‘Der de, der-der-da, der der der-der-da …’ Charlie answered his phone singing. ‘Tess! You’re in New York!’
‘I am! And in a coffee shop! With coffee!’ I said, shuffling as close to the radiator as it was possible to be without setting my coat on fire. ‘Well spotted.’
‘I can’t believe you went,’ he said, his voice clear as day all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. ‘I really thought you’d find a reason not to.’
‘It wouldn’t have been hard,’ I admitted, peeling off my top layer. I didn’t have pneumonia yet but it was definitely on its way. ‘And if I’d known how bloody cold it was going to be, I would have used any of these excuses. Honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to live through the day.’
Running off to tropical climes was much more my style. It was hard to feel like a powerful, accomplished woman who could achieve anything when you were walking around a city with a steaming paper cup held against your nose, just so you could breathe.
‘But it’s amazing, yeah?’ he asked, ignoring my moaning. He had a gift for that. ‘How’s Amy?’
‘It is and she’s good.’ I pressed the tips of my fingers against the radiator and waited for them to defrost. ‘She had to work today but we’re having dinner together tonight. I passed out as soon as I got here last night, so I’m in trouble.’
‘Amy working while you swan around all fancy free,’ he said, laughing. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘I know,’ I replied, considering our switcharoo once more. ‘Although there hasn’t been so much swanning as cautious tiptoeing. It’s like an ice rink out here – I’ve fallen over twice already.’
And I had the bruises to prove it, I thought, poking myself in the thigh.
‘What have you been up to so far?’ Charlie asked, the sound of the clicking of a keyboard and random radio chatter in the background. It was 1 p.m. in New York, 6 p.m. back in London, and he was still beavering away. I wondered what he was working on, if it was an existing client or a new pitch. ‘What have you seen?’
‘So, I was reading this photography magazine the other day and it mentioned a competition out here – I’m entering that. No big reason, just it’s something to do.’
I wanted to play down just how strongly I felt until I’d made my absolute final decision on taking his job.
‘I’ve mostly been sightseeing and taking photos for that this morning.’
So far since I left Al’s townhouse for the second time, I’d taken more than three hundred photos. I’d seen the Empire State Building, the Chrysler and the Freedom Tower. I’d watched yellow taxis run up and down Park Avenue and hung out with a man with a cat on his head. I’d taken photos of big brown shopping bags, little blue coffee cups and a rat the size of a dog. And not a small dog, at that. But none of them seemed quite right.
‘What’s next on the agenda?’ Charlie asked. ‘Have you bought me a Christmas present yet?’
‘Oh, I meant to put it in the post before I left!’ I said, stifling a yawn. The jetlag combined with more physical activity than I’d seen in weeks had left me wiped out. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I won’t see you at Christmas this year.’
‘I know, mental,’ he replied, yawning right back at me. ‘First year in how long? You can make it up to me at New Year though, OK?’
‘Except I’m going to a wedding in Milan.’ I frowned at the mishmash of sugar packets in the little white bowl in the middle of the table. ‘Unless you want to come to that? I’m sure there’s room for one more.’
‘I can’t even keep up with you these days,’ he said, a light laugh in his voice. ‘No wonder you don’t want to work with me. Who wants to slog away in an office with all this jet-setting you’ve got going on?’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t want to,’ I said quickly. Too quickly. ‘I need a bit more time to think about it. I’m not being difficult, it’s just a big decision.’
‘It wouldn’t have been a year ago,’ he said, sounding somewhat resigned. ‘But I want you to know I’m not just trying to help you out, Tess; this is entirely selfish on my part. You’re the best and I want the best working for me. This isn’t a pity offer.’
‘I know,’ I replied, taking out the sugar packets and stacking them back in the bowl in order: pink, blue, yellow, brown, pink, blue, yellow, brown. ‘Like I said, I just need a bit more time to decide.’
‘Not a problem, but like I said, I already interviewed that bloke so I need to let him know after Christmas,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go. Call me when you’ve had a hot dog.’
‘I’ve already had two,’ I told him. ‘And they were delicious.’
‘Class act, as always,’ he laughed. ‘Miss you.’
Hanging up the phone, I stared at the sugar packets. There were three pink ones left over. Knitting my eyebrows together, I pushed the neatly organized bowl back against the wall before switching on my camera and taking another look at my day’s work.
I was a good photographer. I knew I was. Paige and Al both said I had natural talent and Agent Veronica wouldn’t have taken me on if I wasn’t. Even Ess had grudgingly admitted he didn’t hate all my photos after I strong-armed him into looking at my portfolio. But at the same time, Charlie was right. I might be a good photographer with lots of potential, but I was already a brilliant creative director. And that wasn’t arrogance speaking, it was seven years’ experience, hundreds of campaigns and dozens of awards. If it took me another seven years to get anywhere as a photographer, I’d be thirty-four before I was anywhere while Charlie ran his own advertising agency and Amy took over the world. Why was it so much harder to make these decisions as we got older? I thought, tearing open one of the extra pink packets. Shouldn’t it be easier? The more I did, the less I knew and the older I got, the more afraid I was. It felt as though it should go the other way, to me.
Weird.
Before I could delve any deeper into my existential crises, my phone flashed into life with a text message. It was Delia Spencer.
