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.’
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.