The Stylist Takes Manhattan Page 6

  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

  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 license, 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 realize 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 a 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 realize 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.

  “I’m hoping the weather stays warm when we arrive, too,” she said, her examination of my clothes coming to rest on my gladiators and red toenails.

  True, I do look more like I’m going on holiday to Marbella than moving to New York, but she’ll soon see when we step off the plane in bright sunshine and I put on my new designer sunnies.

  * * *

  After lunch on the flight, Rob nodded off next to me. I lifted the plastic shutter on the aircraft window and stared out at the expansive stretch of bright blue nothingness above the clouds. The sun was burning brightly; it looked so serene and beautiful, but also kind of blank, transitional. Like the Etch-A-Sketch drawing of my life was being wiped clean. In just a few hours, we would be landing somewhere else, in an alien city, full of people I didn’t know and places I was yet to discover. I would have to find a purpose there; I didn’t want to be Rob’s hanger-on. I hope I can do it. I felt a wave of anxiety rush through me and I shivered. The thin aeroplane blanket was doing nothing for my icy-cold legs and feet. I knew I should have worn jeans. I looked across at my sleeping boyfriend. My love, Robert Walker, so handsome, kind and strong. How did I, Amber Green, manage to bag such a gorgeous, loving, successful bloke? But what if New York changes him in some way? Or changes me? What if living together doesn’t work out, or he meets someone else? We were embarking on so many firsts together. My heart was beating fast. My old flat, my family, friends, old job, they already seemed so far away, but they were more than just far aw
ay—right now, they were gone for the foreseeable future. I was taking a huge leap of faith, jumping into a new life for the sake of this man.

  I looked upward to the gray plastic ceiling and the space from where the oxygen masks that you pray you’ll never have to see would pop down in an emergency. I closed my eyes and said a little silent prayer. After all, I was probably physically closer to God than I’d ever be in this life; it was worth a punt. Please let this trip work out, please, dear God. Please make it amazing and life affirming and everything I want it to be. Please.

  The thought of it not working out and me having to come home alone was too awful to contemplate.

  An air hostess came by, handing out water, breaking me away from my morbid thoughts. I resisted the temptation to ask her for a double vodka. In need of clearing my head and warming up a bit, I decided to go for a little wander down the plane. I bumped into Amy in a queue by the loo. Unlike me, she had changed into her flight clothes, and was now a vision in dove gray, with soft leggings, a matching sweatshirt and cozy cable-knit socks. One day I’ll be as organized as that.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  “Good flight so far,” I replied, “though I’m crap at sleeping on planes. Rob dropped off straightaway, but I can never do that. Can you?”

  “I normally take a pill,” she responded. “But with a daytime flight it’s hardly worth it. I’d rather get a good night on the other end.”

  “Have you got your accommodation sorted?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I’m staying with my friend Kate for the first couple of weeks and then we’re moving into a place together—she’s got some leads. I’m hoping that this job will lead to something full-time out there and then I want to apply for a green card.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”

  “It’s always been my dream to live in New York, let alone be an AP for a cool TV show out there. I’m so excited it’s finally happening. What about you?”

  “Yes, similar,” I said, trying to sound as though I wasn’t plagued with anxiety. “So will you be busy as Rob’s PA?” I asked. “I mean, I know it’s a crazy hectic job . . .”

  She chuckled. “I’m not his PA, Amber, I’m his Assistant Producer. Yeah, it’s going to be manic, but we’ll basically be inseparable—we’ll get through it.” She smiled, showing perfectly straight, white teeth. Her presence made even the toilet area of a Boeing 747 look attractive.

  “Right.” I said, my body turning rigid as I processed what this pretty girl might be doing with my boyfriend five days a week for the next three months.

  “Anyway, catch you on the other side.” She pushed open the toilet door.

  Rather than let insecurities take over, I decided to take a leaf out of Amy’s book and change my mental attitude before it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m moving to New York. With my hot boyfriend. It’s a dream come true and it will be brilliant, in every way. It has to be.

  Rob stirred as I returned to my seat, not very deftly stepping over his legs.

  “Okay?” he muttered sleepily.

  “All fine,” I replied, before settling back down and letting my head flop onto his shoulder. His familiar scent consumed me for a moment.

  We’ll be fine. I love you so much.

  * * *

  Within two minutes of exiting Arrivals, I had my first reality check: the weather in New York does not do what the forecast says. BBC Weather said it was unseasonably warm and sunny when I was packing and now it was cold and raining; in fact, sleet was falling in diagonal sheets from the sky. The cute blue jersey dress worn with bare legs and sandals I had spent weeks planning for this very moment were wildly inappropriate. I wished I’d shoved a pair of leggings in my bag. Fat lot of use my new Pradas were, too—there was no sign of sunshine. Rob pulled a sweater out of his rucksack and was putting it on over his white T-shirt. Amy looked cozy in her skinny white jeans and gray cashmere jumper as she was met by her friend. I noticed Rob watch her disappear and scowled at him for not passing on the weather memo to me. Why didn’t he tell me he was packing a sweater? Isn’t that what couples are supposed to do?

