Lindsey Kelk 8-Book ‘I Heart’ Collection: I Heart New York, I Heart Hollywood, I Heart Paris, I Heart Vegas, I Heart London, I Heart Christmas, I Heart Forever, I Heart Hawaii

CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning, I woke up just as suddenly as I’d fallen asleep. Having more or less passed out, I hadn’t drawn the curtains and August’s sweaty sunlight streamed through my window, demanding I get up immediately. In one hand was a half melted cookie and in the other, the remote control. Friends was still playing on the TV. I was more or less sure that it was a different episode … According to the clock on the nightstand, it was Monday, eight a.m. and my first full day in New York. I rolled out of bed, trying not to look in the mirror, and took a glance out of the window. Union Square was already buzzing. The subway station was swarming with people and a sprawling market had sprung up and taken over. I was just about to hop in the shower, as a knock at the door shook me out of my wow-I’m-really-in-New-York-and-let’s-not-think-about-why trance.

‘Room service,’ a polite, cool voice accompanied the knock and without thinking, I opened the door to easily one of the best looking men I’d ever, ever seen. He was over six feet tall, thick black hair, parted in the middle and falling to his collar, deep doe brown eyes and baby soft olive skin that contrasted sharply with his crisp white collarless shirt. ‘Miss Clark?’

I think I made some sort of noise but it wasn’t really an acknowledgement, so I followed it up with a nod. I knew my face was covered in pillow creases, I still had melted chocolate chip cookie on my right hand and I really, really wanted to be wearing my bra. Which was at least ten feet away from where it needed to be, strewn on the floor by the corner of the bed.

‘Jenny asked me to make sure I brought up everything she would want for breakfast, so that’s pretty much everything on our menu. I’m Joe,’ he pushed a fresh, steaming trolley into the room and quickly swapped it for the ravaged mess Jenny had left last night. ‘She also asked me to give you a note, it’s just there. Enjoy your breakfast.’ He flashed the most amazing smile and strolled out of the room. How was he a hotel waiter? I wondered, lifting lids and taking big sniffs of everything on the trolley. Omelette, not a fan, bacon and eggs, maybe a little early, pancakes, always time for pancakes, and on the bottom shelf, an array of cereals, pastries, hot chocolate, milk and my because-you’re-English tea. I was so thankful.

Post-shower, post-breakfast, post-another episode of Friends, I opened Jenny’s note.

Hey,

Hope you found something you enjoyed, like I said, I’m an eater.

I’ll be in reception at 9.30 a.m. sharp, don’t bail on me or I’ll cut off the room service. Today is the first day of your recovery program with Dr Jenny, I hope you’re ready for it!

Jenny x

p.s. hope you enjoyed Joe too, I bet your ex didn’t bring you pancakes in the morning looking like that …

I laughed out loud, but it sounded so strange. I realized I hadn’t heard myself laugh for a good couple of days. Better than crying. But laughter and hot waiters aside, it was time to face facts. And more terrifyingly, it was time to look in the mirror.

The lighting in The Union had been designed to be as flattering as possible but even low wattage bulbs, soft focus mirrors and twelve hours’ sleep couldn’t repair the damage a break-up could do to your skin. I rummaged around for my make-up bag and emptied the contents out on the bathroom counter. Not a lot to work with. I flicked on some mascara and dabbed gloss onto my lips. Not a lot happening there. And my hair was the same tragic story. I’d been growing it for what seemed like for ever to achieve Louisa’s dream bridesmaids’ chignon, but now it just looked limp and pathetic. I managed a ponytail and hoped for the best. My wardrobe choices were even more limited. Jeans, T-shirt or bridesmaid dress. And I really hoped Jenny would be taking me somewhere I could grab some new underwear, because I was seriously lacking. When I’d decided to take on my great adventure, I figured I had everything I could need. In reality, I had two T-shirts, three pairs of knickers and a bra. And the Louboutins. Sigh. Beautiful. I grabbed my handbag and bit the bullet. It was 9.25, time to meet Jenny in reception.

