I Heart Hawaii

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‘Tour?’ There was a very definite sneer on Avery’s face as she raked through my makeup, tossing eyeliners and lipsticks all over the coffee table. ‘What is it that your husband does?’

‘He’s in a band,’ I told her, grabbing a precious packet of Sour Patch Kids out of Avery’s hands. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re called Stills.’

All five women froze.

‘Stills?’ Perry repeated, her grey eyes suddenly open wide. ‘Your husband is in Stills?’

I puffed out my cheeks and nodded slowly.

‘Is it Alex or Craig?’ she demanded before looking at the other women to explain. ‘Graham the bassist is gay.’

Oh god, I thought as the colour drained from my face. She’d shagged one of them, hadn’t she?

‘Alex,’ I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

As my voice grew quieter, Perry’s elevated to an all-out screech.

‘You’re married to Alex Reid?’ she squealed.

‘Yes?’ I replied.

Perry turned on Nia with savage stare.

‘Why was this not in her background check?’ she hissed. ‘Unacceptable.’

Nia shrank back, visibly quaking in her overpriced boots, and I wondered how many lashes she’d be getting after I left.

‘Do you know Alex?’ I asked, afraid to hear the answer to my question.

‘I don’t know him, know him, but I love him,’ she said so quickly I could barely understand her. ‘That is, I love Stills. They’re my favourite band. I’ve seen them at least ten times. I’ve been to every tour they’ve ever played. I once went to Texas to see them play at South by Southwest. Imagine, me in Texas.’

A quick look around the room confirmed that neither Nia, Danielle, Avery or Joan could even conceive of such a thing.

‘Angela,’ Perry said. ‘I have to meet him.’

And just like that, Perry the investment banker and grown-up Mean Girl turned into a squealing teenybopper who had a crush on my husband. But on the upside, at least she hadn’t shagged him.

‘They’re playing here in a couple of weeks,’ I said as casually as I could manage. ‘Trying out some new material.’

Perry gave a sharp nod and Danielle, Avery and Nia began shovelling my belongings back in my handbag while Joan pulled out a Google Pixel phone and began tapping away at the screen.

‘If you’re looking for tickets, the show sold out as soon as they announced it,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

‘Angela,’ Perry leaned forward and gripped my knee so tightly my foot sprang out and kicked Avery square in the shin. ‘Can you get us tickets?’

‘I don’t know,’ I gasped, wincing as I pried her fingers off me. ‘I can ask.’

‘I would do anything to go to that show,’ she said, opening her eyes so wide I could see white all the way around her pale grey irises

‘Anything?’ I replied, more frightened than interested.

‘Anything,’ she confirmed. ‘Forget the membership process, you’re officially in The Mothers of Brooklyn.’

‘Which is very nice of you,’ I said as I grabbed my bag back from Nia, immediately reaching in to find my phone, my thumb hovering over the emergency call button. ‘But really not necessary. I really do have to go, as lovely as this has been.’

It hadn’t been lovely, it had been intimidating, humiliating and ultimately terrifying, and for the first time since I’d met Cici Spencer, I couldn’t wait to get to work.

‘We’ll work it out,’ Perry said, following as I stood up out of my seat. ‘There has to be something.’

‘I will ask,’ I promised, not even sure if I meant it. ‘Nice to meet you all.’

The M.O.B. stared after me as I dashed out the room, walking quickly through the big white room and breaking into a run as I hit the steps to the street.

‘You need to socialize with other mothers more, they said,’ I muttered as I turned onto 8th Avenue and flagged down a passing yellow cab. I couldn’t get far enough fast enough on foot. ‘You need more mommy friends, they said.’

Hurling myself into the back seat, I rummaged through my bag to make sure everything was there before tearing into the packet of M&Ms, inhaling them by the wild-eyed handful. There wasn’t a single thing anyone could offer that would make me go through that again. They could send all four of the Chrises to my house, oiled up and shirtless, each bearing a different Chanel handbag, and I still wouldn’t be swayed.

I never wanted to see Perry Dickson again as long as I lived.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_1d85059a-39c5-5833-950a-be6f7fd4d1ac)

‘I’m not saying she’s obsessed but I am saying, if I ever get home from work and seem a bit off, please just check it’s me and not Perry Dickson in an Angela skinsuit,’ I said, pushing Alice’s pushchair through Park Slope. It was Friday and I should have been ‘working from home’ but Cici had called an emergency meeting and demanded I attend. On my first Friday working for her. Definitely not a power trip.

‘Maybe we should come up with a safe word,’ I suggested. ‘Like, if I seem taller than usual, ask me what I want for dessert and if I don’t say rhubarb, she’s got me locked in the attic of that bloody mansion on 11th Street.’

‘I thought our safe word was peanut butter,’ Alex replied through a mouthful of doughnut.

‘Your safe word is peanut butter,’ I said, flushing at the very thought. ‘I don’t have a safe word, I’m English.’

‘Rhubarb it is,’ he agreed simply. ‘Perry Dickson, huh. Is she hot?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted grudgingly. ‘And she’s got some very nice trousers.’

‘You’ve got nice trousers too,’ Alex said, resting his hand on the top of my arse. ‘I can put her on the list for the show if you want me to.’

