Love in the City

by Jen Morris

  I’m just about to peel my clothes off when I notice I don’t have a clean towel. There’s another surge of misery through me at the injustice of it all. It’s like nothing is going right in my life.

  With a gusty sigh, I open the door and step into the hallway. I go to grab a towel from the linen closet when Mum’s voice floats down the hall.

  “That was close. Moving to New York, what a ridiculous idea!”

  I can hear the kettle boiling as she makes a cup of tea, and from here I can see the back of Harriet’s head where she’s still sitting on the sofa. It must just be Mum and Dad in the kitchen. I know I probably shouldn’t stand here listening, but I’m rooted to the spot.

  “And now she’s quit her job, the silly girl,” Mum continues. “Maybe I can call Julie and help her get her job back.”

  Dad sighs. “I don’t think that’s what she wants.”

  “That’s the problem with this girl! She wants things she can’t have. She gets one little job at the newspaper and next she thinks she can be an author. She goes on one date with a boy and she thinks they’ll be getting married. And now this moving to New York business? I swear, she lives her whole life in a fantasy.”

  I stand frozen in the hallway, a cold, prickly sensation washing over me, suffocating the air from my lungs.

  “I assumed she would have grown out of this by now. It’s those stupid bloody romance novels she reads,” Mum adds. I hear the fridge open and close. “They fill her head with nonsense. She just needs to learn that life isn’t like that, that it’s not realistic to expect—”

  “Audrey,” Dad says soothingly, “why don’t we try and sit down with her—”

  “That will never work. You know how sensitive she is. She’ll just fly off the handle.”

  Tears sting my throat and I realize I’m almost shaking with shock. My parents have been saying this sort of thing to me for years—and I’ve always been derided for reading sappy romance novels—but there’s something about the way people speak about others when they think they’re not listening. Mum’s voice is laced with such disgust, such revulsion, that for the briefest second I wonder if she’s talking about someone else.

  But she’s not. She’s talking about me.

  I suck in a shaky breath and Harriet twists around on the sofa, her eyes locking with mine. And I can tell she knows I’ve heard everything.

  I duck back into the bathroom, dropping down onto the edge of the bathtub. I’m reeling from the sting of Mum’s words, from the way she laid out everything I’ve secretly believed to be wrong with me and said, in no uncertain terms, that it is wrong—that I’m wrong.

  “Hey.” Harriet pops the door open, slipping inside. “You okay?”

  I press my lips into a thin line and nod, unable to meet her gaze. I know if I do, I’ll start crying.

  Oh look at that, my parents are right: too damn sensitive.

  Harriet takes a tentative step towards me. “Don’t listen to them. You know Mum’s always a bit dramatic.”

  I stare down at the tiles, replaying Mum’s words in my head. Because while Harriet’s right, I also know Mum wasn’t that far off. I had imagined I would be an author, that I was working towards that, eventually. And, as much as it hurts to admit this now, I had also imagined myself marrying Travis at some point in the future. Not just Travis; several previous boyfriends had dressed up in a tux and said heartfelt vows somewhere in the grand wedding venues of my daydreams.

  And what happened? Nothing. It was all in my head.

  A tear escapes down my cheek and I quickly brush it away. I have nothing to show for my life, but that’s not even the worst of it. The worst part is that I’d convinced myself, somehow, I did.

  Harriet lowers herself onto the tub beside me. “Did you really buy a plane ticket to New York?”

  I nod numbly.

  “Do you want to go?”

  I shrug. Because Mum’s right, isn’t she? That was just another fantasy.

  “Maybe you should.”

  Wait. What? Of all the people who might encourage this, I’d never expect it from her. She’s always been the more pragmatic one, the more sensible of the two of us. She’s never been the type to get swept up in flights of fancy like me.

  “You heard Mum,” I mumble. “It’s crazy.”

