An hour later we’re ready to hit the streets of the Meatpacking District. In a non-hooker way.
In case you have some Carrie-Bradshaw-and-the-gals type thing in mind, by the way, we’re not marching the streets of Manhattan in fabulous designer outfits, shoulder to shoulder, stride by stride, with a ‘where shall the city take me tonight?’ glow on our faces. We’re British. We’re not wearing designer clothes—my entire outfit is from H&M, actually, including my bra and pants (nothing special, I’m too distracted to really think about it, so I pair a red dress with my trenchcoat and red shoes and call it Flasher)—and to be honest, we probably look a tad too dishevelled to be New York women. Sexy and stylishly dishevelled, we hope, though probably just dishevelled. They do glossy so well in the States. I wish I did glossy. Anyway. Never mind.
‘Minetta Tavern is from the guy who brought us Pastis and Balthazar!’ exclaims Kate brightly, as we get in a cab. ‘Corner of MacDougal and Minetta Lane, please,’ she adds to the driver.
I exchange glances with Bloomie. Oh my God, she’s a tourist guide.
‘What do we eat there?’
‘The steaks are sublime and the Black Label burger is famous,’ recites Kate. From memory. ‘It’s classic New York with that famous McNally sheen.’
‘Ace,’ I say. As we’re driving down, I’m looking out the window
of the cab. I love how every single street here is alive and buzzing at 8 pm on a Friday night. In London, you have pockets of crazy-fun action, and pockets of lights-out sleepiness. Even on a Friday. I crane my neck to try to see into every shop (the shops are still open! How wonderful capitalism is) and bar and restaurant as we go past. People, people everywhere, walking and talking and laughing and eating. I wonder what they do. I wonder how much a copywriter earns here. I wonder where Jake’s old apartment was. No I don’t. I don’t wonder about Jake at all.
‘I love New York,’ I say, turning to the girls. Predictably.
‘Where are we going?’ says Bloomie.
‘The West Village, baby,’ says Kate.
Bloomie and I exchange glances. When we pull up and see the front of the Minetta Tavern, I turn and smile at Kate. Yet again her obsessive tendencies have served us well. I’ve never been anywhere as divinely, stunningly New York as this: a small, packed bistro, with black and white floor tiles, caricatures on the walls and packed booths. It’s simultaneously chic and cosy, warm and cool, and it’s packed with people eating and enjoying themselves.
‘The guys in here are so good looking,’ whispers Kate, after we’ve ordered.
‘They are?’ I say. I have not seen a single man since we got here.
‘I feel spaced out,’ comments Bloomie.
‘That’s not surprising. It’s almost two in the morning in London,’ says Kate helpfully.
‘OK,’ says Bloomie. ‘That’s it. No more telling us what time it is in London. It just makes me miss Eugene.’ Aww.
‘Touchy!’ says Kate, as the waitress arrives brandishing huge plates. ‘Maybe I could be a waitress in New York,’ she says dreamily. ‘Maybe I could live in a garret and be a waitress and paint.’
‘Garrets are in Paris,’ says Bloomie helpfully. Which I was about to say, but the words got stuck in my head, somewhere behind thoughts of Jake.
‘Ah,’ says Kate.
‘What is wrong with you?’ Bloomie turns to me. Ah. Spiky Bloomie is back. ‘You’ve barely spoken all day.’
I haven’t? I feel like I have. My brain won’t stop talking to me.
‘See? You don’t even say anything when I say you’re a mute.’
I clear my throat. ‘I’m feeling a bit, ah, you know, out of it. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘It’s your birthday on Sunday. You haven’t even mentioned it.’
‘I don’t want to make a fuss about it, that’s all,’ I say. ‘You know I hate birthdays. We should just pretend it’s not happening.’
‘Is this a Jake thing?’ says Bloomie.
Yes, it is.
No, it’s not.
‘No.’
‘Liar.’
‘Let us know when you want to talk about it,’ interrupts Kate hurriedly, putting her hand on my arm and shooting Bloomie a shut-up face. I nod, and take another slug of my dirty martini. I don’t know why I ordered it, but it seemed like the thing to do in a place like this. It’s the size of my head. Kate starts wittering about our plans for tomorrow, and I let her words wash over me and try to keep my eyes open. The martini, which I hoped would be a heart-starter, is in fact a giant liquid sleeping pill.