Hi Tess! Angela and Cici can see you at 2 p.m. They’re in the Spencer Media building, 1757 Seventh Avenue. Ask for Angela’s assistant Candace at reception.
‘Spencer Media Building?’ I muttered
The woman sat beside me with three pieces of pizza piled up on a paper plate looked up as I spoke this last bit aloud.
‘That’s not far from here,’ my neighbour announced. ‘Three blocks. You’re good, honey.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, immediately cheered by the kindness of strangers.
‘No worries,’ she replied, stacking all three slices on top of each other, covering them in chilli flakes and folding them down the middle into one giant pizza sandwich before wedging the entire thing in her mouth. ‘Always happy to help.’
Even if it was disgusting, it was impressive.
I looked at the time on my phone and realized I had less than half an hour until my meeting. At a fashion magazine. In Manhattan. My shoes were stained from the gritty grey slush I’d been walking through all morning, almost every single one of my nails was bitten to bits and my hair was a mess after having been shoved inside my coat all morning. And that was before I even considered the state of my face.
Trying not to panic, I closed my eyes and shut out the sounds of the noisy café. If I was preparing for a meeting in my old job, what would I do? Research the company, reach out to any contacts who had dealt with them before and make sure I had as much information as possible. I wanted to make a good impression on these people. I couldn’t turn up to a fashion mag dressed as a nail-biting, sleeping-bag wearer with dirty feet.
‘Please answer,’ I muttered into my phone, picking it up and dialling the only person I could think of who would consider this as much of an emergency as I did.
‘Tess?’ Paige answered on the second ring. ‘You’re in New York!’
‘Um, yes?’ I replied, slightly surprised. ‘Are you psychic?’
‘Oh, I, no,’ she said, her laugh fluttering down the line. ‘Amy posted. On Facebook.’
‘Of course she did,’ I replied, shaking my head. I started boycotting social media when my sisters began posting photos of their assorted children in various seasonally themed ensembles. ‘But yes, I am and I need your help.’
‘Of course you do,’ she replied simply. ‘What’s going on? Did you pretend to be Vanessa again? Do I need to bail you out of somewhere? Tess! Am I your phone call?’
‘No,’ I sniffed. ‘I haven’t been arrested yet. I came to see Amy for Christmas, all a bit last minute. But the problem right now is that Al’s goddaughter got me a meeting at Gloss magazine.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ she cheered. ‘They’re doing really well. Who are you meeting?’
‘The editor-in-chief and the fashion editor?’ I said. ‘Do you know them?’
I heard Paige suck the air in through her teeth, sharp and slow.
I blanched.
‘That bad?’
‘The editor is supposed to be lovely,’ she said. ‘But I haven’t met her. The fashion editor, not so lovely. I met her at New York fashion week in September. What. A. Bitch. It’s not the same as the UK, they’re far more intense over there. Even more than they are on Belle. I hear it’s all very Miranda Priestly.’
More intense than Paige’s job? Christ on a bike.
‘Reassuring,’ I said, beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered calling in the first place. As if mucky shoes weren’t enough to worry about. ‘I met her twin sister this morning, she was lovely.’
‘Then she must be the nice twin,’ Paige replied. ‘Cecelia is definitely the evil twin. What are you wearing?’
‘Black jeans and a black polo neck,’ I said, peeking inside my unattractive coat. ‘I accidentally dressed as a mime this morning.’
‘No, that’s OK,’ she sounded relieved. ‘Everyone wears black in New York. But you’re going to want to touch up your make-up.’
‘How do you know?’ I asked, peering at my reflection in the screen of my phone. ‘Maybe my make-up is fantastic.’
‘Tess,’ she said. ‘Get real.’
‘You’re always so charming,’ I told her, steeling myself to venture back outside. ‘That’s why I love you.’
‘Thank your lucky stars you aren’t wearing that bloody unicorn T-shirt,’ she warned. ‘Or I’d have called a bomb threat into the office to stop you from going at all. I’m only thinking of you, I want them to love you.’
‘Me too.’ I said, waving at my pizza-eating table neighbour and heading outside. I pushed the coffee shop door open and felt my breath catch in my throat as the wind slapped me in the face. ‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,’ she said. ‘And my legs. And my eyes.’
‘It’s nice to know you have so much confidence in me,’ I told her as I strode out onto the snow-covered street. ‘And really, she can’t be any worse than you.’
‘Oh, Tess,’ Paige laughed. ‘You just wait.’
‘So.’ I blinked, struggling to pull my heavily mascara’d eyes apart. ‘Any questions?’
Cecelia Spencer stared at me across her huge glass desk.
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked, squinting.
‘My face?’ I replied. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘What. Is. Wrong,’ Cici repeated, slower this time. ‘With. Your. Face.’
‘Nothing,’ I replied, pulling out my iPad and opening my portfolio. ‘Why don’t I show you some of my work?’
‘You’re wearing so much make-up,’ she said in a low, confused voice. ‘Like, all of it.’
It was possible that asking Paige for advice hadn’t been my best idea. I’d been pretty pleased with my make-up after a quick go at myself in the café toilets with a kohl pencil and the mascara I found in the bottom of my handbag. With a little smudging and a touch of translucent powder, I’d even convinced myself I looked quite good.
