a strange feeling! A couple of moments later, Jenny reappeared minus the towel and with a peachy fresh complexion, softening socks still very much in evidence.
‘So, tell me everything,’ she said, bringing over a packet of Oreos and two cans of Diet Coke. ‘All the gory details. Did he pay? Was he amazing? Are you seeing him again?’
‘Um, yes, yes, lovely, and yes, Sunday!’ I said, staring ahead, slightly dazed still. ‘It was really nice, we just talked for ages and ate and then wandered through Soho for a little bit and then got a cab. And he asked me to go to the cinema on Sunday night, he’s going to call me.’
‘Wow,’ Jenny said, curling up and splitting her cookie in half to lick out the centre. ‘Sounds like the perfect first date. I’m so jealous.’
‘It was really nice,’ I admitted. ‘It still feels weird though. I just feel all, I don’t know, light and fluffy and like I want to scrunch myself all up into a ball and then explode or something.’
‘Well, let me see,’ Jenny went back in for the Oreos, not even bothering to split and lick, ‘you just went on a date with a hot Wall Street banker who arranged another date with you on the spot and you’ve got a date with a hot guy in a band who picked you up at brunch. I’d say not only are you dating but you are dating pretty well. You’re born to this honey!’
I sipped my Coke and shook my head. ‘I’m not going to say it doesn’t feel nice because it does. And I was a bit freaked out about kissing Tyler, but it was lovely actually. Really good.’ I took another sip and then a deep breath. ‘And when I was talking to Alex, I swear, I felt better than I had with Mark in, well, in for ever. I don’t know, it’s probably just a big rebound reaction thing.’
‘Maybe it is,’ Jenny shrugged, ‘but there’s nothing wrong with that. No one’s proposing, dating doesn’t have to be totally serious. Unless Tyler turns out to be a millionaire.’
‘He had a black Amex,’ I said, grabbing her arm.
‘Get the ring!’ she screeched. ‘Get the ring!’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thankfully by morning, the city had the decency to cool down half a degree so I decided to walk to The Look. I grasped Erin’s directions in one sweaty palm, crossed Park and then made my way up and across to Times Square. The streets slowly became busier and busier, until I was really just being pulled along by the swarm. Even in the high heat of summer, it was heaving. I stared around, taking in the giant billboards, the garish restaurant signs, the rolling news tickers and tried to spot my destination without getting taken out by a Japanese tourist and his huge camera bag. I felt tiny. Everything looked as though the real world had been scanned, had the contrast turned right up and then enlarged by 500 per cent. It made Piccadilly Circus look positively anaemic. After I had crossed the same road about five times, I spotted a steady stream of very thin, very beautiful women dressed head to toe in black, heading into a narrow black glass doorway back where I had come from. The small tasteful sign next to the door? Spencer Media. Ah. Of course.
The building was tucked away in a corner off Broadway, a beautiful art deco building that stretched high into the Manhattan skyline, past the animated billboards and brightly lit ads. As I rode higher and higher in the lift, I passed my weight from foot to foot. Erin had said (my editor!) was called Mary Stein, but I had no idea what she was expecting. I’d printed out my last few diary entries and printed off the Amazon records of some of my books in lieu of a portfolio. Hopefully she wouldn’t just laugh me out of the office.
Mary’s secretary ushered me into her office after a quick silent appraisal. Apparently I passed and was offered a coffee before being left alone. The office was bright and light, with stunning views of the city. I stood staring out of the window and promised myself I’d go to the Empire State Building as soon as I’d finished.
‘Angela Clark?’
It was Mary. She hardly looked like a magazine editor, let alone a super cool web editor. Mary was easily in her fifties, no taller than five feet, had a short grey bob and just looked really, really nice.
‘Yes.’ I stretched my hand out for a firm and welcoming shake. ‘You must be Mary.’
She gestured to a seat in front of her desk and then sat herself down. ‘Erin tells me you’re a writer?’
Straight to business. ‘Yes,’ I nodded eagerly, bringing out my sales sheets. ‘I don’t have my portfolio with me right now, but I have some sheets showing the books I’ve written. They’re mostly children’s movie tie-in books but I can turn my hand to anything, really.’
‘Hmm.’ Mary flicked through the pages and then pushed them back at me. Maybe she wasn’t going to be so nice. ‘I need a blogger. You’ll have looked at what we have on the website already so where do you think your blog will fit in?’
She fixed me with a serious gaze. I hadn’t looked at the website. Eeep. But praise be for the hateful man in Starbucks, I did know what a blogger was.
‘Well, I’m going through a pretty one-of-a-kind situation right now,’ I started.
‘One-of-a-kind has no appeal to my readers,’ she said, already looking away at her flat screen monitor and wheeling her mouse.
‘Well, one-of-a-kind in a way, but in another way, it’s something every girl has gone through,’ I blagged. ‘I’ve split up with my boyfriend of ten years and now I’m dating for the first time.’
‘Go on,’ she said, still looking away, but the wheeling had stopped.
‘Well, I found out he was cheating on me at my friend’s wedding, made a bit of a scene and then sort of ran away to New York,’ I explained quickly. ‘And now I’m dating. Two men. A banker and this guy in a band.’ I had to admit, I thought it sounded pretty bloody interesting. Probably even more so if you weren’t having to go through it yourself.
‘Do you have some sample copy?’ she asked, her full attention back with me. ‘You’re what, Bridget Jones in New York?’
I handed over the print-outs of my diary. ‘I’m really not Bridget Jones,’ I said. ‘I’m not all about dating, I think it’s more about finding my feet and finding out who I am again.’
‘Hmm,’ she said, scanning the copy with pursed lips and a frown. ‘You’re certainly not Bridget Jones, but there is something here. And it is about dating.’
‘OK,’ I shrugged. I would write about being a one-armed gypsy horse rider if she would give me a writing job. ‘It can be about dating.’
‘Tell me more about the break-up. Is it funny? It sounds funny,’ she slapped the pages of diary I’d given her.
OK, suck it up, I told myself. She’s going to make you a proper writer. So I went through every detail of the break-up, trying to make it sound funny rather than bursting into tears. Mary stared at me emotionless and silent until I was finished.
‘Great. It is funny and I suppose you can write,’ she said, ‘OK, you write two to three hundred words a day and email it to me. The pay wouldn’t be great but it’s only on the website. If we go ahead, I’ll need a picture of you so find one, but it’s fine to keep everyone else anonymous.’
‘Oh.’
