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me.’
    ‘Well, you’re always up three hours later than me anyway.’ I nodded at Jenny to wave down a passing cab.
    ‘This could be the perfect thing for us then.’ Alex passed me my battered leather weekend bag. It looked pitiful next to my (sigh, so pretty) Marc Jacobs handbag. Maybe it would find a new friend in LA. ‘We could be the first couple to ever make a long-distance relationship work.’
    ‘Yeah, whatever.’ I tried to laugh. Trust a boy to say something stupid just before you got on a plane. God, I should just say it. ‘Alex?’
    ‘Angela?’
    ‘I…I…’ I paused, not really knowing what I was waiting for. Alex shivered expectantly, his breath fogging up between us, hands stuck deep into his jeans pockets. ‘I’ll be back next Monday. Don’t get too used to being on your own.’
    Congratulations on wimping out. What a great example of a strong, modern woman I was turning out to be.
    ‘You’re only going away for a week. I think I’ll survive.’ Alex kissed my frozen nose and shut the door. ‘And again with the phone sex.’
    ‘Bye, Alex.’ I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.
    ‘You’re not exactly down with the phone sex then?’ Jenny asked as we pulled away.
    ‘Shut up,’ I replied pleasantly, watching our building—and Alex—vanish out of sight.
    From the second we stepped out of the airport, it was completely obvious that California was going to be very different to New York. As we headed out onto the freeway, I couldn’t quite believe we were in the same country. The city was wide open, cars streaming up and down the highways with their tops down, the skyscrapers of downtown sparkling in the distance rather than constantly pressing down on us and, bejesus, the sunshine.
    Despite the bitching and moaning I’d done about the steamy New York summer at the time, one morning I had woken up and it had gone. The weather teased me with a couple of weeks of creamy, cardigan-appropriate autumn before dissolving into burns-your-nose-when-you-breathe winter. It wasn’t like New York didn’t try its best to win me over—the shops were soon full of cute jumpers, flattering opaque tights and massive quantities of delicious hot chocolate—but by Christmas, when I had been snowed in twice and lost a pair of suede shoe-boots to an unforeseen storm, I was dying for a little bit of sunshine. And here it was. Hiding away in LA all this time.
    ‘Oh my God,’ I blinked once. Twice.
    ‘I know,’ Jenny patted me reassuringly on the back.
    ‘But it’s sunny.’ I looked up at the clear blue sky.
    ‘I know,’ Jenny sighed.
    ‘In March?’
    ‘Can we please just shush?’
    ‘Jenny, look!’ I pressed my nose up against the cab window, watching billboards and fast-food restaurants whizz by. At least taxi drivers still drove like psychos—London, New York, LA, all the same. It was oddly reassuring.
    ‘Yeah,’ Jenny muttered, touching up her make-up. A little Touche Eclat, some bronzer, a dash of lip gloss and, ta-da, she looked perfect.
    I was avoiding even catching my reflection in the cab window. Even though I had spent the flight cleansing, moisturizing and then moisturizing some more, I knew I looked like crap. My skin felt like sandpaper and my hair hung around my cheeks, limp and lifeless. What was more annoying was that Jenny had done nothing for three hours but slump against the window, watch half a series of America’s Next Top Model and drink as many free glasses of wine as they would give her, occasionally slapping away my attempts to moisturize her against her will. And bless the man in the seat next to us for only complaining once when one of my misdirected paws full of Beauty Flash Balm accidentally landed slap in the centre of his forehead.
    ‘Did you see that?’ I pointed at a strip-mall. ‘There’s a shop called Condomania? Wow. And IHOP! I’ve heard of IHOP!’
    ‘Angela, you’ve been living here for—like—nine months or something. Why are American