Читать книгу I Heart Vegas - Lindsey Kelk - Страница 10

‘And then Jenny had to fire me but it was OK and she said it was OK and then she called me a cab and I don’t think it really hurt that much because her nose didn’t bleed or anything but ohmygod, Alex …’ Pause for breath. ‘I hit her.’

More to make me feel like a big man than anything else, I was seated on our sofa with a freshly purchased bag of frozen peas on my fist, relaying to Alex the tale of how I slayed my second dragon.

‘This punching people thing –’ He held the peas against my knuckles with one hand and stroked the hair back from my forehead with the other. ‘Is this something I should be worried about?’

‘Apparently I’m only into girl-on-girl fighting,’ I replied, flexing my fingers. They didn’t really hurt, but I ouched for good measure. ‘I don’t think you need to be concerned about domestic violence. Yet.’

‘I love that you’re a feminist.’ He planted a kiss on my forehead then went to the fridge to get more beer. Because I needed more beer. ‘And you met her sister? And she wasn’t a bitch?’

‘She wasn’t.’ I shook my head. ‘She was nice, actually. I might friend her on Facebook.’

‘You are a strange girl.’ He stood in front of me, bearing a Corona and staring into my glittering, fevered eyes. ‘And just so it’s clear in my mind, Cici the Satanist was naked during the foxy boxing, and you were wearing … this?’

Of course I was still resplendent in PVC.

‘She wasn’t naked,’ I tutted. ‘Honestly.’

Trust a man to actually find this sexy. If someone had goaded Craig into punching them hard in the face, Alex would have fist-bumped him and then got beers. I suppose I did have a beer.

‘And you’re missing the key points here. Not only did she get me fired, she’s stopping me from getting any other work. Cici is the reason I have to renew my visa. She’s the reason all this shit is happening. She’s the reason there’s a problem.’

‘I thought there wasn’t a problem,’ he said. ‘With the visa.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I pouted. Now really wasn’t the time, was it? ‘Well, just … I suppose … worst-case scenario stuff …’

‘You’re such a pessimist,’ he said, dropping back down on the sofa and folding me into a very big, very careful hug, avoiding my injuries. ‘Chill. Just wait until after Christmas and then we’ll work it out. No one can deal with stuff like this close to the holidays – their brains are already on vacation.’

I knew all I needed to do was to sit down with my boyfriend and explain exactly what was happening, tell him exactly what the INS had said and have a simple, grown-up conversation. But I was so tired and so mad at Cici and, well, making excuses. I also felt I lacked some integrity in the outfit I was currently wearing, so instead of having an adult conversation with my adult partner about my adult situation, I let him give me a hug and sulked quietly instead. I would talk to him tomorrow. I would start researching options for the visa. I would make everything right. Immediately after I had burned the French maid’s costume.

After a long and involved Saturday of research, googling, watching True Blood and thinking about pizza, I managed to rouse myself to prepare for Jenny’s Christmas party. Or to be more culturally sensitive, holiday party. But I have never been much for cultural sensitivity when it involves a fat man in a red furry suit, so I was getting ready to get my Christmas on. I added Jenny’s borrowed shoes (one more wear couldn’t hurt?) to my red silk Marc by Marc Jacobs dress and attacked my face with blusher. The two-seasons-old (aka ancient) frock was one of the few survivors from my pre-Paris wardrobe, but happily it was perfect for a Christmas party. Ruby red, little puff sleeves and a fitted waist that still allowed for the over-consumption of mince pies. I had made mince pies.

I had also absolutely, one hundred per cent planned to talk to Alex about my visa sitch. I’d even got The Letter out of my handbag to show him, but he’d run out early in the morning (for him) and hadn’t resurfaced until it was time to get ready for the party. Plan scuppered. Now I was going to have to build my nerve all over again tomorrow. And by build my nerve, I meant knock back a couple of white wine spritzers. As much as we’d been through, as much as I knew he loved me, there was still that little voice in my head whispering that he was pleased I was going home. That he was pleased I would leave and he would be free. And that little voice could only be silenced by two things – kissing and booze. And it was very difficult to talk during the kissing.

