Czytaj książkę: «JENNY LOPEZ HAS A BAD WEEK: AN I HEART SHORT STORY»
Lindsey Kelk
Jenny Lopez Has a Bad Week
Exclusive Short Story
Copyright
This short-story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in GREAT BRITAIN by
HarperCollins 2011
JENNY LOPEZ HAS A BAD WEEK. Copyright © Lindsey Kelk 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Lindsey Kelk asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
EBook Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780007444809
Version: 2017-08-10
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
‘Jenny Lopez, you are a delight.’
Chapter Two
‘Oh my god, Jenny, you look like shit.’
Chapter Three
I crashed through my apartment door the next morning after…
Chapter Four
‘What is this?’ I stood in the bar of Hotel…
Chapter Five
‘Oh god,’ I groaned when my alarm rang the next…
Chapter Six
I wasn’t sure what I enjoyed the most. The epic…
Chapter Seven
The Boyd & Norrell show was a huge success. Sadie’s…
Chapter Eight
‘And then he slammed the door and vanished.’ I relayed…
Read on for a sample of I Heart New York
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Read on for a sample of I Heart Hollywood
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Read on for a sample of I Heart Paris
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Read on for a sample of I Heart The Single Girl’s To-Do List
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the author
About the Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
‘Jenny Lopez, you are a delight.’
It had been a really bad week. I was broke; I was bored and boyfriendless. At least I had been, until now.
My date sat back in his chair and gave me a beaming smile. I couldn’t help but smile back. This was going down in the record books as one of the best first dates ever. Brian Williams was 35 years old, single and so, so cute. We’d met a couple of weeks ago at my friend Erin’s birthday party and, even though I hated to admit it, I’d pulled out every weapon in my flirting arsenal to get this date. It had taken until we walked (staggered) out to get cabs at four in the morning, but goddamn it, I’d got his number.
We’d been hidden away on the tiny back patio of Brooklyn Social for the last hour, laughing over the trials and tribulations of our day, screwball subway adventures and the general ridiculousness of Brooklyn. Time was flying by and I was a delight. Who didn’t love being told that? I’d made a hell of an effort. My hair was freshly washed, a few strands pinned back to tether the curls away from my glowing skin – I’d bought a new bronzer – and sparkly, lots-of-rest-because-I-wasn’t-working eyes. On the ensemble front, I’d gone pretty low-key, but the girls were making an appearance. Skinny jeans, white button-up tank top and heels. I looked as good as I was gonna get. Not that looking good had helped since I’d gotten back from LA. At least not until tonight …
‘So what do you do?’ I asked, readying myself for the bad news. In days gone by, it used to be my first question, but these days it didn’t mean anything. Bankers were broke, musicians were loaded; the world was topsy-turvy.
‘I’m a writer.’ He nodded slowly as he spoke and placed his hands on his knees. ‘Wow, it’s taken me a really long time to be able to say that out loud and mean it.’
‘That’s great.’ A writer, OK, I could work with that. What I couldn’t work with was the fact that my drink had been dry for at least fifteen minutes. Red flag maybe, but hardly a strike. ‘What sort of stuff do you do?’
‘Yeah, so I guess I identify most closely with like, Nietzsche or Kierkegaard.’ He pushed his elaborate black glasses frame back up his nose. ‘And you know, Ayn Rand changed my life. Ayn Rand and Bukowski, you know?’
And there it was. Strike number one.
I nodded, staring into my empty glass before taking another sip of the gin-flavoured melting ice and closing my eyes. One strike in one hour, though – not too shabby really.
‘I guess it’s difficult for a woman to understand those writers,’ he said, before I could fathom a response. ‘So you’re not a reader; not a deal breaker.’
Strike two.
I thought about the stack of dog-eared books piled up at the side of my bed but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t need to defend my library of self-help guides, travel guides and each and every book in the Twilight series to my formerly awesome date. Besides, I’d read Bukowski and Rand and, in my humble opinion, they were books for assholes.
‘It’s not great but,’ he lifted the dregs of his locally brewed beer to his mouth, ‘not a deal breaker.’
Something terrible had happened to the city while I’d been away. Five months in LA and all the eligible men had vanished. That, or I’d become invisible. Or a troll. And since I was literally running my ass off every morning in the ninety-degree heat, it couldn’t be that. I figured they could still smell LA on me. Nothing like some time on the West Coast to poison New York men against you.
