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The next morning, or early afternoon, came all too quickly, given that I couldn’t remember anything after my rousing rendition of ‘Wannabe’. Glancing around the room (which would have been much easier if it would have just stopped spinning) I saw my dress, my shoes and my handbag all littered across the floor, so at least there didn’t appear to be too much collateral damage. As I tried to roll over, the bed covers turned into a straitjacket and alcohol induced kitten-like weakness or not, I had to get them off. Kicking madly, I pushed all the sheets off until I was laid, in my underwear, diagonally across the bare bed.

And that was when I heard the shower.

Nowhere in the room was there evidence of another person. I hurled myself off the edge of the bed, fighting back the urge to throw up, and pulled on the first thing I found, yesterday’s white shirt, but the shower stopped. I froze, squatting in the open shirt, hanging onto the edge of the covers. The lock on the bathroom door clunked out of place. Unkindly, the full-length mirror showed me exactly what the person in the shower would be seeing in a couple of seconds and it wasn’t pretty. Elegantly messy bob was a bird’s nest and Razor had lied. There was definitely a cut-off point when smudging my eye make-up did not just make it look better. And the idea of a woman in a black bra, black pants and white shirt over the top might sound sexy, but trust me, right then, it was not. I desperately, desperately tried to think back – who could it be? It wasn’t the banker guy, he hadn’t even been at karaoke, it could be Gina’s friend, Ray, who had performed a show-stopping duet of ‘You’re the One That I Want’ with me, but no, he was definitely gay. What about the short bellhop who had completely wowed us with ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’. Nope, gay again. Shit, it couldn’t be Joe. Not the impossibly gorgeous waiter, Joe. Please no. Please no. Please – too late, the bathroom door opened.

‘Afternoon, sleepyhead,’ the voice sang happily. ‘Now, I had a great time and I think you’re a great girl but, well, I have to get going.’

Thank God, it was Jenny.

She stood in front of me, all smiles, fluffy towels and wet hair, laughing her back off.

‘You didn’t know who I was did you?’ she managed to squeeze in between chuckles. ‘Shit, Angie, you are the worst drinker I’ve ever seen. And not to be funny but you’re not looking your best either. You might want to work on that before you ride that horse.’

I stood and stared for a moment, waiting for it all to come back to me. Nope. The only thing that was coming back was … sushi. I’d eaten sushi. And now, it really was coming back to me. I pushed past Jenny and headed straight for the toilet. Thankfully, this time she didn’t just laugh and proved herself to be not just a great life coach but a great hair-holder-backer and glasses of water provider. Once she’d stripped me down and helped me into the shower, I began to feel slightly more human. This was definitely a crash course in friendship.

‘Feeling better?’ Jenny was back in last night’s dress and had pulled her hair into a high ponytail. At least she sounded sympathetic even if she looked as though she might crease herself laughing at any second. ‘I guess you learned not to mix your drinks. Those Perfect Tens you were drinking in the Grand so do not mix well with margaritas.’

‘I thought they were non-alcoholic,’ I said, slathering my face in moisturizer and slipping into a waffle robe. It felt as if dozens of little clouds had attached themselves to my body to carry me back to bed. ‘I guess not.’

‘Not so much,’ Jenny said. ‘Listen, I have to get back to the apartment to see Gina off, but meet me in reception at seven – sound OK?’

I nodded. ‘Will you tell her I’m sorry I can’t be there and about last night and stuff?’

‘You don’t need to apologize,’ Jenny said as she slipped into her stilettos as if they were slippers. A skill I needed to learn. ‘Seriously, we had a great night. And I was glad for the excuse to leave when you passed out. It was way past my bedtime.’

‘I passed out?’ I couldn’t believe it. Even during the annual Drink the Bar Dry event at uni, even after five jugs of sangria on holiday, even after eight shots of Sambuca on Louisa’s hen night, I had never passed out from drinking. Thrown up, yes, lost some shoes, OK, yes, but never passed out.

