Amber Green Takes Manhattan

As the wine flowed, so did the conversation, and I began warming to Poppy, big time. Despite the unfortunate photo opportunity, she genuinely seemed to want to be friends and help me out with some contacts in New York.

It was nearly two in the morning when Poppy finally left; Rob and I were now in the bathroom together, brushing our teeth and talking in whispers, fearful of waking Nora before we’d even got into bed.

‘So, it’s all falling into place then,’ he enthused. ‘What a sweet girl Poppy is, too.’

‘Yes, amazing how first impressions can be so off,’ I admitted. ‘Thanks to Mona, I had her all wrong.’

‘Well, there weren’t exactly many people Mona managed to keep on side, let’s face it,’ Rob remarked. ‘Maybe Poppy can help you build up some clients while we’re in New York – Dana sounds worth looking up, for starters.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, sighing, ‘if she thinks I’m worth getting back to.’

‘You what?’ said Rob, taking my electric toothbrush from me and placing it on the side, before pulling both of my hands into his. ‘I won’t hear any of this “if I’m worth it” stuff. You may not have any idea how talented and beautiful you are, but I certainly do. And the Danas of New York should be bloody glad to meet you, not the other way around. Okay?’

I smiled, trying to look seductive, though I wasn’t convinced I’d got all the red-wine stains from the rim of my lips. ‘Okay.’ I made a silent promise to take a leaf of self-confidence out of Poppy’s book and take Manhattan by storm.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘we need to get into bed before a hyper five-year-old or a hungry pig wakes us up in, precisely, urgh, four hours, you said…?’

Nora must have been exhausted by Pinky’s taunting because by some miracle, I woke up before her, at seven the next morning, my mouth dryer than the Sahara and head gently aching. Rob muttered something about ‘too many tannins in that red wine’ and rolled over. I noticed Pinky had made himself at home in a pile of laundry in the corner of my room and was snoring gently. The image of them both made me smile. Our little family. I was going to miss Pinky while we were away.

I forced myself to drink a pint of water and, by the time Nora woke up twenty minutes later, my lounge floor was strewn with items resembling the sad, unwanted items on a Portobello market stall at the end of a Saturday afternoon. Packing up the flat was going to be hard work and more emotionally draining than I imagined. There was a lifetime’s worth of belongings to sort through and, no matter how ruthless I tried to be, there were some items that it was hard to bring myself to part with. The furniture would be easy to shift via adverts in Gumtree, but it was the items currently gathered in the middle of the room that would feel like throwing away a bit of my soul if they were to go. Take the wooden footstool in the shape of an owl bought with Vicky from Camden market when we first moved in; or the poster-sized framed astrological chart which had remained propped up against a wall for the past four years as I never got round to having it hung; and then there were the two pretty, albeit battered, crochet cushions brought back from a holiday in the south of France when I was a student. The flat was full of things I had once loved, important purchases for one reason or another – but, I told myself, it was time to strike out the old to make space for the new.

Vicky proved tougher on the chucking-out front, instructing me over the phone to take any of her clothes that I wouldn’t wear myself to the charity shop. Unfortunately, my fashion taste was infinitely more conservative than hers, so I had two big sack loads to unleash on the nearest Oxfam.

‘To be frank, babe, I can’t even remember any of this crap,’ she had said, when I paraded a few items in front of her, Generation Game-style, over Skype one evening. ‘Anyway, it’s liberating starting afresh – think of all the shopping opportunities because you need a new bag or jacket.’ It was a valuable point.

This morning, I might have known Nora would be the harshest when it came to identifying the chintz I should chuck. There was something distinctly Simon Cowell about her verdict.

The owl footstool: ‘Horrible!’

The astrology chart: ‘No, no! Chuck!’

The two faded crochet cushions: ‘Nasty!’

She made her commands with glee, pointing and giggling at each treasured belonging I held up. A five-year-old was giving me a complex.

‘This is like Britain’s Got Talent, only more Amber’s Got Rubbish!’ Rob finally joined Nora on the sofa as they both burst into laughter, then pretended to press a buzzer, making a farting sound each time they disapproved of an item I was debating whether to keep or chuck; they seemed to think I should get rid of the lot.

Later, after Lucy had returned for Nora, we loaded all my junk into a minicab and deposited it at the charity shop. On balance, Vicky was right – lightening the load felt good.

I might have no fixed abode, minimal belongings and no job after next week, but I had a hot boyfriend and a one-way ticket to New York. OMFG!