Jenny was easy enough to spot. The reception was just as dark and cool as it had been last night, but Jenny glowed in a corner, leaning against the concierge desk in a flirty lemon sundress and delicate gold flip-flops. I felt like her grandmother. And I hadn’t noticed how impossibly long her legs were last night. Maybe this wasn’t a great person to befriend mid-break-up … Before I could bolt for the door, she saw me and beckoned me over.

‘See!’ she said to the girl behind the counter. Another glowing goddess, this one decked out in the concierge uniform of black collarless shirt and trousers. ‘She’s real! She’s a total hero!’

‘Wow,’ the girl breathed, staring at me. I felt like a museum exhibit from a 1997 Eastenders set. A ponytail? I thought I could get away with wet hair in a ponytail? ‘You’re like, a total inspiration. You rock. I’m Vanessa.’

I smiled awkwardly. I rocked?

‘Hi,’ I said to them both, trying not to think about whether or not I had muffin top. ‘I wasn’t sure what we were doing so I wasn’t sure what to wear.’ According to the mirror behind Vanessa, I did have muffin top.

‘You’re dressed fine,’ Jenny said waving away my concerns and taking my arm. I waved goodbye to Vanessa, but instead of heading to the door, we were moving towards the lift. ‘Today is phase one of your transformation.’

‘Transformation?’ I asked. We slipped into the lift and Jenny pressed a button labelled Rapture Spa. Did I look that bad?

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Rule one after a major break-up, you must submit yourself to complete and utter pampering. Welcome to Rapture.’

The lift doors opened on a large airy space, the complete opposite of the hotel reception. It was flooded with light and smelt of citrus and vanilla. Dozens of serene looking beauticians wandered around in pale blue tunics laughing and joking, carrying salon sized bottles of shampoo, massage oils and bundles of towels. Motown played on the PA system, low but loud enough to sing along to. One of the girls spotted us and waved us over. She was tiny with jet black hair pulled back in a severe bun, emphasizing ridiculously sharp cheekbones and beautiful lips Angelina Jolie would need Restylene to achieve.

‘Hi!’ She and Jenny kissed briefly on each cheek and then the girl pulled back and looked at me. ‘This has got to be her, right?’

Jenny nodded. ‘Angela Clark, meet Gina Fox, our hottest beautician. She’s going to make you over from head to toe. Sound good?’

Without giving me time to respond, Gina took my hand and walked me through the spa, past reception and back towards a large locker room area. ‘Jenny told us about your break-up honey, you’re amazing.’ She gestured towards one of the pale blue robes and I guessed I was supposed to get undressed. ‘But when you break-up with someone, you got to make some changes. You heard the saying “Wash that man right outta your hair”? Well, I’m going to cut him out of yours.’

Jenny was picking at a plate of brownies on the bar by the doorway. ‘I think a cute little bob, something classic,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of pecans.

Gina spun me around and considered my hair from every angle. ‘Great cheekbones, a bob would look good. A few highlights, maybe …’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’m a highlights kind of a girl,’ I stuttered, starting to panic. Highlights sounded very white jeans and glittery vest top, not very me.

Gina looked at me sharply and then back at Jenny. ‘Is she going to give me trouble?’ she asked.

Jenny shook her head quickly. ‘Uh-uh, just go easy on the girl, Gina. She’s been through some stuff.’ She bagged another brownie.

I sat down in a shampoo chair and let Gina snap a ‘before’ picture on a Rapture branded camera. As she lathered me up, I mentally congratulated myself on washing it already this morning, it really had been a big skanky mess.

‘So, honey,’ Gina said, ‘tell us about yourself.’

‘Well,’ The hairwashing chair had an amazing in-built back massager that was pummeling me into soggy submission, ‘I’m a writer, sort of, I write the books of children’s films and TV shows and stuff.’