‘It’s OK, Angie,’ Jenny said vanishing through the door. ‘Consider that a baptism of fire. We’re going out again tonight, if you want to come. Just for dinner? Oh and Erin said she would meet you for lunch if you were feeling human. She’s so the perfect girl to give you dating advice before your hot date.’

After Jenny had gone and I had puked a few more times, I steeled myself to leave the hotel. It was another beautiful day in Union Square Park. The sun shone just as it had on Sunday. In three short days, the sheen of ‘new’, of ‘other’, had worn away leaving something even more exciting to me. It looked familiar. It looked like home. I had walked through that gate, I had used that subway station, I had run full pelt away from that bench. I picked up my (still beautiful) Marc Jacobs bag, swiped on some MAC Lipglass, a wipe of mascara and a bucket load of blusher. Even with one of the worst hangovers I’d ever had, I still looked a million times better than I had pre-makeover. Jenny Lopez was a saint.

Manatus was a sweet looking restaurant, nestled at the top of Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village in between a twenty-four-hour pharmacy and a designer lingerie store. I loved New York. I’d grabbed a cab outside the hotel, against Jenny’s express orders to take the subway, but I really didn’t like my chances of staying vomit-free on the train, so instead I motored along with my head out of the window. Luckily, I recognized Erin from the window. Petite, long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail, really pretty. No wonder she was Jenny’s dating guru, I just couldn’t believe she wasn’t taken already.

‘Hey!’ she stood up and welcomed me with a kiss on the cheek as I manoeuvred myself through the tables and prams. ‘I was worried you might not recognize me.’

‘You don’t forget someone you’ve shared a duet of “Baby, One More Time” with that easily,’ I said, quickly sitting and taking a long sip of iced water. ‘It’s all starting to come back to me now. Tragically, all of it.’ I shook my head shamefully.

‘It was fun,’ Erin said, waving over a waitress for a menu. ‘And we were relieved to see you were human. Since Sunday, all I’ve heard from Jenny is how incredible you are and, not to sound like a total bitch, when you walked into the bar, looking like a model, I kind of found it difficult to feel sorry for you. I mean, who looks that amazing and needs man help?’

‘Oh, I, well, me? And I think it’s just help in general I need.’ I wasn’t sure whether to thank her for the compliment or apologize. ‘And no one is mistaking me for a model. Really.’

‘Well, the hair, the dress, and wow, the shoes,’ she said. Luckily her eyes were shining brightly and I knew I’d found another genuine person. ‘But when you get drunk, you get drunk, huh? Now what are you having?’

The waiter hovered at our side, waiting patiently.

‘Toast,’ I said, not even having looked at the menu. I had a feeling Erin didn’t waste a lot of time with things as trivial as menus.

‘And I’ll take the granola with a fresh fruit cup,’ she said, handing the menus back to the waiter. ‘Anyhoo, Jenny tells me that hot thing you were talking to at the bar in the Grand has asked you out. Did you call him yet?’

‘Shit, no,’ I said, scrabbling for my wallet. There was his card. Safe and not vomited on. ‘I’ve been in no fit state.’

‘OK, call him now,’ Erin said, signalling for more coffee. ‘Seriously, call him.’

She passed me her phone but I just stared at the numbers. ‘What do I say?’

‘Hi, it’s Angela Clark, we met at the Grand last night,’ she said breezily. ‘I just wondered if you still wanted to meet up for dinner tomorrow? How’s that?’

‘Better than what I had,’ I muttered, dialling before I could think about it.

‘Tyler Moore,’ he answered on the first ring.

‘Hi, uh, it’s Angela, Angela, erm, Clark?’ I stumbled over my own name. Sexy.

‘Hello, Angela Clark,’ he replied. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me or not. ‘I was wondering if you’d call.’

He did remember me!