But somewhere between Forty-Second Street and the Spencer Media building, I was caught in an unexpected slushy shower and my smoky eyes and nude lips had bled into what might happen if Alice Cooper, all the members of Kiss and a couple of giant pandas decided to hang out together at a goth night. Of course, I hadn’t seen my reflection until I walked through the mirrored doors of Gloss and by then it was too late. No wonder the lady on reception had looked at me so strangely.
‘It must be the light,’ I replied, skipping through to my photos of Al’s archive dresses while trying to wipe around my eyes with my little finger. ‘Let me show you some of the work I did with Bertie Bennett.’
‘You look like one of those dolls little kids have to practise make-up on,’ she whispered, never taking her cornflower blue eyes off my face. ‘Only with worse hair.’
‘This was actually his wife’s wedding dress,’ I said, clenching every muscle in my body and powering through. The sooner I got to the end of the portfolio, the sooner I could leave, wash my face and kill myself. ‘I shot it at his house in Hawaii and no one had seen it since their wedding back in the sixties. Would you like to see the shoot I did for Gloss UK?’
‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’
The glass door to the office bustled open as a pretty woman with an English accent and an anxious look on her face rushed in, her blonde-brown hair in a messy ponytail and her arms full of papers, printouts and cardboard coffee cups.
‘The exec meeting ran over and I had to grab the pages from the features desk and entertainment are having a crisis and – anyway, that doesn’t matter, does it?’ She dumped everything on the circular table behind me, dusted off her bright blue patterned dress and held out her hand. ‘I’m Angela Clark. You’ve met Cici?’
‘Angela, what’s wrong with her face?’ Cici asked, resting her pointed chin in her hands and resting her elbows on the desk. ‘It’s not just me, right? You can see it, right?’
‘You’ve met Cici.’ Angela nodded, dropping her hands on her hips. She turned to the fashion editor with wide, fierce eyes. ‘Could you do me a massive favour? Candace is out picking up some props for the shoot tomorrow and I’m dying for a coffee.’
‘You can go.’ Ceci pointed at me with a silver nail file. ‘I got this.’
‘I was actually thinking you could go and get coffees for me, you and Tess.’ Angela’s chin lifted as she spoke. ‘If that wouldn’t be too much trouble.’
Cecelia pushed her chair back with something that couldn’t quite be considered a sigh but certainly wasn’t a happy noise. Standing, she smoothed out her jumper and strutted towards the door, in heels so high just looking at them made my ankles hurt.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, her eyes focusing somewhere to the left of my head.
I glanced at Angela who was busy taking Cici’s seat and straightening various papers. I looked around at all the cute, funny things pinned on the walls. Images of Alexander Skarsgård in various states of undress, an empty bag of Monster Munch, a Union Jack and a Christmas card showing Rudolph and his red nose in a very compromising position. Of course this was her office. Cecelia Spencer did not eat Monster Munch.
Cici cleared her throat loudly.
‘Just a coffee. Milk and sugar, thank you,’ I said. ‘Two sugars.’
‘Sugar is terrible for your skin,’ she informed me in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘And, you know, your ass.’
Sucking my stomach in, I slouched down in my chair as she walked out the room.
So far, so astonishingly awful.
‘Sorry again,’ Angela said, pulling out her ponytail and running a hand through her long, straight bob. ‘I know Cici can be a bit prickly.’
‘Not at all, she reminds me of someone I used to live with,’ I replied, the tension in the room fading out as Cici walked away. ‘I’ve never seen identical twins that are so, well, identical.’
‘Thankfully Delia focuses all her cut-throat energy into her career,’ she assured me, swiping on a pink chapstick. ‘Cici’s Mean Girls stage lasted a bit longer but she’s mostly over it now.’
I raised a blackened eyebrow.
‘Oh man, you should have met her before,’ Angela replied. ‘Believe me, this is a million times better than she was a few years ago. Anyway, what can I do for you? Delia said you’re a friend of her godfather or you work for him or something? Sorry, my brain isn’t quite with it today and I’m a bit rushed for time – we were hoping to close the magazine early to get more time off over the holidays so everything’s gone to shit, obviously.’
‘I really appreciate you seeing me,’ I said, happy to pull the meeting back on track. If there was one thing I was good at, it was a PowerPoint presentation. The sooner I could wow her with my portfolio, the better. ‘I shot a feature spread with Bertie Bennett for Gloss UK and then we worked on a book together, a retrospective of his work.’
‘That’s cool.’ She looked impressed and I felt proud. Two emotions I had missed over the last few weeks. ‘How long have you been working as a photographer?’
‘Not that long, if I’m honest,’ I said, hesitant. ‘I’m only just starting out, really.’
Angela smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears.
‘Still struggling to say it?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘It feels weird. I’m a photographer … I’m not entirely sure I believe it.’
‘What were you doing before this?’ She grabbed a handful of red and green M&Ms from a bowl on her desk before pushing them towards me. I took them gladly, popping a couple in my mouth before I could worry what the sugar was going to do to my skin. Or my arse.
‘I was in advertising,’ I told her, noticing the beautiful emerald ring on her wedding finger. Fancy. ‘I was a creative director at an agency in London.’
Angela began twisting the emerald around her finger. ‘Bit of a drastic change there. What made you swap careers?’
‘I was made redundant,’ I said, not sure whether or not I should be telling her everything. ‘And I always enjoyed taking photos so I thought I might as well give it a shot. No pun intended.’
