by Jen Morris
“That’s awesome,” he says, and I swoon at his deep American accent. I’m a sucker for it, actually. I don’t know how I’m not going to jump into bed with every American man that pays me attention. Maybe moving here was a terrible idea.
I run my eyes over him. He’s tall and in good shape—I can see that through his fitted T-shirt. I’m pretty sure he’s flirting with me, with that look in his eye, and I’m not going to lie—I could use a little boost right now.
Look, I’m not hideous, I know that. I’ve got caramel-brown shoulder-length hair that has a natural wave to it, hazel eyes, and a heart-shaped face with a peaches and cream complexion. I’ve been told many times that I’m pretty, even if I wish I was a bit skinnier. But I’m lucky in some ways, because I’m tallish—five foot seven—and I have an hourglass figure and carry my weight on my hips and bust. So while I’m not slim, I’ve mostly made my peace with my curves.
But, you know. Getting dumped has a way of making a girl feel a bit down on herself. And moving to this city hasn’t helped.
Cory grins, leaning closer, and I blush under his flirtatious gaze. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten this kind of attention and I’d forgotten how fun it is. And even though I know better, I lean closer too.
“Cory! Get away from her!” Cat appears at the table, clutching two drinks. “Is this where you’ve been? I had to wait at the bar for ages.” She scowls as she slides into the other side of the booth.
Oh. Shit.
Realization rolls over me and my face warms. I quickly slide away from him.
“This is my brother. I see you’ve already met,” Cat says, glaring at Cory.
“I didn’t know she was your friend,” he mumbles.
I laugh, raising my hands. “It’s okay. No harm done.” I lean closer to Cat, speaking under my breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I had no idea he was your brother.”
That was close. One minute I tell Cat I’m not interested in meeting anyone, the next I’m nearly shacking up with her brother. I need to get a grip.
“It’s okay. He can’t help himself.” She throws Cory a look of exasperation. “Don’t you have some work to do?”
He shrinks, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll catch you later, Alex.”
I give him a nod and reach for my wine, while Cat waves to someone across the bar.
“Hey, Geoff,” she says as a slightly pudgy, dark-haired guy joins our booth. “This is my new friend, Alex.”
He extends his hand and smiles warmly. He’s got a kind face and green eyes that sparkle behind his black-rimmed glasses, and I think I pick up a bit of a gay vibe but I can’t be sure. Either way, I immediately like him.
“You two get to know each other,” Cat says, pushing to her feet. “I’ll go get you a drink, Geoff.” She swivels towards the bar, and this time she heads straight for Cory.
Geoff turns to me with a smile. “So, how do you know Cat?”
“She’s friends with a friend of mine from back home. She rescued me today when I got stuck,” I say. I’m not sure I want to go around telling everyone what an idiot I was to get sucked in by an internet scam because I made a major life decision while blackout drunk.
He nods. “She’s good like that.”
“She didn’t seem very impressed when we met,” I confess. “Something about her ex ruining her day.”
“Yeah, Mark is a total dick.” Geoff raises his eyes to the ceiling. “He makes her life a nightmare. But it’s okay, because she’s going to meet Mr. Right soon.”
“Oh?”
“She’s on a dating kick. Didn’t date much for a couple years after her divorce, but now she’s ready to meet someone new.”
I give him a puzzled look. “That’s weird. Earlier she said men are the worst.”
“Oh, they are. Just last week I had a drink with a guy who wanted me to go home with him after he called me fat.” Geoff laughs bitterly. “The dating scene here is rough. Cat’s met loads of guys but, you know, you have to kiss a lot of frogs and all that.” He folds his hands on the table. “So, what are you doing in New York?”
I tell him about coming to write, leaving out the details about my ex and my parents. When I do that, it makes it sound more like an adventure born out of a restless free spirit rather than a desperate attempt to reroute my disappointing life.
He listens intently, genuinely interested, and I notice I feel very comfortable with him.
