by Rosie Nixon
“Surely you should be able to jump this queue by now then?” I remarked.
“I don’t want to—this line is all part of my experience,” he replied. “I use the time to people watch.”
“Watch people in inappropriate shoes, like me?” I asked, aware that my toes were cold.
He laughed. “Funny you say that. You have nice feet.” I smiled awkwardly. “I love shoes, but also coats, dresses, jewelry—all forms of adornment. Clothes are never boring to me. They say so much about a personality—much more than the wearer realizes.” He was eyeing my feet again, and then his eyes slowly worked up my skinny jeans to my jacket and scarf, finally resting when they met mine. It made me feel uncomfortable. Oh great, he’s a foot pervert. I’ve read about people like him. He’ll be fantasizing about sucking my big toe as we speak. Where are you Rob? I looked over my shoulder; the queue had grown some three times in the twenty minutes we’d been standing here. I shuffled on the spot, uncomfortable and self-conscious. The wind from the river was really whipping against us now and I pulled my scarf further around my chin, checking to ensure I wasn’t showing the slightest patch of bare skin between it and my cleavage. You couldn’t be too careful, even in the queue for a museum.
Thankfully, the man had turned around again. I noticed his slightly graying dark hair was tied in a small knot at the back. My eyes fell to the floor to check out his shoes, as I idly wondered what kind of footwear a shoe pervert wears himself. His were black, Cuban-style pixie boots, with a thin silver edging around a lifted heel, giving the impression he was at least an inch and a half taller than he really was. They were quite a style statement for a man of his age.
At last, Rob returned, clutching two coffees.
“Sorry, got caught up chatting to the man at the coffee stall. Everyone’s so friendly in New York,” he gushed, his face flushed with enthusiasm. “There’s a great food market near here, apparently—we should eat there afterward.”
The foot-fetish man turned around again when Rob spoke.
“Chelsea Food Market, just down the road,” he informed us. “They do a fantastic burrito in Takumi Taco—check it out—Japanese-style; sounds kind of odd, but it works.”
“Oh, cheers, mate.” Rob smiled, always so open and happy to talk to complete strangers. I gave him a nudge, and tried to tell him telepathically that we shouldn’t engage with the foot nut. He was probably having strange thoughts about what lay beneath Rob’s pair of Adidas.
Thankfully, the queue began to move. As we exited the revolving doors inside the museum, the man pressed a card into my hand.
“Nice talking to you, lady. If you need a guided tour of the city any time, call me. I know all the best shoe stores in New York. Au revoir.” He winked and he was gone, swept into a giant lift and whisked up to the top of the impressive building.
“Let’s start on ground,” I said to Rob, stuffing the card into my pocket, glad the man was off my case.
* * *
The sun was beginning its descent as we finished at the Whitney, and it cast a stunning orange glow across the buildings. Luckily, the place was big enough for us not to bump into the foot perv again, though Rob just laughed when I told him my suspicions.
“New York is not like London, you know,” he said. “Everyone talks to everyone here. It doesn’t mean a man is a pervert, just because he gives you a compliment to pass some time in a queue. Besides, you do have nice feet.”
“But the way he was staring at them, I felt his eyes dissect me,” I protested.
Buoyed by the exhibits we had seen, not to mention the additional cups of coffee which helped fight the jet lag, we weren’t ready to return to the hotel yet. We walked two blocks north and found the Chelsea Food Market straightaway, soon becoming lost in a delicious rabbit warren of food stalls. We found the Japanese taco stall and then shared a chocolate crêpe, before stopping for a beer at a local tavern. It was getting on for nine o’clock and we were ready for bed as we began wandering back toward the Bowery. On a SoHo street corner, a saxophonist was playing soft jazz to a backing track. We stopped to join the circle of appreciation forming around him. Rob wound an arm around my waist.
“I’m so glad we’re here together,” he whispered into my ear. I turned to look at him, I mean really look at him. His eyes were twinkling in the streetlight. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“I’m so happy I did,” I replied firmly, lifting my lips toward his, a huge beam across my face.