  He must have read my mind, or the scowl was very obvious, because he began reversing out of his sweater and offered it to me. I wasn’t too proud to accept.

  The fact that my legs were turning blue was soon forgotten when I finally took note of our surroundings outside the terminal—a glorious line of iconic New York taxis stood in view. My shiny, yellow-brick road to a new beginning. We gave our driver the hotel address and were soon speeding up the freeway toward Manhattan. Real-life New Yorkers were at the wheels of their cars all around us, probably swearing and cursing the traffic like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver, salt-beef bagels, half eaten on their laps. I was buzzing, and so was Rob. I kept straining to see through the big plastic divider between the driver and us for my first glimpse of the famous New York skyline.

  Finally, as we tipped over a hill, there it was: the shape of Manhattan, a vista so familiar yet thrillingly new to me. Giant gray buildings reached into the sky—tall, proud, imposing—it was a film set come to life.

  “There’s the Empire State,” Rob pointed out as the skyscrapers drew closer. And then we were among them, a jungle of brownstone, red-stone, bricks and concrete. Signs to DOWNTOWN, CROSSTOWN, UPTOWN hung across the road.

  “Which town are we, then?” I nudged Rob, who was equally engrossed in the passing scenery.

  “I guess Downtown to start with,” he responded, not taking his eyes off the streets whizzing past, “but, after that, who knows? We’ll have to see where we fancy.”

  We passed corner taverns, diners, indoor markets; we sped across wide main roads and down little cross streets. We saw the fronts of brownstone houses with black metal railings and steps leading up to the porches; it was all so intoxicating. I wondered if any of these places flashing past the taxi window would soon become our regular haunts. If one of these neighborhoods would be our ’hood.

  The rain had stopped now and the sun was coming through. I fumbled around in my bag for my new shades and put them on, feeling like a movie star. I love this city already.

  The taxi continued past Park Avenue, Madison Avenue, Madison Square Garden—I recognize the names! Crowded pavements in every direction packed with people in trainers, high heels, sandals, walking with purpose. I spied a giant Coach store and made a mental note to remember its exact location, then an even bigger Urban Outfitters, Victoria’s Secret, Sephora—and there was Bloomingdales! So many cool shops I couldn’t wait to discover for myself. I’m really going to need to find a job fast if I’m going to survive the shopping potential in this city.

  Finally, we pulled up outside the Best Western, our home for the next five nights at least. It wasn’t exactly the flashy W Hotel, where I’d spent so much time kitting out celebrities with Mona in LA, but it was the most the production budget could stretch to, until we found a more affordable apartment. But the location was perfect, in the Bowery, a stone’s throw from Downtown’s most fashionable neighborhoods.

  * * *

  Within twenty-four hours of landing and three appointments with real-estate agents, it became blindingly obvious that Rob and I would not find our dream apartment in this salubrious part of Manhattan, where it cost approximately ten times our monthly budget for a space more suitable to house Pinky. Instead, we were packed off with some numbers for Realtors in Bushwick, on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  That afternoon, we decided to take a break from apartment hunting and be tourists for the day. We wandered through SoHo, with its upscale boutiques and chain stores, big imposing buildings with cast-iron façades and tall windows, and into Greenwich Village with its more bohemian feel, trees on streets, and cafés with tables spilling onto the pavement. Then we headed west, on a mission to visit the Whitney Art Museum. The queue was already at least a block down the street when we got there, but we decided to join it anyway. At the very least, Mum and Dad will be
impressed I’ve taken in some culture during my first days here. The wind blowing off the Hudson made me shiver, but this time I was more prepared and took a scarf out of my bag and wrapped it around my neck. It was a vintage Cavalli, something I had picked up in a vintage store in LA on one of my scouting trips with Mona. Rob went to fetch us a coffee while we waited.

  An older man standing in front of me in the queue turned around.

  “New in town?” he said. He had a soft French accent with an American lilt.

  “Is it that obvious?” I smiled, shuffling on the spot and burying my hands into my biker-jacket pockets to keep warm.

  “Your footwear gave it away, even before I heard your English accent,” he replied. He had heavy lines around his eyes; it almost looked like he was wearing eyeliner. I placed him in his late fifties. I looked down at my trusty gladiators. I was determined the March sun was going to come out again today, as it had yesterday.

  “Yes, optimistic, I guess. Anyway, the forecast says it will get warmer.”

  “First rule about New York—never trust the forecast,” he said, smiling, confirming the lesson I should have learned yesterday. “First time at the Whitney?”

  “Yes. You?”

  He chuckled. “Mais, non, I’ve been coming almost once a week since it opened. It inspires me. Not just the artwork inside, the building itself is a work of art, designed by Renzo Piano—are you familiar with him?” I shook my head. “Pas de problème. The views are spectacular, and I love the sense of space on each floor. It gives me a chance to think creatively.” He stopped, a wistful look across his face, as if momentarily lost in thought.