LITMIR.BIZ

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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?’

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