Читать книгу Amber Green Takes Manhattan - Rosie Nixon - Страница 11

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 standoffish 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-grey 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-blonde hair hung around her face, partly obscuring it, but I could tell that, with some good make-up 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 blonde-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 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 Armstrong 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 on to 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 Smiths 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 work wise.’

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 colours with wooden slatted façades. As we headed down Bedford Avenue, we passed vintage furniture shops with chairs, lamps, mirrors and colourful oil paintings stacked up outside, eyebrow and nail bars, liquor stores and a couple of tattoo parlours. Many of the people we passed on the street looked like hipsters with well-groomed ironic 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 neighbourhood, 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 cosy weekend brunches with new friends.

At last we stopped outside 215N 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.

‘It’s compact, for sure,’ Rob said, turning on the hot tap in the kitchen. We both held our breath as it spluttered a little, but then water began to come out and, after a few seconds, it got hot. ‘That’s something.’

‘All mod cons,’ I said, sighing, unconvinced that much else was working properly in this place.

Taking in my deflated expression, Rob put an arm around me. ‘It’s not so bad.’ For a person who was used to living in a pigsty, it probably wasn’t.

I snorted. ‘If you walk around with your eyes closed. I’ll dip into my own savings to pay for some proper cleaners before we move in. No arguments.’

‘Fair enough, but then I think we can work some magic on it. I mean, what more do we need, really? We’re going to be at work or out most of the time.’

‘Well, I guess a little more space would have been nice, maybe an oven so we could cook something other than soup, just occasionally, and— urgh!’ I instantly regretted opening the microwave. ‘But, I know we’ll save money living here.’ My voice faltered: ‘Have… have you actually paid the deposit?’ I was on the verge of tears as Rob explained how he’d already put down our non-returnable deposit, because some others had shown an interest in it too, this being one of the coolest addresses in Brooklyn, and he didn’t want us to miss out.

‘It’s just not the kind of place I’d imagined us making our first home together, you know?’ I said.

He squeezed me tightly. ‘I know, me neither, but what is it Kirstie and Phil say – “location, location, location”? Seriously, this couldn’t be a better address and, with your sense of style, we’ll make the best of it. Did you see all those vintage furniture shops we passed on the way from the subway? We’ll check them out tomorrow and we’ll hit the flea market on Saturday. It’ll be fun.’

‘After the cleaners have been?’

‘After the cleaners.’ He was doing the head-holding thing again, always picking the right moment to take my face in his hands, look at me straight on and tell me with his eyes that whatever it was, was going to be okay.

‘At least we haven’t seen a cockroach yet.’ I half smiled, my eyes wandering around the tiny living area and spotting an ominous brown patch on one of the walls.

‘Well, that’s something.’

Vowing to turn our sardine tin into a tiny palace by way of some bleach and elbow grease, we got the subway back to Manhattan.

As the doors closed and the train left the station, the sound of some heavy rap blared out of a portable ghetto blaster. I gripped my purse in my pocket; I’d heard about muggings on downtown trains.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, sit back, relax, it’s show time!’ boomed a voice in the centre of the carriage. I slunk back in my seat and averted my eyes, but Rob did the opposite; he leaned forwards to get a better look as a breakdancer began skilfully swan-diving down the centre of the carriage floor in front of us. Then he jumped up and swung between the ceiling rails, spinning 360 degrees through his arms. Some of the passengers on the train burst into applause, and others barely looked up from their reading material. Then another dancer jumped forwards, clinging onto a vertical railing and twisting his body around it as he hugged his way down, before leaping onto the next railing – like a flying monkey – and doing the same, until he had worked his way down the carriage from pillar to pillar. A few people got to their feet around the edges, clapping them on. Forget Britain’s Got Talent, I’d never seen anything so cool and I was starting to shed my inner Londoner – who would ordinarily be timidly peeping over a copy of Metro, looking for an exit route – and clapped along too.

‘How wicked is this?’ Rob nudged me, not taking his eyes off a third dancer who was walking through the carriage on his hands, legs bouncing in time to the beat, and then finished off his routine by flipping off his friends with a flourish of perfectly choreographed backward somersaults. Without breaking anyone’s toes! I wonder if my insurance would cover that, Dad. Finally, as we sensed we must be nearing the next stop, all three began spinning on their heads, gliding with ease through at least fifteen rotations, before jumping back onto their feet and holding their headscarves in their hands for a quick whip-round from their audience. Some of our carriage mates coughed up a few coins, while others just sat there coolly, hands in pockets, as if this happened every time they took the L train to work.

‘Only in Brooklyn,’ a guy next to me commented, as he seemingly reluctantly tossed a five-dollar bill into a sweaty headscarf. I tipped all the change I had in my purse into the dancer’s hands and swiped a card from a fan poking out of his top pocket.

Seconds later the train came to a halt, and one of them picked up the ghetto blaster and they were gone, probably darting into the next carriage to entertain all over again.

Rob and I were buzzing.

‘So we might be moving into a shoebox—’

‘Make that a children’s shoebox,’ I interjected.

‘Okay, a shoebox for a millipede – whatever you want to call it – but I really don’t care, because I’ll be living there with you and I couldn’t love you – or this city any more right now,’ he said, sighing. ‘You’d never get that in London.’

I had to agree. ‘And we’ll make our little millipede box the cosiest home ever. It’s going to be great. And you’re clever for sorting it out. I love you too.’

The next day, after cleaners had made the place smell of lemon disinfectant, rather than someone else’s toilet, and a year’s worth of burnt cheese had been scrapped off the microwave, we took a taxi across town with our suitcases of belongings and moved in.

On our first night in the flat, we were woken up listening to our next-door neighbours having very loud sex. She was a screamer, he a shouter. We might not have known their names before, but we certainly did now: Max and Tina. In between the thumps on the wall and the shouts, any chance we had of sleeping was put to an end by the fact we had so far failed to notice that we lived opposite a fire station. A whirring siren sound went off a couple of times just in the hour that we were trying to get to sleep.

On the second night, Max and Tina held a dinner party with some equally shouty friends. We opened another bottle of beer each and pretended it wasn’t as loud as it was, already feeling like an old married couple in our late twenties. Then we turned up our own music and tried to have sex on the sofa, but the noise from next door was too distracting. So we went out and got drunk on tequila and more beer at our new local, passing out back home, some time after the dinner party had finished.

On the third night, we wore earplugs and managed to sleep reasonably well, save for the strobing orange light from the streetlamp positioned directly outside our bedroom window and the occasional siren from the fire station.

‘Blackout blinds,’ Rob muttered woozily.

But, to be honest, when the light buzzed on for long enough for me to admire my boyfriend’s matinée idol profile on the pillow next to me, I didn’t really mind. And I knew I’d get used to the sirens.

There was something kind of pretty about the way the light hit our bed and bounced off the 1970s I HEART NEW YORK print we found in a thrift store earlier that day and which now hung on our bedroom wall, covering the brown marks. The only picture to grace our walls so far.

In the next blast of orange, I captured the image and uploaded it to Instagram; Rise filter; caption: ‘Goodnight Williamsburg #NYC #stylist #newhome’