‘Really? That sounds fun,’ Gina said moving on to work the shampoo through. Ouch, a touch too harsh. ‘Anything we’d know?’

‘Maybe,’ I muttered, giving in as Gina began to knead my scalp. ‘I’ve worked on pretty much any kids’ film that’s been out in the last five years, big green ogres, radioactive spiders, talking turtles.’

‘Fun!’ She nodded, pushing her knuckles into my temples.

Oooohhhh.

‘At first it is, but you know, after a while a job’s a job.’

‘So, what do you want to do?’ Jenny piped up from the next shampooing chair. ‘If you could do anything, what would it be?’

‘I don’t know,’ I purred, giving in to the wonderful conditioning massage. ‘I guess I’d be a proper writer, you know, write my own stuff. I just never had time for it before.’

‘You’ve got time for it now,’ Jenny said. It sounded as if she was back on the brownies. All I knew about this woman so far was that she was the nicest kind of bully and she ate more than anyone I knew, even though her waist was about the circumference of my left thigh. ‘You’re not on deadline now, right?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I don’t have anything at the moment.’

‘So, stay, write,’ she said while Gina wrapped my head in a towel and guided me over to the styling station. ‘You’re in New York, it’s like, the best place on earth to be a writer. There are a million books inspired by Manhattan.’

Gina snorted. ‘Name one Jenny Lopez, and I will give you a hundred dollars, right now.’

‘Yeah, so technically, I’m not a reader,’ Jenny made bunny ear quotations in the air. ‘But I have to immerse myself in my subject. I read a lot of self-help books.’

‘If you mean you buy a lot of self-help books and leave them littered around our apartment, then yes, I guess you do,’ Gina said.

‘So, you live together?’ I asked, trying to diffuse the daggers Jenny was glaring at Gina. Must be a fun old time in that house.

‘We do until Gina leaves me on Wednesday,’ Jenny pretended to sob. ‘I can’t believe you’re ditching me just to be manager of a salon.’

Gina started to comb my hair straight down and flip the parting, centre, left, right, back to centre. ‘Yeah, sure, just some salon. Not manager of the first international outpost of Rapture in Paris. You’ll live, Jenny,’ she said, looking at me in the mirror. When she relaxed she actually looked as if she could be fun and not just some impeccably groomed beauty terrorist. ‘So, Angie, what else do you like? Music, theatre, self-help books?’

‘Whatever,’ Jenny interrupted. ‘I think it’s interesting that you answered the question “tell us about yourself” with information about your job. You think you spend too much time working and not enough working on other areas of your life?’

‘You think, Dr Phil?’ said Gina, saving me from having to come up with a response. ‘You are so full of shit sometimes. But seriously, apart from your writing, what else are you into? Music? Fashion? Dog shows?’

‘I do love music,’ I offered, glad to be back in safe territory. ‘I love live music, gigs and festivals and stuff. And I’ve always had a soft spot for an indie boy. You know, skinny tie, leather jacket, Converse, the whole bit.’

Jenny and Gina were smiling and nodding. ‘Oh yeah, we’ve both been there,’ Jenny said, her eyes misting over slightly. ‘You just need to go down town and shout out some obscure band name. Cute British girl like you? They’ll come running.’

Gina laughed. ‘Yeah, you can totally work that accent. But I’m so too old for that now,’ she said. ‘I’m more into hanging around Wall Street on a Friday evening. I need to meet someone who can take me back to a Park Avenue apartment via Tiffany’s, not a loft in Brooklyn via the free clinic. Oh, I miss my twenties.’

‘Well, I’m twenty-seven in October,’ I said while Gina started to chop away at my hair with her tiny scissors. ‘Doesn’t that make me too old for skinny indie kids?’

‘Nah, you got a good coupla years in you,’ Gina said. ‘But wouldn’t you like someone to take care of you? Some big, strong guy? Worked-out six-pack, black Amex, well dressed. Someone to totally spoil you?’