  Harriet nods slowly. “Yeah, it is. And I’d never do it. But…” She adjusts her glasses, thinking. “If you’re not happy here, then maybe it’s time to do something different. You know they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.” She gives me a nudge. “So maybe the crazy thing would be to stay here.”

  I snort a laugh and wipe my nose, studying her. She’s three years younger than me and we’ve never been especially close, but now I’m glad to have her here, sitting in my bathroom while I battle a hangover and the intense urge to do something life-altering.

  She gives my arm a squeeze. “That sucks about Travis. I’m sorry. But that’s beyond your control. If you want to go to New York, or write, or make some other big life change…” She shrugs. “That’s up to you.”

  I look down at the bathmat, absorbing her words. She’s right; the only thing stopping me is myself.

  My pulse quickens at this realization. Because I could actually do this. I could. Hell, I already have the ticket and the apartment. It’s halfway done already.

  “Harri…” I glance at her again. “Do you really think I should do this?”

  “Well, do you want your life to change or stay the same?”

  Emily’s words flash into my mind—this is exactly what you need… it’s going to change your life—and a thrill runs through me. Because I think it’s about damn time to change my life.

  “You’re right.” I stand, conviction gripping me as I stride into the living room with Harriet trailing after me.

  Mum looks up from her cup of tea in surprise.

  “You know what?” I raise my hands to my hips and look squarely at my parents. “I’m going. I’m going to New York to become a writer.” I take in their aghast expressions and feel another surge of conviction. They think my dreams are crazy, that I should stay here and live a small life, but they’re wrong. It’s one thing for Travis to hurt me, but for my own parents to not even believe in me…

  But they’ve never believed in me, have they? They don’t understand me at all. They’ve never even tried. And suddenly, I realize that leaving here isn’t so much about not wanting to be here—it’s about feeling like I don’t even belong here.

  I lift my chin. “I’m moving to New York,” I say again, glaring defiantly at my parents. “And if you don’t like it, you can go duck yourselves.”

  3

  This can’t be right.

  I’m standing on the corner of West 10th and Hudson Street in New York’s West Village. It’s been two weeks of madness, packing and sorting out a visa and saying goodbye, before hauling myself all the way over here. And now, I find myself staring in confusion at a Starbucks.

  Don’t get me wrong; I love coffee. I never start my morning without it. And fuck, standing in front of a Starbucks Coffee shop in the middle of Manhattan is like standing on a film set or something. It’s awesome. Surely any moment Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks will walk out.

  But I can’t quite enjoy it, because this isn’t supposed to be a Starbucks. It’s supposed to be the Wilson apartment block, where I put a deposit on my new studio apartment.

  I dump my suitcases against the side of the Starbucks and pull out my phone, trying to ignore the sensory overload around me and focus on the matter at hand. Scrolling back through my email inbox, I pull up the confirmation from the Wilson Rental Group.

  “Yes,” I say to myself under my breath, glancing back up at the street signs. “Corner of West 10th and Hudson.” Both signs match, and I stuff my phone into my pocket, turning to survey the street around me. Everything looks familiar, but somehow wrong: the cars are on the opposite side of the road, the sounds are different,
the air is cooler but thicker. There’s an NYPD car parked at the curb, a handful of yellow taxis cruising by, and the street has an acidic sort of smell I can’t pinpoint.

  But most alarmingly, there’s no Wilson apartment building.

  An uneasy feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach and I push it away, reaching for my suitcases and hauling them into Starbucks. The familiar smell of coffee wafts over me and for a moment, I feel comforted.

  Right. I just need to get this mix-up sorted and everything will be back on track.

  Trying not to look too flustered, I approach the counter and smile at the barista, whose name badge says “Steve.” He flashes me a grin and picks up his pen, ready to write my name on whatever drink I order.

  “Uh, hi.” I take a deep breath, attempting not to sound like the lost, hopeless girl from the middle of nowhere that I feel like. “I was wondering if you could help me?”

  He lowers the pen. “Sure. What’s up?”

