then some lunch.’
By the time I’d put away a chicken club sandwich and Diet Coke and Jenny had packed in a burger, fries and yet another chocolate brownie, I’d discovered that she was a true New Yorker born and bred, she had moved to the city after college to follow her dream of becoming the next Oprah. After a summer off in California, she had taken a job as a waitress in a big tourist hotel restaurant back in NYC to ‘study her medium’ (I think she meant people) but was accidentally so good that she was soon headhunted to move on to the reception desk. When The Union had opened the previous spring, she’d applied for a concierge position to improve her contacts. The boutique hotel apparently attracted a lot of young celebrities, generally blonde, tanned and emaciated or butch, gorgeous and gay. She now considered herself the best connected amateur psychologist in New York, a position that afforded her entrance to the best clubs and restaurants and the personal mobile phone numbers of several Hollywood starlets, and, more importantly, their agents.
‘So how come you’re not plastered all over the TV yet?’ I asked, dipping a spoon into her brownie. It was delicious.
‘Haven’t had my break yet,’ she shrugged. ‘The average agent doesn’t have the power to get a nobody like me a chat show. You have to be Tyra Banks to walk into something like that.’
She was so pretty, so lovely and so bloody determined, it seemed crazy that she wasn’t on the front cover of every magazine in the country. ‘You’ll get there,’ I smiled, pushing the last spoonful of brownie over to her. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before, honestly. You’ve done an amazing job of sorting me out. I would be sitting on the sofa in three-day-old pyjamas, eating ice cream and crying at Living TV if I were at home.’
‘Well, you’re going to take more than one day, a haircut and some make-up, but we’ll get there,’ she grinned, scooping up dessert. ‘God, you haven’t even been to Soho yet. I’ve got a whole plan for you, doll. Do you think you could let this interfering yank take you through Angela Clark version two?’
‘I don’t have anything better to do,’ I laughed. It was so weird to be taken in hand by someone I had met twenty-four hours ago, and, for some reason, it made perfect sense. I already felt as if I’d known Jenny all my life and being with her in New York made London and Mark feel a very long way away and a very long time ago.
After lunch we moved on to the very important job of creating my new wardrobe. A quick run around the fourth floor and three armloads of clothes later, I was ordered into a changing room while Jenny and two assistants appeared intermittently with racks and racks of clothes. Soon I was clad in beautiful 7 for All Mankind skinny jeans that made even my short legs look sexy (according to Jenny) and a flared pair of J Brands that I could dress down with my Converse and an old T-shirt, or dress up with my Louboutins (according to Jenny). One of the helpful and definitely on commission assistants declared that, despite my legs being a little on the short side, they were a good shape and as such, should be on display. Excitingly, I found out I was just a size 8 in America, reason enough to hang around a couple of weeks at least. She had brought in a whole rail of bum-skimmingly short dresses before we both accepted that I would never be able to walk more than ten yards down the road without pulling them down. After that, we added a couple of inches to the length and I relented on a cute blue French Connection jersey dress, a gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs printed smock and several stunning bits from Ella Moss and Splendid – T-shirt dresses so soft they felt like clouds! I had no idea. Primark was over for me in that instant. Several C&C California T-shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts and easy to wear skirts later, we moved on to evening wear.
‘So, for dates … I’m thinking something flirty but fun? Classic though. And easy to wear. You can’t be sexy if you don’t feel good.’ Jenny sent the assistants scurrying across the shop floor with another flick of her wrist. I stood in my pants, peeping round the corner of the slatted wooden door waiting for the next rack of clothes. And in no time they arrived. Vera Wang Lavender. Tory Burch. Nanette Lepore. DVF. 3.1. phillip lim. Paul & Joe Sister. More Marc Jacobs. This was so much fun.
‘What are you wearing right now?’ Jenny asked loudly through the door.
‘Nothing?’ I replied, slipping out of a gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs printed silk halter dress. ‘Underwear?’
‘I have a horrible feeling I ought to take a look at that too.’
Jenny’s level of horror raised to orange alert when she saw my M&S heart print boy shorts and mismatched bra. Then she went a funny pink colour when I admitted that I didn’t exactly know what bra size I was.
‘It’s just not OK,’ she said, shaking her head and snatching up several styles and sizes. ‘Do you want your rack around your knees at forty?’ I was pushed back into my new natural habitat of the changing room, armed with balconettes, backless, strapless, plunge, soft, full cup and half cup bras.
Before my credit card company could know what had happened, I was up another floor buying flip-flops, flats and full-on heels to match all my outfits. Despite Jenny’s insistence that gladiator sandals were the shoe of the season, I couldn’t help but feel as if they were more my great aunt Agatha than me and eventually, she let it go. But the ballet pumps, the Havaianas and two pairs of wedges were coming with us.
We headed back down through the store, laden with bags – big, medium and little – I had spent more than a month’s income in only four hours but I was too happy at the teeny tiny numbers on the labels (a SIX on one of them!) to feel any buyer’s remorse, (even if it was just a ten in translation). Riding back down to the ground floor, I adopted the official lift position as Jenny fannied around in her handbag. Clutch purchases, do not make eye contact with fellow lift riders, stare straight ahead. But instead of seeing myself in the mirrored doors, I saw someone completely different. Not different like Louisa’s wedding day (just me with more make-up and elaborate hair) but glossy different. My hair swished as I turned my head slightly, Razor’s make-up had given me huge Bambi eyes and just-bitten lips, and the thrill of spending more than an entire month’s mortgage payment on clothes and slap had given me a giddy flush that I just couldn’t get from any blusher. But I knew I had several different versions of the stuff in my bag to give it a good go back at the hotel.
‘Come on, we’re so gonna struggle to get a cab at this time,’ Jenny muttered as the doors slid open, taking my lovely new reflection with them. ‘Were you checking yourself out?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good girl,’ Jenny said catching hold of my arm and dragging me out of my New Favourite Place in the Whole World.
So what if I was now officially broke. Why else did I have an emergency credit card? And I was stylishly broke at least. Plus I was too busy staring up and down Lexington Avenue really to think about it. Everywhere was too busy, too hot and too noisy but it was amazing to me. Looking right, I swam in the endless downtown view afforded by the New York grid system, channels framed by skyscrapers rising high into the sky. To the left, dozens of honking, screeching cabs and searing sunshine contributed to the glowing heat haze rising up and distorting the air. I thought it was beautiful.
‘How far do you think you can walk before you pass out?’ Jenny asked, nudging me out of my daydream.
‘Maybe fifteen minutes?’ I wasn’t sure if it was really a question or a challenge. I really, really didn’t feel like walking.
‘Then we should do as much of this on foot as we can.’ She nodded to the crossing and threw herself into the traffic. ‘Come on, Angie!’
We marched across the road and then down the block, across another road, straight over Park Avenue
