by Lindsey Kelk
‘Angela!’ she yelled, her hands flying up. I stared at my palm, wow, that was way more painful than I thought it was going to be. But ultimately, pretty satisfying. Even the voices in my head were stunned into silence. A small crowd had gathered beside us, split between whispering and whooping. Wiggling my fingers, I looked at Virginie, shrugged and turned my back on the whole sorry situation. Really, I was feeling better by the second. Not that violence solved anything. It just really, really helped sometimes.
‘Angela, please wait,’ Virginie pleaded, following me down the street. ‘Angela!’
‘Oh, just don’t.’ I kept on walking, feeling strangely light-headed. ‘I heard all of it. Just, seriously, leave me alone.’
‘No, I wasn’t, I–you heard?’ she asked, planting herself in the street in front of me.
‘I heard,’ I confirmed. ‘So piss off.’
‘But I had no choice,’ Virginie protested. ‘I will tell you everything. I am applying for a beauty assistant position on US Belle, but I cannot get the visa I need. Cici said she could help.’
‘Cici never helps anyone,’ I said, trying to dodge past her, but she kept weaving in front of me. ‘Which I thought you knew.’ I stopped, sighed and pushed her out of the way.
‘I did not lie, we were not friends.’ Virginie ran along beside me. No point trying to lose her, she really was too fast. ‘She found out I had applied for the job and asked if I would help you with your article. I really am a fan of your blog, you are my inspiration.’
‘What part of my being your inspiration inspired you to completely fuck me over?’ I asked, stopping at last. More because I was lost than because I wanted to hear her out. It was so much harder to get lost in New York. Paris might be beautiful, but it was a pain in the arse to find your way around.
‘At first I believed I would be helping with your article, this is why I agreed,’ she said quickly. ‘But after I accepted the job, I spoke with Cici and she said that your boss was worried that Belle was bad for your career, that she did not want you to do it, but you told her you would do it whatever, and then she told Cici she would fire you.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Belle is not good for everyone,’ Virginie admitted. ‘It is not good for nice people.’
‘Do you know what I was about to say?’ I laughed. Ooh, I felt weird. ‘I was going to say that you’re nice and you work at Belle. How stupid am I?’
‘I know I am not nice,’ she said far too easily. ‘But I want to work in New York more than anything. And Cici tells me that you are really a bitch so I was not feeling too bad. Until I met you.’
‘Cici said I was a bitch,’ I repeated. ‘Wow, pot, kettle, black.’
‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’ Virginie reached out to grab my forearm. ‘But I know you are not a bitch. I am a bitch, but I can help you with the article still. I am very sorry, I was wrong, but I very much still want to come to New York.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ I lied, pretty certain that I did. ‘The article is looking OK, I’ll get it sorted. And you can stop trying to get me back on side because you’ve been busted. You’re both buggered, you and Cici bloody Spencer.’
‘OK is not enough for Belle,’ Virginie pointed out. ‘Please let me help. I was very stupid to help Cici, I know. I feel horrible.’
‘Well, you should,’ I said, removing her hand from my arm. ‘You made a deal with the devil. I hope it bites you on the arse.’
Fairly certain I was heading in the right direction, I left Virginie in the street and half walked, half ran down the street, back to the hotel.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Twenty minutes and a couple of wrong turns later, I found myself back in the hotel reception, panting heavily and trying very hard to look as if I was interested in leaflets for Disneyland while I got my breath back. Behind the reception desk, Alain stood staring at me, a smile on his face, but terror in his eyes. Granted, I must have looked a little bit scary, all smudged make-up and yellowing black eye, but at least I wasn’t drunk. Well, I might have been a little bit drunk, technically, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t know how I felt.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Clark,’ Alain said after an awkwardly long moment of silence. ‘How are you this evening?’
‘I’m OK,’ I replied, fumbling in my bag for the hotel room key. I knew it was in there somewhere. Because unlike everything else in my life, this bag was the one thing that would never let me down. ‘I think I’m OK.’
