We go through customs and security, arriving outside. New York City is hotter than this in the early summer. It’s probably only about seventy five degrees outside right now, just warm enough to not be chilly.
As we get into a cab that Pippa flagged down, sheyawns. “This time change thing is going to give me killer jet lag. Tomorrow we should sleep in if we can before we have to be atPolitiken.”
I look out at the blurry cityscape, feeling bleary. “Politikenis essentially the New York Times of Copenhagen. It’s about as liberal as they come…”
I look at Pippa, who cocks a brow. “I know. You’re telling me about a place that I work. And as of tomorrow, we will both work there.”
Giving my head a shake, I roll my eyes at myself. “Sorry. I think the jet lag has somehow caught up with me already. I meant to ask whether you think that they’ll want me to just write or to take pictures, too. My camera hasn’t been used professionally for way too long.”
Photography is very much my first love.
She shrugs. “I have no idea. My editor Anna just told me to get your butt to Copenhagen… she didn’t say what kind of stuff she’ll have you working on.”
I lean my head back, closing my eyes. “Maybe this is the launch of my career and I don’t even know it. Maybe it’s a new opportunity that comes disguised as a torrent of paparazzi screaming questions.”
It’s true. When I left New York, it was under a black cloud. It seemed like every paparazzo had the same endless strings of questions for me every time I dared to open my door just to check the mail.
Margot, did your affair with Prince Stellan leave you star struck?
Are you going to Copenhagen to be with him?
What is it like being a real life Cinderella?
The last one really stung. The tabloids really concentrated on the rags to riches aspect of the whole salacious affair. Basically I didn’t tell them anything, so they just jumped ahead without any kind of factual basis for the entire story.
Stellan has been radio silent ever since I walked out of his hotel to a mob of reporters. I met someone that I thought was my dream guy… tall, handsome, and witty… and then he vanished into a swirl of dust at the first camera flash. A low sinking feeling still lurks in the pit of my stomach a week later.
Pippa chuckles. “I know you must be tired, because that is way more optimistic than you usually are.”
I grin. “Yeah, probably. Ask me how I feel tomorrow and I can guarantee it will be different.”
The taxi stops downtown in front of a high rise and we get out. I carry my two duffel bags — the sum of all my worldly possessions — up to the fourth floor. Following Pippa into her apartment, I look around.
It’s a cozy little apartment; the perfectly white kitchen is to my left, a living room set up to my right. There are stacks of magazines, newspapers, and junk mail piled haphazardly every place I look.
Pippa bares her teeth as she sweeps a pile into her arms and drops her suitcase on the couch. “Sorry it’s such a mess. I didn’t realize I would be returning from New York with a new roommate.” She pauses. “I’ll actually have to move some stuff out of your room. And make some room on the counter in the bathroom…” She pulls a face. “And you shouldn’t open the refrigerator…”
My lips curl upward. “It’s okay, Pips. We lived together during college. I remember it fondly.”
She blushes. “I’ll get a maid if my mess starts to affect you.”
I shrug. “I’ve literally been homeless before. I’m sure I’ll manage.”
Pippa shows me down the hallway and into the second bedroom. There’s a little futon set up in there that is literallycovered with books. Other than a tall IKEA lamp and a mostly empty closet, the room is bare.
“We’ll set it up way better,” she promises. Then she yawns and stretches. “Come on. Help me get these books off the bed. I think I have some extra sheets in my room…”
Half an hour later I lay down on sheets that only smell like mildew a little bit, sighing as I close my eyes. It’s almost two in the morning here now.
I toss and turn for a few minutes before I realize that I am used to a streetlight glowing just outside my window when I’m trying to sleep. My brain is just full of anxieties: my work, my address, and my social status have all changed in the last twenty four hours.
Rolling onto my side, I stare up at the ceiling. In the back of my mind, one paparazzo’s question stands out in my mind still.
Margot! Aren’t you glad that you won’t have to work anymore now that Prince Stellan is your lover?
I grit my teeth. When it comes down do it, that is the problem. These tabloid hacks are allowed to make up whatever they want about my life. Not only that, but they reap rewards from lying.
I would never give up my dreams for a guy, no matter who he is. I don’t know how I feel about love in general. Can it be trusted?
