JENNY LOPEZ HAS A BAD WEEK: AN I HEART SHORT STORY. Lindsey Kelk

without being, well, obvious. I was bored. I was miserable. But I wasn’t going back to The Union. Besides, the lack of work was only half the issue. Both Angie and I knew the real reason I’d come back from LA, and it was six feet tall, blond and went by the name of Jeff. Heartbreak beat out hookers and homesickness every time.

      ‘I know.’ I was too tired to get into it. At 9.15 in the evening. Jesus. ‘We still getting lunch tomorrow?’

      ‘Yep,’ she confirmed. ‘Twelve, Noho Star. Are you sure you’re OK? Do you want to come over?’

      An evening in front of the TV with my best friend and her perfect boyfriend? I’d rather go back and apologize to Brian Williams. I was happy for Angie, I was, and it wasn’t like she and Alex hadn’t faced their ups and downs, but I still hadn’t figured out how she got to move here from England and hook up with one of the hottest guys in the city right away. Some of us had been putting in the groundwork for years. Actually, there was a chance I’d put in a little too much groundwork and that was part of the problem, but you know what they say: practice makes perfect.

      ‘I’m good,’ I gave her a yawn to demonstrate just how fine. ‘Just gonna take a bath and hit the hay. An early night won’t hurt me.’

      ‘No, but five in a row will,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re going out this weekend.’ It sounded more like a threat than a promise. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

      I dropped the phone back in my bag just as we pulled up outside my apartment. Just two minutes and seven flights of stairs until I was snout deep in a tub of Chunky Monkey. Live the dream, Jenny Lopez, live the dream. Yeah, it had been a pretty bad week.

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘Oh my god, Jenny, you look like shit.’

      Erin and I had been friends for years but still, that kind of hello was not going to fly.

      ‘Hey Erin,’ I replied with two breezy kisses. ‘Your ass looks fat. How’s married life working for you?’

      ‘My ass is twice the size it was a year ago and I’m fucking ecstatic.’ She pushed a bellini across the table towards me. ‘What’s your excuse?’

      ‘I’m having tons of super-hot sex with super-hot strangers all the time,’ I lied. ‘Ten orgasms a night take their toll on a girl.’

      She narrowed her eyes, flicked her newly bobbed blonde hair behind her ears and shook her head. ‘Right.’ She tapped the platinum bands of her engagement ring and wedding band against the stem of her glass. ‘Only, I can tell by looking. If ever anyone needed to get laid, it’s you.’

      ‘She told you about her dating drama then?’ Angela dropped into the spare seat on the opposite side of the table with a cheery smile. A cheery smile that vanished as soon as she registered my expression. ‘What? What did I say?’

      Erin laughed happily and ordered another round of cocktails, even though it was Wednesday and even though we still had full glasses in front of us. Oh to be a married PR maven in Manhattan.

      ‘So, bad date?’ She had the decency to wait until we’d ordered before quizzing me any further, but curiosity finally got the better of her. ‘Tell me everything.’

      ‘I’m glad my tragic encounters with the opposite sex keep you guys entertained.’ Even though I was thoroughly depressed about my single status, I couldn’t deny that I loved being centre of attention, and when you’re the only single lady at a table full of coupled-up gals, you’re pretty much the star attraction. ‘It was nothing, that Brian guy I met at your birthday party.’

      ‘The cute geek?’

      ‘He had glasses, yeah,’ I frowned at the definition. It was a slur against geeks. ‘He wasn’t a geek though. Just an asshole.’

      ‘Example?’ Angela requested.

      ‘He didn’t own a TV.’

      ‘Ouch.’

      ‘And he said he most closely identified with Kierkegaard.’

      ‘Oh, no.’

      ‘And he said women couldn’t understand Ayn Rand.’

      ‘Strike three,’ Erin said. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Hang on, wasn’t Ayn Rand a woman?’ Angela looked confused.

      ‘She wrote the book Robbie tried to loan Baby in Dirty Dancing,’ Erin replied.

      ‘You went on a date with the Brooklyn equivalent of Robbie the Creep?’ Angela shook her head sadly. ‘I can’t believe it’s come to this.’

      ‘Some people matter and some people don’t,’ I confirmed. ‘So, yeah, he wasn’t the one.’

      ‘Did he at least have an Alfa Romeo?’ Erin couldn’t help herself. ‘That’s my favourite car.’

      I coiled a loose chocolate-brown curl around my finger and tried not to think too much about what she’d said when I came in. Did I really look like shit? Maybe my tan had faded a little since I’d gotten back from LA, and my hair could use the teensiest trim, but my Ella Moss sundress was totally cute and everyone loved a gladiator sandal. Another glance at my pedicure confirmed it remained unchipped and I was even wearing mascara. I was officially making an effort. There was no room in my dating timetable for leaving the house looking shitty from here on in. You never knew who was around the corner in this city. Lest we forget, Ryan Reynolds was single now.

      ‘I feel responsible.’ Erin smiled at the waitress as our food arrived. Prompt and plenty of it. I loved this place. ‘He was at my party, after all. Let me hook you up with one of Thomas’s friends.’

      Thomas was Erin’s husband, one of the few Wall Street traders I knew who hadn’t been totally stung in the recession. Not that my address book was teeming with Wall Street traders.

      ‘Maybe.’ I took a deep breath, readying myself for the inevitable reaction I would get to my next statement. ‘You know, I kinda thought maybe I might give Jeff a call.’

      Their choruses of negativity were loud and indecipherable but the general theme seemed to be a no. I sighed and poked at my eggs, suddenly not so hungry any more.

      ‘Jenny, you know that’s a bad idea.’ The blonde began her practised argument.

      ‘I know but I need to do it, OK?’

      To be fair, it wasn’t as though this wasn’t old ground. Jeff and I used to date, used to live together, but we’d broken up a couple of years earlier when I’d been dumb enough to confess a drunken one-night dalliance and he’d completely flipped. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t ready to take responsibility – yes, technically I’d cheated, but a) I was wasted and b) I’d told him about it right away. But apparently that didn’t help. He didn’t trust me any more and that was even more hurtful than if he’d stopped loving me. Because he hadn’t. And knowing that was the worst.

      ‘Jeff is the past, Jeff is bad times, Jeff is staggering around at four a.m. singing “Hopelessly Devoted” in every karaoke bar in the East Village.’ She shook her head. ‘Jeff isn’t happening.’

      ‘But if I just called him,’ I suggested weakly. I was playing to the wrong crowd. ‘Or send, like, a Facebook message?’

      ‘I wouldn’t,’ Angie said, sounding nervous. ‘Really, I wouldn’t get in touch at all.’

      I bit my lip. ‘Is that girl still living there?’

      It was hardly Angela’s fault, but her boyfriend had the misfortune to live in the same building as my ex. Which of course meant that Angela now lived in the same building as my ex. Awesome.

      ‘Uh, yep.’ She looked down at her burger and then at the ends of her shiny bob. ‘I need a trim. Shall we see if we can get a trim this afternoon?’

      She was about as