath, who worked in New York selling the sports channels to bars in the city, was much more fun.
‘Whiskey chasers?’ Sean bellowed over the Proclaimers’ ‘I’m Gonna Be’ in the background.
‘Why not?’ Max replied, clapping her hands.
It never failed to amaze Max how her friends’ accents grew more Irish each time she saw them. They had lived here for over a decade but sounded more Irish than most of their friends back home.
‘Ah it’s simple,’ Sean told her, downing his pint and picking up a full one. With dark auburn hair, brown eyes, freckles and a growing beer belly, there was no mistaking Sean’s Celtic roots. ‘I have Irish friends who were born in New York and sound as comically Irish as Brad Pitt in the film Snatch. They work in Irish bars, they have Irish friends and family here. They never talk to Americans.’
Max laughed. ‘You’re joking.’
‘On me maither’s life, Max, it’s the truth.’
‘Anyway, when are you moving out here, girl?’ asked Cath, a curvy size 14 with magnificently full breasts, curly strawberry blonde, shoulder-length hair which fell into pretty wisps around her face, and those blue Irish eyes.
‘Yeah, the place was made for you, and we know all the bars that’ll serve you at any hour,’ Connor piped up. He was just an inch or two taller than Max, with curly brown hair, bright green eyes and the solid frame of a featherweight boxer.
‘Just what I need.’ Max laughed.
She had to admit, she had often thought about moving to New York. She would miss Lucy, her parents, Simon, Suzie and a few other girlfriends, but the change would be wonderful for a couple of years.
She picked up her shot and toasted: ‘To us.’
As the dram hit the back of her throat, Max felt her phone vibrate in her Seven jeans pocket (she’d washed them three times after the Tom Cruise incident and was certain they were now pee-free).
Claire’s number flashed on the screen.
‘I’ll just be a mo – it’s my boss – too noisy in here, better go outside.’ Max walked quickly to the door and answered. ‘Hi, Claire.’
‘Hi, Max, how’s New York?’
‘Wonderful.’ It wasn’t, however, a wonderful sign that her boss was calling her when it was almost 2 a.m. her time. It must be serious.
‘Max, I know you’re on holiday but here’s the thing… I’ve just had a tip that Beyoncé’s throwing a party tonight – some charity do with a guest list that reads like a copy of Who’s Who.’
Max knew what was coming. She happened to know the paper’s New York correspondent was off on honeymoon.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, I’d ask an agency reporter in New York to cover it but you’re much better. If anyone can blag in, you can.’
Flattery. Great. Max knew there was no way out. All she wanted to do was switch off and listen to her friends’ singsong voices in a cosy bar.
‘I’ll send you details of the address. You have your BlackBerry?’
‘I do.’
‘Great. I really appreciate this, Max.’
‘No worries.’
There was no point in telling Claire she had plans. On a Richter scale of care factors, her interest would be zero.
‘Oh Claire, what time does it start?’
‘Nine.’
‘That’s in twenty minutes.’
‘And it’s black tie.’
‘I’m in my jeans – I don’t have time to change.’
‘Sorry? Oh Max, I think the line’s breaking up. Good luck, thanks again.’