I studied Brian Williams from across the tiny cast-iron table on the back patio of Brooklyn Social. Usually I refused to venture out of Manhattan for a first date, but I’d been back for almost a month and it had been slim pickings. He was cute. Tall enough (that is, taller than me in heels), short dark hair, the heavy framed glasses I’d thought were quirky at Erin’s party. Now they just seemed like some awful affectation. They were so non-prescription. This was what happened when you had nothing to say for yourself, I realized, you hid behind props and buzzword authors. Saved a lot of time and effort in becoming a useful human being.
‘So, who do you write for?’ Ten points to me for at least trying. There was a vague, vague, vague chance he was just a little awkward and not a total ass-hat after all. ‘My best friend writes a column for Look magazine.’
‘Look magazine?’ He smiled to himself. ‘Interesting. Well, my writing runs a little deeper.’
Because badmouthing my best friend was a sure-fire way to secure a second date. Strike three.
‘And you’re published?’ I asked with as much innocence as I could muster.
‘Uh, no,’ he was getting less cute by the second. Thirty-five? Really? ‘It’s about the craft, not the reward.’
‘So what do you actually do?’
What I really wanted to say was: ‘Then maybe you should stop introducing yourself as a writer, dickwad.’
‘Right now I’m spending a little time in photography retail.’ He waved his hands around a lot, the sleeves of his vintage Strand bookstore T-shirt rolling up his skinny arms. ‘That’s my other passion. I actually show my work in a real-time gallery, on tumblr. You should check out—’
‘You work in a camera store?’ I translated. ‘And you have a blog?’
He gave me a cool, level stare. Amazing how quickly things could go from great to ‘I’d rather gouge out my own eyes with splintered chopsticks than look at you for one more second.’
‘So what do you do with your spare time?’ He sat back and took a good look at my rack, apparently deciding my boobs made it worth hanging around a little longer. I was regretting my choice of tank top now. ‘And don’t say watch TV because I don’t even have one. Television is a cancer.’
And yet all I could think about was whether or not there would be a Glee rerun on when I got home. In thirty minutes.
‘You know, I’m gonna get a drink.’ I gave him a dazzling smile, pulled my long, loose curls into a ponytail and then let them drop around my shoulders. My best friend Angela referred to this as my signature stripper move, but hey, I might as well give him something to really regret. ‘Can I get you one?’
‘I thought you were never going to ask,’ he said with a smirk. Dates might have been thin on the ground but going Dutch on the first date? More like going douche. And now it was time for me to go home. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Generally speaking, I didn’t like to lie. It was bad for the soul and – way more importantly – it was bad for the complexion, but there was no polite way of saying, ‘Hey pretentious asshole, you’re wasting precious seconds of my life. I need them. Byesies.’ I didn’t care that he worked in a camera store and I certainly didn’t care that he wasn’t a published writer – if you refused to date everyone who had ever put pen to paper but never had their work published, you’d be limiting your dating pool to investment bankers and men without hands. And even the guys without hands probably had some sort of app on their iPad to type for them. Actually, a guy without hands might actually be a better bet than an investment banker these days.
What I cared about was that he was the kind of guy who would always think he was better than you, no matter who you were, what you did or how awesome you were at doing it. I could have told him I was Florence Nightingale and he would have taken issue with the fact I was working with the troops instead of impoverished kids in the projects.
It had been so long since I’d met anyone who, well, wasn’t. I knew it was possible – most of my friends had awesome boyfriends and husbands – but all I seemed to find were the kind of sleazebags who thought they could slap you on the ass on the way to the restroom, or Brian Williamses.
I skipped up the steps out of the garden and sidled through the narrow bar, my heart beating harder with each step I took closer to freedom.
‘Hey!’ I turned around – as did everyone sitting at the bar – to see Brian Williams following behind me. ‘I was just going to change my order – where are you going?’
‘Home,’ I admitted. ‘Order from the bartender.’
Before he could reply, I leapt out of the door and into a passing cab.
Bye Brian Williams.
‘Thirty-Ninth and Lex?’ I asked the driver as I threw myself across the back seat. It wasn’t that I hadn’t come to love Brooklyn, I had. Sort of. Ever since my former roommate and current BFF, Angela, had moved out here, I’d kind of had to. But as soon as the tyres of the taxi hit the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan’s skyscrapers twinkled in the twilight, I felt better. It was as if a tightness in my chest eased, like I could breathe again. If only I weren’t headed home alone. Again. I dug my cell phone out of my eye-wateringly beautiful watermelon leather Mulberry Alexa and relaxed.