  Well. This is a good start. I’d always heard that New Yorkers are rude and unfriendly, but his warm smile eases my nerves a little. I’m sure everything is going to be okay.

  “This might sound a bit weird, but I thought there was an apartment block at this address.” As I speak I can’t help but be acutely aware of the twang in my New Zealand accent and I cringe, feeling self-conscious. “Have you, um, heard of the Wilson apartments?”

  Steve cocks his head to one side in thought and I turn and give a sheepish smile to the man behind me, tapping his foot as he waits to place his coffee order. He’s one of those classically good-looking men: early forties, I’m guessing, and easily over six feet tall. His shoulders are broad, his hair is a dark chocolate-brown and cut stylishly, and he has a short, tidy beard. He’s the sort of man I might have pictured myself ending up with when I’m a proper grown-up. He looks like your typical New York businessman with his expensive suit and serious expression. Probably worrying about the merger, or something.

  “Sorry,” I mouth. He rolls his eyes and I shrink in embarrassment, quickly spinning back to Steve.

  “Hey Dave?” Steve calls to a guy further behind the counter who saunters over. “Do you know the Wilson apartments?”

  Dave stops, his brow pulling into a frown. “You’re the second person this week to come here looking for them. But I’ve never heard of them.”

  “What? They must be around here somewhere.” A nervous laugh sneaks out of me. “Here, I have this email.” I fish out my phone and pull up the email again, showing it to Dave. “It says it should be right here.”

  Dave takes my phone and examines the screen, scrolling down. “Well, it’s definitely not at this address. I’ve lived in this neighborhood for ten years and I’ve never heard of them. And”—he gestures to an image on the screen—“I’ve never seen this building around here. This looks like a stock photo.” He glances up at me. “Did you pay for this?”

  I nod. The man behind me in line clears his throat audibly and I throw him a look of annoyance, no longer impressed by his good looks. Clearly, I’m in distress here.

  Dave shrugs, handing my phone back. “It might be a scam.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded. A scam? That’s absurd. I wouldn’t get scammed. Although come to think of it, I was pretty hammered when I found the apartment.

  “It can’t be a scam,” I whisper.

  Dave and Steve exchange a pitying glance and my palms begin to sweat.

  “You’ve really never heard of it?”

  “No, sorry.” Dave shakes his head again, pressing his lips together. “This sort of thing happens, you know. Where are you from, anyway?”

  “New Zealand.”

  Dave shrugs again and gently motions for me to step aside so he can serve the businessman behind me who’s about to give himself an aneurysm with his impatience. He glares at me as I shuffle my suitcases out the way.

  So that’s it? I glance from Dave to Steve, waiting for them to say something more. But they just make coffee, don’t they? It’s not their fault some random stranger is in here asking for an apartment block they’ve never heard of. They can hardly be held responsible.

  Dave gives me a sympathetic look as he takes the businessman’s drink order. “Sorry we can’t help. Good luck.” He turns back to the line of people that has accumulated behind me.

  I stand frozen to the spot for a second, unable to process this. A scam? My lovely apartment is a scam? This can’t be happening.

  Dragging my suitcases over to a table, I slump into a chair. My gut is churning and I force myself to take a couple of deep, soothing breaths. It’s going to be okay. It has to be. I’m sure this is all just a huge misunderstanding—one I’ll laugh about when I’m snuggled up in bed in my new apartment tonight.

  I pull my phone out and scroll back through the email. Maybe if I call the company they’ll set me straight. But as I search the email, then the website, I notice there is no phone number. The only information I can find is an email address. This strikes me as odd and dread prickles across my skin as I send off an email. Because—shit. I hope Dave wasn’t right.

  I open my browser and search for the company name along with the word “scam.” And my heart plummets as I read the screen. There it is, in black and white. There is no Wilson apartment block; it’s a scam that has seen dozens of people lose thousands of dollars. I have to read it three times for it to sink in. I’ve been conned.

  Fuck.