‘Ooh!’ gasps Kate, waking me up. ‘Food is here. Oh, thank you…Do you have any English mustard?’
Kate is having steak, Bloomie is having pig’s trotter (‘Why not?’ she shrugs) and I’m having the burger. It’s unbefreakinglievably delicious and the delightful sugar, salt and fat rush wakes me up for the first few bites. About halfway through, my body hits the ‘done’ button, and I can’t eat another bite.
I miss Jake.
Didn’t I already tell you to shut up?
Oh dear, I seem to be going senile. I have stopped eating and
am staring into nothing, having this conversation with myself. I can’t eat any more. As a matter of fact, all of us have gone silent and spacey.
‘What shall we do now?’ says Kate.
‘I’m sorry to say this, but maybe we should go to bed so that we are more on form tomorrow night,’ I say. My mood has gone through the floor, I feel tired and miserable, and I can’t believe I’m wasting a weekend in New York feeling like shit. We get the bill (check) and walk back out to the street. I wonder if native New Yorkers can tell we’re tourists. I feel somehow aggrieved to be a tourist, when I’m always rolling my eyes inwardly at them in London, especially the hordes of Spanish students that hang around Piccadilly Circus.
We light cigarettes and walk for awhile, but I am having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. I don’t even know if Bloomie and Kate are talking, as my brain seems to be on the pause button.
We hail a cab and are heading back to the Standard when we get stuck in traffic. I’m leaning back against the seat, gazing out of the cab window, with my eyes nearly shut, and my brain tucking itself into bed for the night when I see him.
It’s Jake.
It’s fucking Jake. I can’t believe it’s Jake.
He’s walking on the pavement, right across from the cab so I can see the side of his face perfectly. He’s with a woman. He’s wearing the same shirt he was wearing when I kissed him. It’s him. It’s definitely him.
‘GET DOWN!’ I hiss at the girls, and our cab edges forward about 20 metres and then stops again.
‘Huh?’ says Bloomie. She’s been leaning on my shoulder with her eyes closed. Kate’s looking out the other window.
We’re now ahead of Jake, and I peer up from my (rather uncomfortable and cramped, actually, I wish they had nice big spacious black cabs here) semi-crouching position over the back window to get another look at him.
He’s on my side of the road, walking towards us, so I have a very clear view: he’s with a woman about my age, very pretty, with shiny brown hair and a gorgeous blue dress on. Glossy. Very glossy.
‘Lookitshimitshim!’ I hiss, interrupting their vague ‘Why? What? Who?’ questions. Bloomie slowly turns around and looks out the back window in the direction I’m staring obsessively.
‘Ohyou’refuckingjoking,’ she says under her breath.
We’re all staring speechlessly. He’s walking up towards us and is nearly parallel with the cab again when somehow, the traffic clears and we speed off. The last thing I see is him putting his arm around her shoulder.
‘I can’t believe that,’ I say, in shock. I turn to face Bloomie and Kate. ‘Did I imagine that?’
‘No, that was him,’ nods Bloomie. ‘Definitely him. In New York. With a girl.’
‘Well…wow,’ I say.
We all sit back and stare straight ahead wordlessly.
I told you that you missed him.
Shut up. I’m thinking.
Well, it’s all your fault. You told him to fuck off. Now he’s moved on.
I said shut up.
The journey back to the hotel passes in total silence. We’re all shattered, which would make us quiet anyway, but because I’ve refused to talk about Jake all week, I don’t think they know what to say to me. Am I upset? Am I indifferent? They don’t know. I don’t know.
‘I need a drink,’ I say, as the cab pulls up. Opposite the Standard is a filthy-looking graffitied bar with a neon sign outside saying ‘Hogs & Heifers’. ‘Let’s go there.’
‘Oh, no,’ says Kate worriedly. ‘That’s like one of those tacky bars where the bartenders abuse the shit out of you, but actually it’s all a show.’
‘I don’t care what it’s like,’ I say. ‘I just want a drink.’
