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,