It was the same voice that said, yes, you do look fat in those jeans and no, wearing red lipstick doesn’t brighten up your face, it makes you look like a tart. I hated that voice. Part your mother, part your year nine Biology teacher and part Jeremy Kyle. Living with Jenny had really helped me put The Voice back in its box where it belonged, but right now it was coming through loud and clear. So I did what any good English girl would do and ignored it completely, pushing it down, down, down until it was just a bad feeling in my stomach instead of a bellowing in my ear. Jenny would tell me the only way to silence it was to address the issues. Jenny was American. I chose to quietly hope it would go away on its own, like a medium-sized spider or a funny rash in a special place. Since there was sod all I could do about the visa on a Saturday night, I decided to stash those concerns all together. May as well give myself an ulcer for lots of problems rather than just one, surely? I would not worry about things for the next twelve hours. There. Done. Sort of.

‘Ready?’ Alex had gone all out for the party. Not only had he washed and brushed his hair, he was wearing a suit, shirt and tie. I had forgotten he owned a suit, shirt and tie. It was silly how good he looked. The suit and tie were black and skinny, the shirt was white and shiny. If he’d been a girl, he would have been doing a spin in his high heels to show off, but since he was a manly man, he was just pushing his feet into his black Converse. Which should not have worked with the outfit, but, irritatingly for someone with her trotters rammed into very pinchy pumps, he looked great.

‘So who’s going to be there tonight?’ Alex asked as we shut the door behind us and I felt the icy sting of the New York winter on my bare cheeks. At least tonight it was just the cheeks on my face. Living by the water was wonderful. We had a beautiful view of Manhattan, and in the summer, sitting on the rooftop with a cold glass of wine and a gentle breeze, it was perfection. But in winter, that gentle breeze became razor blades on your skin with a nice after-splash of TCP to really freshen things up.

‘Big crowd? Intimate gathering?’ He took my hand and squeezed it, pretending he wasn’t terrified of either.

‘It’s Jenny,’ I squeezed back, trying to get the feeling back into my fingers. ‘She’ll have invited everyone she’s ever met. Hopefully they won’t all come at once.’

‘Cool, whatever,’ he replied, fumbling in his pocket for a MetroCard. ‘I haven’t seen her in forever.’

It was cute of him to pretend that wasn’t a relief. I knew full well he was terrified of my best friend, and of crowds in general. Alex could happily entertain thousands of people from the safety of a stage, but parties made him uncomfortable. He would go along, smile, nod, laugh when appropriate, shake his head when required and everyone would love him, but I could tell. Once a high-school music nerd, always a high-school music nerd. Despite everything he’d accomplished by the age of thirty-one, he was always waiting for the popular kids to kick him out of their kegger. He had explained to me what a kegger was. I wouldn’t have been invited to one either. It was funny when you found out that men were exactly like women sometimes.

After scrabbling down the stairs and dodging a platform full of parkas, I managed to throw myself onto the L train and squeeze myself into a seat as soon as the doors opened. Alex stood in front of me, half shouting over the rumble of our journey about the trains he’d taken in Tokyo. Opposite, I could see two girls checking out his backside. I wanted to be offended, but it really was a great arse.

‘See how easy it would be for him to replace you?’ The Voice interrupted Alex’s story to remind me how very attractive my boyfriend was in our neighbourhood. Clearly, he was hot wherever he went, but in Brooklyn, he was like hipster catnip. And I was prepared to bet anything that the two girls in their denim cut-offs over black fishnets finished with scuffed-up DMs hadn’t sat around all afternoon watching gay vampires with toothpaste on their spots. They had probably been making jewellery out of electrical equipment or painting pictures of something very deep and meaningful with hummus.

‘You have to come with me next time,’ Alex said as I tuned out the bad-news bears in my own head. ‘You can’t leave me with Craig and Graham again. You’re gonna love Japan – honestly, everywhere we went I was like, Angie would go crazy for this. I think the guys were kinda sick of me by the end.’

‘Next time,’ I smiled. Hurrah, I had kept my promise not to mention my lack of visa.

‘When you’ve got your visa, we’ll go everywhere.’ He nudged my knee with his and I forced myself not to kick him in the balls.

‘Yep.’ I looked back at the hipster girls behind him. They didn’t need toothpaste spot cream or visas. They did need to learn some manners, though.

The party was wall to wall with people, just as I’d predicted, and most of them were hatefully beautiful. I hadn’t even taken my coat off before Alex had to give me a not-particularly-gentle punch in the shoulder to get me to stop staring at the three perfectly muscled men wearing nothing but red fur-trimmed Speedos.