‘I don’t know, I suppose that wouldn’t be a bad thing. My – ex – was a city boy but he wasn’t exactly what you’d call worked out. And he was totally tight,’ I said slowly. ‘I’ve never even really looked at boys like that. I didn’t think I was a proper grown-up I suppose. Isn’t that tragic?’

‘Well, you’ve got to stop calling them “boys” for a start, Angie,’ Jenny chipped in. ‘You want a man. Maybe even a couple of men.’

‘Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Someone who actually weighs more than me … Oh God, no, I’m too old for all that dating nonsense. I can’t imagine actually doing it. God, I’m going to have to start dating at twenty-six.’ I couldn’t quite believe it.

Jenny shook her head. ‘I wish my next birthday was twenty-seven. I’m thirty next July.’ She dropped her head onto the arm of my chair. ‘Can you believe it? I can’t turn thirty without achieving any of my life’s ambitions.’

‘But your life’s ambitions are to meet Oprah, get a job with Oprah, make friends with all of Oprah’s friends then slowly usurp Oprah in the hearts of the nation,’ Gina said. There was a lot of hair on my shoulders and a whole lot more on the floor. ‘So far, you’ve read Oprah’s books, bought Oprah’s magazines, watched Oprah’s show and pissed off all your friends by talking constantly about Oprah.’

‘Yes, but they are all important steps on becoming the next heart of the nation. And obviously, a billionaire.’ Jenny looked resolute. ‘What are your life’s ambitions, honey?’

I thought hard for a moment.

‘I don’t think I have any,’ I said. ‘Maybe I would like to have an original book published or have a column in a magazine or something. I don’t know, that stuff isn’t easy.’

‘But you can absolutely do it,’ Jenny said, pulling a pad and pen out of her handbag. ‘You just have to get organized. Let’s make a list. God, I love this!’

Gina pulled strands of my hair down to my chin to check the lengths. ‘Jesus, you’ve created a monster. Never give that girl a project.’ She tapped Jenny’s pad with her scissors. ‘Now no talking, I’m about to blow this baby out.’

Twenty minutes later I had a beautiful, chin-length swishy bob with a sweeping fringe, cutting across my right cheekbone. It looked grown-up but cute, stylish but not try hard. I doubted it would look this great ever again.

‘Now,’ Gina said scooping out a thumbnail of waxy looking product. ‘We have options, depending on what you decide to do with your life. What you’re looking at now is Park Avenue Princess. You could walk into any of the publishers right now and demand a book deal – super sophisticated.’ Jenny was nodding enthusiastically.

‘But now …’ Gina rubbed the wax into the palms of her hands and then attacked my hair, pushing it over the front of my head and raking her fingers through every section. When she flicked it all back, the smooth bob had given way to a choppy, layered, messed up look. Something I had tried to achieve in the past and just ended up looking as though I’d slept with wet hair. ‘Now you are ready to go and rock the Lower East Side with the rest of the hipsters. You like?’

‘Thank you,’ I muttered, so so happy. ‘I didn’t even know my hair could look this good.’ I couldn’t stop touching it, just tiny pinches at the ends in case too much contact made it poof … disappear.

‘I don’t want to see you with a hair out of place from now on.’ Gina stared me down and for a moment I thanked the managers of Rapture Paris.

‘OK, Angie honey, grab your bag. I’m taking that cute do of yours out on the town.’ Jenny forced down a final half brownie and pulled me out of the chair.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, letting Gina comb out some of the volume, returning to somewhere in between the sleek bob and the crazy chop. ‘Because I’m not really dressed for –’

Jenny took my hand and gave me a look you might give an elderly relative who thinks it’s still 1947. ‘Sweetness, that’s exactly why we’re going where we’re going.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Bloomingdale’s.

I’d heard of it, I’d seen the little brown bags but I hadn’t ever really thought about going there. In the cab, Jenny had briefed me on what we were looking for. She’d started my new life plan during my blow dry and the first thing we needed was to get properly kitted out for a stay in New York City. It just so happened to tie-in to Jenny’s number two rule on how to handle a major break-up. Buy yourself a new everything.

