Amber Green Takes Manhattan

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-experiencerate. 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.