I Heart Vegas

  I don’t want to leave you, the voice in my head reminded me. I really was bad at this.

  ‘Let me guess – it was Jenny’s idea?’ Alex leaned back against the sofa and laughed. His socks didn’t match. ‘It’s maybe dumb enough. Just.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked. Why didn’t his socks match? The laundrette always bundled them together. They always bundled mine together.

  ‘Ahh, come on, Angela,’ he sighed. ‘Don’t make me say it. I know she’s your friend, but that girl does nothing but cause trouble. She’s a disaster. Whatever she tells you to do, you should just do the opposite.’

  ‘So we’re going to talk about Jenny instead of talking about us?’ Cliff was getting right on my tits. Where was that laptop? ‘Jenny is not the problem. But for the record, she is not a disaster. If this is about Jeff, I think you’ll find he’s the fuck-up there.’

  Another excellent use of the term ‘fuck-up’. I liked that it was a verb and a noun.

  ‘He’s the one who came to her. He’s the one who suggested they get married.’ I was really on a roll. The little sensible and so often ignored voice in my mind tried to remind me we were supposed to be talking about us, but I couldn’t help myself. I was genuinely very pissed off at Jeff. ‘And then he was the one who freaked out the next day and asked her to pretend it never happened. You can’t do that. Just because you’ve got cold feet, you can’t mess around with someone who loves you. You can’t mess about with someone’s emotions because it suits you.’

  Alex narrowed his eyes. ‘What, like you did?’

  Colour me stunned. I felt all the blood drain out of my face and my heart started to pound. ‘What?’

  ‘You can’t sit there and kick Jeff’s ass for taking advantage of someone who “loves him”.’ A very unwelcome use of air quotes was injected into the conversation. ‘When you thought it was a good idea to ask me to marry you, to marry you, Angela, just to get a visa so you can stay here and keep getting into bullshit adventures with your dumb-shit girlfriend.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’ I stood up. I wasn’t sure why. ‘Honestly?’

  ‘That’s what you said.’ He placed a lot of emphasis on the end of the sentence. In all honesty I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d said, but I was fairly certain I wouldn’t have mentioned bullshit adventures with my dumb-shit girlfriend. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t have a dumb-shit girlfriend. I did, however, have a dumb-shit boyfriend. ‘Call me crazy,’ he said, ‘but all I have to go on are the things you say to me. I’m not a mind reader.’

  And wasn’t that just half the problem? Men and women really were a different species. Jenny and I were legitimately telepathic, whether it was a life-altering crisis or just knowing when the other wanted ice cream. But Alex was just going on the actual words that had come out of my mouth? Bloody hell. No wonder he was confused.

  ‘Can we just leave Jenny out of it for a minute?’ I said, trying not to stand on an iPod Nano while making my point. It was not easy. ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘No, we can’t,’ Alex replied, standing up without nearly as much concern for the Christmas presents. He definitely trod on at least two Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bags. ‘Because she’s an asshole. And she makes you an asshole.’

  ‘I’m an asshole now?’ Fantastic. I was shouting. I was mad. We were officially having a row and I was no longer in control of my mouth in any way. ‘Well thank God we didn’t get married.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ he shouted back and stalked into the kitchen. ‘You know, all the way home on the plane I was thinking, maybe I can just pretend it didn’t happen. Maybe I can just go on with the plan, but you know what, I can’t. I won’t be used. I’m not having this shit again.’

  He opened and slammed a couple of kitchen cabinets before turning around and looking at me with an expression I had never seen before and never wanted to see again. He looked sad. He looked angry. He looked like there was nothing I could say that would change his mind. He looked heartbroken.

  ‘Again?’ I was too angry to cry but too scared to be angry. I really needed to see him smile. To see anything but that face. ‘Used? Alex, this is getting out of hand. Can we calm down?’

  ‘It got out of hand already.’ His shoulders dropped and he turned to walk into the bathroom. ‘I don’t want to talk to you right now. I can’t talk to you right now.’