Now, I had shopped. Tackled TopShop Oxford Circus on a Friday evening, been elbow deep in the Selfridges’ sale, found diamond buys on Portobello Market, but this was a completely different beast. After a quick appraisal of my existing make-up (not enough) and a short description of my make-up bag (sheer revulsion) and confirmation that my credit limit wasn’t really an issue as long as we weren’t being silly, Jenny decided we would start on the ground floor, in cosmetics. She hit the MAC counter with all the determination of a cross-Channel swimmer. Within seconds I was sitting in another stylist’s chair being stripped of the basic make-up I’d slapped on that morning by Razor.

Razor was the most charming man with a mohawk I’d ever had the pleasure to meet. His make-up was amazing, and quite frankly, what he could do with eyeliner put me to shame.

‘So we need a proper base to even out the red skin tone, you’re very pale, doll, and then we’ll work with a blush – maybe an apricot for day and something pinker for night-time? Then we’ll do a bit of a workshop on your eyes. Since you’re fairly new to this, we’ll leave lips for another day and just hook you up with a few neutrals. Maybe a classic red if you’re feeling brave,’ he said amid a flurry of sponges, brushes, tubes and tubs.

‘We can do lips today,’ I said meekly, feeling bad for being so pale and letting Razor down. ‘I know I’m not wearing a lot today but I do like make-up, I do wear it quite a lot.’

Razor and Jenny exchanged a doubtful glance. ‘Take hold of this eyeliner brush for me, sweetness,’ Razor suggested, holding it out like a golden sceptre. I took it from him and looked at it quizzically.

‘This is for eyeliner? I suppose I only really use pencils,’ I said thoughtfully, tilting my head because I was too afraid to move the brush. Not a problem, because Razor snatched it out of my hand before I could even try to apply it to my face.

‘Yeah, I think we’ll just start with the basics,’ he said sweetly, patting my shoulder. I think it was supposed to be comforting but really, it wasn’t. Nonetheless, within thirty minutes, I had a face to match my new do. My skin glowed, my eyes were smoky and wide and my lips, as promised, neutral and easy to touch up. Jenny was busy playing with some fluro green eyeshadow when Razor announced I was done with a dramatic, ta-da. He looked as if his pedigree puppy had won first prize at Crufts.

‘Wow,’ Jenny said, not really smiling but taking in my makeover with complete seriousness. ‘Razor, this is amazing. And Angie! You look gorgeous!’

And even if it was just for that moment, I really felt it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d actually bought new make-up.

‘I’ll take all of it,’ I said hurriedly before I had time to think about it. Razor was carefully talking me through every bottle, every brush, every palette and tossing in ‘how to’ sheets so I could at least attempt it at home, but I was too excited and pressed my plastic into his hand. Soon, I was $250 down and a medium brown bag of MAC up. And it felt good.

As we strolled through the hall, Jenny stopped at various counters, picking out ‘essentials’ I couldn’t be without. Soon we both had very full bags and enough make-up to do the faces of every guest in The Union.

‘I need perfume,’ I said as we passed by the Chanel counter. ‘I’ve been wearing the same perfume for the last ten years. Mar – my ex used to buy it for me every Christmas,’ I explained, ‘and I don’t ever want to smell it again.’

Jenny hugged me, wrapping her arms and brown paper bags all the way around my neck. ‘You’re getting it now,’ she said steering me towards Chanel. ‘Angela Clark, by the end of today, I’ll have made a New Yorker out of you. It’s got to be No. 5 and then some lunch.’