I handed her my iPad and watched her eyes flick back and forth over my photos. I noticed that she smiled a lot more than Ess had when he was looking at them but she was still very quiet.
I looked around her office while she looked at my photos, my eyes automatically drawn to a bunch of silver-framed photos of Angela and various people on top of her bright red filing cabinet. In one, she was posing with a blonde woman and a baby outside a church; in another she was laughing hard and clinging to an improbably beautiful woman, who had the hair my hair dreamed about. The same woman cropped up in two or three others; some of the backgrounds I recognized, lots I didn’t. Angela looked so happy in every picture.
‘Was that really it? You got made redundant?’ Angela asked, looking up from my photos. ‘And that was enough to make you change your entire life?’
‘I did get made redundant,’ I admitted, weaving my fingers in and out the ends of my hair. I couldn’t see any good in not telling her the truth. ‘But then I sort of shagged my friend, found out he’d been shagging my god-awful flatmate and I went a bit mental.’
‘Fair,’ she said with an accepting shrug. ‘Happens to the best of us.’
‘Not finished,’ I said, wincing. ‘Then I stole her identity, her camera and her job, went to Hawaii to shoot Al – I mean, Bertie Bennett – for Gloss, met another bloke – and that ended horribly – then went to Milan to shoot the book with Al and well, now I’m here. So, basically I was completely sorted with what I was doing with my life and now I haven’t got a clue. Except I really, really want to make it work as a photographer.’
‘Classic,’ Angela said. ‘I knew there was more to it. Sorry, it’s the journo in me, I can’t resist a good story.’
‘How did you end up here?’ I asked, staring at the New York skyline that stretched out behind her, wondering how she ever got anything done. ‘What made you move to New York?’
‘My boyfriend was shagging another woman in the car at my best friend’s wedding and I accidentally broke the groom’s hand,’ she said in the most disarmingly offhand manner. ‘I came over here to get away for a bit. That was, what, six years ago?’
‘You’re my hero,’ I said.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said, taking another look at my iPad and handing it back to me. ‘I am so glad Delia sent you over.’
‘Me too,’ I said with an unexpected bubble of laughter. I felt my entire body relax as Angela retied her ponytail and sat back in her spinny chair. ‘It’s ridiculous.’
‘I’m the worst person on earth to give someone life advice,’ Angela said, running a finger underneath her eyes to wipe away mascara smudges that didn’t exist. I did the same and came away with hands that looked like I’d been down a coal mine. ‘But I have dealt with more than one curveball, I know how hard it can be when things start going off track.’
‘Really?’ I replied, looking at a gorgeous black-and-white wedding photo over her left shoulder. If the man in the picture had given her that ring on her finger, she officially had no grounds for complaint, ever, about anything.
‘Things are good now.’ She waved her hands around her office. ‘But trust me, that was not always the case. I turned up here with nothing but a very unflattering bridesmaid dress, a pair of Louboutins and a credit card I’ve literally just finished paying off. As in last week.’
‘What happened to the Louboutins?’ I knew Paige would ask me later so it only made good sense to find out now.
‘They were blown up in a controlled explosion at Charles de Gaulle airport,’ she replied. ‘Honestly, don’t ask, it’s not worth it. My point is: if I can get it sort of kind of almost together, anyone can. Really.’
‘I’m going to have to trust you on that,’ I said, nodding towards the window. ‘But it’s amazing that you’ve done all this in six years.’
‘A lot of people will tell you it’s not what you know, but who you know,’ she said. ‘But I’m a big believer in right place, right time and making the most of opportunities when they’re given to you. I could have turned down the blog I was offered and gone back to England but I didn’t. I knew staying would be harder than leaving and I had to put a lot of trust in people I didn’t know that well, not to mention myself. I didn’t know if I could do it but I did. Or rather, I am. It’s a work in progress.’
I smiled before a massive chunk of mascara fell into my eye, causing tears to start pouring down my cheek.
‘Do you want a tissue or something?’ Angela asked as I scrubbed at my face with the cuff of my jumper. ‘Or a wipe? Or a sandblaster?’
‘I don’t normally wear a lot of a make-up,’ I explained, happily accepting the packet of make-up remover wipes she produced from her desk drawer. ‘I just thought, you know, Gloss is a fashion magazine and I’m supposed to be a fashion photographer so I ought to make an effort. This is what happens when I try.’
‘Or when you stop trying to be yourself,’ Angela corrected. ‘I hate to be rude, but I’ve got a bitch of an afternoon in front of me and I think I’m going to have to kick you out.’
‘Oh, of course,’ I said, jumping to my feet. ‘Is there any chance I could grab five minutes with your art director or whoever books the photographers? I don’t want to be a pain, I just really need some advice.’
‘Honestly,’ she sucked the air in through her teeth as she stood, ‘this is the worst day. That would be the art director and she’s already in LA to run a shoot that I just had to kill because the actress she was supposed to be working with has checked into rehab. I’m sure you’ll be able to read all about it on the internet.’
‘Ooh.’ I felt terrible for her but, more importantly, I really wanted to know who the actress was.
‘So yeah, today isn’t the best. I’ve got until tomorrow morning to come up with a brand-new story that we can pull off on practically zero budget to fill six pages of our New Year’s Eve issue that we have to close in two days unless we all want to be working on the weekend, which just so happens to be Christmas, and between you and me, I’m more than a bit hungover. I thought we were all but done with this issue and everyone out there hates me right now.’