We walk up to the bar, past a handful of smokers outside, and push our way in. The place is packed with drunk people singing to AC/DC and looking at two female bartenders dancing on the bar in nothing but jeans and bras. They are absolute skanks. The place is tacky, covered in graffiti and faux-dive-paraphernalia, and behind the bar hang about 5,000 discarded bras, like wild animal skins hung up to dry.
‘OhmyGod,’ I hear Kate say behind me.
One of the skanktenders looks over at us, and picks up a huge megaphone from behind the bar.
‘Hey Sweet Valley Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh,’ she screams. ‘When you’re in my fucking bar, you take off the fucking trenchcoat, motherfuckaaaaah. That’s a fashion faux-pas, bitch!’
I’m stunned. She’s talking to me. Everyone in the bar turns around and smiles at us, partly in sympathy as they probably got abused when they walked in too, and partly because it’s funny. In a split second I realise that I can either run away or stay and face the skanktender. I have a feeling she only bullies people who are either scared of or rude to her. Anyway, I have more important things to worry about and all I want is a drink.
I start taking off my trenchcoat and walk to the bar. Bloomie and Kate walk behind me.
‘We don’t have to stay here,’ I hear Kate say.
I walk straight up to the bar and the skanktender jumps down and faces me, raising a drawn-on eyebrow.
‘Shots only, bitches,’ she says. ‘What’s your poison?’
I glance at the bar and read out the first bottle I see. ‘Makers Mark.’
‘That’s my fuckin’ drink, Sweet Valley HIIIGH!’ she exclaims. ‘You’re alright. Hey, Enid, Regina, get the fuck up to the bar and drink with your pal Elizabeth.’
‘I always wanted to be a Jessica,’ I say. The skanktender glances at me and laughs.
‘Fuckin’ AY! Six shots!’ she shouts, and then glances up to see a guy looking at her hopefully. ‘What the fuck do you want, motherfuckaaaahhhh?’
‘Uh, a drink?’ he says hopefully.
She starts screaming abuse at him through the megaphone. I turn to Bloomie and Kate and we wordlessly down our shots.
‘How do we get out of here alive?’ Bloomie asks out of the corner of her mouth. I’ve never seen her intimidated by anything before. ‘I really, really hate this kind of thing.’
‘Can you believe we just saw Jake?’ I ask in reply.
They both shake their heads, and we all do our second shot.
‘I can’t believe you’re not scared of that…girl,’ says Kate.
I glance over at the skanktender, who is screaming at some poor dude who is going to the bathroom. The Maker’s Mark is making me feel eerily calm. ‘She’s alright, really. I wonder what Jake is doing in New York?’
‘Can we please leave now?’ says Kate urgently.
‘Yes, seriously…’ agrees Bloomie.
I catch the other skanktender’s eye, and ask for the bill. She doesn’t have a megaphone, but screams ‘Why the fuck are you leaving, motherfuckaahhhh?’ at me. Why are these women’s vocabularies so limited?
‘I’m jetlagged,’ I say, looking her straight in the eye.
Unbelievably enough, she shrugs, gets me the bill, and winks as we leave. It’s all a total show.
‘Sweet motherfuckin’ dreams, motherfuckaaahhhhs!’ screams megaphone skanktender as we leave.
We get out of the bar, light cigarettes and start giggling helplessly as we walk over to the Standard. That was one hell of a way to get my mind off Jake being in New York with me, I think. I’m so drunk and tired that I can’t think properly, and I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
I wake up in exactly the same position exactly seven and a half hours later. It’s just past 6 am. I feel elated for a second—I’m in New York!—and then the memory of Jake walking along the side of the road with another woman hits me with a thud.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. I’m wide awake now. OK.
I’m not jetlagged or drunk or tired. It’s time to cut the crap. Forget the Sabbatical and Rick and dating and heartache and the fight and that it would probably go wrong and all that shit. Just be honest.
I like him. I really, really like him. I’ve missed him since the second I kicked him out of my room last Sunday. I liked—no, I
loved
talking to him, I loved being near him, I loved kissing him. I don’t want him to be here with someone else. In fact, I don’t want him to ever be with anyone else but me. I don’t ever want anyone else but him.
Oh God.
Inside-out happiness, exit stage left. Enter stage right, inside-out chaos.
I groan aloud at my own fuckuppishness. Kate rolls over.