“I love your necklace.”
I touch the book charm. “Thanks! It was a gift.”
“I should sell them. I run a bookstore in the West Village called Between the Lines.”
“Oh, I love books! I was assistant manager at a bookstore back home.” I decide not to tell him that romance novels have always been my preferred genre. I don’t need another person making me feel stupid right now. “Do you have any job openings?” I ask hopefully. I know I didn’t come here to do the same thing as back home, but I’ll need to find something to survive on until I start making money from my writing. I picture myself in a charming little bookstore in the Village, with worn leather armchairs and jazz music playing softly, while rain beats against the pavement outside and—
“No, sorry.” Geoff gives me an apologetic smile, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We’re fully staffed and I have people coming in to apply for jobs all the time.”
“Oh.” The image vanishes from my head and I nod. “Of course.” As if it would be that easy for me to even get a job, let alone one in a lovely bookstore where I could meet other writers and maybe even mingle with New York’s literary crowd.
No. I’ll probably end up stuffed into a shrimp costume, waddling through Times Square and handing out fliers to a local restaurant for three dollars an hour. And that’s if I’m lucky. I don’t even want to contemplate the alternative.
I look down into my wine glass with a heavy sigh. Cat and Geoff are friendly but that doesn’t help with the fact that I’m homeless and jobless—and now, thanks to that apartment scam, nearly broke. If I don’t find a job soon, I won’t have any choice but to go home with my tail between my legs.
6
I’m dreading today. Apartment hunting in Manhattan is not for the faint of heart. Well, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never tried it, and given the choice I wouldn’t be. But I’m determined to find my new home in this big city. So, I’ve lined up a few apartments to check out.
The first is only a few blocks from Cat’s place and I walk over mid-morning. I let myself wander slowly, taking in the neighborhood. The streets are cute, with small gardens and trees, beautiful brick facades and arched doorways. In the distance I hear the ever-present soundtrack of sirens and car horns, but most of them aren’t nearby. In fact, this area is sort of quiet. It really does feel like its own village.
I turn down a pretty street, lined with golden Gingko trees, and find the building I’m looking for. Pressing the buzzer, I wait nervously.
“Hello?” a voice says behind me, and I turn to see a middle-aged man.
“Oh, hi. I’m here to view the apartment?”
He nods and gestures for me to follow him through a gate, down from the street level. We enter through a heavy door into a small space. No, it’s not small. It’s tiny.
“So, this is the living room,” he says with a grand sweeping gesture, as if he’s showing me a suite at The Ritz and not what is, essentially, a basement.
I nod, trying not to grimace. What is that smell?
He takes a few steps and cracks open a door. “And this would be your room. My room is down the back.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I didn’t realize it was a shared apartment. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. And he seems nice enough, I suppose.
I poke my head into the room and my jaw drops. It’s not a room—it’s basically a broom closet with a window.
He smiles at me and I notice he has food in his teeth. I give him a polite smile in return, willing myself to stay positive. Maybe this will have to do
until I can find something better.
“What is the rent, again?” I ask. “Twelve hundred a month?”
He shakes his head. “No. Two thousand.”
My eyes widen in shock. Two thousand a month to live in a closet? Jesus, I couldn’t afford to live here even if I wanted to.
I quickly thank him and leave, desperate to get away from the odor lingering in that place. Once outside on the street, I gulp in a breath of fresh air, then release it in a frustrated sigh.
Oh well, maybe the next one won’t be so bad. I know they can’t all be winners. Good thing I got the worst one out of the way first, I guess.
But it only gets worse: apartments so teeny I can barely get in the door let alone put my books or clothes anywhere; creepy roommates that make me feel like I’d need to sleep with one eye open.
By the afternoon I’m practically despondent. I trudge along West 8th Street towards the Village, holding back tears. No apartment, and I haven’t even begun to think about searching for a job.
