I Heart London (4 page)

‘It’s not just that, though − there’s work as well,’ I said. Hopefully there was work. We still hadn’t heard back from Bob. ‘I’m working twelve hours a day. I don’t know how I’m just supposed to take a week off.’

‘People manage,’ Lou replied. ‘And you bloody should take some time off. It’s not healthy to work as hard as you have been.’

I didn’t like to say it might not be healthy but it was entirely necessary. When she had told me she was thinking about packing in work to be a full-time mum, I couldn’t speak to her for a week. Not because I didn’t agree with it as an option; it was just so far removed from the Louisa I knew. My career was important to me, but she was keen to tell me I couldn’t possibly understand anything ‘until I had a baby’. Grr.

‘Do you promise to make me lots and lots of tea?’ I asked solemnly.

‘I do,’ she replied with equal gravity.

‘And to be nice to Alex?’

‘You’ll be lucky if I don’t try to run off with him.’

‘And that you’ll be my alibi in case I accidentally murder my mother?’

‘I’ll do it for you,’ she swore. ‘Just get your arse home, Clark. There’s a chav-obsessed shit machine here that’s desperate for your influence.’

‘I’m pretty sure you should stick with Grace,’ I suggested. ‘It’s much more flattering.’

‘Just get on a plane and call me as soon as you land,’ Louisa replied. ‘I’ll pick you up from the airport.’

‘Yes, you bloody will,’ I said. ‘Yes, you bloody well will.’

Tuesday and Wednesday were no better than Monday. No word from Mr Spencer on
Gloss.
No word from Jenny from the dubious liaison that had led to last week’s meltdown. Lots of word from my mother on times and dates of flights back to the UK. Finally, after a very long day of spreadsheets and feature ideas and willing the phone to ring with good news from Bob, I fell through the door sometime after nine and noticed right away that all the lights were out. No Alex.

I buried my disappointment in a hastily downed glass of white and went to run a bath, shedding my Splendid T-shirt dress and French Sole flats as I went. While the bath filled with lovely lemon-and-sage-scented Bliss bubbles, I pulled my hair back from my face, scrubbed away the day and stared at myself in the mirror. It was two years since this face had been in England. Two years since I’d walked in on my fiancé shagging his mistress in the back of our car. Two years since I’d cried myself to sleep in a hotel room. Two years since I’d jumped on a flight away from it all and found myself here. Home. I frowned. Was I allowed to call New York home? I mean, I had grown up in England − my family was there, my GCSE certificates and
Buffy
DVDs were there.
Come Dine with Me
was there. Didn’t home mean family and familiarity and M&S?

I washed my face, hoping to uncover a happier expression, but just uncovered a couple of fine lines around my eyes and a hint of sunburn across my cheeks. Hmm. Running my fingers lightly over my skin, I stared myself out, looking for something new. Same blue eyes, same cheekbones, same hair, if a little longer and blonder. Same Angela. But still not a flicker. For the want of an answer that would settle the butterflies in my stomach, I got into the tub. There were so few things you could rely on in life, but bubble baths, kittens and a quick game of Buckaroo were three things that would never let you down. Sadly, we were kittenless and there was no one home to play Buckaroo with.

Deep in the warm, soapy water, I closed my eyes and rested my toes on the taps. Heaven. Nothing could go wrong when you were in the bath. Until the day they invented waterproof iPhones, anyway. I spun my engagement ring around my finger with my thumb, rhythmically clinking it against the side of the tub. The magazine was good. Yes, we needed to get Bob’s blessing, but like Delia said, there was no reason why we wouldn’t. OK, so Jenny had gone slightly mad, but who could blame her? She would be fine when she’d had some time and I’d be there for her. And I was engaged. I was engaged, for real, to someone I loved. Someone who loved me. That was a pretty good thing. And as for going back to England, well. Hmm. I screwed up my face and sighed, eyes tightly closed.

‘Man, what is that face for?’

I jumped a mile out of my skin, splashing white, frothy bubbles all over the bathroom floor and slipping back under the water in surprise.

‘Alex,’ I gasped, re-emerging with wet hair and a considerably shortened lifespan. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘I’m not surprised.’ My fiancé stretched in the doorway and peeled off his leather jacket, throwing it on the floor on top of my dress. We were a right pair of scruffy bastards. Thank God we had found each other. ‘You looked like you were trying to solve one of life’s great mysteries. Were you trying to work out what I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter is made from again?’

