I tell him about coming to write, leaving out the details about my ex and my parents. When I do that, it makes it sound more like an adventure born out of a restless free spirit rather than a desperate attempt to reroute my disappointing life.
He listens intently, genuinely interested, and I notice I feel very comfortable with him.
“I love your necklace.”
I touch the book charm. “Thanks! It was a gift.”
“I should sell them. I run a bookstore in the West Village called Between the Lines.”
“Oh, I love books! I was assistant manager at a bookstore back home.” I decide not to tell him that romance novels have always been my preferred genre. I don’t need another person making me feel stupid right now. “Do you have any job openings?” I ask hopefully. I know I didn’t come here to do the same thing as back home, but I’ll need to find something to survive on until I start making money from my writing. I picture myself in a charming little bookstore in the Village, with worn leather armchairs and jazz music playing softly, while rain beats against the pavement outside and—
“No, sorry.” Geoff gives me an apologetic smile, pushing his glasses up his nose. “We’re fully staffed and I have people coming in to apply for jobs all the time.”
“Oh.” The image vanishes from my head and I nod. “Of course.” As if it would be that easy for me to even get a job, let alone one in a lovely bookstore where I could meet other writers and maybe even mingle with New York’s literary crowd.
No. I’ll probably end up stuffed into a shrimp costume, waddling through Times Square and handing out fliers to a local restaurant for three dollars an hour. And that’s if I’m lucky. I don’t even want to contemplate the alternative.
I look down into my wine glass with a heavy sigh. Cat and Geoff are friendly but that doesn’t help with the fact that I’m homeless and jobless—and now, thanks to that apartment scam, nearly broke. If I don’t find a job soon, I won’t have any choice but to go home with my tail between my legs.
6
I’m dreading today. Apartment hunting in Manhattan is not for the faint of heart. Well, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never tried it, and given the choice I wouldn’t be. But I’m determined to find my new home in this big city. So, I’ve lined up a few apartments to check out.
The first is only a few blocks from Cat’s place and I walk over mid-morning. I let myself wander slowly, taking in the neighborhood. The streets are cute, with small gardens and trees, beautiful brick facades and arched doorways. In the distance I hear the ever-present soundtrack of sirens and car horns, but most of them aren’t nearby. In fact, this area is sort of quiet. It really does feel like its own village.
I turn down a pretty street, lined with golden Gingko trees, and find the building I’m looking for. Pressing the buzzer, I wait nervously.
“Hello?” a voice says behind me, and I turn to see a middle-aged man.
“Oh, hi. I’m here to view the apartment?”
He nods and gestures for me to follow him through a gate, down from the street level. We enter through a heavy door into a small space. No, it’s not small. It’s tiny.
“So, this is the living room,” he says with a grand sweeping gesture, as if he’s showing me a suite at The Ritz and not what is, essentially, a basement.
I nod, trying not to grimace. What is that smell?
He takes a few steps and cracks open a door. “And this would be your room. My room is down the back.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I didn’t realize it was a shared apartment. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. And he seems nice enough, I suppose.
I poke my head into the room and my jaw drops. It’s not a room—it’s basically a broom closet with a window.
He smiles at me and I notice he has food in his teeth. I give him a polite smile in return, willing myself to stay positive. Maybe this will have to do until I can find something better.
“What is the rent, again?” I ask. “Twelve hundred a month?”
He shakes his head. “No. Two thousand.”
My eyes widen in shock. Two thousand a month to live in a closet? Jesus, I couldn’t afford to live here even if I wanted to.
I quickly thank him and leave, desperate to get away from the odor lingering in that place. Once outside on the street, I gulp in a breath of fresh air, then release it in a frustrated sigh.
Oh well, maybe the next one won’t be so bad. I know they can’t all be winners. Good thing I got the worst one out of the way first, I guess.
But it only gets worse: apartments so teeny I can barely get in the door let alone put my books or clothes anywhere; creepy roommates that make me feel like I’d need to sleep with one eye open.
By the afternoon I’m practically despondent. I trudge along West 8th Street towards the Village, holding back tears. No apartment, and I haven’t even begun to think about searching for a job.
One thing is painfully clear, though. There’s no way the apartment package I purchased online could ever have been real. It’s almost laughable that I thought it was. Because now that I know what your money can actually buy you in terms of Manhattan apartments, well. I was an idiot.
Mum said it was crazy to come here and I’m starting to think she was right, because—
Huh. That’s weird.
Across the street I see a flash of something—or rather, someone—familiar, and I freeze, trying to figure out how I could possibly know someone around here.
Oh, wait.
Broad shoulders.
