as much as some other people. I’ve got a successful PR company, two healthy divorce settlements and I go on great dates all the time, it’s just, I’m thirty-seven and I’m just not prepared to settle any more.’
‘Firstly, you are never thirty-seven,’ I gaped. I had her down as Jenny’s younger friend and Jenny was no candidate for Botox. ‘And secondly, do you think I’m being silly, going on this date? Should I just take time to be me?’
‘Do you want to go on the date?’ she asked.
I thought about it for all of a split second. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Then you should go, have fun,’ she said, fishing a beautiful Chanel wallet out of her handbag. ‘Just don’t let it be everything to you. Jenny said you’re a writer, right?’
‘I want to be,’ I shrugged. ‘All I’m writing right now is a sort of, well, a diary.’
‘But your diary right now must be fascinating!’ she said, flicking through business cards. ‘I represent The Look magazine and they’re always looking for bloggers to post on their site. It’s not much but it could get a mention in the magazine and who knows who might see it. Want me to set up a meeting?’
‘God, yes!’ I said, already picturing myself in Starbucks, tapping away, annoying people with my dramatic sighs. ‘If anyone was interested I’d love to write for them.’
‘Well, let me talk to some people when I’m there later,’ Erin said, tossing a couple of bills on the table and waving away my protest. ‘And I’ll let you know how it goes tonight. You’re coming for dinner tonight, aren’t you?’
‘Only if you promise not to let me drink any of those awful margaritas,’ I grimaced. Just thinking about them made me look around for the ladies’ loo.
With two quick kisses and a ‘call me’ Erin was gone. None of the waiters seemed to mind that we’d been sitting for well over an hour without ordering anything but tea and coffee top-ups, but I asked for a hot chocolate anyway. Pulling out my notebook and hotel room pen, I started to scribble my thoughts. God, imagine writing an online diary for The Look magazine! Maybe it wasn’t as internationally well known as Elle or as respected as Vogue, but it was definitely up there. Note to self, buy some magazines. I found my iPod in the bottom of my bag and scrolled through for some inspirational music. Hmm, shouty rock girls, floppy fringed indie boys or Britney. After my girl power lecture from Erin, didn’t it have to be shouty rock girls?
A page into my scribblings, I saw the hot chocolate being placed in front of me. I nodded a thanks, too lost in my rant about how hard dating rules were to understand when I realized whoever had delivered the hot chocolate had sat down opposite me. I looked up slowly to see the cute guy from the corner of the restaurant smiling at me, resting his chin in his palm, elbows firmly on the table.
‘Hi,’ he mouthed.
I paused my iPod and stared.
‘Don’t you just wish you could go up to people and say, hey, let me take a look at your iPod?’ he said, reaching out and taking mine from the table. The earbuds popped out onto my notebook. ‘That way, you would know whether or not to ask that person out right away. Say, they were listening to … angsty lesbians,’ he looked up at me. He had a sexy pale skin, dark eyes thing happening, as if he was pretty much nocturnal. ‘Most men would be scared off. But some other men would go back to the artists page and look for some other, more encouraging signs, like … hmmm, Justin Timberlake?’
‘It’s a good song,’ I defended weakly. Even I didn’t believe me.
‘Well, the ladies love Justin,’ he said and carried on scrolling. ‘And at least it cancels out the lesbian thing.’
‘I’m not a lesbian!’ Too quick to my own defence.
He looked up again and laughed. ‘Great.’ He pulled his chair a little closer to the table. ‘Oh, this just gets better. Bon Jovi?’
‘It’s “Living on a Prayer”, it’s a classic?’ I protested weakly, dropping my head to my hands. ‘Why aren’t you looking at the cool stuff? I like cool stuff too …’
‘Like what?’ he asked, looking back at the iPod. ‘And don’t say all kinds of music. I hate when people say they like all kinds of music. That just means you don’t love any. Well, you’ve got the new Stills album, I hear they’re good.’
‘I’ve seen them live!’ I said quickly. ‘I saw them in London. They were quite good. I actually prefer the first album though.’
‘Always good to get honest feedback,’ he held his hand out. ‘Alex Reid.’
I took his hand and bit my lip. ‘You’re in Stills, aren’t you?’
‘I am.’
‘And you saw Justin Timberlake on my iPod.’
‘And Bon Jovi.’
This was not how I had imagined meeting the ridiculously sexy lead singer of a super cool New York band. In most of my rock star fantasies, (which were wide and varied), I was usually looking dishevelled and sexy, wearing fishnets, heeled boots and a lot of black eyeliner at some swank after party at an edgy East London bar. Instead I was wearing a pink T-shirt and baggy jeans with bright orange flip-flops, had a crunchy, damp ponytail and hoped, just hoped, that my mascara hadn’t completely melted away under my eyes just yet.
‘But I do have your album,’ I said, trying to buy some cool points. ‘And, like, I don’t know, The Arctic Monkeys?’
‘Very 2006,’ he said, handing me back my iPod and settling into his chair. He was still smiling and it was very off-putting. ‘But you do have some cool stuff and you did come and see my band.’
‘I do and I did,’ I confirmed. Please ask me out. Please ask me out. I couldn’t be further away from not needing a man to ‘validate’ me. I needed the good-looking man to ask me out. Fuck you Mark Davis, the hot rock star asked me out. Bwah ha ha.
‘And if you bought both albums and a ticket to the gig,’ he sighed and ran a hand through his messy, floppy black hair, letting it drop back down over his eyes.
Oh.
‘With the weak dollar, I figure you have spent, what, twenty pounds on the band?’
‘And I bought a T-shirt,’ I said seriously. ‘That was twenty on its own.’
‘As long as it was from inside,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Those sons of bitches outside selling my T-shirts for ten bucks? Don’t they know all the money comes from the T-shirts?’
I laughed nervously waiting for him to join in. He did, thank God.
‘So, I know you have an … “eclectic” taste in music,’ Alex started, ‘and I owe you about, what, sixty, nearly eighty bucks? But I still don’t know your name.’
‘I suppose since I know yours,’ I said, hoping I was coming across funny and flirty and not nervous and starstruck. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered how good his band really was. ‘Angela Clark.’
‘And are you on vacation,
