Читать книгу The Three of U.S.: A New Life in New York - Peter Godwin - Страница 43

I am on my way to see my new accountant, a solemn-sounding man called Bob Green. When I phoned to make an appointment he informed me he worked from home, so I set off for his apartment on the thirty-eighth floor of a modern tower block overlooking the East River. When I arrive he answers the door, an unsmiling, middle-aged, black-haired man with his left shoulder wedging a phone to his neck.

His office is framed by huge, grey-tinted windows offering spectacular panoramic views stretching down past the solid towers of Brooklyn Bridge to the graceful columns of the World Trade Center. Directly below I can see a red helicopter taking off from the 34th Street heliport. It rises to the height of our window before swooping off across the East River towards La Guardia airport.

‘What fantastic views,’ I say as Bob reappears, neck straight and minus the phone. He nods silently, beckoning me into his office and reaching out to boot up a large desk-top computer, which emits the triumphant fanfare heralding the imminent presence of Windows ’98.

He swings to face me and utters his first full sentence. ‘I don’t mind telling you, Joanna, I am going to be very aggressive on your behalf. Very aggressive indeed.’

From out of a drawer he produces a stiff pink bandage with cream Velcro straps which he proceeds to bind tightly around his right arm. ‘Too much time on this thing,’ he says gesturing at the keyboard. I commiserate as he swings back to the monitor and calls out, ‘Full name? Address? Social security number?’ As I answer, he pounds furiously at the keyboard.

For the next ninety minutes I produce endless, carefully collated receipts for restaurants, books, batteries, tapes and other journalistic minutiae as we examine my earnings.

My saving grace, he tells me, is the cost of setting up a household in New York, some of which I can offset against my freelance earnings, including a frenzied period of television appearances during the Louise Woodward trial.

By the end of our session the taciturn Bob is grinning. ‘I think you can relax,’ he says, scanning a column of figures he has printed out. ‘In fact, I work out you overpaid already. The IRS owes you money. About eight hundred dollars in total.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, having earmarked my meagre fund of savings for the Revenue.

I thank him profusely, marvelling at how much more generous the US system seems to be to the freelance income. Bob smiles briefly and with a flourish extends his bandaged arm. ‘Welcome to America, Joanna,’ he says, with no trace of irony, shaking my hand for the first time. ‘Welcome to America, land of the free.’