‘Pick up, Angie.’ I sang into the handset while slipping my foot out of my shoe and turning off the in-taxi TV. Worst invention known to man.
Angela Clark, my best friend and confidante, picked up on the first ring. She had just the right touch of OCD about things like that to make her near perfect. If only she’d had the same OCD about doing the dishes when we’d lived together.
‘Hi, are you OK? Is everything OK?’
There hadn’t been one phone call that didn’t start with that exact same sentence since she moved out a month ago.
‘Everything’s fine.’ I saw the Woolworth Building and knew that it was. ‘Just another bad date.’
‘It’s summer,’ Angela theorized. ‘The heat makes boys crazy.’
‘Maybe.’ I shucked my purple Jimmy Choo mules to the floor and held my toes up for pedicure inspection. Flawless. As toes should be. ‘I’m just kinda sick of it.’
‘Any news on the job front?’ she asked. ‘Did you hear back from anyone yet?’
The only subject I might have preferred not to discuss than my date was my search for gainful employment. I’d spent many happy years working as a hotel concierge until I’d finally given in, reached for the stars and spent six months in LA working as a stylist. Between a little natural talent (OK, I’m being modest, I was awesome) and a lot of luck, I’d managed to bag some pretty sweet gigs. But when you weigh that up against living with a high-class hooker, there really wasn’t a lot of choice when my lease came up for renewal. And besides, as I told myself at the time, it was styling. I could be a stylist anywhere. Except, uhh, no.
‘Everyone in New York hates me,’ I whined. Hyperbole? Me? Didn’t you hear, I’m not a reader. ‘They’re all like, oh, we were hoping to work with someone with more experience. The only place that called me back was MTV.’
‘To style Jersey Shore or Teen Mom?’ Angela asked with a laugh.
‘Jersey Shore,’ I whispered back.
‘Oh, Jenny.’ She didn’t know it, but on occasion Angela Clark sounded exactly like her mom on the phone. ‘You get out what you put in, you know that. If you’re putting negative energy out there, you’ll get negative results.’
And sometimes she sounded just like me.
‘Thanks for the pep talk.’ The Lower East Side was alive with people as the cab cruised through town. Well, it was a Tuesday. And wasn’t Tuesday the new Friday? Or was that Thursday? I was so out of touch. ‘I just don’t want to have to go back to the hotel.’
‘You loved working at The Union,’ she reminded me. ‘And they would totally take you back.’
‘But that’s just it,’ I replied. ‘It’s going back. I … I just can’t.’
‘I understand, I do. I just don’t want you to be bored and miserable.’
It was a uniquely English ability to know how to point out the obvious problem without being, well, obvious. I was bored. I was miserable. But I wasn’t going back to The Union. Besides, the lack of work was only half the issue. Both Angie and I knew the real reason I’d come back from LA, and it was six feet tall, blond and went by the name of Jeff. Heartbreak beat out hookers and homesickness every time.
‘I know.’ I was too tired to get into it. At 9.15 in the evening. Jesus. ‘We still getting lunch tomorrow?’
‘Yep,’ she confirmed. ‘Twelve, Noho Star. Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want to come over?’
An evening in front of the TV with my best friend and her perfect boyfriend? I’d rather go back and apologize to Brian Williams. I was happy for Angie, I was, and it wasn’t like she and Alex hadn’t faced their ups and downs, but I still hadn’t figured out how she got to move here from England and hook up with one of the hottest guys in the city right away. Some of us had been putting in the groundwork for years. Actually, there was a chance I’d put in a little too much groundwork and that was part of the problem, but you know what they say: practice makes perfect.
‘I’m good,’ I gave her a yawn to demonstrate just how fine. ‘Just gonna take a bath and hit the hay. An early night won’t hurt me.’
‘No, but five in a row will,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re going out this weekend.’ It sounded more like a threat than a promise. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
I dropped the phone back in my bag just as we pulled up outside my apartment. Just two minutes and seven flights of stairs until I was snout deep in a tub of Chunky Monkey. Live the dream, Jenny Lopez, live the dream. Yeah, it had been a pretty bad week.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Oh my god, Jenny, you look like shit.’