‘I – it’s Christmas …?’ I said, defending myself. While having another look.

‘Yeah, Santa’s been working out,’ he replied, openly miffed. I kissed him on the cheek and steered my eyes away, but really, it never hurt to see him a little jealous. I was trying to be a grown-up, but I was still a girl.

‘Angie!’ Jenny squealed and jumped up from the sofa as though I was the only suitable kidney donor in all the world and I’d just walked into the hospital to save her life. From the glazed look in her eyes, she’d more likely be looking for a new liver under her tree. She was hammered. ‘You look adorable. Are those my shoes?’

‘They are your shoes,’ I confirmed. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind since you made me wear a PVC maid’s outfit last night.’

‘Did you burn it?’

‘I did.’

‘Good.’

It was nice to be considered adorable, but I couldn’t help but think that sometimes it might be nice to be considered a stone-cold fox like Jenny. If I’d known she was going to be wrapped up in a red Herve Leger bandage dress, I might have worn a different colour, but, like Delia and Cici, though with considerably less vitriol, there was no point in competing with Jenny.

‘There are so many people here.’ I waved a hand at my face, fanning warm air right back at myself. Last winter, I’d spent more than one day wearing a scarf and mittens indoors. Our building suffered from a severe case of knackered boileritis, but the sheer number of bodies in the room was keeping things nice and toasty. And speaking of bodies, I peered around her hair to look for Jenny’s very beautiful boyfriend. ‘Is Sigge around?’

‘Over there.’ Jenny pointed at the trifecta of half-naked men by the window as she gave Alex a kiss on each cheek and a perfunctory hug. He was scared of her for a reason. She insisted on keeping what she referred to as a professional distance with regards to their being friends. According to Jenny, it was her job to keep Alex on his toes, a fact that wasn’t lost on him. He was on his tiptoes whenever Jenny was around. He always tried his best with her, but I could feel he was on edge, hence the suit and tie. I was under no illusion that the dress-up was for me, but the two of them getting along so well gave me a happy.

‘I didn’t recognize his abs,’ I said, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. I wasn’t terribly good at it. ‘It’s so different seeing them in person.’

‘Right?’ Jenny sipped her champagne. It looked like love in her eyes, but it could just have been booze. ‘He thought it would be funny. I tried to explain to him it was a little Zoolander, but that just made it worse. Now they keep flashing each other Blue Steels and giggling like women.’

The three of us looked over at the model playpen across the room. Such sharp cheekbones.

‘That’s my boyfriend,’ Jenny sighed. ‘Can you believe it?’

‘I’d totally date that dude,’ Alex replied. ‘And I know Angela would.’

‘I’m not going to lie – if you weren’t here I would be sitting on Santa’s lap right now,’ I admitted, eventually dragging my eyes away to begin the search for booze. There was no way I would be able to stay at this party for more than fifteen minutes unless I got very drunk, very quickly. I’d been on a bit of a non-drinking kick while Alex had been on tour, but not drinking at one of Jenny’s parties was basically self-harm. It would have been a good idea to have had a couple of drinks at home to take the edge off, but I wasn’t that bright.

‘The apartment looks nice,’ I told Jenny, sending Alex off to the bedroom with our coats and a clear message not to come back without two glasses of something cold and bubbly. As well as whatever he wanted. ‘You’ve painted?’

‘Sadie painted,’ Jenny corrected. ‘I told her we were gonna have a holiday party, and she said she’d get someone in to tidy up a little. I figured she meant a cleaning service, but then I get home from the office and the whole damn place has been covered in White Out. In a day. She couldn’t run the vacuum around?’

‘I can’t imagine someone who gets paid thousands of dollars to stand around in their pants is particularly big on domestic chores,’ I said, ignoring the fact that I wasn’t either. ‘Does she know what a vacuum is?’

‘Sigge changes light bulbs,’ Jenny said, looking doubtful. ‘But he’s not so good with actual appliances. I guess that’s why the house always ends up so gross on America’s Next Top Model.’

‘Tyra isn’t very handy with a can of Pledge,’ I nodded. My feet were starting to hurt. ‘But given how you two met, I’m not too shocked. Where is Sadie, anyway?’