One thing is painfully clear, though. There’s no way the apartment package I purchased online could ever have been real. It’s almost laughable that I thought it was. Because now that I know what your money can actually buy you in terms of Manhattan apartments, well. I was an idiot.
Mum said it was crazy to come here and I’m starting to think she was right, because—
Huh. That’s weird.
Across the street I see a flash of something—or rather, someone—familiar, and I freeze, trying to figure out how I could possibly know someone around here.
Oh, wait.
Broad shoulders. Expensive suit. Beard…
It’s the guy from Starbucks that I showered in coffee.
Shit, I hope he doesn’t see me. He may very well march over here and demand I fork out for a new shirt.
What’s he doing around here in the middle of the day, anyway? Shouldn’t he be down on Wall Street or something? He’s clearly a businessman, and as I watch him from across the street, my mind fills in a few other details about the kind of guy I think he is: single, probably a bit of a womanizer with that physique, living in a penthouse or other fancy apartment with views of the park. He seems like the type to get up early and hit the gym before work, which I imagine to be the kind of job where people shout into phones all day and only care about the bottom line.
I mean, okay, I could be wrong. Everything I know about men like him I’ve learned from films like The Wolf of Wall Street. But he just looks like a typical New York businessman.
He turns to cross the road and before I can even register what’s happening, I’ve ducked behind a lamppost to hide. For some reason my heart is thumping, and I get a flashback to his scowling face in Starbucks. He was so pissed off, and if he does expect me to stump up the cash now, I’d be royally fucked.
I brave a peek around the post and notice he’s heading down the street, away from me.
Thank God.
My head slumps forward in relief, and that’s when I notice the paper tacked to the post. It’s a “help wanted” advert. No mention of what the job is, but it specifies women. There’s no experience required, and it pays in cash. That’s all I need to know.
I whip my phone out and dial the number as fast as I can, and it’s not until it starts ringing that it occurs to me it could be something really shady. Shit, I could be ringing a pimp right now. I’m not that desperate.
Am I?
No, don’t be silly, I tell myself. I’m sure it’s something perfectly reasonable. Besides, I don’t have many options. As long as it’s not prostitution—or something else illegal—I’ll do it.
I cross my fingers as the call connects.
Well, the good news is that I’m not selling my body or dealing drugs. The bad news is that I have to wear a wedding dress and hand out fliers up and down West 8th to advertise a bridal boutique.
It’s been three days now and I have to admit, it’s a little humiliating. Especially the dress; it’s polyester and taffeta and just plain unflattering. It smells like it’s been worn by many people before me, and it itches, so I have to wear a white tank top and leggings underneath. But it’s not just that. The irony of wearing a wedding dress every day when I’m feeling ready to give up on love is not lost on me.
I’m trying to be positive, though, because it has some unexpected perks. I mean, with all that walking up and down the street I’m getting in a lot of steps, so that has to be good for me. And it gives me several hours to just think.
Today, I thought about my writing. I used to write a blog a few years ago—mostly about dating and how shit it was—and I was thinking I might try writing on there again, just to warm up. That’s my plan for tonight: write a blog post about moving to the city.
But first, dinner. I spot a pizza place on the walk home to Cat’s apartment after work. After popping back to change out of my white leggings and tank (thankfully, I don’t have to walk home in the hideous wedding dress), I head out to grab one.
I take the massive pizza box from the counter with an embarrassed smile. Apparently ordering a whole pizza for one was a mistake. It’s huge. In New Zealand a pizza is about the size of a dinner plate. This pizza is bigger than a manhole cover. By the time I get back to the building my arms are starting to ache with the effort of carrying the damn thing.
I’m about to step into the apartment when I hear an odd noise coming from upstairs. It kind of sounds like crying, but I can’t be sure. With the pizza box hot in my hands, I climb a couple of steps until I can peek onto the next floor. Sitting in the hall, clutching a book and backpack, is a boy, around ten years old. His legs are crossed and he’s sitting with his back leaning against a door, like he’s waiting for someone.