Erin and I had been friends for years but still, that kind of hello was not going to fly.
‘Hey Erin,’ I replied with two breezy kisses. ‘Your ass looks fat. How’s married life working for you?’
‘My ass is twice the size it was a year ago and I’m fucking ecstatic.’ She pushed a bellini across the table towards me. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I’m having tons of super-hot sex with super-hot strangers all the time,’ I lied. ‘Ten orgasms a night take their toll on a girl.’
She narrowed her eyes, flicked her newly bobbed blonde hair behind her ears and shook her head. ‘Right.’ She tapped the platinum bands of her engagement ring and wedding band against the stem of her glass. ‘Only, I can tell by looking. If ever anyone needed to get laid, it’s you.’
‘She told you about her dating drama then?’ Angela dropped into the spare seat on the opposite side of the table with a cheery smile. A cheery smile that vanished as soon as she registered my expression. ‘What? What did I say?’
Erin laughed happily and ordered another round of cocktails, even though it was Wednesday and even though we still had full glasses in front of us. Oh to be a married PR maven in Manhattan.
‘So, bad date?’ She had the decency to wait until we’d ordered before quizzing me any further, but curiosity finally got the better of her. ‘Tell me everything.’
‘I’m glad my tragic encounters with the opposite sex keep you guys entertained.’ Even though I was thoroughly depressed about my single status, I couldn’t deny that I loved being centre of attention, and when you’re the only single lady at a table full of coupled-up gals, you’re pretty much the star attraction. ‘It was nothing, that Brian guy I met at your birthday party.’
‘The cute geek?’
‘He had glasses, yeah,’ I frowned at the definition. It was a slur against geeks. ‘He wasn’t a geek though. Just an asshole.’
‘Example?’ Angela requested.
‘He didn’t own a TV.’
‘Ouch.’
‘And he said he most closely identified with Kierkegaard.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘And he said women couldn’t understand Ayn Rand.’
‘Strike three,’ Erin said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Hang on, wasn’t Ayn Rand a woman?’ Angela looked confused.
‘She wrote the book Robbie tried to loan Baby in Dirty Dancing,’ Erin replied.
‘You went on a date with the Brooklyn equivalent of Robbie the Creep?’ Angela shook her head sadly. ‘I can’t believe it’s come to this.’
‘Some people matter and some people don’t,’ I confirmed. ‘So, yeah, he wasn’t the one.’
‘Did he at least have an Alfa Romeo?’ Erin couldn’t help herself. ‘That’s my favourite car.’
I coiled a loose chocolate-brown curl around my finger and tried not to think too much about what she’d said when I came in. Did I really look like shit? Maybe my tan had faded a little since I’d gotten back from LA, and my hair could use the teensiest trim, but my Ella Moss sundress was totally cute and everyone loved a gladiator sandal. Another glance at my pedicure confirmed it remained unchipped and I was even wearing mascara. I was officially making an effort. There was no room in my dating timetable for leaving the house looking shitty from here on in. You never knew who was around the corner in this city. Lest we forget, Ryan Reynolds was single now.
‘I feel responsible.’ Erin smiled at the waitress as our food arrived. Prompt and plenty of it. I loved this place. ‘He was at my party, after all. Let me hook you up with one of Thomas’s friends.’
Thomas was Erin’s husband, one of the few Wall Street traders I knew who hadn’t been totally stung in the recession. Not that my address book was teeming with Wall Street traders.
‘Maybe.’ I took a deep breath, readying myself for the inevitable reaction I would get to my next statement. ‘You know, I kinda thought maybe I might give Jeff a call.’
Their choruses of negativity were loud and indecipherable but the general theme seemed to be a no. I sighed and poked at my eggs, suddenly not so hungry any more.
‘Jenny, you know that’s a bad idea.’ The blonde began her practised argument.
‘I know but I need to do it, OK?’
To be fair, it wasn’t as though this wasn’t old ground. Jeff and I used to date, used to live together, but we’d broken up a couple of years earlier when I’d been dumb enough to confess a drunken one-night dalliance and he’d completely flipped. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t ready to take responsibility – yes, technically I’d cheated, but a) I was wasted and b) I’d told him about it right away. But apparently that didn’t help. He didn’t trust me any more and that was even more hurtful than if he’d stopped loving me. Because he hadn’t. And knowing that was the worst.
