Amber Green Takes Manhattan

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 (#ulink_c58a1c19-38d8-5f7e-979a-e08cf1bfcfc9)

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.

‘You may have some great A-list names on your résumé, but a stylist is only as good as her last job,’ she commented finally. ‘And you’ve been out of the game a while. Dressing dummies in a shop window? I’m afraid it isn’t the same, sugar.’ She shook her head resolutely. After a pause, she continued: ‘Do you have a visa?’ She held my gaze as my face flushed, revealing the answer.

‘Just an ESTA at the moment. I was hoping…’

‘You are aware that a stylist without a visa can’t work in this city?’ I shifted the weight on my seat. I knew this, but I was hoping there might be a way around it. ‘I’ve got an idea for you, though,’ she added.

I smiled. ‘I’m willing to do whatever it takes.’

‘You need to get out there – build relationships again, up your online presence. Do you have an Instagram or Snapchat account?’ I nodded, sagely. ‘Being successful in fashion is as much about who knows you – as who you know. Luckily, you’ve timed things well: as you know, New York Fashion Week is next week, and I’ll be able to get you into a couple of shows. Maybe not seated, of course, but you’ll get the atmosphere and have a chance to mingle. But from there, you’re on your own. Network, network, network! Make friends, post, blog, pin… anything to demand attention – this city doesn’t work for shy little British mice; you need to be the lion, Amber. You need to make yourself heard.’

Be the lion. Jesus, I’ve never had to be a lion before. I smiled nervously, faintly relieved that she didn’t actually ask me to roar.

‘So, um, I guess, no paid work until the visa comes through?’ I wanted to clarify the situation.

‘No, sugar. But once we’re good with 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.