  The door shut hard and loud then I heard the lock click and the water run. In a complete state of shock, I stood in the middle of Christmageddon, listening to ‘Last Christmas’ and trying not to cry. I picked up the house phone and pressed the speed-dial.

  Jenny answered on the first ring.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked through a mouthful of something.

  ‘I need to come over,’ I whispered. I didn’t trust my voice with any volume. ‘Now.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked, immediately alert. ‘Should I come get you?’

  ‘I’ll get a cab,’ I replied, never taking my eyes off the bathroom door.

  ‘Angie, are you OK?’ Jenny repeated. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I felt my eyes tear up and my voice wobbled. ‘But it’s not OK. I’m on my way.’

  Hanging up, I spotted my laptop hidden underneath a copy of The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, slapped it shut and picked it up. The bathroom was still locked. I rested my fingers against the light wood door and waited for a moment. I couldn’t hear anything but running water. Leaving the apartment seemed so ridiculous, but staying felt impossible. I was too scared of what he might say when he came out. I couldn’t lie beside him without talking it out, and I couldn’t talk it out without one of us getting angry. So I did the only thing I knew to do when things were going badly.

  I ran away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘And then what did he say?’

  Jenny was sitting on the sofa, combing her fingers through my hair while I sprawled on the hardwood floor, a Corona in one hand, a spoonful of New York Super Chunk in the other. To my left was the emergency bag of Monster Munch I kept at Jenny’s. To my right was an open bottle of wine. Jenny had drunk all the tequila before I got there, so we were punctuating beers with shots of Sauvignon Blanc.

  For the first hour, I’d done nothing but cry. Face down on the sofa, trying not to throw up. After that we moved on to senseless, tearful babbling. We had now reached the part of the evening where I tried to override my suicidal tendencies by overloading my brain with delicious food and as much booze as it took for me to pass out. Two beers and half a bottle of white was the optimum amount of break-up booze to start telling the story without breaking down at every other word. I wasn’t too drunk to censor it slightly; telling Jenny the things Alex had said about her wasn’t going to help here. I wanted to go home, not to his funeral, and mentioning the words ‘dumb-shit’ in relation to Ms Lopez was tantamount to taking a hit out on Mr Reid.

  ‘He said he didn’t want to be used again,’ I choked, pausing to regulate my breathing before knocking back the beer bottle.

  Since my phone was in a bin somewhere in the De Lujo hotel, I couldn’t even stare at it and wait for him to ring.

  ‘Used again?’ Jenny snatched up a crisp, popped it in her mouth then made a face. Before taking another. ‘I’m confused. When was the last time you used him?’

  ‘I don’t think he meant me.’

  If only beer bottles were crystal balls. And why didn’t Bed, Bath and Beyond sell magic mirrors? Didn’t they fall into the ‘beyond’ category?

  ‘The French Bitch?’ Jenny asked. She was referring to Alex’s less than pleasant ex. Cici Spencer aside, I tried not to speak badly of other women, but Alex’s last girlfriend? Now there was a female human being who had worked hard to deserve her given moniker. As far as I was concerned, she was going to that special circle of hell reserved for Hitler, Justin Bieber and the man who invented high-waisted jeans.

  ‘I guess so?’ My beer refused to show me what Alex
was doing, no matter how hard I stared, so I drank it instead. ‘Maybe I should call him. He knows I don’t have a phone.’

  ‘And he knows where you are,’ Jenny replied. ‘He’s probably freaking out just as much as you are. You did the right thing. Hanging around after an argument like that when you’re both tired and emotional? You only end up saying stupid things that you can’t take back.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ I pouted. So much for Jenny always giving bad advice, Alex.

  ‘Now he has time to cool down, think about what he said. He’ll realize he isn’t mad at you. He’ll call tomorrow.’

  ‘He will call tomorrow,’ I repeated until I was almost convinced, literally sitting on my hands to stop myself from picking up Jenny’s house phone. And then I remembered the look on his face and my confidence wavered. ‘He’ll call.’

  Three days later, Alex hadn’t called.

