shut. I could feel myself blushing under Craig’s steady gaze, his half-closed eyes, his slightly too long hair. Even his weird smell was growing on me – less BO, more man-scent. Yeah, I’d had too much to drink.
‘Jenny,’ he said in a low voice, leaning in towards me. ‘Would it be OK if I kissed you?’
‘Yes?’ I squeaked. It came out as a question because I really, really wasn’t sure.
But to a guy, a yes is a yes. Even one with a very clear inflection. I stood on my tiptoes, both my hands in both of his and let him kiss me. Even half wasted, I could tell it was a good kiss. This boy was no amateur; he had laid one on many a ladyface before me. Breaking away, I saw the sun sinking behind the Empire State Building over Craig’s shoulder and sighed happily at my romcom moment.
‘Wow,’ he squeezed my hand and stroked my cheek. ‘That was kind of amazing, Jenny.’
‘Yuh-huh,’ I agreed, squeezing back and breaking his hold. For some reason, the way he kept saying my name was making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and not in a ‘sexy times’ way. I just had a feeling that he needed to keep saying it for fear of forgetting who I was. ‘Let’s get to the bar.’
Because another drink was just what I needed.
When we finally caught up with Angie and Alex, they were already at Manhattan Inn and had a booth, drinks, and faces like thunder.
‘Nice walk?’ Angie asked. I nodded silently, slipping into the seat across from her. How could she be mad at me? This whole date was her fault. Wasn’t the fact that we were getting along a good thing?
‘I’ll get you a drink, sweet thing,’ Craig said into my hair, making me shiver. Although, again, not really in a good way.
‘Did you kiss him?’ Angela demanded, the second Craig was out of the room.
‘Oh, wow, I just suddenly really, really need the bathroom.’ Alex leapt out of his seat, rubbing his head awkwardly. ‘Ladies.’
‘Did you kiss him?’ she repeated.
‘Yes … ’ I admitted. ‘But it’s fine. Really. He’s sweet. You always painted him to be such a dick and he’s not. A little practised, maybe, but not a dick.’
‘Let me guess: he asked about your childhood, told you about his parents’ divorce and then told you that you were really smart?’ She stared at me across the table. ‘Classic Craig.’
‘He actually said I was funny.’ I pressed my fingers into my temples. ‘Man, am I so out of practice I don’t know when I’m being played?’
‘I want to say no but signs point to “You think?”’ Angie kicked me under the table. ‘You can get out of this any time. You have work tomorrow, I’m here to back you up and, bloody hell, it’s only Craig. You don’t even need an excuse.’
‘I guess.’ I couldn’t believe it. And I was trying to work out why he’d told me I was ‘funny’ if his standard line was ‘smart’?
Not giving me time to work anything out, Casanova reappeared with two large, garishly coloured cocktails. But it was too late. My buzz was officially killed and the idea of even sipping on that thing made my stomach turn over. I had another date scheduled for that evening and it was with a grilled cheese and my bed. Alone.
‘These are the best, baby,’ Craig’s hand slipped under the table and onto my thigh. I sat up straight, my eyes open wide. Why hadn’t I worn jeans? ‘One taste and you’ll never want anything else.’
‘What’s it called?’ I asked, trying to wriggle backwards into my fixed seat, but instead of loosening his grip, he took it as a come-on and his hand slid closer to something he would never, ever get his dirty paws on.
‘I call it the Craig,’ he crooned into my ear.
Dude, really?
‘You are so freaking hot. I cannot wait to get you home,’ he whispered. ‘If we even make it home. The bathrooms here are—’
‘I need to make a phone call.’ I shoved Craig out of his seat and pushed my way past him, heart beating fast, breath tight and ragged. No way. No way was I being propositioned to get it on in a public restroom on a Thursday night in Brooklyn. Or any night in Brooklyn. Or any public restroom. It had not come to this.
And so, for the second night in one week, I hailed a cab and ditched a date. So glad that this week was looking better than the last one.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Oh god,’ I groaned when my alarm rang the next morning. ‘Just no.’
Even though I’d only had three drinks the night before, my brain was rattling around inside my skull as if I’d taken it out and freeze-dried it before bed when, in fact, I had actually cleansed, toned and moisturized. Score one for Lopez. Although, I probably lost any points gained due to my intense desire to vomit. Maybe I wouldn’t be running an extra mile that morning. Instead of lacing up my running shoes, I ran a bath, summer time be damned. There were times when only a bath would do.
I was so disappointed in myself. Old Jenny would never have suffered the trials and tribulations I’d endured this week. My gaydar was totally down, my asshole-recognition software was corrupted and I’d got drunk the night before an important job. Clearly I needed a kick up the ass. And a bloody mary. As soon as I was out the bath, skin moisturized, teeth cleaned and flossed, hair tied back in a practical pony, I turned to my wardrobe. If anything had the power to calm me, it was my closet. I’d spent five years in LA working as a stylist, but I’d spent thirty years living as a fashion addict. When I was broke, I would scour the newspapers for sample sales, hunt down every last designer thread in New York’s finest – and shittiest – thrift stores. No semi-precious stone was left unturned. As soon as I had a real job and real pay-check, I stepped up my game. I started saving, I started splurging, I started my collection.
The Union had been an awesome stepping-stone job to make connections. As head concierge, I’d had to meet the needs of a lot of persnickety celebs, and that meant hooking them up with ensembles on demand. Within weeks I had every one of the city’s top PRs, fashion houses and department stores on speed-dial and made it my business for them to love me. It wasn’t just my job that depended on it, it was something way more precious. Employee discount. Thanks to secret online checkout codes and special handshakes used in downtown boutiques, my wardrobe had swelled to mammoth proportions. And it was beautiful. Nothing hurt me more than the condition of Angie’s Marc Jacobs satchel. That thing was archive, totally irreplaceable, but it was a mess. I couldn’t even bear to look at the torn lining. Once, it had been a thing of wonder, but as far as I was concerned, it was approaching sad.
Today’s ensemble needed to be practical, stylish but not too flashy and, above all else, cute. One thing I’d learned working in LA was that no one who was professionally hot wanted to hang around with someone they considered to be gross. You couldn’t be hotter than them, but you had to make some kind of an effort. I settled on skinny black James Jeans pants and a black-and-white striped Rag and Bone tank top with my comfy black YSL Tribute 90 pumps. I was useless in flats. Throwing my Balenciaga motorcycle bag (a well-deserved gift I treated myself to from my old LA roommate’s collection) over my shoulder, I looked myself over in the mirror, gave myself an approving nod and moved over to my dressing table. And so to the make-up.
Sadie’s