‘Well, if you need a photographer, I’m available,’ I quipped, carefully sheathing my iPad. ‘And will work for wine.’
‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she warned. ‘If I can’t get hold of anyone else in the next hour, I might well take you up on it.’
‘No, really?’ I dropped my bag back on my chair. ‘I would love to do it. If you really don’t have anyone, I have my camera and my laptop and I’ve shot for Gloss UK before. I know I’m just starting out but I wouldn’t let you down.’
Angela looked up at me and gnawed on her thumbnail.
‘I don’t know if it’s that easy,’ she replied. ‘We’re pulling something together with really experienced models and I wouldn’t want you to feel like you were out of your depth. It wouldn’t be fair on you and I won’t have time to reshoot.’
‘All the better that they have experience,’ I argued. How could I convince her? This was my chance; I knew it. ‘That makes everything easier for me. I’ve worked with models and I’ve worked with non-models. Angela, I’m really good. Please give me a chance to prove it.’
‘I just don’t know,’ she said reluctantly. ‘It’s not that I don’t believe you …’
‘I’ll do it for free,’ I blurted out. ‘That’ll help costs, won’t it?’
‘It would,’ she admitted. ‘But we would pay you, it wouldn’t be right otherwise.’
‘But you could pay me a lot less than anyone else available at such short notice, couldn’t you?’ I added. ‘Tell me about the shoot.’
‘It’s a “New Year’s Eve in New York” article,’ she said, sitting down slowly and looking at her computer as I swiped my iPad back into life. ‘I’ve called in a couple of favours with a couple of friends so it’ll be Sadie Nixon and James Jacobs, celebrating on the town and then telling us their New Year’s resolutions.’
‘Brilliant, I love both of them.’ No, I didn’t have a clue who either of those people were. ‘And that sounds like so much fun. Look, here’s one of the shots I did for Gloss that was a party scene. And we pulled all this together so quickly, adverse weather conditions in Hawaii, if you can believe it. Angela, I promise I can do this. I won’t let you down.’
I felt such a fire in my eyes, I was worried I might turn into Superman and burn the place to the ground. Angela looked back at me, not nearly as certain as I felt.
‘I am a really great photographer,’ I said, my voice so certain I barely recognized it, even though I was shaking from head to toe. ‘And I will not let you down if you give me this chance.’
‘It’s a huge job,’ she said, giving me a level stare. I realized she hadn’t made it to editor-in-chief of a magazine in New York by being all charming and English. ‘You’re putting a lot on yourself and you’re asking a lot from me.’
‘Right place, right time,’ I reminded her, my spine turning to steel as I kept my chin up high. ‘I can do it.’
She didn’t say anything, just stared at her computer and up at my iPad and then down at her desk. After a huge sigh, she turned her eyes back towards me.
‘If this turns out to be a complete disaster, we’re both buggered,’ she said, sighing as she began to type. ‘But you’re on.’
‘What?’ I felt my knees wobble as she spoke and everything inside me melted. ‘You really want me to do it?’
‘You’re not bottling out on me now, are you?’ She looked up, her eyes flashing with concern. ‘Because this is a now-or-never situation.’
‘No, I’m in,’ I said quickly, throwing up my arms and jumping back into my seat. ‘I’m definitely in. I definitely want to do it.’
‘It’s a pretty straightforward concept,’ Angela said, her forehead still creased with a lack of conviction. ‘And James and Sadie are total pros so they shouldn’t give you too much trouble.’
‘It’ll be perfect,’ I promised as Cici reappeared, hurling herself at Angela’s office door with three paper coffee cups in her hands. ‘Just give me the brief and I’ll do the rest.’
‘What’s going on?’ Cici asked, dumping the coffees on the desk with as much care and grace as a baby elephant. Streams of steamed milk trickled underneath the edge of the lids and pooled around the bottom of the cups, making a mess on the glass desk. I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from reaching over to wipe it up with the sleeve of my jumper.
‘Tess is going to shoot Sadie and James tomorrow,’ Angela explained. ‘She’s a lifesaver.’
From the look on Cici’s face, I had to assume she did not agree.
‘Angela, I know it’s Christmas,’ she replied without taking her eyes off me. ‘And it’s a time for charity and all, but do you really think this is a good idea? Can we really not find a professional?’
If we hadn’t been on the millionth floor of a skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan, I would have dug a hole in the ground, crawled into it and tried my very hardest to die. All the fight and fire I’d felt while convincing Angela to take a chance on me melted away in front of this very mean girl.
‘Cici.’ Angela spoke with a warning in her voice and her fashion editor rolled her eyes in response. ‘Don’t.’
Taking my cue to leave, I stood up, pleased to see I was at least more or less the same height as Cici Spencer, even if I was not the same size. The woman was a twig. How could legs that skinny support hair that big?
‘Oh, look,’ Angela pointed at the two of us. ‘You’re wearing the same outfit. How cute is that?’
I looked down at my skinny black jeans and Topshop polo neck then over at Cici’s black leather leggings and cashmere sweater.
‘We’re really not,’ we said at the exact same time.
At least we agreed on one thing.