‘Of course,’ I said, trying to emulate Erin’s breezy approach. She made a rolling motion with her hands, I needed to get on with it. ‘I just wondered if you still wanted to meet up for dinner?’

‘Yeah, tomorrow right,’ he said. It sounded as though he was leaning forwards, flexing those muscles. Oh, dear. ‘How about the Mercer Kitchen at eight?’

‘That sounds great,’ I said. I’d done it! I’d got a date! ‘Shall I meet you there?’

‘Perfect, that’ll give me time to go home and change,’ he said. ‘See you in the bar at eight, Angela Clark.’ And he was gone.

‘So, you’re going?’ Erin asked, tapping her feet under the table.

I nodded and bit my lip. ‘We’re meeting at the Mercer Kitchen at eight. Is that good?’

‘That’s really good,’ she approved as our food arrived. ‘Mercer Kitchen is a great first date. Low lighting, great food, cool people and lots of potential for after date drinking. That’s a good pick.’

I nibbled on a piece of dry toast. Maybe this wouldn’t be as terrifying as I had thought. ‘What’s the dress code, is it posh?’ I asked, worrying slightly. I couldn’t afford to go shopping again.

‘Mmm, lots of after work suits and trendy girls but nothing too try-hard,’ she said shrugging. ‘You’ll be just fine in a cute dress or jeans and a cool shirt. He’ll probably just be in his suit.’

‘He said he was going home to change,’ I said, gingerly nibbling at my toast.

I could keep it down. I could keep it down.

‘Really? Hope he doesn’t show up dressed like Fabio or something,’ Erin laughed. Seeing the fear in my eyes, she stopped with a little cough. ‘Sure he won’t. Now, New York dating basics?’

‘Definitely,’ I nodded. ‘Dating basics in general. I don’t know how much Jenny told you …’

‘More or less everything,’ Erin said. ‘And what she didn’t know, you filled in last night. I’m guessing I know more about your sex life than your ex.’

I blanched and swapped the toast for the tea again. The waitress had topped it up with hot water making it weak as wee but I drank it anyway. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need, I have to have all the facts before I take on a pupil,’ she said. As Erin reached out for the honey I noticed her fingers were completely decked out in diamonds – solitaires, eternity rings, trilogy rings, every finger except her ring finger. ‘And believe me when I tell you I know everything. You were really quite graphic.’

‘Oh, God,’ I rubbed my forehead trying to remember exactly what I’d told her. Maybe I hadn’t remembered everything. ‘Go on then.’

Over the next hour and several cups of coffee for her and weak, weak tea for me, Erin, my answer to Dr Laura crossed with a head cheerleader, briefed me on the dating dos and don’ts of New York City. A beginner’s guide to The Rules. Do let him pay if he offers, don’t forget to bring your credit card in case he doesn’t. Do ask him questions about himself but don’t ask about exes. You can talk about jobs but don’t push financial questions, you don’t want to come across money hungry. If he asks you about your relationship history, give him the facts but not the details. Should the date go really well, you can accept a second date then and there, but since the date was on a Thursday, I was, under no circumstances, to accept a date for Friday or Saturday night. Saturday daytime maybe, Sunday, fine. It all seemed a little bit unnecessary.

‘You just don’t want to reveal anything that would put him off. And I mean anything at all,’ she said with incredible seriousness, ticking off her points on her diamond laden fingers. ‘Don’t be too funny, guys like funny but they don’t want to marry a comedian, right? The guy is supposed to be the funny one. Don’t overeat, if he orders for you, all the better. Don’t drink too much, at best he’ll think you’re an easy lush. At worst he’ll bail altogether.’

‘You mean it’s worse to have a man ditch me than sleep with me and then never call again?’

‘Oh honey, this is New York,’ Erin shook her head. ‘Getting him as far as the bedroom is half the battle – fingers crossed you’ve got some skills there, and then there’s a chance he’ll take you out for a second spin. It’s hard, but if you’re a really great lay, you can change a first impression. Sometimes.’