‘That was only once,’ I grumbled, adjusting my bubble coverage. ‘And you admitted you didn’t know either.’

‘No, I admitted I didn’t care.’ He corrected me with a smile and folded himself into a sitting position beside the bath. ‘So what’s up? Tough day at the office?’

‘Actually no.’ I leaned my head over to accept my hello kiss and resisted the urge to splash him. It was a very strong urge. ‘Still just waiting to hear if Bob’s going to let Delia present at the advertisers’ thing. It’s next month, I think, so he’s going to have to make his mind up fairly quickly.’

‘He’s gonna say yes,’ Alex assured me with a gentle stroke of my hair. ‘You guys have put so much work in. He would be crazy to turn it down.’

‘I know,’ I purred. Stroking was nice. ‘I just want it confirmed, you know?’

‘I do know,’ he nodded. ‘So what was that face all about when I came in?’

Sometimes I hated our full disclosure agreement. Sometimes a girl wanted to sit in the bath and wallow like a mardy, hungry hippo. Now I was going to have to tell him all my ridiculous concerns and let him make me feel better. Stupid, clever, pretty boy.

‘Just thinking about this whole going back thing,’ I said, wiggling my toes at myself. ‘Just stressing myself out.’

‘Huh.’ He rested his chin on the side of the bath and looked at me with bright green eyes. ‘You know you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I feel like it’s getting to be a thing. What’s up with you and your mom? What’s with the big freak-out?’

Now there was a question. I thought about it for a moment, waiting for words to come out of my mouth. But they didn’t. For the first time in my entire life.

‘I mean, it’s not like I don’t have parental issues of my own,’ Alex went on, filling in the silence for me. ‘But you’re gonna have to help me out. You don’t want to go home or you just don’t want to see her?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. It didn’t help, but it was honest.

‘You guys don’t get along?’

‘We actually used to be all right,’ I said, remembering all the Sunday dinners in front of the
EastEnders
omnibus. ‘I mean, she’s my mum. She’s a pain in the arse, but I just − I just feel bad.’

Alex resumed the hair-stroking. ‘Because?’

‘Because I came here. I left her. And I know that, for all her moaning, she misses me, and I feel guilty. As much as she’s a pain in the arse, my mum’s always been there for me.’ I couldn’t help but think about Louisa’s wedding. Who else would put you to bed and tell you everything was going to be all right immediately after you’d split up a ten-year relationship, made something of a scene and broken the groom’s hand with a stiletto? Only your mother.

‘The day you don’t feel guilty about your parents will be the day the world stops turning,’ Alex said. ‘I think going back to visit is a good thing. Maybe it’ll remind her you’re still here. You’re not on the moon, you’re just a plane ride away. Maybe she’ll stop guilt-tripping you so much.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ And maybe I’ll wake up to find a bacon sandwich winging its way past the window. Silly Alex. ‘It just feels so strange. Like, I won’t be welcome.’

‘Well, that’s dumb,’ he laughed, pulling on my ponytail. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve already had two emails from Louisa and a Facebook friend request from your dad. They can’t wait to see you.’

‘Parents really shouldn’t be allowed on Facebook,’ I said, making a face and trying to smile. ‘Please feel free to ignore it. I know they’re excited to see me. And I’m excited to see them.’

‘But?’

I looked around the bathroom. At the towels on the heated rail, at all my products loaded on the windowsill, at my boyfriend on the floor, and imagined my life for a moment without any of it.

‘But I still don’t want to go,’ I said eventually.

‘Because?’

‘Because I left,’ I said with a deep breath. ‘And I’m scared that if I go back home to England, I’ll have to give up my home in New York.’

Alex breathed out with a whistle. ‘Wow.’

I turned my head to the side to face him properly and did not enjoy his expression.

‘You realize that’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said?’ Alex asked. ‘And you know, between you and me, you’ve said some pretty dumb shit over the years. It’s not an either/or sitch.’

‘I know,’ I whined, dropping my toes back into the bath and flipping the bubbles around my feet. ‘But you don’t get it. When I came here, everything changed. I met Jenny, I started writing, I met you. I changed. I didn’t like myself before. Before, I would just sit in my pyjamas and watch
Sex and the City
and wait for something to happen.’

‘Angela, what did you do last night?’

‘I sat on the settee in my pyjamas and watched
Sex and the City
, but that’s not the point,’ I replied. ‘It’s different. I’m different.’