After an intense fifteen minutes spent washing off the rest of my eyeliner situation in the very fancy Spencer Media bathrooms, I jumped in the lift back down to the lobby, feeling considerably happier than I had on my way up. Cici Spencer aside, that had to rank as one of the best hours of my life. Right next to arriving in Hawaii, eating in Hawaii, and the time Amy and I met Justin Timberlake. Right before the police took Amy away. I had a job! I didn’t know exactly what it was but I had an actual job, taking actual photos.
Maybe I’d be able to take something for the competition, I pondered, fishing around in my pocket for my phone so I could let Charlie and Amy know right away. Or maybe my pictures would be so good, Gloss US would want to hire me again and I could stay in New York forever. I could spend some proper time with Amy and then my Charlie decision would be made for me. I could only imagine the looks on the faces of the girls we’d gone to school with. Amy Smith and Tess Brookes, living in New York, working in fashion and definitely not being lesbians. Everything they’d been saying about us since year ten proved entirely wrong. We weren’t gay and we were cool, so there.
Bouncing out of the lift, I tapped out a text to Amy before gleefully wrapping the ten-dollar scarf I’d bought from a charming man on the street all the way around my head until only my eyes were visible. It had taken me almost an entire day but I finally had this New York winter ensemble down. Hood up, scarf on, sunglasses at the ready and not an inch of bare skin showing. I looked like an absurdly cheerful Ray-Ban-wearing mummy and all I wanted to do was get back to Al’s townhouse and prep for the shoot. Because I had a shoot to prep for. I was in New York and I had a shoot to prep for and I was deliriously happy.
Until I saw him.
Nick Miller was standing in the lobby of Spencer Media.
I didn’t believe it at first. I’d been dreaming about his face for so long, I’d almost forgotten what it looked like in real life; part of me had even worried that I wouldn’t recognize him but there was no such luck. There he was, wearing no more protection from the bitter cold than a pair of jeans, leather jacket, and a tired expression, and it was all too much. In one heartbeat I went from freezing cold and full of joy to a burning bundle of shredded nerves. Biting off my gloves, I tore at my scarf, at my sunglasses, all the noise of New York getting louder and louder inside my head, my heart thudding and drowning out everything else. In the middle of the city, surrounded by constant car horns, shouting, banging, screaming and laughing, skyscrapers and snow and millions and millions of people, there was only me and only him and he hadn’t even seen me.
With one hand still caught up in my scarf and my sunglasses in my mouth, I felt every part of me just stop. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, my arms were stuck at odd angles and every muscle in my body contracted. It was one hundred and forty days since I had seen him. His hair was one hundred and forty days longer; there was one hundred and forty days’ more grey mixed into the blond. One hundred and forty days since I had kissed his chapped lips and held the hand that was pulling a travel card out of his back pocket and replacing it with his phone. One hundred and forty days since I had told him that I loved him and he had run away.
Without breaking stride, Nick sighed, turned the collar of his jacket up against the wind, walked out of the building and into the snow, as though I wasn’t even there. But now that I’d seen him, even with the thrill of my new job echoing in my ears, even here in the middle of Times Square, in the overwhelming heart of the city, there was nothing and no-one else for me in the whole world.
If I was certain of only one thing in this world, it was that private detective was not amongst my future career plans. I had chased Nick out into the street without a second thought. As soon as I laid eyes on him, it all came flooding back, all the reasons why I loved him, all the reasons why I hadn’t been able to let him go and I followed blindly as though there were an invisible string pulling me along. Tailing him through the crowds, I had no idea what I was going to say to him when I finally caught up with him and so, I didn’t catch up with him. I stayed a few feet behind, my eyes trained on the back of his head, dodging people as he strode confidently through streets he knew like the back of his hand. He hopped on and off the edge of the pavement, turned tightly around corners and spun himself this way and that, avoiding the tourists with their ever-present mobile phones and the Christmas shoppers, wielding their weaponized shopping bags. I bumped against everyone I passed, scraping my legs on Big Brown Bags, tripping over toddlers and skidding on patches of black ice in my attempt to catch up.
Eventually, he stopped and I paused, ten feet away, trying to catch my breath. I really had to start working out. Perhaps I should join a gym in January then stop going in March, like everyone else. Sweating underneath my scarf and hood, I peeled off my sunglasses as they began to steam up. Freezing cold air and hot, sweaty face was not a good incognito combo. Nick was almost lost in the crowd when I saw the back of his head dart across the street, ignoring the Don’t Walk sign, and sprinting into a restaurant with half a pig hanging in the window.
Trying not to gip, I waited for the walk signal and crossed the street in an orderly fashion, hovering outside the door of the restaurant. I was pleased with my amateur sleuthing prowess but now what was I supposed to do? I peered inside the window, fingertips touching the glass, and watched Nick clap a tall man on the back in the most manly of hugs before shuffling himself into a booth and slipping off his jacket. The place was pretty big and pretty busy. I felt as though I might go mad, to be this close to him but not be with him. I wanted to hear him, I wanted to smell him, I wanted to grab a handful of his hair and dig my fingers into his arms until they left a mark and never let go, ever again.
