‘Are you kidding me?’ Mary looked really, really pissed off. ‘I can’t pay you as staff if you don’t have a visa. You may as well just go.’
‘But I only just got here on Sunday.’ I stood up, desperately trying to get this back. ‘And, and, you don’t have to pay me! I’ll work for free!’
‘Free?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
I nodded, half in, half out of my seat. ‘Anything Mary, please, I’ll write the funniest dating column you’ve ever read. Honestly.’
‘I guess I can’t let you work for free … I could pay you as a freelance contributor,’ she mused, looking back at the diary. ‘And you say you only got here Sunday? So this happened this week?’
I nodded again.
‘Bring me your first three days’ diary, along with a 1000-word establishing piece and a photo on Monday and we’ll talk about everything else then.’
The meeting was over. I don’t know if Mary had a silent buzzer or made invisible semaphore signals but her secretary appeared at the door and gestured for me to leave. I never did get that coffee.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. I was going to be a writer. Actually writing for an actual magazine. OK, website of a magazine, but still. Clearly getting on that plane on Sunday was the best thing I’d ever, ever done. Jenny was working a double shift and Erin was out of town for the weekend but I needed to find some way of celebrating my job, my New York minute. Surely there was only one way? I set off down Broadway, proud, confident and on my way to the Empire State Building to share my success with the city.
Which would have been great if the city hadn’t been twenty-five degrees above average for August, full of overheated tourists, a whole load of children on their school holidays all with one very clear brief, to barge past me and, whenever possible, knock my (delicious) Marc Jacobs bag off my shoulder. Which was already tingling and a delightful shade of pink. By the time I’d staggered all the way down to 34th Street in the searing sunshine, I must have been suffering mild sunstroke as I attempted to pass Macy’s. Before I knew what was happening, I’d been sucked through the doors and was drinking a refreshing iced tea, using a comfortable and clean bathroom and spending $250 on the Benetfit cosmetics counter. An hour later, I wandered back out onto the pavement and around the corner, the queue for the Empire State Building was insanely long. The sun was beating down on me and my new purchases, threatening to melt my new make-up, and I was so close to home. My new writer’s pride had been replaced with buyer’s remorse, and before I knew what I was doing, my legs were carrying me across to Lexington, back to the apartment, back to my laptop and back to bed.
Waking up on Saturday morning, I couldn’t believe it was a week since I’d woken up in my own bed. So much had happened in such a short space of time and yet, as soon as I remembered my date with Alex was later that evening, time seemed to start going backwards. It was Jenny’s first twenty-four hours off duty in over a week, meaning she would pretty much be asleep for fourteen hours. She’d made some half-hearted offers to take me out when she got in from work, but the girl was dead on her stylishly shod feet, so I’d let her off. I went out to get breakfast, washed up, cleaned the kitchen, scoured the bathroom and took all my clothes to the dry cleaners. It seemed insane to me that practically no one in the entire city did their own washing, but Jenny assured me only the hyper rich had a laundry room, and taking your washing out was perfectly normal. I managed to contain a mild panic attack over what to do when you wanted to wear something the very next day when it was dirty after Jenny had presented me with a bottle of hand-washing liquid for emergencies. And I had pretended not to notice her kicking several half-empty bottles of Febreze under the sink. So they had that here too …
For the want of something to do with myself, I was showered, blow-dried and dressed in a cute Ella Moss stripy mini dress by five-thirty, giving me a whole hour and a half to apply my make-up, reapply my make-up, add some more make-up, and then completely shit myself about going on a date with someone in a band. Boosted by a quick home-mixed margarita and a kiss – both from a very sleepy Jenny, I grabbed my bag and braced myself. My heart beat sped up as I shut the door behind me and stepped out to hail a cab. I checked my phone a grand total of eight times in the cab, just in case. Nothing from Alex to cancel, nothing to confirm, but there was a sweet voice message from Tyler saying what a great night he’d had and that he would pick me up outside my building at six-thirty on Sunday.
Max Brenner’s was tucked away on Broadway, just opposite the Virgin Megastore. At least, I can see The Union from here in case things don’t go well, I told myself as I pushed myself out of the cab, The doors to Max Brenner’s opened to reveal a huge Charlie and the Chocolate Factory style chocolate lab. Absolutely not what I had expected. Absolutely not the place for the amount of eyeliner I was wearing. And the first place in all of New York that was incredibly brightly lit. Shit. Sitting right in the middle of the whispering mothers and staring fathers, was Alex. I couldn’t imagine a more incongruous scene. His black hair looked as though it hadn’t seen a brush or a comb, well, ever, the creases in his green T-shirt had creases, and compared to ‘weekend dad’ and ‘let’s get chocolate shakes for dessert! mom’ he looked as if he might start shooting up any second. Out of place, maybe, a complete scruff, definitely, and hot? Absolutely. He broke into a slow smile and a wave as he recognized me, my heart apparently the only muscle in my body able to move. If my pulse had been racing when I left the apartment, it was positively making a break for freedom now.
‘Hey,’ he said as I slid into the booth, finally forcing my feet to move one in front of the other. ‘You made it.’
‘I did,’ I said, checking the clock. Late again. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t remember exactly where this was.’
‘Cool,’ he was still smiling. I started to worry that he was stoned.
‘I wouldn’t have thought this was your sort of place,’ I said, glancing around at the churning vats of chocolate. ‘It’s not that rock and roll, is it?’
‘No,’ he said, taking his turn to glance around. ‘But addiction is pretty rock and roll, and I might not broadcast it, but I have a real problem with hot chocolate. Seriously, you won’t believe this stuff until you’ve tried it.’
I picked up the menu and looked through all the treats, hot chocolate, milk, dark, white, with chilli, with nutmeg, with cinnamon, chocolate ice cream, chocolate pizza – all this chocolate and a really hot man from a band? There was such a good chance I was in heaven, I wondered if I’d been run over on the way there.
‘Wow,’ I said, looking back up at him. If he carried on staring at me with that little smile, I was going to run out of things to say really soon. ‘So you’re a chocoholic?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ he nodded, raising a weird shaped mug with no handle. ‘I blame it on the band. You feel like you’ve got to be in rehab for something sooner or later, or you’re just not committed to the music.’
‘I can imagine,’ I said, starting to panic. What were we going to talk about? I hadn’t prepared anything at all. This was such a bad idea.
‘Everyone’s got their dirty little secrets,’ he said, swirling the thick chocolaty soup in the bottom of his mug. ‘You want to confess to yours?’
‘I’m a bit tame,’ I admitted, feeling a blush creep up over my face. ‘Since I got to New York, it’s been Ring Dings. At home, I’m a Cadbury’s Creme Egg girl. Sometimes, I’ll eat three. All at once.’
‘Wow,
