Chapter Seven
New York
My entire body ached. Eight hours trapped in a rigid economy seat next to a screaming baby on one side and a man who’d snored the entire journey on the other, it had been a blessed relief to get off the plane, even if just to stand in line at security for an hour.
The customs agent at JFK had scrutinized my passport thoroughly while my nerves jangled at the multiple guards who patrolled the area with actual machine guns.
But my paperwork had been in order and soon enough I was in a yellow cab barreling down the RFK Bridge through Queens.
“So, where you from?” The taxi driver’s accent was a mix of Eastern European with that distinctive New York twang.
“England,” I said, staring out of the window. I was finally here, in New York City, and so far, all I had seen was a busy motorway and block after block of identical houses. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but something more spectacular than this.
“Ah, London,” he guessed, gleefully.
“Well, yes,” I said, giving up on the view. “I mean, I live in London, but I’m actually from a very small village in Yorkshire. Northern England.”
“I am also from a small village in Istrian region of Croatia,” he said. “Have you ever been?”
“To Croatia? No, sorry.”
“Ah, you must,” he said with a wistful smile. “What brings you to New York?”
“Work,” I said.
“Yeah? What business you do?”
“Film.” It was so good to say that to someone in a New York taxicab, of all places.
“Oh, all right, big shot!” The driver nodded in approval. “Welcome, welcome.” Just then, the urban landscape gave way to a wide river. “Queensboro Bridge!” he announced.
I craned my neck to look forward through the windscreen and there it was, the iconic Manhattan skyline of towering skyscrapers, looming closer and closer as the taxi sped across the bridge.
Words left me. From a young age, I’d dreamed of a job that could take me to places bigger and bolder than the life I was living, but never once had I anticipated how I would feel should that dream come true.
Truth was, I felt a million things all at once.
Awe, grandeur and emotion. Plus a huge amount of disbelief.
The driver glanced back at me. “Hits you like a hammer when you see it, huh?” he remarked softly.
“I was only six years old, but I still remember the moment I saw Manhattan for the first time. My family left Croatia in the nineties, and I thought my heart would never mend from that. But somehow, here, it has. It’s crazy, but it’s home. ”
“I feel like I’m in the opening credits of Working Girl,” I breathed.
The taxi driver burst out laughing. “Ah yes, yes, I love that movie. All the movies. Especially the New York movies. Coming to America, the Spider-Mens.”
“What is it about New York though?” I was asking myself more than him. “I mean, surely, it’s people and buildings and pavements and shops. Like any other city.”
“Ah, but it’s not like any other city,” he said. “It’s iconic for a reason. Something about it brings out the dreamer in people. You’ll see.”
“I can’t wait.” The taxi was swallowed up by the towering blocks and soon eased to a halt at a crossing. I pressed my face up against the window to take it all in. The streets were packed with pedestrians who seemingly all had somewhere else to be, powering down the wide avenues like so many ants.
Eventually, we pulled to a stop outside a non-descript three-story building, and his eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. “Here you go.”
I stiffly emerged from the car, drinking in the surroundings.
The April air was mild, filled with the smell of garlic from a hole-in-the-wall café combining with fumes from the traffic.
The street was much narrower than Tenth Avenue but still four lanes wide, with a few hardy saplings vying for attention next to the parked cars and the multitude of flags hanging from various entranceways.
It was oddly peaceful, considering we stood smack dab in the middle of such a dense metropolis.
I thanked him for getting my case out of the boot and counted out the necessary cash, making sure to include a tip. He grinned, then pulled out a business card. “You need a taxi, that’s me.”
I glanced at the card. Ivan Stipanov, it read, with his number embossed in shiny black type. “Thanks, Ivan. I’m Lucie.”
He shook my hand. “Enjoy New York, Lucie the Brit.” He scooted back into the driver’s seat, then wound down the window to grin at me. “This city has one more dreamer; it’s a good day.”
Perhaps it was the jetlag, but something about his words seemed sweetly poetic.
He waved, then turned on his light and sped off.
I picked up my suitcase, swearing that it had got a few pounds heavier since I’d last touched it, and headed towards the apartment block entrance, hitting the buzzer as directed in the welcome email RJ’s office had forwarded.
With a click, the door swung open to reveal a spartan lobby comprising a neat corner desk and a sluggish ceiling fan.
Eyes burning with tiredness, I followed the smiling concierge to an open-space studio flat.
The room had high ceilings and bright white walls with the only sign it belonged to a film company a framed poster of the 1957 classic The Sweet Smell of Success.
A large bed was tucked up against a heavily draped window with a Juliet balcony that overlooked the street and down a tiny hallway was a little kitchenette and a practically microscopic bathroom.
Once the concierge was done showing me around, I went straight to the bed and flopped face down.
From outside the window, I could hear the eerie wail of a siren, the gentle thrum of traffic.
The bed was plush and comfortable, stacked with a mound of pillows.
Although my case needed unpacking and the shower was calling, I allowed myself to sink into the soft bedding.
It had been a long day; how harmful could a little rest be?