‘I do get what you’re saying,’ he started carefully, choosing his words, presumably to minimize the chances that I would pull him face first into the bath. He was treading a very fine line. ‘But just listen to what you’re saying. You are different now. Even if you get back and they’re all the same. I know things weren’t awesome for you before you moved here − people don’t usually get on a plane and move to another country without notice if they’re super-happy with life − but what you have here, what you’ve achieved, no one can take away from you.’

I bit my lip and nodded.

‘No one can take me away from you.’ He reached into the bath water and pulled out my left hand, holding my ring up to the light. ‘And no one is going to take you away from me.’

I felt myself blush from head to toe. Sometimes I still didn’t quite believe it.

‘We’re going to go to London, you’re gonna show everyone this ring, and I’m gonna knock your mom’s socks off. By the time I’m done, she’s going to love me so much, she’ll be pushing you back on that plane. Back to New York, back to the magazine, back to all your friends and, like it or not, I’m going to marry your ass.’

‘Yeah, whatever,’ I said, trying to maintain my grumpy face, but it was hard when he was sitting there making sense and being adorable.

‘So, list of reasons to be cheerful?’ He squeezed my hand tightly. ‘You’re gonna see your mom and stop beating yourself up. You get to see Louisa and the baby. You get to see me being adorable with a baby. Your magazine is gonna kick ass and we get to go on a trip to London. I think that’s pretty cool. I’m excited.’

There were a million good reasons to marry Alex Reid, but one of the best was his ability to talk sense and put a smile on my face when I couldn’t see the lovely wood for the shitty trees.

‘And if you don’t tell me you’re excited, I’m going to drag you out of that bath and throw you into the East River,’ he declared.

‘You’re all talk, Reid.’ I shuffled further into the bath, further under the bubbles.

‘Is that right?’ He leapt to his feet, all six-foot-something in skintight jeans and a battered old black T-shirt. ‘You’re asking for trouble now.’

‘Fuck off and put the kettle on,’ I yawned. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

‘That does it. Get your ass out the bath and put the kettle on yourself.’

Without warning, he leaned over into the bath and picked me up. I reached up and grabbed around his neck instinctively, half the bath water following me out.

‘Alex, put me down,’ I squealed, dripping wet and completely and utterly naked. ‘Put me back in the bath!’

‘No way.’ He held me tightly, so much stronger than he had any right to be, and ducked my flailing, sodden limbs. ‘That’s enough sulking in the bath for one day. It’s time you made my dinner, woman.’

I couldn’t argue for laughing, and, despite slipperiness, couldn’t seem to wriggle away, so I let him carry me out of the bathroom, water dripping behind us, and throw me down on the bed.

‘So we’re agreed?’ Alex asked, peeling off his piss-wet T-shirt and tossing it at me. ‘You’re going to stop being a dumbass?’

‘Only if you get that bloody kettle on and clean up the bathroom floor,’ I retaliated, finally getting my breath back.

‘I knew marrying you was going to be a mistake.’ He flipped me his middle finger and walked out of the bedroom. I sat on the bed, holding his T-shirt, then heard the kitchen tap followed by the click of the kettle. I smiled.

Things were probably going to be OK.

Over the next couple of days, due to Alex’s enthusiasm and in spite of my mother’s, I started to get excited about the idea of going home. In between frantic spreadsheet sessions in the office, I’d find myself fantasizing about sausage rolls or imagining a crazed rampage through the Marks & Spencer lingerie department. No one made knickers like M&S. And the more I thought about it, the more excited I was to take Alex with me. He was going to be my good-luck charm. After all, he was right − I had changed, and it wasn’t like I would regress in the space of a couple of days to the same old mousey, housebound Angela whose idea of an exciting night out was a turn round Asda. We would go to London, I would parade him around like the show pony that he was and then we would come home. With enough bags of Monster Munch to warrant the purchase of a new suitcase. Or two.

When Saturday morning rolled around, I finally felt like myself again. There was a bounce in my step and considerably less need for Touche Éclat as I prepared for brunch with the girls. Jenny had been quiet all week, ignoring texts and emails, but according to Erin she’d got her shit together in the office, at least. Every day this week, she’d been on time, awake, seemingly sober and, most importantly of all, appropriately attired. Not only could no one see her underwear, but said underwear was covered by designer clothing befitting a label whore of Jenny’s standing. I was relieved. I wasn’t ecstatic that she was dodging my calls, but I was happy that she was at least functioning. And as a reward, today we were going to sit down with her in a public place, feed her full of scrambled eggs and suggest she get help moving on from Jeff. And hope she didn’t punch me in the face.