‘Can I get anything for you?’ he asked, his tone sounding a little relieved.
‘No, I’m good,’ I said, finding the key and holding it up triumphantly, shaking off whatever was stuck to it.
‘D’accord.’ He smiled, looking back down at his computer monitor or just possibly away from me.
I reached down to pick up the stray piece of paper stuck to my room key, eager not to have Alain add ‘litterbug’ to his existing list of ‘drunk’, ‘crazy’ and ‘naked’. But it wasn’t a stray piece of paper, it was the envelope Louisa had given me. I tore it open and pulled out a photograph. It was a candid shot of us from her wedding day. We were outside in the gardens, after the ceremony, and she was tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear while I held both of our bouquets. As usual, she looked composed and flawless while I looked like an impatient toddler. Formal wear was not where I was most comfortable, she might as well have been spitting on a tissue and wiping chocolate ice cream from my face. The sun shone fiercely behind us, almost bleaching out Louisa’s pale blonde hair and glinting off my engagement ring. I was engaged. But the main thing that looked strange were the smiles on our faces. We were happy. Really, really happy.
I sank down on to one of the transparent chairs in the lobby and stared at the photo. It didn’t even look like me any more, no matter how hard I stared, I just couldn’t find myself in that girl. She looked content and relaxed and her only concern was how much longer she’d be able to stay upright in four-inch heels. Of course, that girl was also completely clueless as to the fact that her fiancé would be shagging his tennis partner in the back of their car in a couple of hours. But she wouldn’t be for much longer. I ran a finger over the picture, settling on my diamond ring. Wow, I was engaged. Actually engaged to be married. It seemed like such a foreign, grown-up concept right now. Sliding the photo back into the envelope before it could do any more damage, I looked blankly at the floor. It was only a year ago. A year ago tomorrow and yet it felt like a lifetime.
‘Mademoiselle Clark?’ Alain was at my side with a box of tissues before I even realized I was crying.
‘Alain, do you have a schedule for the Eurostar?’ I asked, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand and trying to take a subtle swipe at my runny nose at the same time. ‘For tonight?’
‘I believe the last train has left for this evening,’ he replied, pulling out tissue after tissue. Once I’d started, I really couldn’t stop. ‘Would you like me to check times for tomorrow?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said, shoving the envelope clumsily back into my bag. He disappeared behind his computer monitor and made some faraway tapping noises. I sat still in the chair, as big, fat tears rolled down my cheeks and splash on to the floor. I didn’t know entirely what I was doing, but at least I was doing something.
‘The first train leaves at seven-thirteen a.m. There are seats available if you would like me to book you on this train?’
I stared into my handbag and gripped the envelope tightly. I didn’t take the photograph out, I just looked at Louisa’s flowery handwriting against the brown paper. It just said ‘For Angela’ with so many kisses that her pen had started to run out. Louisa always did overdo things.
‘Yes, please book it.’ I snapped out of my trance and looked up at Alain. ‘And can you book me a taxi to get me there on time?’
‘But of course.’ He nodded curtly. ‘You would like a wake-up call to your room also?’
‘No, no, I’ll get myself up, don’t worry,�
�� I said, remembering how to use my legs. ‘Thanks Alain.’
‘And what time would you like to return to Paris?’ he asked, still tapping away on the computer. Efficiency, thy name was Alain.
‘Erm, don’t worry about it.’ I felt very, very sick even as I said it. ‘I’ll sort it out from that end.’
Alain looked up, not scared of me any more, and there was definite concern in his expression. ‘And it is just one ticket that you will need?’
I nodded. Words were gone again.
‘D’accord, your ticket is booked for the seven-thirteen, your taxi will collect you from reception at six a.m. and I will have everything printed out for you in the morning. Shall I charge this to the room?’
‘Erm, no, stick it on this.’ I handed him my company credit card. May as well make the most of it while I had it.
‘All booked,’ Alain confirmed, handing the card back to me. ‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.’