If I had met Sadie the way Jenny had met Sadie, I would have had a restraining order issued, not invited her to move in. Jenny had landed the lucky role of Sadie’s ‘handler’ at one of Erin’s events, and now she was living that role. As far as I was concerned it sounded like a living nightmare, but Jenny thrived on a project. She loved a challenge; she always wanted to fix something. And man alive, was Sadie broken. I’d always laughed when people said models were like racehorses, but she was the most highly-strung race-horse of the modelling world; except that instead of refusing hurdles, she refused common courtesy and basic human compassion. The first time we met, she looked me up and down, asked where I lived, then asked if I knew Agyness Deyn, and then actually answered for me with a massive laugh and ‘of course you don’t’. She was a charmer.

‘She forgot she had an event tonight.’ Jenny made tired-looking air quotes around the ‘forgot’. ‘VS, I think. It’s fine – it’s not like the modelling industry is under-represented.’

She was right. For an at-home Christmas do, there was a disproportionately large number of very pretty people in Jenny’s front room. Not that I would ever describe any of our friends as dogs, but these were the kinds of girls and boys that you wanted to stare at until you could work out exactly what it was that made them so transcendentally beautiful. And then maybe poke them a bit.

‘So did you talk to Alex?’ Jenny asked, pushing some random off the sofa so we could sit down. It was still weird to me that there was someone I’d never laid eyes on sitting on what was very recently my sofa. I didn’t like it.

‘No, I didn’t talk to Alex, and I distinctly remember banning you from mentioning that subject,’ I said, slipping the balls of my feet out of my shoes. Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger, that felt good. ‘So shut up. I’m working on it. This time next week, it’ll all be sorted out.’

Jenny leaned her head to one side. ‘How so?’

‘Because I’m due a Christmas miracle,’ I replied with confidence. ‘And I’m cashing in my voucher. Everyone gets one, don’t they?’

‘Angie, honey –’ She gently rested a hand on my knee in a very clear ‘you’re blatantly a little bit mad’ move. ‘I know you’re super into this whole “I need to get the visa on my own merits” thing, and you know I think that’s awesome, right?’

‘Right.’

It was awesome. I was awesome. Take that, Lawrence.

‘And I know you don’t want Alex to ask you to marry him just to get the visa, right?’

‘Right.’

At least we were clear on that.

‘But you do love this dude?’

‘Correct. I do love the dude.’

‘And he loves you.’

‘I believe that to be the truth.’

‘So just ask him. People don’t meet in the rain trying to jump in the same cab these days, they meet online, they get engaged on reality TV. They hook up with their friends and they get knocked up. They get married because they need a visa. When and where he puts a ring on your finger isn’t important, as long as he loves you.’

‘That is the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,’ I said, slapping her hand off my leg. ‘You will never have bedtime story privileges with my kids.’

‘Be real hard to tell a bedtime story to kids in England.’ She raised an eyebrow then looked away. ‘No one’s arguing with the fact that you could get a visa another way, but there’s no need to make it harder for yourself. You don’t have anything to prove. Just ask Alex.’

‘Just ask Alex what?’

Two glasses of champagne appeared in front of me. Since he didn’t seem to be carrying anything else, I only took one. Begrudgingly.

‘Your beloved Angela Clark and I were just talking.’ Jenny beamed up at my boyfriend as she spoke.

‘About Christmas dinner,’ I squeaked. ‘I was saying Jenny and Sigge should come over to our place for Christmas dinner.’

‘Sure.’ Alex aimed his champagne glass in the giant Swede’s direction. ‘I will totally get into an eating contest with that guy.’

‘Dude, your waist is skinnier than one of his thighs,’ Jenny scoffed. ‘Are you kidding me?’

‘Oh, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny, you have no idea,’ I said, proudly wrapping an arm around Alex’s waist. ‘He’s got hollow legs. Honestly, it’s disgusting the amount he can eat and stay this thin.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get real fat when I’m old,’ he replied, kissing me on the top of the head. ‘Good and fat.’

‘Awesome.’ I leaned into him and tried to envisage a porky Alex on a porch swing playing a banjo.

Totally hot.

