by Rosie Nixon
“Très bon, looks like a Hardy Amies original, if I’m not mistaken,” a man said, almost making me jump, as his body appeared around a rail of similar suits. “You just need a matching hat and you’ll pass for Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of England.”
“Funny that,” I replied, “that’s exactly the look I’m going for. Hi, again.”
It was the shoe perv who had spoken to me in the Whitney queue last week. I wondered what he was doing here. The man just smiled.
“Do you really think it’s an Amies?” I continued, finding the silence awkward.
“I’d recognize his style of tailoring anywhere,” he said at last, stepping further into the light, allowing me to be sure it was him. “Check the label.”
I swiveled the skirt around on my hips and peered down. “You’re right. It’s dated 1959. Do you think the Queen actually wore it?” I was overcome by the prospect and admired my reflection.
“I doubt that,” he said, chuckling. “Her pieces are probably still under lock and key at Buckingham Palace. But his ready-to-wear line was a hit stateside as well as in the UK. Anyway—” He stopped abruptly and stared at my feet. “You need to get those sandals off—Her Majesty wouldn’t be seen dead in gladiators. There’s an amazing range of patent-leather court shoes over here.”
I shuffled uneasily. His slightly graying hair was still tied in a knot at the nape of his neck, and he was wearing the same Cuban heels. Although I’d said “Hi, again” just now, perhaps he hadn’t recognized me.
“We’ve met before,” I announced. “At the Whitney Museum, a couple of weeks ago.” At first he looked puzzled. “You remarked on my sandals then, too. It was cold and I was wearing the wrong shoes. Obvious tourist.”
“Ah, and your scarf, you were wearing a beautiful vintage Cavalli scarf?” His eyes sparkled.
I smiled; he seemed to know a lot about fashion for a foot perv. “Well remembered.” He had to be something to do with the fashion world, just to be standing within these sacred walls. What was it Dana had said? Network, network, network—make new friends. “Do you work here?” I continued.
He laughed. “Mon Dieu, non. But I am a regular at Rose’s.”
“Are you in fashion then?” I probed; he didn’t seem to want to give much away.
“I was,” he revealed, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “Anyway, let me show you the shoe section.” And he led me down a narrow corridor of separates that turned into racks of vintage footwear, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin, and more famous labels jumping out at me as we passed them. We stopped in front of a row of rather sensible-looking court shoes in black, white and brown.
“Shoes fit for the Queen,” he said, pulling out a particularly shiny pair of patent heels with a single gold buckle across the front. “These will do the job.”
“And they’re even in my size,” I replied, looking at the reverse and then stooping to undo the zips on my sandals to try them on. “Sold—for one night only. I’m going to a fancy-dress party as Queen Elizabeth, you see. I’m not just a mad British Royalist, honestly. But, anyway, I’m also here to pick out a few pieces for a star I’m styling for Coachella.”
“You’re a stylist?” he asked, his eyes giving away a glimmer of surprise.
“Yes, well, I’m trying to make my name as a stylist out here,” I said, defensively. “I used to assist the stylist Mona Armstrong—you might have heard of her?—and now I’m trying to build up my own clients.”
He nodded in acknowledgment when I mentioned Mona’s name. “Good for you.”
I sensed he was getting ready to go.
“Hey, would you mind if I took a quick snap for my Instagram account please?” I asked. “It’s just, I’m trying to build up a following, you know—my agent says it’s essential.”
He hesitated. “Well, okay. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like a little disguise.” He pulled a bowler hat down from a nearby shelf and put it on, tipping it to a jaunty angle, partially covering his face. Then he whipped down a partly netted black tippet and placed it onto my head. We pouted for a selfie.
“Catch you again sometime,” he said, smiling, and he was gone down a musty corridor of clothing, lost in a labyrinth of fashionable dreams. I stopped for a moment to watch him disappear. He was a curious-looking man, but so polite and easy to talk to.
Damn, I completely forgot to ask his name.
I tagged Rose’s in the photo and uploaded it immediately: X-Pro II filter; caption: “Hunting down treasures at Rose’s with a new friend #fashion #stylist #NYC #friendship”
Rob called just as I was finally making my way to the lingerie section on the hunt for “funky nipple tassels” for Liv.
“Honey, where are you? I’ve been ringing for the last fifteen minutes. I’m outside the flat but I’m locked out. I thought you’d be home this afternoon?”
“Oh, sorry, I’ve been in Rose’s, choosing clothes for the fancy-dress party. My phone must have been on silent, and I lost track of time. I’ll leave now and get a cab back, it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
“Did you get me a dashing Duke of Edinburgh outfit?”
“Didn’t get that far, but I’ll come back later in the week, there are thousands of options. See you soon. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Your Majesty.”
* * *
When I got back to Williamsburg, Rob was sitting on the steps of our apartment block, among the seemingly never-ending pile of pizza boxes. A mangy looking dog was sniffing around the bins. I delved into my Michael Kors for my keys. A minute later, I had tipped the contents of my bag into Rob’s lap and, although I found a lost hairclip, half a packet of chewing gum and the receipt for a top I wanted to return to Urban Outfitters, there was no sign of any door keys.