‘Okaaaaaay,’ I felt myself colour up. ‘I’m not sure I have that many “skills” so I’d just better not drink too much.’

‘Hmm. Well these are just the dinner rules, there’s a whole heap of other rules for when you start sleeping with him. But basically, don’t screw on the first date. Ever.’

‘Not a problem, I’m sure. So since it seems I know absolutely nothing about dating or men, tell me everything else I need to know.’

Listening to Erin’s instructions, helpful, well-intentioned and requested as they were, was a little bit like being given driving instructions, so I’d more or less lost her by the third turn. Now, rather than being a bit worried about my date with Tyler, I was scared shitless. While she was clarifying how far I was allowed to ‘go’ if I wanted to see Tyler again I was too busy trying not to get caught looking at the man in the corner of the restaurant. He was hiding behind his battered Murakami novel, emerging only to fiddle with his iPod and order more coffee. Something about his messy black hair and vivid green eyes was vaguely familiar, but I wrote it off as him just being really, really hot.

‘So as long as you play by The Rules, you’ll be fine,’ Erin carried right on, not even noticing that she had completely lost my attention. ‘And it’s not like you’re wanting this guy to marry you right now is it, you just want some fun, yeah?’

‘Um, yes, nothing serious,’ I said, trying to push away the idea of myself and Tyler in Tiffany’s, Tyler on one knee, me crying and everyone clapping. ‘Erin, can I ask you a question?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What kind of teacher would I be if I wasn’t open to criticism?’

‘Oh, nothing like that,’ I said quickly. ‘I was just wondering, well, I was just wondering why you aren’t married? I know it’s not the law to be married, but you’re just a complete dating encyclopedia and you’re so perfect looking and you’re so nice and …’

‘I was married,’ she said simply, holding out her right hand. ‘I was married when I was twenty-one to the sweetest guy you ever met.’ She presented one of the rock-like solitaires for inspection. ‘But by the time I turned twenty-three, he had grown up into a complete shit. Cheating on me with everything that moved.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, not really knowing where to put myself. ‘I guess it’s definitely better to be single than in a bad marriage.’

‘Mmm, well, I’m not done yet,’ she sighed, looking at her rings. ‘And then I was engaged to a hotel owner. That’s this one,’ she held out a beautiful sapphire and diamond eternity band, ‘but it was a total rebound relationship, you know, so I called it off a month before the big day. And when I was twenty-nine, I married Joel, my hairdresser.’ The diamond trilogy ring.

‘Oh,’ I said quietly. She clearly was the person to go to for advice on how to get a man down the aisle, just not how to avoid repeat trips.

‘But we both knew it wouldn’t work, so I took off,’ she said thinly, tipping her head to one side. ‘I won’t do it again.’

‘Wow,’ I didn’t really know what else to say. All of a sudden I had a little less faith in The Rules.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I love to date and I hope I’ll meet someone to maybe have kids with, but I don’t think I’ll get married again. It’s not a problem, I’ve got a great career and fantastic friends. I think it just took me too long to realize I don’t need a man to validate me.’

‘I think that’s so cool,’ I said. ‘I feel really silly now though.’

‘No way,’ Erin laughed. ‘I really hope my friends do find nice guys to marry and settle down with, I just don’t worry about it as much as some other people. I’ve got a successful PR company, two healthy divorce settlements and I go on great dates all the time, it’s just, I’m thirty-seven and I’m just not prepared to settle any more.’

‘Firstly, you are never thirty-seven,’ I gaped. I had her down as Jenny’s younger friend and Jenny was no candidate for Botox. ‘And secondly, do you think I’m being silly, going on this date? Should I just take time to be me?’

‘Do you want to go on the date?’ she asked.

I thought about it for all of a split second. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘Then you should go, have fun,’ she said, fishing a beautiful Chanel wallet out of her handbag. ‘Just don’t let it be everything to you. Jenny said you’re a writer, right?’