‘Jeff is the past, Jeff is bad times, Jeff is staggering around at four a.m. singing “Hopelessly Devoted” in every karaoke bar in the East Village.’ She shook her head. ‘Jeff isn’t happening.’
‘But if I just called him,’ I suggested weakly. I was playing to the wrong crowd. ‘Or send, like, a Facebook message?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Angie said, sounding nervous. ‘Really, I wouldn’t get in touch at all.’
I bit my lip. ‘Is that girl still living there?’
It was hardly Angela’s fault, but her boyfriend had the misfortune to live in the same building as my ex. Which of course meant that Angela now lived in the same building as my ex. Awesome.
‘Uh, yep.’ She looked down at her burger and then at the ends of her shiny bob. ‘I need a trim. Shall we see if we can get a trim this afternoon?’
She was about as good at hiding something as Lindsay Lohan was at shoplifting, i.e. not very.
‘Spill.’
She gave me a pained expression before dropping her head to hide her blue eyes behind her hair. ‘They’re engaged. They got engaged.’
If driving into Manhattan had been like taking a breath of fresh air, this was like getting every breath kicked out of me. By a pissed off mule. Onto train tracks just as a train was pulling in. I did the only thing a girl could do with that kind of news. I sank my first bellini and made a pretty good attack on the second.
‘He proposed?’ I asked, twisting the knife that was suddenly wedged in my chest. ‘He got a ring?’
‘I assume so.’ She raised her shoulders up to her ears in a dramatic shrug. ‘Alex told me. He saw them in the lift yesterday and she was wearing a ring.’
‘Alex noticed a girl was wearing a new ring?’ Erin asked. ‘Damn, that guy’s a keeper. You need to lock that down, honey.’
‘One problem at a time,’ I responded, my voice becoming ever so slightly hysterical. ‘He’s definitely engaged? She’s not just some tacky ho who wears jewellery on her wedding finger?’
‘Definitely engaged.’ She held her hands up in front of her. ‘I don’t know any details; please don’t shoot the messenger. Or punch the messenger. Or anything the messenger. Please. I’m sorry.’
In Angie’s defence, my first thought was violence. I really, really wanted to hurt someone. It was a long time since I’d had to pull out a bitch-slap – but I wasn’t above it. What was I supposed to do in this situation? The love of my life had got engaged to someone else. The way I saw it I had three choices. Beg him to take me back, cry myself blind or kill them both. Now begging hadn’t worked in the past, and while I could totally beat that man-stealer down, killing her might be a little far-fetched. Besides, there was a teensy chance that Jeff would hold it against me instead of being won over by the romance of the whole murder thing. Which left crying myself blind. Hmm.
No, I was not going to bawl over brunch. It was not an appropriate sobbing meal. I’d find a quiet spot in Saks to weep over some twelve-hundred-dollar purses later. No, right now, I required a plan. That’s what friends were for. Might not have been in the lyrics to that song, but still, fact.
‘Ladies,’ I gave my friends an affirmative nod, ‘I can’t freak out over this. I’m going old-school Lopez on this shizz. What would Oprah do? I have a great network of people around me, I just need to put it into action, right?’
‘Very sensible of you,’ Angie replied. ‘What can we do?’
This was my forte. Getting over break-ups. Moving on. Having a plan. I could do this. Gut-wrenching, desperate urge to vomit because the man I loved was engaged. To someone else.
‘You,’ I pointed at her with my fork for emphasis, ‘can get me a date. Seriously, Angie, you’re living with some hot-ass guitar boy and you haven’t even once tried to set me up with any of his friends?’
‘All his friends are arses.’ She managed to make the ‘r’ in arses last for a lifetime. ‘Really, don’t make me do this.’
‘It’s done.’ There was no time for refusals. When I was on a mission, I was on a mission. ‘I want a date by Friday night. Which brings me to you,’ I smiled sweetly. ‘Give me a job. Any job. Seriously, you must have something? Anything.’
While Angela flicked through the contacts in her cell phone, pulling a face at each and every one, Erin looked to the heavens for an answer.
‘OK, there’s something.’ She was making pretty much the same face as Angela. ‘But it’s not styling. I mean, it’s fashion but it’s really events management.’
‘I can manage events.’ I slapped the table so hard, the lid popped off the ketchup pot. ‘For real, I’m awesome at events. I was a concierge, for Christ’s sake, what’s that if it’s not organizing? Tell me everything.’
