Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

AMELIA

“Money on My Mind” plays through my earbuds, compliments of Sam Smith, and I tip my head up at the murky afternoon sky. Message received, loud and clear: Universe=100, Amelia=0.

When I pictured starting my New York adventure, I didn’t think it would begin with me spending all day in my pricey hotel room sending out CVs. But enough’s enough. Time for a break. I consult my map app and follow the route to Washington Square Park, a few blocks away.

NYU buildings surround the greens. A children’s playground is tucked into a corner. Across the large arch is the start of 5th Avenue. Impressive.

I snap a handful of selfies with the empty circular fountain as my backdrop. Skateboarders zip around the sunken basin while a man in a white jumpsuit carrying a frame over his face shouts, “I was framed, I didn’t do it.” I sigh. I didn’t cheat or get myself handcuffed to a bed either, mate, but I guess we’re both paying for the actions of other blokes.

When my eyes land on the food vendors, I’m reminded I missed lunch. A couple of carts are busier than others, but I’m not about to wait an hour for a plateful of South Indian dosas, scrumptious as they seem. I settle for the cheapest option and part with some of my precious dollars for an overpriced pretzel and a tea before heading for the closest empty seat.

One sip of the Oolong, and I promptly regret its purchase. Mental note: never self-soothe with tea from a New York coffee cart. Especially when the vendor himself hesitates as he hands over a cup of hot water and a sorry-looking tea bag.

A chestnut-haired woman in a sage jacket at the opposite end of my bench lounges with a phone in one hand and three leashes in the other. Two of her charges are quiet. A regal German Shepherd, who doesn’t spare me a glance, and beside it, a furry creature of indeterminate origins. I tilt my head. From this angle, the dog’s messy, curly coat of gold and brown almost reminds me of Ben. I wonder if it’s part Cocker Spaniel or maybe a particularly unattractive poodle.

The third is a Yorkie in a black and white polka dot collar, pulling at its lead to get to a nearby squirrel who’s dashed into the middle of the path to retrieve a stray acorn. Polka Dog barks at the squirrel. It remains unfazed, staring back as if daring him to pounce. Huh. Even squirrels have attitude in New York.

I take a bite of my pretzel and suppress a moan at its salty goodness. The tea here may be subpar, but the baked goods are amazing.

Polka Dog’s ears prickle, and sensing better treats ahead, it surrenders the acorn to the squirrel and trots over to me, wagging its tail. It stops about two feet away, eyeing me as if to make sure it has my full attention, then rolls over twice, concluding its performance with a high “woof” before trotting to my side and nudging at my calf, looking at me with puppy eyes, clearly expecting a reward.

No doubt the animal is deserving, so I tear off a piece of the pretzel.

I’m about to hand it over but catch myself. With my luck, it’s probably on some super special New York City doggie diet that only allows it a treat every third Tuesday.

The dog whines again, and I turn to address its wrangler. “Umm. Can I give your dog some of this?”

She glances up, peering at me with striking green eyes framed by cat-eyed glasses. The woman wields her charges with ease, like a professional canine whisperer. “Sure, but watch it. You don’t want her thinking more will come, or she’ll expect you to take her home with you. She’s a little ho, will latch onto anyone for the right price.”

Now there’s an idea, but I don’t think I’m that desperate quite yet.

Before my hand’s fully extended, the bread’s gone—vanishing with a quick swipe of a pink tongue.

The other two dogs stand and join their mate. One whines pitifully, and the other lays its head on my lap. I scratch behind its ears and tear off a couple more chunks for both. “How long have you had them?”

“Oh, they’re not mine. Well, Luna is,” the woman says, gesturing at Polka Dog, “but likes to pretend she’s an orphan.” She glares at it. “Queenie and Gatz I dog-walk.” She eyes me. “You’re British, right? Visiting?”

I nod. “First time.”

“Cool. What do you think so far?”

“Expensive.” Prices here are appalling. Everything costs more than I’d anticipated, and after that, tack on another ten percent in taxes, and I’m ready for the poorhouse. Wages at the inn weren’t substantial since they were adjusted for room and board and meals.

She grins. “No argument there.”

No one’s been able to get in touch with the Airbnb lady, but Airbnb management will only refund me in two to four weeks if things haven’t been resolved. This pretzel might be my last indulgence, because after I’m done, I’ll be living on a prayer and a tin of Heinz beans, a la Bon Jovi.

I huff out a breath. “I suppose I could have planned my trip better. Been smarter.”

A smarter person would have found a job before crossing the Atlantic. Or at least made sure she had a backup plan. A smarter person would have figured out her so-called boyfriend was seeing someone else. No wonder Ben always wanted to have sex in my room or empties at the inn instead of having me over to his flat. His constant excuse was his place was a mess, even though I must have volunteered a million times to clean it. Should’ve suspected something was up when he refused. What man in his right mind rejects free maid service?

She flutters her fingers dismissively. “Planning’s overrated.”

Squeaking, rattling sounds interrupt us, and I look up. And blink. “Is that a piano?”

The woman glances over at what has to be a figment of my imagination. “Oh, yeah.” Of course. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“It’s real?” Am I squealing?