“Come on, let’s treat ourselves to a cab.”
Chapter Six
The next morning, Monday, Rob headed uptown for his first production meeting at the Angel Wear offices, and I tried to make an appointment to see Dana LeRoy. True to her word, Poppy had given me her contact details and she obviously held some influence as Dana went from stand-offish to super-friendly the second I mentioned her name. I was over the moon when she said she could see me the same day. Apartment hunting would have to wait.
I turned the corner of Fourteenth Street and there I was, standing on the famous cobbles in the heart of the cool Meatpacking District. I gazed up at the red-brick Gothic building in front of me. All the buildings were so tall in Manhattan, even the ones that weren’t supposed to be skyscrapers. I scanned a panel of gun-metal-gray nameplates to confirm I was in the right place. They bore the names of about fifteen companies inside the building. Eventually, I located the one I was looking for—just one word: SHOOT.
Instead of taking the name at its word and bolting straight back to the hotel, I took a deep breath, gripped my iPad tightly and pressed the entry buzzer.
“Yeah?” said a brash American voice.
“Hi, it’s Amber Green. I’ve got a meeting with Dana?”
“Come up, lift’s broken,” the voice replied. I’m glad my portfolio is online.
Inside, the building was plain and cold. Another metal board on the right-hand side repeated the names of all the small businesses, this time with floor numbers next to them. SHOOT was on the eighth and top floor. Lucky I’m not wearing heels. It wasn’t the kind of establishment I could imagine an A-list star like Jennifer Astley swanning into for a pre-premiere meeting with her stylist, but I supposed that was what plush hotel suites were for.
The gum-chewing girl on reception looked like a model herself: her lank, dirty-blond hair hung around her face, partly obscuring it, but I could tell that, with some good makeup and the right clothes, she’d come alive in front of a camera.
“Amber?”
“Yes, I have a meeting with Dana at eleven o’clock.”
“I know, we slotted you in. Take a seat, she’ll be out.”
I sat on the red sofa opposite the reception desk and took a moment to look around me. The walls were crammed with framed photos of fashion shoots, and images of highly polished celebrities on the covers of magazines, including American Vogue, Elle, Women’s Health and Vanity Fair. In less obvious spots, there were advertisements for cleaning products, vitamin drinks and diaper brands, starring white-toothed all-American models and blond-haired babies.
Five minutes later, Dana appeared. She was a short, plump woman with lots of brown curly hair, a small smile, yet kind eyes.
“Amber, welcome.” She held out her hand and a chunky gold bracelet jangled on her wrist. “We’ll go to my office. How have you been settling in?” I followed her down a corridor with more photography on either side of it. It certainly gave the impression of a busy, high-profile agency.
“Great, thanks. We did some sightseeing yesterday.”
“Where are you living?”
“Not sure yet, still looking—maybe Bushwick.”
She shuddered. “Right. Watch out for the fat-cat landlords. You’re best off getting somewhere through word of mouth or a small ad. There are notice boards in most coffee shops—you should check them out.”
“Thanks, we will.”
“How do you know Poppy?”
“I met her last year, when I was assisting Mona Armstr
ong in LA.” The look on her face turned into a grimace. The mention of Mona’s name always seemed to have this effect on people in the industry. No surprises why. “And then I bumped into her in London recently. I’m on a sabbatical out here.”
“Love that girl. Man, we’ve had some nights out.” She drifted off for a second.
“Are these all styled by your clients?” I was desperate to stop and look properly at the images decorating the walls.
“Of course,” she responded, as we reached a large office at the end. There was a desk in the middle, another red sofa and a coffee table in the corner. The vista beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows almost took my breath away—a patchwork of rooftops all around. Manhattan was so photogenic, I was dying to pull out my phone.
“It never grows old, even to me, a native New Yorker,” she said, acknowledging my goldfish impression. Shauna would be so jealous if she saw this.
Dana then sat on one side of the desk and gestured for me to sit, too. “We could stare at it all day, but—your portfolio?”