And there I was, hanging on the horns of a true moral dilemma. I did not want Alex to put Perry Dickson on the list for his show but I knew if I did, it would make her incredibly happy. It was a selfless act that would make someone else’s day, earning me many karmic brownie points, but it would also mean spending another second of my life with Perry Dickson, something I had vowed never to do.

‘Maybe,’ I said, staying non-committal until I’d consulted wiser minds on the matter, i.e. Jenny. ‘I’ll let you know.’

Hanging back on the edge of the street, we waited until the light changed before starting to cross 7th Avenue to the subway station. Besson’s offices might be cool but they were not convenient. I had to get the G to Lorimer and then the L to Bedford and, even then, it was still a fifteen-minute walk. Thankfully, the humidity had broken and the weather was civilized again, even if my commute wasn’t. As we crossed, I fished around in my satchel, digging around for my MetroCard and trying my best not to think about all those women from The M.O.B. rummaging through my things. Just as I caught the edge of the travel pass with my fingertips, my bag slipped off my shoulder, hanging precariously between me and the pushchair for a second.

‘Alex, watch out!’ I cried but it was too late. The bag fell, hitting Alex hard in the back of the knee and knocking him off balance, the strap wrapping round his leg and sending him face first into the road.

‘Oh my god,’ I yelled as Alex groaned, the contents of my bag rolling on the street around him. I pushed Alice to the safety of the pavement and stamped the brake on before turning to help Alex up to his feet, the two of us stumbling to safety right before the light changed, leaving my bag at the mercy of the traffic.

The strap had snapped.

The strap of my Marc Jacobs satchel, my first and only true bag love, had snapped clean in two.

Pushing my hair behind my ears, I looked right, then left, then right again, preparing to run out against the light to retrieve my poor bag as it sat waiting patiently for me in the middle of the road.

Until a taxi came tearing around the corner and ran right over it.

‘My bag,’ I gasped.

‘My ankle,’ Alex moaned.

‘Waah,’ Alice added. She was absolutely fine but understandably wanted to be part of the excitement.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked my husband as I tried not to cry. I was worried about him, of course, but he was clearly in one piece and this was my bag. My precious, beautiful, wonderful bag. Unable to tear my eyes away from the carnage, I choked back a sob as I saw it lying there in the middle of the road, flat as a pancake, haemorrhaging tampons, breast pads, loose change and tubes of lip balms that had rolled away from the scene of the crime and into the gutter.

‘I don’t think anything is broken but my ankle does not feel good,’ Alex said, wincing as he touched his leg. The fall had torn his paper-thin vintage jeans and there was a nasty gash on his knee. ‘What the hell happened?’

‘My bag broke,’ I said, the simplicity of the statement not nearly covering the enormity of what had just happened. A bus hurtled down the street towards the victim and this time I had to look away. Rest in peace, little bag. ‘We should go to the hospital, you’ve got to get it looked at.’

‘I’m fine,’ he insisted before howling in pain the second he tried to put weight on his left foot. ‘I take it back, I’m not fine. ER it is.’

‘Right, yes, let’s do that,’ I nodded before realizing the light had changed again. ‘Just a sec.’

I dashed into the crosswalk, scooping up my flattened satchel, smashed phone and as many of my other belongings as I could. My keys and wallet seemed to have survived unscathed but everything else was a goner. I couldn’t even look at the packet of salt and vinegar Squares that were scattered all over the street. My last bag of them as well.

‘Don’t be upset,’ Alex said, leaning against the pushchair and holding out a hand for the wreckage of my bag. ‘I’ll bet I can fix it.’

‘We should fix you first,’ I said, wiping away a tear as I cradled my first bag baby in my arms. My first human baby was no longer crying but looked understandably confused by what was going on. One day you will understand, I thought sadly, but I hope I will be able to spare you this pain. ‘There’s that walk-in clinic on 5th Avenue, it’s closer than the hospital.’

‘You’re going to be late for your meeting, go, I’ll be OK.’ Alex hopped along using Alice’s pushchair as a makeshift crutch. I shoved the remains of my bag into the shelf under her seat and gave him an unconvinced once-over.

‘Yeah, I don’t think so,’ I told him, glancing down at the open wound on his knee. ‘They can wait ten minutes. I’d prefer to know you didn’t bleed out on the way if it’s all the same to you.’

With half a smile on his even paler than usual face, Alex rested one arm around my shoulders, keeping the other hand on the handle of the pushchair while Alice sang happily to herself, entirely unmoved by the drama unfolding around her.

‘Angela Clark,’ Alex said, hobbling down the street, very, very slowly. ‘What did I do to deserve you?’

What did I do to deserve this? I replied silently as I spotted the puff from my lost-forever Chanel powder compact, blown up into the air by another passing car. It certainly felt like punishment for something but – oh, wait a minute.

‘This isn’t exactly the time for it,’ I said, sliding my arm around my husband’s waist and staring up at the sky. Someone up there was taking the piss. ‘But when you get home, if you could add Perry Dickson to the guest list for the show, that would be grand.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I called, emerging out of the lifts at Besson forty minutes later. ‘Minor emergency, crisis averted.’

Cici, Kanako and the rest of the editors were sitting around the crystal conference table. One by one, they each turned to look at me, all of them with the same expression on their faces.