By the time I’d put away a chicken club sandwich and Diet Coke and Jenny had packed in a burger, fries and yet another chocolate brownie, I’d discovered that she was a true New Yorker born and bred, she had moved to the city after college to follow her dream of becoming the next Oprah. After a summer off in California, she had taken a job as a waitress in a big tourist hotel restaurant back in NYC to ‘study her medium’ (I think she meant people) but was accidentally so good that she was soon headhunted to move on to the reception desk. When The Union had opened the previous spring, she’d applied for a concierge position to improve her contacts. The boutique hotel apparently attracted a lot of young celebrities, generally blonde, tanned and emaciated or butch, gorgeous and gay. She now considered herself the best connected amateur psychologist in New York, a position that afforded her entrance to the best clubs and restaurants and the personal mobile phone numbers of several Hollywood starlets, and, more importantly, their agents.

‘So how come you’re not plastered all over the TV yet?’ I asked, dipping a spoon into her brownie. It was delicious.

‘Haven’t had my break yet,’ she shrugged. ‘The average agent doesn’t have the power to get a nobody like me a chat show. You have to be Tyra Banks to walk into something like that.’

She was so pretty, so lovely and so bloody determined, it seemed crazy that she wasn’t on the front cover of every magazine in the country. ‘You’ll get there,’ I smiled, pushing the last spoonful of brownie over to her. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before, honestly. You’ve done an amazing job of sorting me out. I would be sitting on the sofa in three-day-old pyjamas, eating ice cream and crying at Living TV if I were at home.’

‘Well, you’re going to take more than one day, a haircut and some make-up, but we’ll get there,’ she grinned, scooping up dessert. ‘God, you haven’t even been to Soho yet. I’ve got a whole plan for you, doll. Do you think you could let this interfering yank take you through Angela Clark version two?’

‘I don’t have anything better to do,’ I laughed. It was so weird to be taken in hand by someone I had met twenty-four hours ago, and, for some reason, it made perfect sense. I already felt as if I’d known Jenny all my life and being with her in New York made London and Mark feel a very long way away and a very long time ago.

After lunch we moved on to the very important job of creating my new wardrobe. A quick run around the fourth floor and three armloads of clothes later, I was ordered into a changing room while Jenny and two assistants appeared intermittently with racks and racks of clothes. Soon I was clad in beautiful 7 for All Mankind skinny jeans that made even my short legs look sexy (according to Jenny) and a flared pair of J Brands that I could dress down with my Converse and an old T-shirt, or dress up with my Louboutins (according to Jenny). One of the helpful and definitely on commission assistants declared that, despite my legs being a little on the short side, they were a good shape and as such, should be on display. Excitingly, I found out I was just a size 8 in America, reason enough to hang around a couple of weeks at least. She had brought in a whole rail of bum-skimmingly short dresses before we both accepted that I would never be able to walk more than ten yards down the road without pulling them down. After that, we added a couple of inches to the length and I relented on a cute blue French Connection jersey dress, a gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs printed smock and several stunning bits from Ella Moss and Splendid – T-shirt dresses so soft they felt like clouds! I had no idea. Primark was over for me in that instant. Several C&C California T-shirts and a couple of pairs of shorts and easy to wear skirts later, we moved on to evening wear.

‘So, for dates … I’m thinking something flirty but fun? Classic though. And easy to wear. You can’t be sexy if you don’t feel good.’ Jenny sent the assistants scurrying across the shop floor with another flick of her wrist. I stood in my pants, peeping round the corner of the slatted wooden door waiting for the next rack of clothes. And in no time they arrived. Vera Wang Lavender. Tory Burch. Nanette Lepore. DVF. 3.1. phillip lim. Paul & Joe Sister. More Marc Jacobs. This was so much fun.

‘What are you wearing right now?’ Jenny asked loudly through the door.

‘Nothing?’ I replied, slipping out of a gorgeous Marc by Marc Jacobs printed silk halter dress. ‘Underwear?’

‘I have a horrible feeling I ought to take a look at that too.’

Jenny’s level of horror raised to orange alert when she saw my M&S heart print boy shorts and mismatched bra. Then she went a funny pink colour when I admitted that I didn’t exactly know what bra size I was.

