Lindsey Kelk - I Heart Vegas

Everyone alive knows there is nothing more exciting than post, especially at Christmas. Two of the envelopes had a distinctive Christmas-card vibe to them, one with British stamps. Too impatient-slash-lazy to go back upstairs to open them, I perched on the step, knees pulled up under Alex’s coat, and tore into them. Ahhh, merry Christmas from Louisa, Tim and the Bump. The second was a Christmas card from Bloomingdale’s. What lovely people, I thought happily; must pay them a visit as soon as I find the credit card I begged Alex to hide from me before he went away and have since spent weeks tearing the place apart to find. The third envelope was distinctly less seasonal – white oblong, too thin to bear goodwill – but while I was there, I figured I may as well open it.

And immediately wished I hadn’t.

I scanned the letter quickly, feeling sicker and sicker by the second.

Dear Ms Clark,

We have been informed that your employment status has changed … As such your L-1 visa has been revoked with immediate effect … Thirty days to leave the United States … Please contact the following department with any questions …

Your visa has been revoked.

Thirty days to leave.

Standing up, I floated back up the stairs, my fingers skimming the wall as I went. Was the plaster always this bumpy? Were there always so many steps? Fumbling with my key in the lock, I let myself back into the clean, sparkly apartment. It seemed smaller. The Christmas cards slipped from my hand and clattered lightly onto the hardwood floor as I moved through the rooms. Eventually I came to a standstill in the bathroom before a sharp stabbing pain in my stomach brought me to my knees and, without really knowing what was happening, I threw up, INS letter still in hand. Thirty days to leave.

Minutes or hours could have passed, I wasn’t sure, but eventually the trance subsided and I was left sweaty, tear-stained and broken on the bathroom floor. I read the letter once more, looking for something I hadn’t seen before – a side note, a postscript, anything that didn’t say I had to leave the country in a month’s time. But it wasn’t there. How could such an important, life-changing message be so brief? America was the land of opportunity, of ‘How can I help you?’ and ‘Have a nice day’, not ‘It’s been fun, now piss off’. This wasn’t possible. I left the letter on the cold tiles and pulled myself up, gripping the sink with my clammy hands. A few splashes of water to the face later, I was able to look in the mirror. I did not like what I saw. And apparently neither did America.

‘OK,’ I told myself. ‘This is going to be OK. We’ll sort this.’

Even my reflection didn’t look convinced.

There was only one thing to do. I engaged my last three working brain cells to remember where I’d put my phone and pressed my speed-dial.

‘Angie?’

‘Jenny,’ I whispered. ‘I need you.’

Jenny Lopez was, as far as I was concerned, the luckiest girl who ever did live. Now, she would tell you that everyone makes their own luck, but after you had nodded sagely and agreed, she would then go on to tell you how she was dating a Swedish male model whom she had initially offended on an epic level by assuming he was gay (I might have suggested it first, to be fair), was living with a female model who shared her shoe size, was never there and was stupid enough to pay three-quarters of the rent, and, if that wasn’t enough, she had lucked into an amazing job organizing events for one of our best friend’s PR firm. I was very proud of her. I was also, on occasion, ever so slightly jealous. A feeling that didn’t exactly go away as the lift doors opened into Erin White PR to display a life-sized black and white photo of a half-naked Sigge, Jenny’s boyfriend, advertising a very scanty pair of pants. English usage. There were some things you never needed to know about your friend’s boyfriend, and as far as I was concerned, the contents of his Calvins was one of them. But it was a bit late for that. Jenny was an oversharer.

I blinked four times at the receptionist, who acknowledged me with a raised eyebrow, then skulked directly over to Jenny’s office, trying not to make eye contact with any of the girls on the floor. I’d never quizzed Erin on her hiring policy, but I was prepared to bet none of these girls had ever seen the inside of a McDonald’s. Everyone was so bright and perky. Why they were called public relations when they bore no relation to the public whatsoever was a mystery to me.

Luckily, I was soon safely inside Jenny’s office, hidden from the judgemental, overly made-up eyes of the office minions. That is to say, Jenny’s corner office. Jenny’s huge, airy, floor-to-ceiling-windows corner office. Ever so slightly mad, accidentally ended up living with a high-class hooker in LA, borderline alcoholic Jenny had it together. Forget earthquakes, hurricanes and the advent of Justin Bieber; if Jenny being a grown-up wasn’t a sign of the apocalypse, I didn’t know what was.

‘Hey.’ I knocked lightly on the door and stuck my head in cautiously. ‘It’s me.’

Jenny leapt up from behind her desk, resplendent in her sexy secretary skyscraper heels, pencil skirt and pussy-bow blouse, masses of hair levered away from her face by several thousand kirby grips. She made Joan from Mad Men look like the office frump.

‘Hey!’ She skittered around her desk to give me a huge hug before holding up her hand for silence and pressing a button on her Star Trek phone. ‘Melissa, could you bring me two Diet Cokes, please?’

She paused, biting her bottom lip with eyes as wide as saucers and pointing at the phone with pantoesque enthusiasm. Like I said, I was so proud.

‘Sure, Ms Lopez,’ a voice chirped over the intercom. ‘Can I get you anything else at all?’

‘That’ll be fine, Melissa,’ Jenny replied. ‘And please stop calling me Ms Lopez – you’re making me feel like I’m your homeroom teacher.’

‘You love being called Ms Lopez, don’t you?’ I asked as she took her finger off the button.

‘First time the bitch calls me Jenny, she’s fired,’ she confirmed, settling back into her chair as a tiny blonde bounced through the door and deposited two icy cans of Coke on the desk in front of us before vanishing in silence. ‘God, I love having an assistant. Now, tell me everything.’

‘I’m getting kicked out.’ I picked up my drink to see it had already been opened. Melissa wouldn’t want Ms Lopez to break a nail. Melissa was a genius. ‘I don’t have a job, which means I don’t have a visa, which means I’m getting kicked out.’

‘You do have a job. You’re my therapist and personal shopper,’ Jenny acknowledged. ‘Actually, scratch that, I’m yours. What is it you do for me?’

‘Generally make you feel better about your life?’ I suggested. ‘Oh, and I get your shoes reheeled.’ I passed her a shoe bag containing the borrowed Louboutins, freshly heeled and shined to perfection by the lovely man on the corner of North Eleventh and Berry.

‘Thanks,’ she said, stashing the shoes under her desk. ‘What did Alex say?’

‘He’s sleeping.’ I shook my head hard, trying to shake away the black and white lines of the letter that had imprinted themselves on my eyelids. ‘I didn’t want to wake him.’

‘Pretty sure he’d want to be woken for this,’ she said, holding her hand out. ‘You must have really rocked his world last night, huh? Give me the letter.’

‘I flashed his friends, fell over, knackered my knee and then rocked his world,’ I said, ticking the order of events off on my hands before pulling the offending piece of paper out of my MJ bag with my thumb and forefinger. I just didn’t even want to touch it. ‘Enjoy.’