‘I want to be,’ I shrugged. ‘All I’m writing right now is a sort of, well, a diary.’

‘But your diary right now must be fascinating!’ she said, flicking through business cards. ‘I represent The Look magazine and they’re always looking for bloggers to post on their site. It’s not much but it could get a mention in the magazine and who knows who might see it. Want me to set up a meeting?’

‘God, yes!’ I said, already picturing myself in Starbucks, tapping away, annoying people with my dramatic sighs. ‘If anyone was interested I’d love to write for them.’

‘Well, let me talk to some people when I’m there later,’ Erin said, tossing a couple of bills on the table and waving away my protest. ‘And I’ll let you know how it goes tonight. You’re coming for dinner tonight, aren’t you?’

‘Only if you promise not to let me drink any of those awful margaritas,’ I grimaced. Just thinking about them made me look around for the ladies’ loo.

With two quick kisses and a ‘call me’ Erin was gone. None of the waiters seemed to mind that we’d been sitting for well over an hour without ordering anything but tea and coffee top-ups, but I asked for a hot chocolate anyway. Pulling out my notebook and hotel room pen, I started to scribble my thoughts. God, imagine writing an online diary for The Look magazine! Maybe it wasn’t as internationally well known as Elle or as respected as Vogue, but it was definitely up there. Note to self, buy some magazines. I found my iPod in the bottom of my bag and scrolled through for some inspirational music. Hmm, shouty rock girls, floppy fringed indie boys or Britney. After my girl power lecture from Erin, didn’t it have to be shouty rock girls?

A page into my scribblings, I saw the hot chocolate being placed in front of me. I nodded a thanks, too lost in my rant about how hard dating rules were to understand when I realized whoever had delivered the hot chocolate had sat down opposite me. I looked up slowly to see the cute guy from the corner of the restaurant smiling at me, resting his chin in his palm, elbows firmly on the table.

‘Hi,’ he mouthed.

I paused my iPod and stared.

‘Don’t you just wish you could go up to people and say, hey, let me take a look at your iPod?’ he said, reaching out and taking mine from the table. The earbuds popped out onto my notebook. ‘That way, you would know whether or not to ask that person out right away. Say, they were listening to … angsty lesbians,’ he looked up at me. He had a sexy pale skin, dark eyes thing happening, as if he was pretty much nocturnal. ‘Most men would be scared off. But some other men would go back to the artists page and look for some other, more encouraging signs, like … hmmm, Justin Timberlake?’

‘It’s a good song,’ I defended weakly. Even I didn’t believe me.

‘Well, the ladies love Justin,’ he said and carried on scrolling. ‘And at least it cancels out the lesbian thing.’

‘I’m not a lesbian!’ Too quick to my own defence.

He looked up again and laughed. ‘Great.’ He pulled his chair a little closer to the table. ‘Oh, this just gets better. Bon Jovi?’

‘It’s “Living on a Prayer”, it’s a classic?’ I protested weakly, dropping my head to my hands. ‘Why aren’t you looking at the cool stuff? I like cool stuff too …’

‘Like what?’ he asked, looking back at the iPod. ‘And don’t say all kinds of music. I hate when people say they like all kinds of music. That just means you don’t love any. Well, you’ve got the new Stills album, I hear they’re good.’

‘I’ve seen them live!’ I said quickly. ‘I saw them in London. They were quite good. I actually prefer the first album though.’

‘Always good to get honest feedback,’ he held his hand out. ‘Alex Reid.’

I took his hand and bit my lip. ‘You’re in Stills, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘And you saw Justin Timberlake on my iPod.’

‘And Bon Jovi.’

This was not how I had imagined meeting the ridiculously sexy lead singer of a super cool New York band. In most of my rock star fantasies, (which were wide and varied), I was usually looking dishevelled and sexy, wearing fishnets, heeled boots and a lot of black eyeliner at some swank after party at an edgy East London bar. Instead I was wearing a pink T-shirt and baggy jeans with bright orange flip-flops, had a crunchy, damp ponytail and hoped, just hoped, that my mascara hadn’t completely melted away under my eyes just yet.