Some hours and several glasses of champagne later, I wandered out of the front room, leaving Alex to protect my lovely friend Vanessa from the advances of his disgusting friend Craig, who had somehow found his way into the party. Facebook had so much to answer for. After a liberal application of lip balm and a tipsy spritz of Jenny’s Gucci perfume, I checked my phone. It was admittedly a slim possibility that anyone would have called to offer me a job at half-past eleven on a Saturday night, but you never knew. Shit. Three missed calls. All from my mum. I did a quick calculation on the time difference: the last call was an hour ago, making it three-thirty in the UK. I sobered up in a heartbeat and pressed redial. Cooling my warm forehead against the window, I stared out at the Chrysler Building, all lit up, well, like Christmas, and wished on every star I could see that everything was OK.

‘Hello? Angela?’

‘It’s me, Mum. What’s wrong?’ I closed my eyes and wished harder.

‘It’s your dad,’ she replied. ‘He’s been taken poorly.’

I closed my eyes as I tried to strike a deal to change my Christmas miracle.

‘What’s wrong?’ A million different scenarios were running through my head. Heart attack? Stroke? Had he fallen downstairs? Dad was fit and active for a man in his sixties, but you could never be certain. What if it was some horrible illness? I’d give him a kidney. A kidney for Christmas. Anything for my dad.

‘I don’t want you to panic – the doctor says he’s probably going to be all right,’ she went on, her voice pale and grey. ‘But basically he had a bit of a funny turn at Auntie Sheila’s Christmas do, so we had to take him into hospital.’

‘A bit of a funny turn? Are they the words the doctor used?’

‘Not exactly,’ she hedged. ‘But I thought you’d want to know. So you could come home.’

Home.

Before I could reply, I heard Dad’s voice in the background demanding to be given the phone. After what sounded like a relatively non-violent altercation, my dad’s voice came on the line.

‘Angela, I told her not to call you, I’m fine.’ Aside from sounding a bit tired and rough around the edges, he did sound like himself. I relaxed by one-eighteenth of a degree. ‘I’m just in overnight for observation. There’s nothing wrong.’

‘But what happened? What sort of funny turn? Do I need to come home?’ I wiped the tears away before they could ruin my mascara and tried to work out how I could manage to squeeze a flight back to the UK out of my meagre bank account. Flight prices in December were obscene. I had a better chance of someone lending me a private jet. Actually, Erin’s husband had a private jet. Maybe if I got really drunk, I could forget I was English and ask for a quick borrow.

‘You don’t need to come back for this – I’ll see you when I see you,’ he replied. ‘Really, I had something I shouldn’t have and, like your mum said, I had a funny turn. I’m fine.’

‘You’re allergic to something? Might I be allergic to something?’ Obviously, I was very concerned for his well-being. And a little bit about mine. ‘What was it?’

‘I don’t think you need to worry, really. You’re fine, love. Now, when are you coming to see us? Your mother is still insisting on buying the world’s biggest bloody turkey in case you decide to grace us with your presence for Christmas dinner.’

Hmm. Was it me or was he being weird?

‘Dad?’

‘Angela?’

‘What did you eat at Auntie Sheila’s that put you in hospital?’

‘We were just having a nice night in with Sheila and George and your Uncle John and Aunt Maureen came over,’ he explained slowly. ‘And, well, your Aunt Maureen had made some special cakes. For a laugh.’

‘Special cakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘For a laugh?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dad …’ It took a very long time for me to understand what he was saying. And then just as long again for me to accept it. ‘Were you and Mum doing space cakes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh dear God.’

The desire to go home and nurse my poor old dad to health transformed into a desire to go home and slap my stupid old dad around the head whilst tutting at my mother and shaking my head in disappointment.

When I was seventeen, my mum marched into Gareth Altman’s eighteenth birthday party, saw me standing next to Briony Jones, who was holding an unlit hand-rolled cigarette, and shrieked, ‘Angela Clark, I will not have a drug user in my house!’, then dragged me out by my borrowed Radiohead T-shirt. Which was subsequently thrown out because they were a ‘druggy band’. Explaining this to my then boyfriend was a bit tricky, but we were seventeen and the promise of a hand-job cured all. If only life was still so simple: I’d have a green card by now.

‘So let me get this straight. You’re in hospital because you ate too many space cakes and overdosed on marijuana?’ I just wanted to be clear.

‘I know, I know,’ he giggled. Brilliant. He was still high. ‘You’d think it was the Seventies.’