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_0ab546fe-7947-55be-acb7-e6967fc5bced)

Dad insisted on driving us to the airport, and for the whole journey I was consumed with teenage angst. I wanted to begin this adventure with Rob like an adult – I was an adult! – on the Heathrow Express, or in an Uber, not being chaperoned by my dad, who ran through a checklist of all the things he hoped I’d remembered to pack. It was making me nervous, as well as stroppy.

‘…Yes, Dad, I definitely have my driving licence, even though everyone gets cabs or the subway in New York…’

‘… Yes, I have two plug adaptors…’

‘… No, I didn’t get DVT socks, but they’ll have some at Boots in the airport. I’m not exactly in the high-risk category, anyway…’

‘…You already asked if I have my passport.’

He even asked Rob if he had his passport.

My eyes were rolling around my sockets; I thought they might never straighten up.

Rob kept playfully nudging my leg, aware of how increasingly wound up I was becoming. The only saving grace was that we were on the nine-forty flight, so we beat rush hour and our journey to Heathrow Terminal 5 was fast. Still, I couldn’t get out of the car quick enough.

‘You’re so funny sometimes,’ Rob said as we loaded my extensive luggage onto a trolley and Dad hooted as he drove off. ‘Now, are you absolutely certain you’ve got your passport?’

‘Yes, I frickin’ have… don’t you start!’ I squealed, in mock annoyance. ‘Does Dad really think I’m that much of an idiot?’

‘He just loves you,’ he said, looking amused. ‘I thought it was kind of sweet that he was concerned for me, too.’

‘I know he does and I know I’m lucky to have him.’ I softened. References like that reminded me that Rob didn’t have the luxury of a father figure. ‘But I’m quite looking forward to breaking away from all that. Anyway, is it too early for a drink?’

Once through security, we treated ourselves to a big breakfast and Buck’s Fizz. I breathed a sigh as we chinked glasses.

‘Wow! I can’t really believe we’re actually here, doing this, can you?’ Rob said, reading my mind.

‘Nope! It feels like a mad dream. But do you realise that, at this moment, we are technically homeless?’

He laughed anxiously. ‘It’s a scary thought. But we’re not going to be on the street, we’re just going to be tourists for a few days until we find an apartment.’

‘An apartment,’ I repeated. It sounded so dreamy.

With an hour to kill before boarding, we wandered around Duty Free and spent ten minutes trying on sunglasses. Then I fell in love with the most beautiful pair of Pradas, so I bought them on a whim. I’d rarely spent so much money on one item – an item I didn’t even know I wanted eleven minutes before – but they had cute little flicked-up corners. They called to me, in that voice only amazing sunglasses have.

‘I need to look the part if I have a hope of getting some freelance styling work,’ I said, justifying the expense to Rob, as one eye wandered over to the Jo Malone counter. Designer sunglasses weren’t exactly factored into our tight budget for the next few months. ‘I’ll see them as an early treat to myself, bought with an advance from my first pay packet.’

‘Whatever you say…’ Rob was already heading in the direction of Dixons.

Milling around the shopping concourse, we bumped into Amy, a colleague of Rob’s from the production company, 20Twenty, who was also relocating for the show. Wearing skinny white jeans, a white T-shirt and long white cardigan, she looked like an advert for the White Company, immediately identifiable as one of those girls who doesn’t have to try too hard to look stylish.

‘Rob!’ she shouted, genuinely pleased to have spotted us.

‘Hey, Amy, this is my girlfriend, Amber. Amber, Amy. Amy’s my AP on the show. She works twice as hard as anyone.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ Amy replied, looking down at her ballet pumps.

I looked at my sandals and freshly pedicured toes. I’d been worrying about my choice of footwear all the way to the airport and had almost convinced myself I needed to stop by Kurt Geiger for a new pair of shoes. Money spent in the airport doesn’t really come out of your bank account, right?

‘I didn’t realise you were moving out as well,’ she said, turning her attention to me. This time I noticed how pretty she was; she had the kind of skin that tans easily, freckles dotted across her face even though it was mid-winter, and beachy waves in her chestnut hair. I wondered what an AP actually did. ‘Do you work in TV, too?’

‘No, no… I’m hoping to get some freelance styling work when we’re out there. I work in fashion.’

‘Cool!’ She scanned my outfit, clocking my Longchamp bag and Cos jersey dress with renewed interest now she knew my line of work.