  I drop my phone onto the table with a thud. How could I have been so stupid? Why on earth did I think this was a good thing to do blind drunk? Not only am I out thousands of dollars, I also have nowhere to live. I’ve been in New York for less than two hours and I’m homeless.

  Tears prick my eyes before I can stop them, and I raise a trembling hand to hide my face.

  Of course I don’t fucking belong here. What the hell was I thinking? My parents were right—it was a fantasy, and it’s only taken a couple of hours for the whole thing to come crashing down.

  My phone buzzes on the table next to me and I reach for it with a sniffle. It’s a text from Emily, asking if my plane has landed. Seeing her name flash up on my phone sends homesickness rushing through me. I’d give anything to be back in my flat, on the sofa in front of the TV with Travis’s arm around me. I push the image from my head and press Emily’s name in my contacts list.

  “Hey hon!” she sing-songs on the other end of the line. “How’s it going?”

  God, I love Em. We met when we were seven years old and a teacher put us in the same reading group. We’ve been besties ever since.

  “Not great. I, er, don’t have anywhere to live.”

  “What? What about your apartment?”

  “It doesn’t exist.” I lower my voice as a couple at a nearby table give me an odd look. “It was a scam.”

  “Oh my God. Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit.” She sounds distant over the line and it feels like I’m on another planet. “Alright, don’t panic. We’ll figure something out. Have you—”

  “I should never have come here,” I blurt, my voice catching in my throat. “It’s a mess. I think I should just try and come home.” As I say it, a weight settles on my heart. There’s nothing I want back there, and my parents are only going to make me feel a million times worse. But what other option do I have?

  “Oh, hon,” Emily says. “It’s okay. Don’t come home.”

  “You don’t think coming here was totally crazy?”

  “No! Well, okay, it was a bit crazy, but in a good way. Your life needed some crazy. I know it isn’t quite going according to plan right now, but you can figure this out. It’s all part of the adventure! I think this is absolutely the right thing for you.”

  I sniffle.

  “Hey!” she says brightly. “Let me call my friend, Cat. I’m sure she can help you.”

  “Cat?”

  “Yeah, remember the friend I told you about in New York? I met her a few years ago when I went to that
yoga course.”

  “Right,” I murmur

  “She’s great. I’ll call her right now.” Emily’s voice softens. “You’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry. You’ve made it all the way over there. I’m not letting you come back yet.”

  I hang up and inhale slowly, taking a moment to compose myself. My fingers go up to touch the book charm necklace from my parents as Emily’s words replay in my mind: this is absolutely the right thing for you. I repeat them over and over like a mantra, until my phone buzzes again.

  Emily: Cat says you can stay at her place tonight. Where are you right now? She’ll come meet you.

  Oh, thank God.

  I’m limp with relief as I text her the address. At least I won’t be forced to sleep under a bridge tonight.

  Setting the phone down again, I glance up, letting my gaze drift out the window to take in my surroundings for the first time. I can’t believe I’m finally here, in New York. If only I wasn’t homeless.

  My gut clenches again—at the money I’ve lost, at the thought of somehow trying to find a place to live, at the realization that now I’m going to have to find a job ASAP when I’m not even sure if I can, given I don’t have a working visa. When I had the apartment sorted—or thought I did—it gave me some time to settle in and formulate a plan. And now? Shit.

  But I’ve got a bed for tonight, I remind myself, trying to stay positive. I push my chair back and stand to order a coffee, determined to distract myself until Cat arrives.

  Dave looks up hopefully when I approach the counter. “Any luck?”

  I shake my head, giving him a grim smile. How humiliating. He must think I’m some idiot tourist who falls for this kind of thing all the time. This is not the sophisticated world traveler image I was going for. Though let’s face it, nothing about me is sophisticated—and now that I’m here in the city, that is painfully clear.

  I mumble my coffee order and rifle through my bag, knocking my EpiPen to the ground. I hastily scoop it up and shove it away for safekeeping. Not that I’m likely to be stung by a bee in New York, but I can’t be too careful.