It didn’t matter that there was a legally imposed schedule, helpfully enforced by US immigration, I had lived more in the last two weeks than I had in the last two years. I gave the Statue of Liberty a thankful smile and headed back north, thinking about all the other things I had to be grateful for. Jenny, despite her mildly schizophrenic Jeff-related issues, was clearly a good person. Erin was a complete sweetheart. And I was actually writing. I was writing my own words for a massive international magazine’s website, not ghostwriting movie novels about mutant hero turtles or style advice for billionaire tweenagers.
Looking up I realized I was heading towards Ground Zero. As I passed through, I could hardly believe that so much life was going on all around this site of utter devastation. Shops, hotels, restaurants, offices, everything. It seemed like such a short time ago that I had watched this place literally collapse on TV, but the entire city had picked up and moved on, healing rapidly around this ugly scar. I almost slapped myself in the street. If everyone here could pick themselves up and dust themselves down, what did I have to be so mopy and introspective about? It was just like Jenny had said, New York wasn’t somewhere you came to find yourself again, it was somewhere you came to become something, someone, new.
In a Starbucks with wireless internet I logged on. My blog was short and to the point. The Adventures of Angela: Moving On From Moving On. Yes, I had a lot of crap to wallow in, and I could feel sorry for myself for the next five years if I wanted, but I also had a lot to be glad about and from here on in, that was what this diary was going to be about. I emailed it to Mary and sat staring out of the window, occasionally catching my reflection when a car parked up or someone paused to look inside. I didn’t look different any more, I just looked like me. One battle won.
‘Hey, excuse me,’ a tall, skinny girl stood at my shoulder, clutching a takeaway coffee cup. ‘Are you that girl from The Look website?’
‘Oh,’ I said, flustered. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
She sat down at my table and beamed, pushing curly red hair away from her lip gloss. ‘I knew it was you, I saw the Marc Jacobs bag. I was just reading your last entry. My friend is like, obsessed with blogs, she forwarded me yours. I’m Rebecca’
‘Oh,’ I repeated. It hadn’t occurred to me that people might recognize me. Eeep. ‘Sorry, I’m Angela. Did you like it? The blog?’
‘Shit, it was hilarious!’ She grinned. ‘It’s like, you’re totally living my life. My boyfriend cheated on me too, he was a complete shit. But your life is way funnier. And I didn’t hook up with two really hot guys, like, days later.’
‘Oh,’ I really didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t looked at the website since it went live, I just couldn’t bear to see that before picture of myself again. ‘It’s not totally like that, I mean, I’m not, you know.’
‘So it’s not real?’ She frowned. ‘You make it up?’
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘It is real, it’s just a bit weird talking about it. You’re the first person I’ve met who has read it.’ I managed a smile. ‘Sorry.’
‘No worries,’ she smiled again. ‘You’re just a total hero to me. I wish I had got up and done something amazing when I found out about my ex, instead of throwing up for three days and then burning all his stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t have been against burning his stuff. Between you and me, I might have peed in my ex’s toiletry bag. I know, it’s disgusting.’
‘Oh my God,’ she squealed. ‘That’s awesome. I didn’t think British people did shit like that. Are you going to be in the magazine?’
‘I don’t think so.’ This was fun, I was a minor celebrity! ‘It’s just a little online thing. I can’t believe you’ve even seen it.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Haven’t you seen how many hits your page has had? It’s like, thousands.’
‘Really?’ I asked, looking at my laptop. Was she serious?
‘Yeah, like, so many more than the other Look blogs. Yours is so the best thing on that site.’ She stood up, leaving her coffee cup half empty, behind. ‘I’ve got to run back to the office, but it was so cool to meet you. I hope they print the diary, I’m totally going to email them.’
‘Bye, nice to meet you!’ I called after her. The second she was out of the coffee shop, I was back online. There it was, TheLook.com, The Adventures of Angela. And according to the counter, there had indeed been thousands of visitors to the site. Hundreds of thousands. Thousands of people reading about me. It felt out and out weird. And then, when I thought about what I’d written, it felt scary. Forget Alex’s mum, what if my mum read it? And Mark. He had no right to know what I was doing. Who I was doing … The post about my night with Tyler, oh my God. Not good.
While I sat scanning my previous posts, wondering if Mary would let me go back and edit, an email popped up in my inbox from her Look email address.
Angela,
Got today’s entry, really interesting. So did you see the blog is a big success?
Can you make a meeting on Friday? 4.00 p.m. my office.
Thanks,
Mary
I pulled out my mobile and hit Alex’s number. It clicked through for a moment giving me just enough time to think and hang up.
He hadn’t called.
Why hadn’t he called?
It had been more than a whole day since I had left his apartment. Instead, I dialled Jenny at work, hoping she had made it to the concierge desk on time.
‘The Union,’ she answered in a sleepy monotone. Still playing sleep catch-up from the night before, clearly.
‘Jenny, it’s me,’ I said quickly, rambling the whole story about the blog and the hits and the redhead fan and Mary’s email, leaving out the part where I faux-called Alex. I had promised not to go into the boy stuff until I’d sorted out the Angela stuff after all.
‘Wow, that’s so cool,’ she yawned. ‘You want to come over here? I’ve got a break in half an hour.’
‘I’m supposed to meet Tyler for dinner,’ I said cautiously. ‘I should probably go and get changed or something.’
‘You should go and buy something fabulous,’ she said, giving me permission to abuse my credit card without even knowing it. ‘Seriously, I’d totally celebrate. And you need more stuff if you’re going to be a celeb.’
‘I really don’t need more stuff!’ I shut down my laptop and placed it back in my (sigh) bag. ‘I think my credit card is about to snap. See you tonight.’
‘You’re not going to stay at Tyler’s?’ she asked. I wasn’t sure if this was a test or not.
‘Don’t think so,’ I said, as offhanded as I could manage. ‘I’ve got stuff to do tomorrow and I’m sort of thinking about breaking it off.’
‘Cool,’ she yawned again. Clearly too tired to be testing me. ‘Well, I’ll