‘Dad, you know we don’t discuss anything that happened before I was born,’ I reminded him. As far as I was concerned, my parents came into existence in the early Eighties, my mother already pregnant with me and my father just a lovely, middle-aged Ken doll. They didn’t have sex and they certainly didn’t do drugs. He was really killing my champagne buzz. I was not beyond seeing the irony in that. ‘Just get lots of rest and I’ll call you tomorrow. When we will discuss the concept of “Just Say No”.’

‘Your mother wants to say goodnight,’ he said, giving me a huge yawn and ignoring my sanctimonious tone. It was a shame, really, because if I was being honest, I was quite enjoying it. ‘Call tomorrow, love.’

Even though my mum couldn’t see me, I took a moment to put on my best ‘Would you like to explain yourself to me, young lady’ face.

‘So, I’ve got to let your Auntie Sheila know if you’re going to be back for Boxing Day dinner at hers, because she’s buying the beef next week and needs to know.’

I was actually quite impressed at her attempt to get on with business as usual.

‘And obviously she’ll want to know how much weed to score,’ I added. ‘For dessert.’

‘Oh, very funny, Angela.’

‘Or will we be going straight on to the crack, what with it being Christmas?’

‘Angela, are you coming home or not? I’m sick of asking.’

‘I can’t.’ I tried to say it without whining, but it was difficult. ‘The flights are so expensive. Next year, I promise.’

I didn’t feel like explaining that next year I could be back for good. She didn’t deserve a shot of Schadenfreude: she would just love to hear all about my general failure as a human. I hadn’t been entirely honest with my parents about my professional status for the last few months, and by ‘not entirely honest’, I mean I’d been flat-out lying.

‘Oh, Angela Clark, you worry me sick,’ she moaned. ‘All the way out there, no money, spending Christmas on your own.’

‘I’m not on my own,’ I replied. ‘And I’m not broke.’ Only half of that was a lie. Pretty good going for a conversation with my mother.

‘Of course, this boyfriend of yours. When are we going to be meeting him? Is he back from gallivanting around the world without you?’

‘He was on tour, and you’ll meet him when you meet him,’ I said. The sound of Jenny shrieking in the other room reminded me I wasn’t in the middle of a very odd Nineties anti-drug after-school special but actually at a party. ‘I’ve got to go, I’m at Jenny’s – we’re having a Christmas party. Without any drugs.’

There was no way I could know that statement was true.

‘Fine, you go off and have your party and I’ll sit in the hospital with your father. Don’t worry about us.’

I paused and counted to ten before I spoke. ‘He’s not dying, Mother, he’s as high as a kite.’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Love to Jenny.’

And she hung up.

I looked out at the busy Manhattan street below me. How was it that my father was in hospital after having an adverse reaction to a vast quantity of an illegal substance of which my mother had also partaken, and yet I was the one being made to feel like the irresponsible teenager? I watched someone come out of Scottie’s diner across the street and my stomach rumbled. Brilliant. I had sympathy munchies.

Only ten minutes in real time had passed since I’d left the room, but that equated to about three hours in party time. There were at least another dozen people squished into the front room, perching on windowsills and poking their heads into the fridge, and no one was where I had left them. Instead of finding my lovely friend, my wonderful boyfriend and his regrettable band mate on the sofa, it was populated by some very drunk male models and the man who swept the lobby every other morning. He seemed to be enjoying the male models. Who knew? The apartment wasn’t big enough for me to lose anyone, so if they weren’t in the front room and they weren’t in the kitchen, that left the bathroom or my old bedroom. Sure enough, while the rest of the flat was overrun with beautiful strangers, my old bedroom was populated with all of my friends. Erin and her husband, Thomas, Vanessa, Sigge, Alex and Jenny were all draped across the bed, laughing like loons. It was a fairly wonderful sight.

‘What did I miss?’ I asked, forcing my way into the throng. Everyone shuffled up and rolled around until we all had our own bit of bed. ‘Why are we in here?’

‘Because I just remembered I hate everyone I invited,’ Jenny said with delight in her eyes. ‘So we’re hiding.’

‘In that case, I propose we go over the road and get some chips – I’m starving,’ I said, resting my head against Alex’s chest and trying not to purr as he ran his hand through my hair. ‘I just talked to my mum and dad. Booze won’t be enough – it’s time to bring out the big guns.’

‘Ooh, I want a chilli dog.’ Jenny kicked me from across the bed. ‘Are they good? Are they coming over?’