I sighed. “We’ve been here less than a week and already we’re going to have to pay for a locksmith.”
Rob was already on his phone, calling up Amy—who seemed to be the oracle for everything—to get a number.
“No reply,” he mouthed, then left a message.
Just then, someone came out so we made it into the communal hallway. But now, we both just stood staring at our locked front door.
“What now? Kick it in?” Rob asked, pounding the door with his shoulder, just to check it wasn’t as flimsy as most of the furnishings inside.
“And have to get a new door as well as a locksmith?” I held him back. “I wish this was a dream. We’re idiots.”
“Hang on, weren’t you the one tasked with getting a second set cut today, as you seem to have conveniently forgotten?”
“Hmm,” I muttered, sheepishly. Cutting keys had been the last thing on my mind after the Instagram emergency. “It’s not like I haven’t been busy. It was very nearly the day from hell.” And I regaled him with the sorry story of the balding stylist and my social media meltdown, while we sat on the floor outside our apartment waiting for Amy to ring back.
Rob found it amusing. He smirked. “Why didn’t you check the photos properly before you sent them out?”
“I would have done normally,” I insisted, “but it all happened so quickly—I wanted to get my pics from the show up straightaway. In fashion, it’s all about being first.”
“At whatever cost?” He gave me a knowing look.
His mobile starting ringing: Amy.
“We’ve gone and got ourselves locked out of the apartment,” he told her. “ . . . I know, yes we’ve only been here a week . . . I was wondering if your mate Kate happens to know any good locksmiths in the area . . . Thanks, you’re a star.”
You’re a star. Amy strikes gold again. I hated myself for feeling narked.
And then it came to me. “Wait a minute, we might not need a locksmith—why didn’t we think of it before, we live opposite a bloody fire station! I’ll go over and see if someone there can help.”
Rob rose to his feet, too. “I give you full permission to flirt with all the guys in uniform,” he said, winking. “But only becaus
e this is an emergency, okay?”
I smiled. “Whatever you say.”
* * *
Station 40, Brooklyn Fire Department, was taking an afternoon break when I wandered up the drive and inside the garage doors. Save for two gleaming fire engines parked up side by side the place looked deserted. Seemingly they only get busy at the exact time I have a genuine emergency or want to go to sleep.
“Can I help you m’am?” A serious, deep, male voice coming from somewhere within the garage startled me. I turned around, suddenly feeling like an intruder, unable to see the person who had obviously seen me.
“M’am, this is federal property, not a tourist attraction. What are you doing in here?”
I scanned the area, still failing to locate the person demanding answers.
“The screen—look at the CCTV screen in the corner behind your right shoulder,” the voice continued. “No, that’s your left, honey, look over your right.”
Now I felt like a complete idiot. I turned again and there was the face of a burly fireman filling a small screen attached to the wall, another guy visible over his shoulder with a faintly entertained expression on his face.
“I need some help,” I said firmly in my best Queen’s English. “I live across the street.”
“Is there a fire?” The man said, getting to his feet now.
“Not exactly, but it is an emergency, of sorts.”
He muttered something inaudible, and then said, “I’m coming down.”
Instead of a dramatic Fireman Sam–style flourish down a pole, he soon appeared at the foot of some stairs inside the garage just a few feet away from me.
“Now what’s going on, lady? Are you from Eng-ger-land?”
“Yes.” I smiled, thinking how encouraging it is to see a six-foot-something, half-uniformed fireman standing in front of you. “Like I said, I live over the road”—I pointed behind me—“and, well, it’s not a fire, but I’ve sort of got myself locked out and was wondering, if you’re not busy, whether someone could give me a hand getting in?”
“I’m Bart,” he said, before bellowing up the stairs: “Corey! Jacob! We got an English with a domestic.”
Five minutes later, three ruggedly gorgeous firemen were following me across the street. Rob smiled with approval as we approached.
“It’s that one up there,” I said, pointing to the first-floor window. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have a lock.”
“You wait inside on the landing,” Bart ordered and I obediently joined Rob in the corridor, ready for our knights in shining armor to open the door and let us in.
Rob and I shuddered as a sound of breaking glass could be heard on the other side of the door.
“I guess the window was locked then—typically the one thing that actually works in this place,” he said quietly. “We’re going to have to tell the landlord.”
“Well, rather that than kicking in the front door,” I replied, and we waited as the sound of more breaking glass and then heavy footsteps could be heard heading toward the door on the other side of the wall.
And then Bart appeared from behind the door. The only problem was, it wasn’t our front door. It was the one immediately to the left of it. There was silence for a few seconds while Rob and I took in the situation and the fireman read the alarmed expression on our faces.
“Um, that’s not our front door,” I said, finally, just as the other two men appeared and registered that we were not thanking them for their help.