‘But I do have your album,’ I said, trying to buy some cool points. ‘And, like, I don’t know, The Arctic Monkeys?’

‘Very 2006,’ he said, handing me back my iPod and settling into his chair. He was still smiling and it was very off-putting. ‘But you do have some cool stuff and you did come and see my band.’

‘I do and I did,’ I confirmed. Please ask me out. Please ask me out. I couldn’t be further away from not needing a man to ‘validate’ me. I needed the good-looking man to ask me out. Fuck you Mark Davis, the hot rock star asked me out. Bwah ha ha.

‘And if you bought both albums and a ticket to the gig,’ he sighed and ran a hand through his messy, floppy black hair, letting it drop back down over his eyes.

Oh.

‘With the weak dollar, I figure you have spent, what, twenty pounds on the band?’

‘And I bought a T-shirt,’ I said seriously. ‘That was twenty on its own.’

‘As long as it was from inside,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Those sons of bitches outside selling my T-shirts for ten bucks? Don’t they know all the money comes from the T-shirts?’

I laughed nervously waiting for him to join in. He did, thank God.

‘So, I know you have an … “eclectic” taste in music,’ Alex started, ‘and I owe you about, what, sixty, nearly eighty bucks? But I still don’t know your name.’

‘I suppose since I know yours,’ I said, hoping I was coming across funny and flirty and not nervous and starstruck. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered how good his band really was. ‘Angela Clark.’

‘And are you on vacation, Angela Clark?’ he asked, helping himself to my hot chocolate. I was about to complain but figured I could afford to lose one hot chocolate in the pursuit of a rock star. Well, lead singer of a slightly obscure indie band I’d seen once in Islington. Much closer to rock star than the banker at HSBC who I’d been going out with for ten years.

‘Sort of,’ I said, not wanting to get into it any more than I had to. ‘I’m staying with a friend for a while.’

‘Well, if you’re not planning to stay in and listen to Justin, would you like to go to a party with me tonight?’

He asked me out. He had asked me out.

And I couldn’t go.

‘I would really like to,’ I said, desperately trying to work out my excuse. ‘But I already have plans tonight.’

‘Should have guessed,’ he said, picking up my pen and opening my notebook to a blank page. ‘So here’s my number, I’ve got tickets to the best show on Saturday night and I would love for you to go with me. What do you think?’

‘I would love to,’ I agreed, watching all of Erin’s advice flying out of the window and down the road to tell her what a bad student I was. Accepting a Saturday night date on a Wednesday, shocking.

‘Good, I kind of thought you might blow me off.’ He stood up and stretched. Skinny jeans, but not too skinny, obligatory faded band T-shirt, just short enough to reveal his flat stomach when he stretched, accessorized by a thin trail of black hair tracing a path from his belly button to his waistband. And of course, sunglasses. He dropped his book into a leather satchel so battered, I was afraid to let my Marc Jacobs catch sight of such appalling abuse. ‘If your friend hadn’t left when she did, I was going to give up. Who listens to all that bullshit?’

‘What bullshit?’ I asked, distracted by his oddly muscly biceps. I guessed from playing guitar. Again, oh.

‘Yeah, seriously,’ he said as he walked away. ‘Don’t listen to her, dating rules are bullshit. Engaged three times and not married? Not the best person for advice.’

I felt my mouth drop open. He had heard all of it? ‘But how could you hear? You had your iPod on?’

‘So you had noticed me.’

So bloody cocky.

‘Anyway, Max Brenner’s at Union Square on Saturday – about seven? It’s kinda touristy but it’s the best hot chocolate in town. No offence to this place.’ He gave the waitress a puppy dog smile on the way out. I watched her visibly wilt as he strode past the window without a second look.

And with that, I was in love.

Again.