She grins. “Yep.”

“How? It must weigh five hundred kilos.” I watch in fascination as a man in his forties wheels a battered but beautiful Steinway baby grand to the far side of the fountain.

He plays a few practice scales then launches into the familiar opening bars of “Fly Me to the Moon.” I sit in complete awe. Once he’s done, I clap, then fish out a dollar to drop in his bucket.

“Oh my god, that was amazing,” I gush, plopping down beside the woman again. “I’ve heard of the concerts in the park—I mean, Bob Dylan sang ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ here, and Simon & Garfunkel performed ‘The Song of Silence’ before it became popular. There’s even a video of Madonna from a few years ago.” I glance back at the piano man. “But that was…” I end with a blissful sigh. There. Are. No. Words.

“Those were the good ones. It can be hit or miss sometimes.”

“You’ve seen lots of performances here?” It’s shocking drool’s not coming out of my mouth.

She shrugs. “I’ve caught some. Are you a musician? Do you perform?”

Chuckling, I say, “Ah, no. No, no, no. I wouldn’t subject anyone to my singing. I’m a fan, and that’s about it.”

“Have you checked out other venues?”

“I just arrived.”

“Oh? Done anything exciting yet?”

I huff. “Exciting? Hardly. I’ve spent all day applying to countless jobs I’m qualified for, and quite a few I’m not. Everything is ‘Experience Preferred’ or ‘Degree Required.’ Is a diploma in rocket science truly needed to run a coffee machine?” The only two positions I heard back about demanded references, so I had to fob them off. I’m not about to ask Gran for one since she’s expecting me home soon. And reaching out to Ben is a rock-hard, no bloody way.

I look at her dogs again. Polka Dog is content now that she’s been fed and the largely docile German Shepherd is scratching itself. Perhaps here’s a career choice that I should consider?

“Have you been walking dogs a long time?” Surely the requirements can’t be outrageous.

“Nah. I was a developer in the Bay Area. One day I woke up, decided I didn’t want to sit in front of a computer for the rest of my life, packed up, and came back home. That was six months ago. Now I’m ‘finding myself,’” she says, making air quotes. “At this point, I’ve done it all: professional line sitter. Singing waitress at Caroline’s in Times Square. Do you know what special kind of torture it is to perform ‘Defying Gravity’ ten times a night? It’s like vocal boot camp.” She shudders. “I even gave babysitting a shot, thinking it’d be a breeze since I’m practically drowning in nieces and nephews. But the Stroller Mafia Moms are a whole different breed of crazy. They expect you to feed their kids artisanal goat’s milk and homemade quinoa cakes. That gig didn’t last long.”

“How did you get started with this, then?”

She gives me a sly smile. “A degree in animal husbandry.”

“Oh.” My shoulders droop.

“I’m kidding!” She laughs. “The real secret is merciful friends who work all day.”

“I see…” Well, that rules me out, seeing as I don’t know a soul in this city—except for that chap from last night. Oddly enough, I found myself more drawn to him in that brief encounter than people I’ve known my entire life. Perhaps instead of his name I should have asked if he had a pup?

Her expression turns curious. “Do you want to be working with dogs?”

I harrumph. “I want to be working, full-stop. It seems impossible to find employment here. Not that I need anything fancy. Something temporary will suit me just as well.” Scooping poop’s better than returning to Fordwich with my tail between my legs and watching Ben and Margo plan their wedding. At the inn. Where I live. I suppose he wanted to take advantage of that employee discount… Ugh. No. Just no.

When the piano man strikes up another tune, I allow the stress of the day to drain out of me. My eyes droop shut. Peace. Jet lag. Bliss. Whatever. For this one moment, all is right in the world.

Does it last? Of course not. Polka Dog whines and a second later, I jolt up at the feel of a warm, wet sensation on my left foot. I glance down and let out a horrified gasp at my yellow-tinged trainer. “Bloody hell!”

The woman’s eyes widen in shock. “Crap, she peed on your shoe! I am so, so sorry.” She rummages through her bag and pulls out a tissue that appears to have been used for something else. Mustard? Though smelling like an authentic hot dog stand is better than reeking of piss. I take it and dab at the white canvas. But it’s no use—the pee has soaked through to my sock. I’m destined to walk around the city stinking of urine. Lovely.

“I suppose I’ll be beginning my tour of New York at a launderette.” I shoot a dirty look at the dog. Little beast.

“Actually, my mom’s place isn’t too far. You can wash your shoes there.” She stands without waiting for me to agree.

“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I’ll manage.”

“No way. Let me make it up to you.”

Well, it’s either follow her or traipse about in stinky trainers. Plus, she’s the first friendly face I’ve met in the city, and I’m reluctant to cut short our conversation. “If you’re sure it won’t be an imposition…”

She waves me off. “Not at all. Luna peed on you.”

I shrug and get to my feet, hoping that her mom’s place isn’t a dungeon or a murder den. Who knows, maybe this pee-soaked mishap will lead to a new friendship, but I’ll be thankful enough if I end up with a less smelly pair of shoes.