“Of course,” I lifted my iPad onto the table and began talking her through my jobs. I felt a flush of pride as she moved through the images—when you looked at it all together, it was pretty impressive, even I had to admit. I was glad Rob had talked me into including my press cuttings from Vogue and national newspapers, which showed my work for Mona and the plaudits Jennifer Astley and Beau Belle had won for their gowns last year; plus, my photos of the windows at Smith’s and Selfridges showed I was familiar with putting together looks from all the major designer brands.
“You may have some great A-list names on your résumé, but a stylist is only as good as her last job,” she commented finally. “And you’ve been out of the game a while. Dressing dummies in a shop window? I’m afraid it isn’t the same, sugar.” She shook her head resolutely. After a pause, she continued: “Do you have a visa?” She held my gaze as my face flushed, revealing the answer.
“Just an ESTA at the moment. I was hoping . . .”
“You are aware that a stylist without a visa can’t work in this city?” I shifted the weight on my seat. I knew this, but I was hoping there might be a way around it. “I’ve got an idea for you, though,” she added.
I smiled. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
“You need to get out there—build relationships again, up your online presence. Do you have an Instagram or Snapchat account?” I nodded, sagely. “Being successful in fashion is as much about who knows you—as who you know. Luckily, you’ve timed things well: as you know, New York Fashion Week is next week, and I’ll be able to get you into a couple of shows. Maybe not seated, of course, but you’ll get the atmosphere and have a chance to mingle. But from there, you’re on your own. Network, network, network! Make friends, post, blog, pin . . . anything to demand attention—this city doesn’t work for shy little British mice; you need to be the lion, Amber. You need to make yourself heard.”
Be the lion. Jesus, I’ve never had to be a lion before. I smiled nervously, faintly relieved that she didn’t actually ask me to roar.
“So, um, I guess, no paid work until the visa comes through?” I wanted to clarify the situation.
“No, sugar. But once we’re good with the visa, you’re looking at five hundred to one thousand dollars a day. On a good day. That’s as the lead stylist. Plus, a few expenses for calling in and returns: bikes, taxis and stuff.” I felt my shoulders relax again. I’ll be rolling in it! The Prada sunglasses will be paid off in just one day of work.
“Fine, that’s great,” I said, cheerily.
She wagged her finger at me. “Hold up, sweet cheeks! Of course, you won’t be on that level; you’re more likely to get assisting jobs, and for that you’re looking at one hundred dollars a day, maximum. No expenses.” I mentally did the sums. That’s little more than £50 a day. A work-experience rate. She paused to take in my crestfallen face, but I wasn’t going to give it to her.
“Great! When will we know about the shows?”
And that was it: just one meeting and my O-1 visa application was on the way to being processed and, all going well, I was to be a stylist—okay, assistant stylist, on a minimum wage—but for SHOOT agency, NYC, US of A. Yee-hah!
Dana was confident she’d have me paid jobs before long and, meanwhile, I could keep myself busy with any unpaid work she could put my way. “And then there is always tons of catalogue work,” she said, rolling her eyes. I didn’t care, it was perfect and meant I wouldn’t be dependent on Rob the whole time I was out here—not just in terms of money, but time. I resisted the urge to high-five the moody model on reception, as I skipped out of the SHOOT offices and back to the subway, calling Rob on my way.
Back at the hotel, I opened my Instagram page. Thirty posts, fifty-three followers. Dismal. Plus, the last time I’d posted anything was over two months ago: a photo of Mum’s Christmas cake. Delicious though it was, it wasn’t going to set the fashion world alight. Fashion people don’t eat cake; most of them think you get fat just by looking at it. I decided to spend the afternoon re-branding my online profile. First job: start a new Instagram account. Potential bios:
Amber Green—@NewYorkStylist (not strictly true—yet)
Amber Green—@BritGirlInNewYork (not fashiony enough)
Amber Green—@IHeartClothes (cheesy)
After a desperate call to Instagram queen, Shauna, I finally settled on:
Amber Green—@BritStylistTakingManhattan
I added a cute Union Jack emoticon at one end, the Stars and Stripes at the other.