‘Dear God no.’ Perish the thought. ‘My dad is in hospital because they went to a party and he got stoned and had a “funny turn”, and my mum is my mum. Apparently weed has absolutely no effect on her whatsoever.’

‘Your parents are awesome,’ Vanessa said to the ceiling.

‘My parents are dickheads,’ I replied.

‘Is he going to be OK?’ Alex asked.

‘He is.’ I was suddenly sober and shattered. There was only one cure.

‘Let’s get you something greasy,’ he said, sliding off the bed and holding out a hand.

‘I love you.’ I let him pull me off the bed. I wanted chips. I wanted chips so badly.

‘Angela?’ Sigge’s tone was innocent. ‘Were your parents at a swingers’ party?’

His question was not.

I turned to Alex with pursed lips and a glare that meant business. ‘I need to be eating right now.’

‘We have to do gifts before we leave.’ Jenny bounced up off the bed, bumping Thomas onto the floor and Erin onto her face. ‘Wait right here.’

‘Presents?’ I looked at Erin and Vanessa, alarmed. ‘We’re doing presents?’

Quite aside from the fact that I hadn’t bought any presents yet, it wasn’t Christmas, and I had very strict rules about opening presents before the twenty-fifth. This was only acceptable if the gift giver was going to be either out of the country or dead by Christmas morning. Clearly Jenny didn’t fall into either of those categories. In theory.

‘You and I aren’t doing gifts,’ Erin yawned. ‘If that helps. I didn’t get you shit.’

‘Appreciated.’ I mentally took her Marc by Marc Jacobs scarf out from under the tree and put it back on the shelf. And then mentally took it off again and put it back under the tree with my name on it.

Jenny sailed back into the room carrying a small blue chequebook-shaped box wrapped in silver ribbon. Since a chequebook would be a fairly odd gift, I assumed it was something small and wonderful. Possibly shiny. I immediately forgot my rules and snatched it out of her hands. Christmas could do terrible things to a girl’s manners.

‘So, I know you’ve been super-stressed lately,’ Jenny started explaining as I tussled with the tightly tied ribbon. ‘And I was like, what would totally chill Angie out?’

Massage vouchers? A weekend away in the mountains? Lots and lots of drugs? No, that would be from my mum.

‘And I thought about the things that help me when I’m freaking out. The places that make me feel like Jenny again.’

Uh-oh. Pole-dancing lessons? Tickets to Vegas? Lots and lots of drugs?

‘And I came up with this. It’s going to be the shit, doll.’

I wasn’t sure about ‘the shit’, but the fevered look in Jenny’s eyes scared me. Everyone was silent while they watched me give up and rip the ribbon from the box with my teeth, because I’m so classy, and tear into the box.

Meep.

Inside the box was a copy of Gambling for Dummies and three plane tickets.

‘Vegas, baby!’ Jenny bounced up and down on the bed. ‘Me, you and Erin. Girls’ weekend away, just a total, awesome blow-out. We’re going to go crazy. No over-thinking, no panicking, no worrying. Just fun. It’s exactly what you need.’

‘It is?’

It was?

‘Totally,’ she said, landing on her arse right next to Vanessa’s face. ‘We’ll get drunk, we’ll dance, hang out by the pool, go to the spa. It’ll be awesome. No one needs to get on the pole like you do, honey.’

‘Yeah, Ange,’ Alex contributed. ‘You do need to get on the pole.’

I could have punched him, but I was all Rocky’d out for one week. Instead, I took a spectator’s stance and watched as Vanessa pushed Jenny off the bed and onto the floor, right on her backside. She did have it coming.

‘And when Jenny’s finished trying to kill us all, I have a client opening a store in the Crystals, so there is going to be some intense window shopping going on,’ Erin said. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t let her make you pole dance.’

After a moment of fear had passed, I started to smile. I was more concerned that it wouldn’t be a case of ‘making me’ so much as ‘stopping me’. I’d always wanted to go to Vegas, always. It just sounded so fabulous: all girls in feathered headdresses serving elaborate cocktails to shady blackjack players while Frank Sinatra belted out ‘Strangers in the Night’ on stage. Somewhere, I was semi-aware that these days, Vegas was more Kim Kardashian knocking back jello shots while P. Diddy set his iPod to shuffle in the DJ booth, but still. Surely there was still a good old glamorous time to be had somewhere on the Strip?

‘So.’ I held up the tickets. ‘When do we leave?’