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.
She wagged her finger at me. ‘Hold up, sweet cheeks! Of course, you won’t be on that level; you’re more likely to get assisting jobs, and for that you’re looking at one hundred dollars a day, maximum. No expenses.’ I mentally did the sums. That’s little more than £50 a day. A work-experience rate. She paused to take in my crestfallen face, but I wasn’t going to give it to her.
‘Great! When will we know about the shows?’
And that was it: just one meeting and my O-1 visa application was on the way to being processed and, all going well, I was to be a stylist – okay, assistant stylist, on a minimum wage – but for SHOOT agency, NYC, US of A. Yee-hah!
Dana was confident she’d have me paid jobs before long and, meanwhile, I could keep myself busy with any unpaid work she could put my way. ‘And then there is always tons of catalogue work,’ she said, rolling her eyes. I didn’t care, it was perfect and meant I wouldn’t be dependent on Rob the whole time I was out here – not just in terms of money, but time. I resisted the urge to high five the moody model on Reception, as I skipped out of the SHOOT offices and back to the subway, calling Rob on my way.
Back at the hotel, I opened my Instagram page. Thirty posts, fifty-three followers. Dismal. Plus, the last time I’d posted anything was over two months ago: a photo of Mum’s Christmas cake. Delicious though it was, it wasn’t going to set the fashion world alight. Fashion people don’t eat cake; most of them think you get fat just by looking at it. I decided to spend the afternoon re-branding my online profile. First job: start a new Instagram account. Potential bios:
Amber Green – @NewYorkStylist (not strictly true – yet)
Amber Green – @BritGirlInNewYork (not fashiony enough)
Amber Green – @IHeartClothes (cheesy)
After a desperate call to Instagram queen, Shauna, I finally settled on:
Amber Green – @BritStylistTakingManhattan
I added a cute Union Jack emoticon at one end, the Stars and Stripes at the other.
‘So did you get anywhere with the realtors?’ Rob asked when he arrived back at our room after work that evening.
‘Not exactly,’ I said, from my position hunched over my iPad, propped up by five pillows on the bed. ‘But I have had a great day work wise.’
He seemed buzzing, too: ‘Tell me about it in a minute, because, I’m actually glad you didn’t do any house-hunting…’ He dangled a bunch of keys in front of my face.
‘Whose keys are those?’ I asked, confused.
‘They’re our door keys!’ he said, beaming. ‘Talk about