‘Morning, princess,’ she yawns. ‘You OK?’
I put my face into the pillow and scream.
‘Darling?’ calls Bloomie from her single bed.
I sigh, and roll over. ‘Jake.’
‘I knew it!’ pipes up Bloomie, bouncing out of her bed and onto ours.
‘I knew, too!’ says Kate, sitting up sharply and grabbing the phone. ‘I’ll just order us some coffees,’ she whispers, and presses the room service button.
‘I—oh, can I have two, please Katiepoo?—oh guys, I’m sorry to bring this up so early, but I…I’ve been trying to make it go away and I…I can’t.’
‘OK…’ says Bloomie.
‘I can’t believe I said those things to him last weekend. I told him…that I wasn’t ready, I didn’t want a relationship, I didn’t want to get involved, and then I think I called him a jackass…and a bastardo.’
Bloomie laughs. ‘You don’t do things by halves, do you, Sass darling?’
I try to smile, but I feel overwhelmed with sadness.
‘I think—or rather, I
thought
I was doing the right thing. You know how much things have changed since I started the Dating Sabbatical, it’s really changed my life…And I don’t want to lose everything, I don’t want to go back to the way I was before, to being unhappy…’
‘Why do you think you’d lose that?’ asks Kate. ‘Even when you saw Rick again that night, you didn’t lose that.’
‘Really?’ I say. ‘But…but I got hammered that night. Just like the old days.’
‘Yeah, and threw a glass of wine on him,’ says Bloomie. ‘You would never have done that before.’
‘And Jake isn’t like Rick, or anyone else you’ve ever been with,’ adds Kate. ‘He’s just like you, actually. Bloomie and I were talking about it the other night. Hasn’t that even occurred to you?’
I think for a second. She’s right. He’s not like Arty Jonathan, or Rugger Robbie, or Clapham Brodie, or Smart Henry. And he’s absolutely nothing like Rick. Being with him was surprising, unpredictable and fun in the best possible way. Every time I saw
him, he was consistently honest and straightforward and kind to me and everyone else, and I told him he was an untrustworthy bastardo jackass and threw him out of my room.
‘I think he’s much nicer and kinder and smarter than me,’ I say sadly.
Bloomie and Kate sit still, waiting for me to say something.
‘Feel free to disagree with that, guys,’ I say, and we all start laughing.
‘God, this is intense for quarter past six in the morning. Let’s just…chill out.’ I flop down on the bed. How do I fix this? I can’t. I can’t fix this. He’s here with another woman and I can’t fix it and if I even tried to ask him if he’d give me another chance—or rather, a first chance—he’d tell me no way. So why bother.
‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?’ says Bloomie.
‘That’s all for now,’ I say, turning on
The City.
I don’t want to think about it. I want to look at Olivia Palermo’s hair.
We drink our coffees and then decide to get up and explore the town. We’re going to have breakfast at the Bonbonniere, a tiny, threadbare diner a few minutes’ walk down the street. It’s a perfect early summer’s morning outside, and even the weather is bigger and better than in London: bluer sky, brighter sunshine. As we walk out onto Washington and head towards Eighth Avenue, I do a quick scan for Jake.
‘He’s not here,’ says Bloomie.
‘Let’s not talk about it till this evening,’ I reply. I want to enjoy my day. I don’t want that little voice to start talking to me again.
But I want to talk to you about Jake and the Dating Sabbatical.
I said I want to enjoy my day goddamnit.
Fine.
We’re up so early that the Bonbonniere is delightfully half-full, quiet and peaceful, with sun streaming in the open windows. I’m having pancakes with maple syrup and bacon. This I already
know. I look around at the other diners, feeling happy for them that they’re lucky enough to live in the West Village and walk here for brunch every Saturday. The bastards.
‘Jello omelette. That sounds like a sexual position,’ says Bloomie idly as she stares at the menu.
‘No, it doesn’t, you filthmonger,’ says Kate, flipping through her notebook.
‘Yes it does. You know, like an Angry Pirate,’ says Bloomie.
‘A Jello omelette sounds floppy, that’s not sexy…’ I say. ‘What is an Angry Pirate?’ I add reluctantly, as I know I’m supposed to. I don’t know what it is, but it can’t be good.
