Amber Green Takes Manhattan

‘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.

‘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 away – 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 upwards to the grey 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 grey, with soft leggings, a matching sweatshirt and cosy cable-knit socks. One day I’ll be as organised 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 straight away, 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 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 cosy in her skinny white jeans and grey 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 towards 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 grey 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 neighbourhoods 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 recognise 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 neighbourhoods.

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.

‘Surely you should be able to jump this queue by now then?’ I remarked.

‘I don’t want to – this line is all part of my experience,’ he replied. ‘I use the time to people watch.’

‘Watch people in inappropriate shoes, like me?’ I asked, aware that my toes were cold.

He laughed. ‘Funny you say that. You have nice feet.’ I smiled awkwardly. ‘I love shoes, but also coats, dresses, jewellery – all forms of adornment. Clothes are never boring to me. They say so much about a personality – much more than the wearer realises.’ He was eyeing my feet again, and then his eyes slowly worked up my skinny jeans to my jacket and scarf, finally resting when they met mine. It made me feel uncomfortable. Oh great, he’s a foot pervert. I’ve read about people like him. He’ll be fantasising about sucking my big toe as we speak. Where are you Rob? I looked over my shoulder; the queue had grown some three times in the twenty minutes we’d been standing here. I shuffled on the spot, uncomfortable and self-conscious. The wind from the river was really whipping against us now and I pulled my scarf further around my chin, checking to ensure I wasn’t showing the slightest patch of bare skin between it and my cleavage. You couldn’t be too careful, even in the queue for a museum.

Thankfully, the man had turned around again. I noticed his slightly greying dark hair was tied in a small knot at the back. My eyes fell to the floor to check out his shoes, as I idly wondered what kind of footwear a shoe pervert wears himself. His were black, Cuban-style pixie boots, with a thin silver edging around a lifted heel, giving the impression he was at least an inch and a half taller than he really was. They were quite a style statement for a man of his age.

At last, Rob returned, clutching two coffees.

‘Sorry, got caught up chatting to the man at the coffee stall. Everyone’s so friendly in New York,’ he gushed, his face flushed with enthusiasm. ‘There’s a great food market near here, apparently – we should eat there afterwards.’

The foot-fetish man turned around again when Rob spoke.

‘Chelsea Food Market, just down the road,’ he informed us. ‘They do a fantastic burrito in Takumi Taco – check it out – Japanese-style; sounds kind of odd, but it works.’

‘Oh, cheers, mate.’ Rob smiled, always so open and happy to talk to complete strangers. I gave him a nudge, and tried to tell him telepathically that we shouldn’t engage with the foot nut. He was probably having strange thoughts about what lay beneath Rob’s pair of Adidas.

Thankfully, the queue began to move. As we exited the revolving doors inside the museum, the man pressed a card into my hand.

‘Nice talking to you, lady. If you need a guided tour of the city any time, call me. I know all the best shoe stores in New York. Au revoir.’ He winked and he was gone, swept into a giant lift and whisked up to the top of the impressive building.

‘Let’s start on ground,’ I said to Rob, stuffing the card into my pocket, glad the man was off my case.

The sun was beginning its descent as we finished at the Whitney, and it cast a stunning orange glow across the buildings. Luckily, the place was big enough for us not to bump into the foot perv again, though Rob just laughed when I told him my suspicions.

‘New York is not like London, you know,’ he said. ‘Everyone talks to everyone here. It doesn’t mean a man is a pervert, just because he gives you a compliment to pass some time in a queue. Besides, you do have nice feet.’

‘But the way he was staring at them, I felt his eyes dissect me,’ I protested.

Buoyed by the exhibits we had seen, not to mention the additional cups of coffee which helped fight the jet lag, we weren’t ready to return to the hotel yet. We walked two blocks north and found the Chelsea Food Market straight away, soon becoming lost in a delicious rabbit warren of food stalls. We found the Japanese taco stall and then shared a chocolate crêpe, before stopping for a beer at a local tavern. It was getting on for nine o’clock and we were ready for bed as we began wandering back towards the Bowery. On a SoHo street corner, a saxophonist was playing soft jazz to a backing track. We stopped to join the circle of appreciation forming around him. Rob wound an arm around my waist.

‘I’m so glad we’re here together,’ he whispered into my ear. I turned to look at him, I mean really look at him. His eyes were twinkling in the street light. ‘Thank you for coming with me.’

‘I’m so happy I did,’ I replied firmly, lifting my lips towards his, a huge beam across my face.

‘Come on, let’s treat ourselves to a cab.’

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.