  After radio silence for the first twenty-four hours, I had called and left a voicemail. Nothing. The longer it went on, the more impossible it seemed to get in a cab, go home and talk to him. On the second day, Jenny got in a cab with me, but the apartment was empty. The glittery landfill that was my wrapping station was exactly as I’d left it, and the only evidence that Alex had been there at all was a scattering of record sleeves by the turntable, an empty pizza box and several dozen empty beer bottles. A half-full carton of fries on the coffee table had been filled up with cigarette butts. Alex never smoked unless he was incredibly stressed or in France. I really hoped he wasn’t in France. Jenny’s reassuring expression slipped as I tiptoed around the place, afraid I’d break something that wasn’t mine.

  ‘Do you want to stay until he comes home?’ she asked. ‘I’ll wait with you.’

  But I didn’t want to stay. I was scared. Instead, I picked out some clothes, grabbed some toiletries and left, careful not to take too much. I was coming back, I told myself. I was absolutely coming back.

  I’d hoped he would notice the subtle cues that said I’d been in the apartment. My moisturizer was gone from the glass shelf by the bathroom mirror. I’d taken my ever-present notebook from the bedside table. His Blondie T-shirt that I always slept in came out from under my pillow and went into my bag. I wanted him to see these things and call me, come for me. But he didn’t. At four a.m. that morning, wide awake in Jenny’s bed, I realized he wasn’t going to call.

  It had been a tough couple of days for both of us. Jenny was breaking her neck over her job and breaking her heart over Jeff. Since returning to New York, she hadn’t seen Jeff or Sigge. It wasn’t for the want of trying on Sigge’s part, at least. He’d been calling non-stop, but so far Jenny had put him off with cries of late nights in the office and a prolonged post-Vegas migraine. He was buying it for now, but we had no idea how long it would last. Jeff, on the other hand, was a mess. With only two weeks to go until his scheduled New Year’s Eve wedding, he still hadn’t called it off. Jenny had seen a lawyer and confirmed their Vegas trip up the aisle wasn’t legal and didn’t even need annulling. Jeff had seen a bartender and confirmed nothing other than the imminent need for a liver transplant. At three a.m. we got the angry phone call. At four a.m., we got the tears. By ten a.m., I was signing for the flowers with their handwritten apology. But still he hadn’t called off the wedding, and still Jenny wasn’t ready to talk to him. It scared me to think Alex could ever be as mad at me as she was at Jeff.

  Instead of waking up someone who was self-medicating just to get to sleep, I wandered into the front room and opened the blinds. New York was never that dark, even at four a.m. The room was lit up by the lights of Lexington Avenue, taxis racing up and down, people running in and out of the deli, stumbling out of the diner. If you lay down on the sofa and pushed yourself right back into the corner of the cushions, you could see the Chrysler Building.

  When I first got here, that was enough to put a smile on my face, no matter what was happening, and I was heartbroken then, wasn’t I? But this wasn’t the same. The last time, I felt betrayed. It was as though everything I’d ever known had just gone away. But this was different. If I lost Alex, I wasn’t losing everything I’d ever known, I was losing everything I ever wanted. He was my future, not my past. At least, I hoped he still could be.

  With an uncharacteristic display of action, I picked up the phone and dialled his number. I knew it off by heart now. It rang through and I waited for the click of redirection to voicemail.

  ‘Hello?’

  He’d answered. I had no idea what to say.

  ‘Hello?’ His voice was tired but he was awake. I knew the subtle differences. I knew everything about him. Or I had thought I did.

  ‘I’m hanging up now. Do me a favour and delete my number, OK?’

  ‘It’s me,’ I said hurriedly, stretching out my toes until they tingled. ‘It’s me.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t say anything.

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Jenny’s.’ If only I could have said anywhere else in the world.

  ‘Of course you are,’ Alex replied. ‘It’s four a.m. Can we do this another time?’

  ‘When?’ My heart rose: he wanted to talk. My stomach sank: he didn’t want to talk now.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he said calmly. ‘When I can.’