‘Oh, no, please, not here…’ says Kate.
Bloomie leans in to the table, gesturing to us to do the same, and whispers. ‘It’s when the guy, um, you know, finishes in the girl’s eye and then kicks her in the shins. So she’s got one hand on her eye and one hand on her leg, hopping up and down going “ARGGHHHH!” Like an Angry Pirate!’
I laugh so hard that latte from my last sip—taken around ‘eye’—is coming out my nose, and I’m banging the table with my hand. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard. I love it.
‘That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard! I hate it!’ says Kate in an agitated whisper. She’s utterly horrified, or at least pretending to be. She turns to me. ‘Shhh! How can you laugh at this? It’s disgusting! And anti-women!’
‘It’s FUNNY!’ I gasp.
‘Well, there has to be at least one penis involved, darling,’ Bloomie continues. ‘But you can have a gay Angry Pirate. So it’s not really anti-women.’
I’m laughing so hard that I start crying and nearly lose my balance on my chair. Breakfast—despite being phenomenally good, as ever in New York—never really recovers after that. Kate is mortified in case anyone around us heard, and almost stops speaking. I’m in a never-ending, barely contained giggling fit
and for some reason I can’t look at Kate’s breakfast without losing control.
After breakfast, we decide to go down to visit Ground Zero. Admittedly, for an escapist weekend in New York, it’s a slightly sobering thing to do, but we all feel that it’s respectful and important to do so, and there’s not much left in life that is respectful and important, so you’ll have to bear with me.
Bloomie’s cousin was in one of the Towers and just managed to get out before it collapsed, but most of his colleagues didn’t make it. What a horrific way to die. The memory of watching it on TV still makes my stomach flip. I had recently started my very first job on 9/11. It was about 2 pm in London and we all piled into the boardroom to watch it. I went to yoga that night—which is unlike me but I didn’t know what else to do with myself, and it was that year I told you about when Bloomie and Kate hadn’t moved to London yet—and everyone in yoga started crying together. The teacher suggested we sit in silence and think of the families and friends of the victims. So we sat together, in a dimmed room, crying together.
After that sombre hour, we head back up to Soho and have a coffee whilst we discuss our options.
I’m in two minds as to whether to talk you through the rest of the morning or not. I think not, as it might be a bit boring if you’re not that into clothes. So I’ll just list the places we went in no particular order, and if you’re really keen, then next time you’re in New York, you can check them out for yourself: Theory, MAC, J Crew, Banana Republic, Barney’s Co-op, Atrium, Sephora, Ricky’s, Bloomingdale’s, the MOMA shop, and a bunch of other Soho boutiques that don’t have clearly marked names on the outside because they are too cool.
The shopping gods are smiling on us. I buy a few cheap little bits and pieces, but realise that really, I’m having a good time being in New York with my best friends, regardless of shopping. Isn’t that bizarre?
By 2 pm, we’re ready for lunch. Kate takes us to the Pearl Oyster Bar, where we manage to get seats at the bar.
‘I can never get over how good the food is over here,’ comments Bloomie, her mouth full of bread and lobster and fries.
‘Me either,’ I sigh happily.
‘Maybe I could open a place like this in London, after my job is over,’ says Kate thoughtfully. She looks over at us. ‘Just thinking aloud.’
My phone beeps. It’s Rob, the American, giving us the details about the party tonight. I confer with the girls and reply that we’ll be there around 10 pm. We finish lunch with the best sundae I’ve ever eaten in my life, get the bill and wander down Cornelia and Bleecker Street with our shopping bags. Bloomie lags behind to call Eugene for a quick I-love-you, and Kate and I walk and people-watch in thoughtful silence. There are so many tall, glossy women striding along in heels that I feel inspired to start wearing heels every day myself.
We’re all walked out but unwilling to go back to the hotel and waste a minute of our day. And New York—yes, yes, everyone says this, but it’s true—has so much energy that you kind of soak it up. It gives me a weird excited feeling, like anything is possible and you never know what’s around the corner. Thinking this, I do a quick skippy-bunny-hop. The Jake issue isn’t settled, in fact it’s pretty awful, but my life is good. It really is.
Suddenly, across Bleecker Street, I see someone I never thought I’d see again.
