I nod, trying not to grimace. What is that smell?
He takes a few steps and cracks open a door. “And this would be your room. My room is down the back.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I didn’t realize it was a shared apartment. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and all that. And he seems nice enough, I suppose.
I poke my head into the room and my jaw drops. It’s not a room—it’s basically a broom closet with a window.
He smiles at me and I notice he has food in his teeth. I give him a polite smile in return, willing myself to stay positive. Maybe this will have to do until I can find something better.
“What is the rent, again?” I ask. “Twelve hundred a month?”
He shakes his head. “No. Two thousand.”
My eyes widen in shock. Two thousand a month to live in a closet? Jesus, I couldn’t afford to live here even if Iwantedto.
I quickly thank him and leave, desperate to get away from the odor lingering in that place. Once outside on the street, I gulp in a breath of fresh air, then release it in a frustrated sigh.
Oh well, maybe the next one won’t be so bad. I know they can’t all be winners. Good thing I got the worst one out of the way first, I guess.
But it only gets worse: apartments so teeny I can barely get in the door let alone put my books or clothes anywhere; creepy roommates that make me feel like I’d need to sleep with one eye open.
By the afternoon I’m practically despondent. I trudge along West 8th Street towards the Village, holding back tears. No apartment, and I haven’t evenbegunto think about searching for a job.
One thing is painfully clear, though. There’s no way the apartment package I purchased online could ever have been real. It’s almost laughable that I thought it was. Because now that I know what your money can actually buy you in terms of Manhattan apartments, well. I was an idiot.
Mum said it was crazy to come here and I’m starting to think she was right, because—
Huh. That’s weird.
Across the street I see a flash of something—or rather,someone—familiar, and I freeze, trying to figure out how I could possibly know someone around here.
Oh, wait.
Broad shoulders. Expensive suit. Beard…
It’s the guy from Starbucks that I showered in coffee.
Shit, I hope he doesn’t see me. He may very well march over here and demand I fork out for a new shirt.
What’s he doing around here in the middle of the day, anyway? Shouldn’t he be down on Wall Street or something? He’s clearly a businessman, and as I watch him from across the street, my mind fills in a few other details about the kind of guy I think he is: single, probably a bit of a womanizer with that physique, living in a penthouse or other fancy apartment with views of the park. He seems like the type to get up early and hit the gym before work, which I imagine to be the kind of job where people shout into phones all day and only care about the bottom line.
I mean, okay, I could be wrong. Everything I know about men like him I’ve learned from films likeThe Wolf of Wall Street.But he justlookslike a typical New York businessman.
He turns to cross the road and before I can even register what’s happening, I’ve ducked behind a lamppost to hide. For some reason my heart is thumping, and I get a flashback to his scowling face in Starbucks. He was so pissed off, and if he does expect me to stump up the cash now, I’d be royally fucked.
I brave a peek around the post and notice he’s heading down the street, away from me.
Thank God.
My head slumps forward in relief, and that’s when I notice the paper tacked to the post. It’s a “help wanted” advert. No mention of what the job is, but it specifies women. There’s no experience required, and it pays in cash. That’s all I need to know.
I whip my phone out and dial the number as fast as I can, and it’s not until it starts ringing that it occurs to me it could be something really shady. Shit, I could be ringing a pimp right now. I’m notthatdesperate.
Am I?
No, don’t be silly, I tell myself. I’m sure it’s something perfectly reasonable. Besides, I don’t have many options. As long as it’s not prostitution—or something else illegal—I’ll do it.
I cross my fingers as the call connects.