I managed a tiny, tight smile and headed for my room, holding on to the brown paper envelope inside my handbag all the way.
When I was safely inside the room, I stripped off my clothes, everything felt grubby and used. Rifling around under my pillow in the darkness, I pulled out the T-shirt and pair of Alex’s boxers that I’d been sleeping in and slipped them on in silence. The room seemed huge tonight. I flicked the lamp on beside the bed and pulled open my drawer. There was my passport. I took it out and dropped it into my handbag. Ahh, my handbag. There really was an argument for that being the only good thing that had happened to me this entire year. I took out clean underwear, a T-shirt and the clean leggings that had been delivered by the hotel laundry and laid them on the back of a chair. As much as I was still heartbroken for all the beautiful things I had lost, this new minimalist lifestyle did have its benefits. No need to worry about what to wear.
My plan was to avoid talking to Alex at all. I would pretend to be asleep when he got back from the concert, and tomorrow morning, I would just sneak out without a word. Graham was right, we did need to talk about all this stuff, but I couldn’t, not just yet. Too much had happened too quickly. Less than a week ago, I thought I was coming to Paris with my boyfriend for his birthday and then returning to the States to move in with him. Now, here I was being told that a) he didn’t want to move in with me, b) he was getting back together with his ex and c) I might not be going back to the US at all. I needed to get my head together and I couldn’t do that here. I could however, do it from Louisa’s spare room, watching Hollyoaks and eating shitloads of Galaxy Minstrels. Picking up the phone, I prayed that she still turned the ringer off at night, and dialled her number, slightly surprised that I still knew it by heart. Relief, answerphone.
‘Hey, Louisa,’ my voice sounded flat and crackly, as if I’d been doing tequila shots and karaoke all night long, ‘um, I’m on my way to yours. My train gets into London at about eight-thirty or something. I’ll call you when I get there. Love you.’
I skipped washing my face for fear of having to look in a mirror again and slid between the cool, white sheets, sticking my BlackBerry underneath my pillow, the alarm set to vibrate. At least it was useful for something. I felt like a zombie. I’d been through so many emotions in one day, I was just all out. It just wasn’t possible that it was less than four hours since I’d waved goodbye to Louisa. I turned over to stare up at the ceiling, staring at a pretty print on the wall. If it weren’t for the lovely Alain, I would be totally stealing that right now. Closing my eyes, I rolled over on to my side and waited to hear the key in the door.
The next thing I heard was a quiet buzzing underneath my ear. Grabbing blindly, I pulled out my phone and turned off the alarm, frozen in position, waiting to see if Alex had woken. After a couple of moments, I realized something didn’t feel right. Turning over carefully, it took a couple more moments for it to sink in. Alex wasn’t there. He wasn’t in the bed. He wasn’t in the chair by the window. He wasn’t in the room at all.
Alex hadn’t come back to the hotel.
Not even able to think about what that could mean, I clambered out of bed and pushed myself into the bathroom. I had made the right choice not to look in the mirror before bed, it was amazing how much damage a couple of days of trauma could do. Fortunately, the same trauma had more or less left me not giving a shit. Who needed to look hot on a train? I splashed my face with cold water, brushed my teeth and took a quick shower. I might not need to be hot, but I did need to be clean. Even broken people needed to keep up their standards of hygiene.
Back in the room, I stared at the empty side of the bed. I must have passed out as soon as I closed my eyes, aside from where I’d just rolled out, it looked just like it had when I’d climbed in the night before. Forcing myself not to think about where he was and what or who he was doing, I picked up my bag and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me.
‘Mademoiselle?’
Alain was still on the desk – really, had the last few hours even happened? The sun shone through the window, confirming that it was actually morning.
‘Morning,’ I said, surprised by the flat monotone of my voice. I sounded as crappy as I looked. ‘Is the taxi here?’
‘It is,’ Alain confirmed, gesturing to a large black car outside the door. ‘Will we see you this evening?’
‘Do you ever leave this desk?’ I asked dodging the question.