Or, I could pop in, order a drink and listen in on his conversation for five minutes instead. It wasn’t like I was being a complete stalker, I was really thirsty, after all, and I hadn’t eaten anything in over an hour. That was a new New York record for me. Maybe this place had cronuts? I’d heard nothing but wonderful things about cronuts. Nick would never need to know. I could nip in, get a pastry fix and my Miller fix at the same time, then decide what I wanted to do. It was a completely rational plan. Mentally swinging those balls, I pushed open the door and lowered my scarf to smile at the hostess inside, never taking my eyes off Nick Miller.
‘Hi, welcome to McCall’s,’ she said. ‘Table for one?’
‘Yes please,’ I croaked, pointing at my throat. ‘Sorry, I have no voice today.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, a look of concern on her face as she grabbed a little laminated menu and walked me towards the bar. ‘I hope you’re not getting sick for the holidays?’
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine,’ I whispered in an indeterminate accent. ‘Just have to keep warm.’
She placed the menu down on the bar, so far away from Nick and his friend, I couldn’t possibly hear a single thing.
‘Would it be all right if I sat at a table?’ I asked, looking pointedly over at an empty booth that backed up on my ex.
‘We usually seat people at the bar when they’re on their own,’ the waitress said with a furrowed brow. ‘But I guess the lunch rush is dying down. There’s a spot in the back over there?’
‘Just here will be fine,’ I replied, throwing myself onto the brown leather banquette, back to back with Nick. ‘Thanks.’
I was a superspy mastermind.
‘All right then.’ The hostess rediscovered her fake smile and nodded. ‘I’ll send over your waitress.’
Settling in, I shuffled around under my hood, pulling my scarf over my telltale copper hair, and then unzipped my coat, audibly sighing with relief as I felt the AC of the restaurant hit the disgusting sweatiness of my clammy skin. Nothing said ‘I love you’ like stalking-induced sweat patches.
‘What’s up, man?’ Nick’s friend asked as I placed my phone next to my folded napkin, the official ‘I’m OK’ accessory of the lone diner. ‘I thought maybe you’d already be headed home. The airport is brutal at this time of year.’
‘I’m headed out Sunday,’ he replied. ‘Flights back to the UK are always cheaper on Christmas Eve – no one wants to land on Christmas morning.’
That’s because Christmas morning is when you’re supposed to be with the people you love, I explained in my head, silently stabbing the menu with my finger. Ooh, chicken noodle soup.
‘Yeah, man, good call,’ his friend agreed. ‘Glad I caught you.’
‘I know, it’s been ages. This year has been too much.’ Nick broke off while his friend ordered a beer and a sandwich, then ordered a bourbon and a burger for himself. Of course he was drinking whisky in the middle of the afternoon, of course he was. ‘I can’t wait for it to be over. It’s been nothing but one kick in the arse after another.’
Well, that was nice to hear.
‘I hear you, man,’ his friend said. ‘Has anyone had a good year?’
I had, I thought. Sure, I started it with an amazing job and a nice flat and a lovely, manageable crush on my friend and was ending it homeless, sort of jobless and double dumped but, well, I still thought it had gone all right. I’d had an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii and so had he – that was nothing to be sniffed at where I came from.
‘Next year needs to try harder, that’s all I know,’ he replied. ‘How are the kids?’
‘Hi!’ A cheerful-looking woman with a nose ring and a smile placed a huge glass of ice water down in front of me. ‘I’m Debbie and I’ll be your server today. Do you have any questions about the menu? Is there anything I can get you?’
‘Chicken noodle soup?’ I whispered, hoarse with pretence. ‘And a tea?’
‘Hot or iced?’ she asked, scribbling on her pad.
Iced tea? In this weather?
Demon.
‘Hot, please,’ I replied, desperate for her to get out of my way before I missed any more of their conversation. ‘With milk. And sugar. Thank you.’
She nodded politely and hopped away to the kitchen while I tried to tune back in to Nick’s friend telling delightful tales about his children, who sounded horribly spoiled and like they needed a good talking-to.
‘I don’t know,’ he said as I watched Debbie sail by with a bottle of Bud in one hand and a small glass of whisky in the other. ‘I can’t see what she has to complain about. They’re at school all day and then all she’s gotta do is pick them up and take them to their activities. It’s not like I’ve got her chained to the sink, dude.’
I would have liked to chain him to something, but it definitely wouldn’t have been a sink. Possibly the stocks? Did villages still have stocks? Perhaps I could bring them back.
‘Maybe she means some time without the kids,’ Nick suggested. ‘I can’t imagine it’s very easy to get anything done when you’ve got to go back out to pick two toddlers up from coding class as soon as you’ve got started.’
My heart swelled as he defended his friend’s poor wife – that, or I was having a stroke from all my layers.
‘Are they really taking coding?’ he added. ‘When I was four, I couldn’t even organize my Meccano.’
‘August is really into his iPhone,’ the friend replied. ‘So we figured we might as well start him early. Allanah wanted to go too but she’s got to finish out her yoga series before she can switch.’
Coding class and yoga series? What happened to Brownies or gymnastics? I felt a sudden flash of pity for my sisters and wondered if I should have got my nieces and nephews iPads for Christmas instead of Lego. I was a terrible, out-of-touch aunt.
‘I don’t think wanting a bit of time to herself is asking too much,’ Nick argued. ‘It must have been hard for her, giving up work when you had Allanah, that’s all I’m thinking. She’s probably missing the real world.’