  He didn’t hang up right away and the sound of his breathing down the line made mine stop altogether. And then I heard the click, the dial tone, silence. The lights on the Chrysler Building blurred before me and I closed my eyes to make the tears go away. Going back to bed would mean moving, and moving would mean crying, so I rolled over, stuffed my face into the back of my old couch and let the tears seep into the cushions instead. He would call me when he could.

  ‘So this is nice?’ Jenny did not look amused. ‘Is this supposed to be funny?’

  ‘I forgot how loud it was here,’ I admitted, wishing they would dial back the Beyoncé just a touch. ‘It was just handy for everyone.’

  Three days after the late-night phone call and I still hadn’t heard from Alex. Apparently ‘when I can’ was some sort of symbolic answer, because I was certain he had the physical and financial ability to make a phone call whenever he damn well pleased, and yet … nothing. I was still crying on a daily basis – at toilet paper adverts, at little old ladies in the deli, at the ovulation kits in Duane Reade – but some righteous anger was starting to creep in. As was the need to distract myself. Luckily, I was armed with willing accomplices.

  Crowded around a shiny silver table in Vynl, the gayest diner in all Manhattan, were Jenny, Erin and Mary, my editor from The Look. I was about to unveil The Plan. Just as soon as our waiter brought me my disco fries and Bloody Mary.

  ‘They have Justin Timberlake dolls in the bathroom.’ Sadie took her seat at the table with delight in her eyes. ‘Like Justin Barbies. And they’re playing ‘Sexy Back’. This is the best place ever.’

  ‘No it isn’t.’ Mary was never one to mince her words. ‘Can we please get on with this so I can go back to work and be miserable in the comfort of my own office?’

  ‘Yes we can, and no you can’t.’ I looked at the door. We were still waiting for one more person. ‘I mean – well, obviously you can because it’s your job, but don’t you wish it wasn’t?’

  ‘I wish a lot of things,’ she said. ‘I wish I could win the state lottery. I wish George Clooney would stop lying to himself. I wish they would hurry up and bring my pancakes. None of these things are happening soon.’

  Not the most inspiring start to my proposal, but I continued regardless.

  ‘What if I had a new job for you?’ I raised my eyebrows and waited for a reaction that didn’t come. Sadie looked at me blankly. Jenny and Erin exchanged small shrugs.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I folded my arms and pouted. ‘I want to start a new magazine and I want you all to help.’

  ‘That’s a cute idea, Angela.’ Mary was the first to shoot me down. As predicted. ‘But this isn’t
college. You can’t just stick a bunch of photos together and take the whole thing down to Kinko’s. Launching a magazine costs millions in marketing, and the Internet is kicking the whole industry in the ass right now. There’s no way a new indie could make it in this market without huge backing.’

  ‘Not even if you were editor-in-chief?’ I asked. ‘And if we had Sadie Nixon as our fashion director? And James Jacobs as our entertainment director?’

  ‘No.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘But keep talking.’

  ‘And what if Erin Stein PR was behind us?’ I looked at Erin and really hoped she was. Pregnancy had lowered her standards and she smiled beatifically, nodding along.

  ‘It is,’ she replied. ‘And so are all of our clients.’

  ‘And I could be the life coach,’ Jenny jumped in. ‘Can I be the life coach?’

  ‘You can be whatever you want to be,’ I said, beginning to feel a little better. ‘It’s your magazine, after all. Remember what we said on the way to the airport in Vegas? How there isn’t a magazine for us? Well, if we feel that way, surely other women must feel that way? So why don’t we start one?’

  A buzz of ideas travelled around the table and I started to get excited. This was what I needed right now. This and my bloody disco fries.

  ‘I don’t want to be the one who kills this,’ Mary interrupted, killing it. ‘But everything I said still stands true. You’d need such a huge investment, and sure I’ve got experience, but you need money and a publisher, and that’s not me.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’ A tall blonde of the less pneumatic variety dropped into a chair beside Sadie. ‘Did you already tell them?’

  Mary looked appropriately confused. ‘Cici?’

  ‘Delia.’ Cici’s good twin held a hand out across the table. ‘You can tell us apart by the fact I’m not Satan. And I’m left-handed.’