‘Sometimes,’ he said, giving me a single nod. ‘Not often.’
I smiled or at least tried to, and tried to think of something else to say. ‘Well, thanks so much. You’ve been brilliant. Really. Just really great.’
‘Your taxi is waiting,’ Alain said awkwardly, gesturing towards the door. Apparently not all hotel concierges thrived on excessive praise, I thought, nodding and heading outside. But then my experience of hotel concierges was relatively limited. Perhaps some people really did just love doing things for other people. Weird.
Throwing myself into the cab outside, I asked the driver to take me to the Gare du Nord and popped in the earphones of my iPod, picking something loud and obnoxious. Paris was only just waking up at six a.m., it was nothing like New York. If I’d taken a cab ride through Manhattan this early in the morning, even on the weekend, I’d have seen dozens of joggers, at least the same number of people on the walk of shame back home, and a whole line of sadists coming out of each and every Starbucks on their way to the office. Often via the gym. I would never understand it.
But not Paris, or at least not the parts I was travelling through. It was so still, so calm. I’d always thought of Paris as a night-time city, the sparkling Eiffel Tower, the Moulin Rouge, the bars and cafés, but in the dawn, the city sighed and whispered. It didn’t need to shout, it was far too refined for that. Paris was the city I wanted to be when I grew up. If I ever grew up.
It didn’t take nearly as long to get to the station as I’d imagined, so, with nothing else to do, I set up shop at a small table outside a café and pulled out my laptop. I really didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts, they were not fun travelling companions after all. I tapped into the station’s WiFi and decided to blast out one last blog. God knows if The Look would actually publish it, but I was determined to have my say while I still had the chance.
The Adventures of Angela: Ooh la blah
OK, I have some stuff to get off my chest and I hope you won’t mind while I vent for a moment. I’ve had issues with girls before, we all have, right? But I have (very) recently had the misfortune to be completely effed over by another girl. And I do mean completely. And actually not just by one, but by two. Actually three. Shit. Three. In one week.
What’s going on? Has there been some sort of memo put out that I haven’t heard about? Did someone declare it International Shaft Angela Week?
I paused and stared at the screen. Where was this going exactly? What else was there to say? I didn’t really want to have an online breakdown. This had to stop before I was shaving my head in public and beating the crap out of a car wi
th an umbrella. Actually, I didn’t have an umbrealla. Probably best.
After a couple of moments, The Look webpage melted away and was replaced with a photo of me and Alex. It was a candid shot Vanessa had taken at Erin’s wedding a few months ago. We were leaning over a balcony, watching the party below. Vanessa had caught Alex whispering in my ear, his tie was undone, the top, button of his shirt unfastened, his hair messy and hanging across my face. I was laughing with my eyes closed, one hand on the balcony in front of me and the other on Alex’s chest. My cheeks were flushed and my lipgloss all smudged.
Before I could start to cry, the picture faded away to be replaced by a shot of me and Louisa. I was pretty sure it was from my last birthday in London and we were belting out a big karaoke number in her living room, both of us doubled up with laughter and the emotion of the massive power ballad we were performing. Seeing that picture was a bit of a shock. I’d spent so long blocking out all of my happy memories of my life in London, it was weird to see one right in front of me. That night had been so much fun.
I pressed my hands over my eyes. There was no mascara to smudge, but I still really didn’t want to start sobbing in the middle of a train station. Breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I looked upwards, forcing away the tears. There was no need to cry. This wasn’t the same as last year. This wasn’t running away. This was making a choice. I wasn’t jumping on a plane and hoping for the best. I was walking calmly on to a train and knowing that the best wasn’t always the same as what you wanted.
Circling my finger on the computer’s mouse pad brought the screen flickering back into life. Rereading my post once more, I saved it and shut up the laptop. I’d get back to it. A very loud announcement that my train was finally boarding snapped me back to my senses. I shook my bag until all the crap moved around enough to reveal my ticket and passport. This wasn’t a reaction. It was a decision. It was the right decision.