He’s got longer hair, and a beard, and is wearing a lumberjack shirt and army combats, and orange-tinted aviators. He’s leaning against a building, smoking a roll-up cigarette and pontificating on the phone. I can’t hear him, but I know he’s pontificating, because that’s exactly what he looked like when I was 23 and he was lecturing me about Blek Le Rat whilst ‘borrowing’ money from me.
It’s Arty Jonathan.
Without thinking about it, I cross the street and start walking
towards him. I hear Bloomie and Kate calling after me, but I ignore them. This is the guy that started it all. This is the arsehole that borrowed money from me and took advantage of my naivety and dumped me to go and pick up his girlfriend and take her to Paris. Sure, it’s not as bad as Rick. But it sure as hell wasn’t that good, either. And I’m going to tell him that.
I stop right in front of him, take off my sunglasses and flash him a huge smile.
‘Hi! Remember me?’
Arty Jonathan pulls his shades to the top of his head and stares at me, then mutters, ‘I gotta go, man,’ into his phone. ‘Whoa…’ he says. ‘This is unbelievable.’ He’s got a slight rabbit-in-headlights look about him.
‘I know!’ I say, smiling from ear to ear. I glance behind me and see Bloomie and Kate a few metres away staring at us. ‘Weird! You’re living in New York?’
He nods, regaining his customary nonchalance by the second. ‘Yeah, I was in Brooklyn, but now, you know, I’m in Queens.’
‘Still doing the arty stuff?’
He looks surprised and a bit affronted by this. ‘Yeah, I show in a gallery in Woodstock. And I’m managing a band.’
‘Of course you are,’ I say, still smiling. He’s such a poser. And he’s not even good looking—his teeth are so yellow. I can’t believe he ever impressed me.
Suddenly a girl comes out of the shop that he’s been leaning against. She’s in her early 20s, with long, long dark hair and is wearing high-waisted jeans shorts and a little prairie girl top. An indie princess if ever I saw one.
‘Thank you sooo much for waiting, Jono!’ she says, then smiles at me, showing perfect American teeth. ‘I’m Keira, are you a friend of Jono’s?’
‘An old friend,’ I nod, smiling at her. Poor girl. I lower my voice and look her in the eye. ‘Never lend this man money. Never trust him. And don’t be impressed by his bullshit. He has no talent.’
‘He’s friends with Damien Hirst,’ she retorts.
‘No, he’s not,’ I say gently. ‘He just used to drink in the same pub.’ I turn to ‘Jono’, who looks like he might cry, and smile. ‘You owe me more than you’ll ever fucking know, not to mention the money you borrowed to take your girlfriend to Paris, you lying piece of shit. But I don’t care about that anymore. Just stop taking advantage of nice young women. We deserve better.’
I turn and walk away, leaving Arty Jonathan speechless and his girlfriend shouting ‘Screw you!’ after me (classic New Yorker, a Brit would never have the cojones to do that), followed by Bloomie and Kate.
‘Who the fuck was that?’ asks Bloomie in shock.
‘The guy who started it,’ I say. I feel fantastic; light and happy and completely clear. ‘Arty Jonathan. The one who set me on the path of knee-jerk reactions and rejections. If only I’d said that stuff to him years ago.’
‘I always thought you hated confrontation,’ says Kate. She’s looking at me in a slightly scared way.
I frown. ‘I did. But I don’t anymore.’
‘No shit.’
‘What was that about Paris?’ asks Bloomie. I’ve never told them that story.
‘He borrowed money from me and then dumped me to take his girlfriend to Paris,’ I shrug.
‘Fuck off,’ says Bloomie disbelievingly. ‘I knew we hadn’t gotten to the bottom of the Arty Jonathan story.’ She turns around and looks back up the street. I turn too, and see Arty Jonathan and Keira getting in a cab the other way. ‘Yeah, run away, dickhead!’ she screams, and turns back to us, smiling. ‘I could
so
be a New Yorker.’
We all start laughing. Kate decides that since we haven’t eaten in about two hours, we must be starving, and directs us around the corner to a café. We sit down and order Diet Cokes and cupcakes. (Because, you know, the calories saved by having a Diet Coke practically cancel out the cupcakes.)