* * *
“So did you get anywhere with the Realtors?” Rob asked when he arrived back at our room after work that evening.
“Not exactly,” I said, from my position hunched over my iPad, propped up by five pillows on the bed. “But I have had a great day workwise.”
He seemed buzzing, too: “Tell me about it in a minute, because, I’m actually glad you didn’t do any house-hunting . . .” He dangled a bunch of keys in front of my face.
“Whose keys are those?” I asked, confused.
“They’re our door keys!” he said, beaming. “Talk about piece of luck. After the first production meeting this morning, one of the Americans on the show happened to ask if anyone was looking to rent, because his mate had a short-term sublet he needed to get rid of quickly, in—wait for it—not Bushwick, or anywhere on the wrong side of Brooklyn, but right in the middle of everything in Willamsburg! I went to look at it quickly on my way home, and it’s perfect. I mean, it’s small—it’s pretty much a sardine tin—and it needs a bit of a clean, but the rent is capped, so it’s a steal and it’s got character. I think you’ll like it.”
“My clever boyfriend!” I leapt off the bed and threw my arms around his neck, planting a big kiss on his lips. “When can we move in?”
“The current tenant is moving out on Saturday and then it’s ours. He gave me his spare keys so I can take you over to size it up tomorrow. It’ll be barely furnished, so we’ll need to get a few things, but that shouldn’t be hard to do cheaply.”
And there was my first Instagram upload—a photo of our new door keys; Lark filter; caption: “Unlocking the door to my new life #Fashion #NYC #London #Williamsburg #Movingin”
We capped off our Monday with a Thai meal in a local BYO restaurant as we filled each other in on the rest of our respective pretty perfect first day as New Yorkers, rather than just tourists.
* * *
The next morning, we got off the subway at Bedford Avenue. Williamsburg felt like a whole new world compared with the area our hotel was in on the other side of the Hudson. The buildings were smaller here, less intimidating; many were painted sandy colors with wooden slatted façades. As we headed down Bedford Avenue, we passed vintage furniture shops with chairs, lamps, mirrors and colorful oil paintings stacked up outside, eyebrow and nail bars, liquor stores and a couple of tattoo parlors. Many of the people we passed on the street looked like hipsters with well-groomed i
ronic moustaches, or bohemian musicians who had just rolled out of bed, or girls dressed in parkas with satchels slung across them and spectacles that surely didn’t require a prescription. As we turned the corner onto Sixth Street, I felt pleasantly optimistic about what we were going to find.
Rob and I had barely spoken as we took in our new neighborhood, trying not to gawp like the obvious new kids on the block as we followed his iPhone on the ten-minute stroll from the subway, sucking it all up to discuss later on. A few houses up the street, he began to slow the pace.
“Now, I don’t want you to have too high hopes for the apartment,” he said, touching my arm, as he almost reached a standstill.
I nodded, but the truth was it was too late. I hadn’t slept well last night, my mind racing with thoughts of our new love nest. In my head it was a cross between Carrie Bradshaw’s compact Manhattan apartment and Monica’s kitchen in Friends—bijoux but cute, the perfect place for rustling up bacon-and-maple-syrup breakfasts for cozy weekend brunches with new friends.
At last we stopped outside 215 N Sixth Street. The pink wooden façade looked a little tired in places, but it was quaint. Rob stepped up to the front door.
“Most of the numbers have been rubbed off,” he said, turning over his shoulder.
“Following years of takeaway deliveries . . .” I replied, looking at the almost overflowing garbage bins on the pavement just outside. “Someone obviously likes pizza.”
Within five seconds of walking through the door, my dreams were shattered.
Even Rob’s “sardine tin” description was generous. The place consisted of a small kitchen-diner with a stove with only two gas rings on it, and then a doorway led into a bedroom with just enough space to move around the double bed, and an unloved chest of drawers stood lopsided in a little alcove that I guessed was probably damp. Off the bedroom was a tiny bathroom with a shower attachment over a grubby bath and toilet that I knew I wouldn’t be sitting on until it had been disinfected at least three times.
