NEW YORK – SHE loved it. She loved its anonymity. Its hotch-potch ethnic mix that spilled out everywhere. Chinatown, Harlem. The districts that went on for miles, the air thick with smells of chilli and spices and neighbourhoods where people prided themselves on being true blue Americans. Romy wasn’t sure where she fitted in but she knew at this stage of her life that the city with its big heart was where she had wanted to be.
They loved her red hair and tall catwalk figure and called her an original when she showed them her designs, which she carried in a small velvet wrap in her purse; buyers were impressed when she guided them to the website Rob had created for her. After only two weeks she discovered she was definitely in business and had signed contracts with two exclusive small jewellers. An agency helped in her search for an apartment that would be spacious enough also to act as a studio.
Setting up her tools and workbench in the dining area of the one-bedroomed high-ceilinged fifth floor of the Russell building just between Third and Lexington Avenue, Romy felt a huge sense of adventure.
She enjoyed sleeping on her own and walking the streets of the city, getting to know it and the pace of life that less frantic New Yorkers enjoyed.
Sundays she went to Central Park, buying a newspaper but scarcely bothering to read it as she watched the passers-by. Absorbing the sights and the smells of the city she searched for inspiration for a new collection of work. Donna Taylor, one of the store owners, was very impressed. Donna was the first friendly face and she insisted on bringing her to lunch and to dinners and introducing her around. Most nights Romy was content to stay in and work, soon realizing that she was no Carrie Bradshaw.
She built up a coterie of friends, some from Ireland, others flotsam and jetsam that like herself had ended up in New York. On the day in September when the heart was ripped out of New York she had sat on the pavement crying, not believing that man could inflict such pain on his fellow man. She’d watched the Twin Towers fall over and over again on the TV news and was tempted to pack up her bags and flee. Instead she had stayed as the city mourned. Months later she found herself changed, no longer believing that each man was an island. She had her design work and a job teaching English twice a week but volunteered to help out in the art department of the local high school, showing the kids how to design pieces from recycled trash.
She went on dates, which seemed kind of crazy as she wasn’t looking for Mr Right any more. She’d met Greg Anderson in Fitzpatrick’s Hotel, the two of them chatting about the coming election primaries at a small fundraiser. He was old-fashioned and conservative and had just split from his wife and was certainly not the kind of guy she needed in her life. He’d asked her out on a date and, encouraged by Donna, she had gone along.
There had been roses and champagne and a candlelit dinner overlooking the Hudson. He told her that he had never been to Europe, never surfed or even owned a surfboard and was more a city boy. They had absolutely nothing in common and she loved him for it! Five days after they first met she’d slept with him. Uncomplicated good sex and wrapped in his arms she felt special.
‘You crazy Irish woman,’ joked Donna. ‘He’s never going to marry you.’
‘Donna, I can promise you that is the last thing on my mind!’
Greg’s life was complicated enough with divorcing his wife, so Romy kept her distance and gave him space and listened when he wanted to talk. Their relationship was different and based on the mutual understanding of sex and companionship, for New York could be a very lonely city. She liked Greg, perhaps even loved him a little, but knew that when the time was right they would both move on. Tilda had been right about putting down roots and belonging: Romy didn’t know where she’d end up but suspected this city was not the place. Kate’s angry phone call demanding she return home immediately to see her mother was perhaps the catalyst she needed.