“This is Max and Tina’s apartment,” Rob uttered.
“Who are Max and Tina?” Bart asked. “You claimed this was your home. What are you trying to tell me?”
Grimly, I replied, “Max and Tina live next door to us, in the apartment you have just broken into. This is our front door.” I pointed to the adjacent wooden door.
“Lady, you showed us your window outside.” He looked angry. “God damn, it’s always a mistake to do people a favor.”
“I thought I did point to our window,” I whispered, knowing that to cause an argument was futile. “It’s not a biggie, I’m sure they’ll understand,” I continued brightly, batting my eyelids, praying that a bit of English feminine charm might help. “But perhaps you could, er, do the same, with the next-door window first, though, so that we can get into our own apartment?”
Thankfully, Bart was in an obliging mood. As it turned out, there was no lock on our window so it didn’t even need to be broken.
And that was how we ended up meeting—and laying on an expensive meal for—the shaggers next door.
* * *
It turned out that Max and Tina, as well as being probably the loudest people I had ever met, were also—thank God—two of the most understanding.
“You gotta laugh,” Max had said, once we pressed a cold beer into his hand no less than two seconds after he’d returned home from work that evening, before he saw some wood nailed into position by the fire brigade where the glass in his sitting-room window should be.
“Tell me you got a cell number for the firemen?” Tina teased when she joined us in our apartment later on.
They were probably in their late thirties, Brooklyn natives, who had been together for knocking on fifteen years and living in their apartment, which was the same size as ours, for almost as long. It turned out that Max also worked in TV, as a cameraman for a local station, so he and Rob hit it off immediately. Late into the evening, when Max goaded Rob downstairs for a cigarette, Tina dragged me off to tell me about their fertility problems and how they were considering a course of IVF. Suddenly the sound of them going at it like rabbits most nights took on a new meaning. Her eyes moistened as she recounted their long, difficult wait to become parents.
“Are you two thinking about children?” she asked pointedly when she’d finished.
“We haven’t talked about it yet,” I replied, “we’ve not been dating that long. But, yes, I guess I’ve always imagined I’d be a mum one day.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Start trying early,” she advised, a concerned look across her face. “Unless you have your fertility checked regularly, or you’ve been pregnant before, you never know. I mean, has Rob ever got anyone pregnant that you know of?”
“God, I don’t know,” I said, knocking back a large glug of wine and feeling slightly awkward about such a personal line of questioning from someone I barely knew.
“You’d be wise to find out,” she said, “before it’s too late.”
When Rob came back, I steered him into the kitchen area and put my arms around his waist. His breath smelled of smoke and beer. He looked really sexy this evening.
“The fag was a bad idea, it’s gone straight to my head,” he admitted, kissing my hair.
“Did you ever get a girl pregnant?” I asked. Tina had made me feel I needed to know the answer this very second.
“Blimey,” he said, pulling back for a moment and looking at me square on. “Not that I know of . . . it was only a scare with my ex, I told you all about that. Why are you asking, all of a sudden?” He looked over his shoulder, but Tina and Max’s tongues were locked on our sofa. “Oh God, don’t say they’re swingers,” Rob whispered, turning away quickly.
“It was just something Tina mentioned,” I whispered ominously.
“She said I got another girl pregnant?” Rob’s face turned white. “She barely knows me!”
“No! Just something to do with them and fertility issues. I’ll tell you later.”
“There don’t seem to be many issues from what I can see,” he said, stealing another look just as the two pulled apart.
“Whiskey nightcap, anyone?” Max called, holding up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s he must have picked up from his apartment when they went for a cigarette.
“Now you’re talking, mate.” Rob joined them again.
“I’m off to bed, in that case,” Tina said, seemingly not impressed.
“I think I’ll do the same.”
I went to give her a hug. I had so much to work on tomorrow, managing my social media and finishing the job with Liv, I didn’t want to wake up with a pounding head.
“Great talking to you tonight,” she said. “Let’s do it again sometime.”
“Definitely,” I replied, “and—good luck.”
“Thanks.” She looked across at the two guys, now sitting on our sofa, already enjoying a large measure each of JD over some ice.
“Don’t worry,” I said cheerily, “I’ll make sure they’re not too long.”
* * *
“So what was the impregnation question all about then?” Rob asked, his voice slightly slurred, a little later, after Max had left.
“Tina was telling me they’re having problems getting pregnant,” I explained.
“And Lord knows they’ve been trying,” Rob said, chuckling.
“It’s not funny, she’s really upset about it. I hardly know her and she told me the whole story. I think it’s something to do with him. Anyway, they’re going to try IVF.”
“Well, good luck to them, I hope it works, but what has this got to do with me?”
I sat up in bed, pulling the covers up around me; it was really cold in here tonight.
“I guess it just made me think about whether we might want a family one day, and if, you know, everything was working.”
“So you can decide whether to dump me now if I’m firing blanks?” We stared at each other awkwardly. “Jesus, Amber, this is a bit full-on, isn’t it? Give me a break.”