‘I guess.’ She didn’t look quite convinced. ‘We’re working with this new design house, Boyd & Norrell, and they’ve managed to bag Sadie Nixon as their spokesperson.’
‘The model?’
‘The supermodel,’ Erin corrected. ‘The Victoria’s Secret model, the Maybelline spokeswoman and, if rumour has it right, the world’s biggest asshole.’
‘Nope, I went on a date with that guy last night,’ I reminded her. ‘So she’s a difficult model. They’re all difficult; that’s what happens when all you eat is one packet of Nutrasweet in seven years. What do you need me to do?’
‘I need someone to handle her for the showcase we’re running on Friday.’ She took out her own phone and pulled up an email. ’I’ve just forwarded you the details. You pick her up at the hotel, bring her to the event, make sure she’s there for fittings, feed her, water her, Nutrasweet her, whatever, and make sure she doesn’t do anything crazy until she’s off the clock for the client.’
Now, it seemed like a ‘famous last words’ kind of a situation, but really, how hard could it be? I was great with people and I loved fashion. Hang out with a model all day for money? Yes please. And the more demanding the better – the less time I had to sulk right now, the better.
‘I always need extra hands for events,’ Erin said. ‘But really, it’s no fun. It’s a lot of pressure, a lot of stress, and people are, for the most part, dicks. Including me.’
‘Dude,’ I placed a hand over hers, dodging the rocks. ‘I have seen you at your dickiest and I am not afraid.’
‘Dude,’ she turned her hand over to give mine a squeeze. ‘You have no idea.’
After lunch, Erin took a cab to work and Angela and I took the subway back to Williamsburg. If my days as a slacker were numbered, I wanted to slack as much as humanly possible. And where else to do it but the slacker capital of the world? Angie could try and pass them off as hipsters and artists as much as she liked, but all I could see were two dozen thirty-year-old white boys in too tight jeans, sponging off mommy and daddy. I wondered if any of them were single. Once we were in possession of vomit-inducing ice-cream cones, we took to the bench outside the ice-cream parlour to watch Bedford Avenue’s crazies pass us by.
‘You really all right about the whole Jeff thing?’ Angela asked. “I didn’t know if you were just putting on a brave face for Erin.’
‘She has been known to be less than tolerant about my Jeff issues,’ I acknowledged. ‘But what can I do? I guess maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet?’
She gave me her best sympathetic expression. It was kind of ruined by the chocolate ice cream on her nose, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. ‘Maybe it’s for the best, you know,’ she suggested. ‘You can finally draw a line under it.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ I couldn’t start talking about it here. Because the moment it did actually sink in, there was every chance I’d have a complete emotional meltdown and I was really hoping to keep that between me, a pinot noir and my Vampire Diaries DVD. Ian Somerhalder made the hurt go away.
‘So, names, Facebook profiles, phone numbers. And don’t think anyone’s not good enough. For the first time ever, my standards are officially way low.’
‘Honestly, Jenny, even when after that time you ate all my Ben & Jerry’s, drank every bottle of wine in the house and broke my MacBook searching for gay porn, I wouldn’t have set you up with a single one of Alex’s friends. The ones that show any sign of humanity are already coupled up and the others are either gross, gay or evil.’
‘I’ll take evil,’ I rationalized. ‘Evil might be hot.’
‘You want evil? Is that on your Match.com profile?’ Angie messed with the fraying seams of her purse to avoid making eye contact with the guy who had paused in front of us. Although, if you asked me, wearing tiny Seventies running shirts, a tuxedo shirt and a bow tie meant you wanted to be looked at. I didn’t know how she could live in this crazy neighbourhood.
‘I’m looking for cute and smart and funny and awesome, but that’s kinda hard to come by,’ I replied. ‘But we all know it’s easier to find a man if you have a man. And you know I don’t have a Match.com profile. Too depressing.’
‘So, cute, smart, funny and awesome,’ Angela checked off the qualities on her spare hand. ‘Anything else while I’m taking notes?’
‘Tall would be nice,’ I closed my eyes and conjured up my dream guy. ‘Blond. Tan. Handsome but, you know, like in a goofy way? Maybe he has crooked teeth or something?’
‘But nothing that would push him out of the handsome category?’
‘Oh god no,’ I said, my eyes still closed. ‘I don’t know, maybe he’d be an architect or something. Or a teacher. Something he was passionate about.’
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