‘I wish I could quit my job and knock out babies,’ the friend moaned in response. ‘I can’t see nothing fun about dragging my ass on the subway every day when I could be at home watching Doc McStuffins and spending time with my kids.’
As Debbie placed my tea down in front of me, I fought the urge to knock the Doc McStuffins out of him.
‘It does sound like fun,’ Nick said with a half-laugh I recognized. I could tell he didn’t agree with his friend but he didn’t want to get into an argument. I knew that tone well – I’d been humoured by Nick Miller more than once in this terrible year he had been forced to endure. ‘But I imagine it’s not as entertaining as all that.’
‘Relationships, man.’ His friend echoed Nick’s laugh and I heard two glasses clink together. ‘You’re so smart. Stay out of the deep end altogether. How is life in the shallow end of the pool?’
‘Shallow,’ Nick replied instantly. ‘Easier to wade around and considerably simpler when you want to get out.’
‘Right, right,’ the friend agreed, laughing again. ‘Sometimes I wish I’d never bothered to dive in. Why didn’t you say anything at my wedding, dude?’
I heard Nick huff out a deep breath and concentrated on pouring the little metal jug of milk into my lukewarm tea.
‘You’d spent a lot of money,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t want to be rude.’
‘Fair,’ the other said. ‘But you’re still strictly one and done? What happened to that chick you met over the summer?’
I must have poured fifteen spoonfuls of sugar into my tea before I realized what I was doing. Summer chick? Was I the summer chick? I had better be the bloody summer chick or I was going to jam this spoon into his jugular.
‘Here’s the soup.’ Debbie reappeared with an enormous bowl of soup and three packets of cream crackers. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No,’ I shook my head manically, trying to hear what Nick was saying over the radio and the other customers and Debbie’s fantastic customer service. ‘Thank you.’
What was with the cream crackers?
‘No chance of working it out?’ his friend asked.
What had I missed? What had I missed?
‘Can I get you more hot water for your tea?’
More hot water? I looked at Debbie as though she had just asked if she could consume the soul of my firstborn. Partly because she was making me miss a very important part of a very important conversation and partly because adding hot water to an already made cup of tea was clearly a crime against nature.
‘I don’t think so,’ Nick replied as I tried not to vomit on the table. ‘There was this whole big thing and I left and now she’s not talking to me. I don’t even know where she is now.’
If this had been a movie, that would have been the moment that Debbie the waitress dropped my chicken noodle soup in my lap and I would have torn off my coat, jumped to my feet and Nick would have realized I was there, pulled me into his arms and kissed me while his friend burst into song and some bluebirds flew in through the front door to serenade us with the dead pig in the window. Instead, I knocked my phone off the table and watched it skitter across the tiled floor and come to a stop right in front of Nick’s feet. I sucked in my breath and fumbled for my woolly hat, pulling it down over my telltale hair and poking myself in the eye as I went.
‘Like you said, relationships are confusing,’ he told his friend, absently bending down to pick up the phone and hand it to Debbie the Waitress. ‘I thought this was it, you know? It was the first time in so long I’d felt anything at all.’
‘Here you go, darl.’ Debbie placed my phone back on the table, eyeing me with concern as unwelcome tears streamed down my cheeks from all the accidental eye poking. ‘You doing OK?’
I nodded, wiping my cheeks and biting my lips, and willed her away.
‘Poked my eye,’ I explained as she backed away. ‘I’m an idiot.’
She didn’t argue.
This was it. This was my moment. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth. To say what, I wasn’t quite sure.
‘But she turned out to be just like the rest of them,’ Nick concluded. ‘Not worth it. I’m better off on my own.’
What?
I mean, what?
My mouth hung open for so long, I began to choke on the air conditioning and had to soothe my coughing fit with my manky cup of tea, all too aware that Nick and his friend were looking my way. I shrank back against the booth, forcing more of my hair inside my hat. How could he think that? I’d explained everything! I’d told him that I loved him! He was the one who left the bloody note!
‘Chicks, man,’ the friend said, clearly Manhattan’s greatest philosopher. ‘Thank the sweet Lord for Tinder. If that shit had existed five years ago, I would never have gotten married.’
‘Ha,’ Nick said, no laughter in his voice. ‘I can’t say I blame you. I’m going for a slash before the food comes.’
He stood up and I dropped my head towards my bowl, pulling the scarf further over my face as he stalked by to the back, shaking his head and flexing his knuckles. The restrooms were right on the back wall of the restaurant and I saw a dimly lit, white-tiled bathroom as he pushed the door open and turned the corner.
‘Oh shit,’ I muttered. If I was still sitting here when he came out, he would see me and I couldn’t talk to him now, not after that. I needed time to work out what I wanted to say. Pulling a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, I threw it down on the table, grabbed my bag and shuffled out of the booth to my feet. I had to get out of there. As I stood up, I paused at Nick’s table to get a look at his friend, the inaugural winner of my Worst Husband of the Year award.
‘You,’ I said, pulling up my hood, ‘are a terrible, terrible human being.’
He looked up at me for a moment before shaking his head and turning his attention back to his phone. ‘This city is full of crazy bitches,’ he muttered as I walk-ran towards the door.
Better a crazy bitch than a total wanker, I thought to myself, bursting out onto the street and walking fast, no idea of what direction I was headed in. Fingers crossed Allanah and August took after their mother and not their selfish shithead father, otherwise the world truly was doomed.