I climb another step and clear my throat so he knows I’m there. He glances up, quickly wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Hi. Are you okay?”
He nods, looking down at his hands. I think he’s embarrassed I’ve caught him crying, so I try to say something reassuring.
“It’s okay to cry if you’re upset. I cried not that long ago because my boyfriend wanted to break up, so then I decided to move to New York and—” I break off with a cringe. Probably best to leave it there.
He gives me a peculiar look.
Okay, so that wasn’t the right approach. He must think I’m some kind of maniac, cornering him in the hallway and bleating on about crying.
My gaze drops to the book in his hands. It’s Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything. “Are you reading that?”
“Yes.”
“Woah,” I say, impressed. “That’s difficult reading for someone so young.”
He shrugs. “We read a lot in my family.”
I take another step up. “Yeah, well, reading is awesome. Where are you up to?”
“Um, I’ve just started. It’s taking me a while.”
“You know, I think there’s a kids’ version of that book.”
“I know.” He frowns. “But it was too easy.”
I chuckle. This kid likes a challenge.
“Where are you from?” he asks, finally looking at me properly. He has chocolate-colored eyes and a brown fringe—sorry, bangs is what they call them here—slanting across his forehead.
“New Zealand. Do you know where that is?”
He frowns again. “Of course.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I don’t imagine American kids learn much about New Zealand.
We lapse into awkward silence, me standing halfway up the staircase holding a pizza box, him sitting in the hall with his book and backpack.
“So, why are you sitting out here?” I ask eventually. I want to ask why he was crying but don’t want to embarrass him again.
“I’m waiting for Dad to get home. He’s running late.”
I feel a pang of sympathy. It’s nearly eight o’clock. He must be hungry. “Did you have dinner?”
He shakes his head.
“Well,
if you want, I have way too much pizza here. Would you like some?”
His eyes drift to the box and he bites his lip. “I… shouldn’t.”
Well, I guess I am a random stranger offering him food in a hallway. Probably the right answer. But I can tell he desperately wants a piece and I know it’s safe for him to eat.
“When is your dad getting home?”
He shrugs.
“Hmm. Okay, I’ll be right back.” I pop down the stairs and into the apartment, putting a few slices of pizza on a plate for myself, then take the rest up in the box. I set it down next to him, pausing. “You’re not allergic to dairy or gluten or anything, are you?”
He shakes his head and I relax.
“Okay, cool. Well, I’ve taken all I want, so if you feel like eating some you can, and if you don’t that’s okay too.” I smile gently.
He looks at me, examining my face like he’s trying to figure me out. “What’s your name?”
“Alex.”
“I’m Henry.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Henry. I’m staying downstairs. I’m going to go and eat my pizza now.” I turn to go, then glance back. “Will you be okay here?”
His gaze wanders over to the pizza box and he nods. “Dad should be home soon.”
“Okay. I hope you feel better.”
He gives me a little smile, revealing a cute dimple in his cheek. “Thanks.”
I head down the stairs, wait for a moment, then peek back up over the top step. He’s devouring a slice of pizza and I grin to myself as I head back inside.
7
Americans are obsessed with Halloween. So many stoops on the walk back to Cat’s place tonight are crowded with pumpkins or plastic skeletons. Some even have masses of white cobwebs over the railing. But it’s fun.
I wish I could say the same about work. Well, today wasn’t so bad. Being Halloween, fewer people noticed the crazy woman on the street in a wedding dress. But otherwise, it’s pretty demeaning. It’s cold out and when I asked my manager if I could wear a jacket, she told me to “toughen the fuck up” or she’d find someone else. And a few days ago, someone threw a soda can at me as they drove past. It didn’t hit me, thankfully—their aim was shit—but it gave me a hell of a fright. I didn’t spend four years at university to do this.