‘It’s just not OK,’ she said, shaking her head and snatching up several styles and sizes. ‘Do you want your rack around your knees at forty?’ I was pushed back into my new natural habitat of the changing room, armed with balconettes, backless, strapless, plunge, soft, full cup and half cup bras.

Before my credit card company could know what had happened, I was up another floor buying flip-flops, flats and full-on heels to match all my outfits. Despite Jenny’s insistence that gladiator sandals were the shoe of the season, I couldn’t help but feel as if they were more my great aunt Agatha than me and eventually, she let it go. But the ballet pumps, the Havaianas and two pairs of wedges were coming with us.

We headed back down through the store, laden with bags – big, medium and little – I had spent more than a month’s income in only four hours but I was too happy at the teeny tiny numbers on the labels (a SIX on one of them!) to feel any buyer’s remorse, (even if it was just a ten in translation). Riding back down to the ground floor, I adopted the official lift position as Jenny fannied around in her handbag. Clutch purchases, do not make eye contact with fellow lift riders, stare straight ahead. But instead of seeing myself in the mirrored doors, I saw someone completely different. Not different like Louisa’s wedding day (just me with more make-up and elaborate hair) but glossy different. My hair swished as I turned my head slightly, Razor’s make-up had given me huge Bambi eyes and just-bitten lips, and the thrill of spending more than an entire month’s mortgage payment on clothes and slap had given me a giddy flush that I just couldn’t get from any blusher. But I knew I had several different versions of the stuff in my bag to give it a good go back at the hotel.

‘Come on, we’re so gonna struggle to get a cab at this time,’ Jenny muttered as the doors slid open, taking my lovely new reflection with them. ‘Were you checking yourself out?’

‘Yes?’

‘Good girl,’ Jenny said catching hold of my arm and dragging me out of my New Favourite Place in the Whole World.

So what if I was now officially broke. Why else did I have an emergency credit card? And I was stylishly broke at least. Plus I was too busy staring up and down Lexington Avenue really to think about it. Everywhere was too busy, too hot and too noisy but it was amazing to me. Looking right, I swam in the endless downtown view afforded by the New York grid system, channels framed by skyscrapers rising high into the sky. To the left, dozens of honking, screeching cabs and searing sunshine contributed to the glowing heat haze rising up and distorting the air. I thought it was beautiful.

‘How far do you think you can walk before you pass out?’ Jenny asked, nudging me out of my daydream.

‘Maybe fifteen minutes?’ I wasn’t sure if it was really a question or a challenge. I really, really didn’t feel like walking.

‘Then we should do as much of this on foot as we can.’ She nodded to the crossing and threw herself into the traffic. ‘Come on, Angie!’

We marched across the road and then down the block, across another road, straight over Park Avenue and ever onwards, crossing Madison. Dragging my precious bags behind me, my fifteen minutes of walking time were quickly wasting away.

‘I just wanted to make it to Fifth,’ Jenny yelled, holding out her arm, as we crossed for the last time. ‘Let’s get a cab.’

If it was humanly possible, the cab ride through Manhattan was even more exciting than the ride into the city. We cruised down Fifth Avenue, whizzing for five blocks then crashing to a stop at a red light, with my bags, my head and my stomach crashing into the partition between us and the driver more than once. Every time we stopped it was outside another landmark. St Patrick’s Cathedral rose up amongst all the shops, so totally out of place, like putting a Brownie hut next to Harvey Nicks, but here in New York, it just seemed to make perfect sense. I couldn’t help but think, as we passed the lions roaring out in front of the huge public library, that if all libraries had giant lions outside, people might read more. Or at least rock up to have their picture taken on their backs.

‘Hey, do you see the Empire State Building?’ Jenny pointed out of my window to an inconspicuous looking building by the side of us. I couldn’t see anything but a huge queue of people, even when I pressed my head right up against the window of the cab and recoiling only when I saw the nasty, greasy marks left by a previous passenger.