boiling hot or crisply air-conditioned. It was fired, wired, smartly attired.
Every day I emerged from our hotel into the electric glow of Times Square and quaked in wonder as if I wasseeing it for the first time. How could a city like this have risen from marshy wasteland? How was such an outrageous tessellation of humanity possible on a daily basis? And how was it that so many people wished me a great day and seemed actually to
mean
it?
‘You’re
certainly
welcome!’ they trilled, when I thanked them for being so nice. No amount of suspicious staring on my part persuaded them to drop the smiles.
‘They actually
care
,’ I breathed to Bea. ‘They actually care if I’m having a good day!’
‘Of course they do not.’ She laughed. ‘They do the smiling and the cordiality as easily as you English do the angry and the awkward. But they do not mean it.’
‘They bloody well do,’ Barry interrupted. ‘THEY ARE THE NICEST PEOPLE ON EARTH AND I SWEAR THAT BY MY HAT.’
He was not wearing a hat but he looked very ferocious, so nobody questioned him.
If I was in awe of New York I was literally dumbfounded by the Lincoln Center, home to the Metropolitan Opera House and now the Royal Ballet for the next two weeks. The wardrobe department alone was bigger than my parents’ council estate but ten times more welcoming. I felt comfortable the moment I walked in there.
The wardrobe staff were mad and friendly and they owned two cheeky little rats that had been part of a previous production. They treated me and the other Royal Opera House wardrobe girls like old friends; they took us out for cocktails in Chelsea, to gay piano bars in Greenwich, to secret restaurants in the East Village. Bea received an equally warm welcome from the Met’s wigs people,and the dancers were given carpeted dressing rooms with chaises longues.
Everyone
was happy. Especially the audiences, who gave standing ovations for
The Rite of Spring
.
I loved those first two weeks. They were like starting my life again. Being born aged twenty-eight into a noisy, intoxicating, beautiful world where things just didn’t seem to matter so much. One morning I actually caught myself skipping like some oversized lamb along the ‘sidewalk’. It was not typical Sally Howlett behaviour and I couldn’t have given a flying arse.
I discovered early on that Fiona was seeing someone. She claimed to be very happy but the whole thing made me nervous.
‘Oh, it’s that guy from the plane,’ she said off-handedly. It was coming towards the end of our first week in New York, and Barry, Fiona and I had just had dinner at Café Select in SoHo. Fi, having picked at her delicious potato
rösti
, had just airily announced that she was off to see a man about a shag.
‘Raúl, remember? At the on-board bar? We exchanged numbers. He’s really interesting, actually. He lives in
Brooklyn
.’ She waited for us to express admiration, even though none of us had ever been to Brooklyn.
‘Shut up, you knobber,’ Barry interjected calmly. ‘Fiona, I’m from Barry Island. And she’s from Stourbridge. Why, I ask you, would we know
anythin
’ about Brooklyn? Do you know what I’m sayin’ here, babe?’
Barry had always been good at plucking Fiona out of whatever lofty fantasy she was floating on and depositing her rudely back in the present.
‘Ah, shut up yourself,’ she replied warmly. ‘Well,Brooklyn,’ she mused, taking a chug of her Manhattan. (We’d been unable to resist.) ‘Well, it’s … it’s cool and interesting and alternative.’
Barry snorted. We both knew that someone else had put these words into Fiona’s mouth. ‘Lots of … um, vintage shops and cultural initiatives,’ she continued. Barry was now openly laughing. ‘Raúl went halves with a friend on a derelict warehouse, about fifteen years ago, and he lives on the top floor and rents the rest out for a fortune. I think some of his tenants are artists. Oh, shut
up
, Barry.’ She fiddled
Every day I emerged from our hotel into the electric glow of Times Square and quaked in wonder as if I wasseeing it for the first time. How could a city like this have risen from marshy wasteland? How was such an outrageous tessellation of humanity possible on a daily basis? And how was it that so many people wished me a great day and seemed actually to
mean
it?
‘You’re
certainly
welcome!’ they trilled, when I thanked them for being so nice. No amount of suspicious staring on my part persuaded them to drop the smiles.
‘They actually
care
,’ I breathed to Bea. ‘They actually care if I’m having a good day!’
‘Of course they do not.’ She laughed. ‘They do the smiling and the cordiality as easily as you English do the angry and the awkward. But they do not mean it.’
‘They bloody well do,’ Barry interrupted. ‘THEY ARE THE NICEST PEOPLE ON EARTH AND I SWEAR THAT BY MY HAT.’
He was not wearing a hat but he looked very ferocious, so nobody questioned him.
If I was in awe of New York I was literally dumbfounded by the Lincoln Center, home to the Metropolitan Opera House and now the Royal Ballet for the next two weeks. The wardrobe department alone was bigger than my parents’ council estate but ten times more welcoming. I felt comfortable the moment I walked in there.
The wardrobe staff were mad and friendly and they owned two cheeky little rats that had been part of a previous production. They treated me and the other Royal Opera House wardrobe girls like old friends; they took us out for cocktails in Chelsea, to gay piano bars in Greenwich, to secret restaurants in the East Village. Bea received an equally warm welcome from the Met’s wigs people,and the dancers were given carpeted dressing rooms with chaises longues.
Everyone
was happy. Especially the audiences, who gave standing ovations for
The Rite of Spring
.
I loved those first two weeks. They were like starting my life again. Being born aged twenty-eight into a noisy, intoxicating, beautiful world where things just didn’t seem to matter so much. One morning I actually caught myself skipping like some oversized lamb along the ‘sidewalk’. It was not typical Sally Howlett behaviour and I couldn’t have given a flying arse.
I discovered early on that Fiona was seeing someone. She claimed to be very happy but the whole thing made me nervous.
‘Oh, it’s that guy from the plane,’ she said off-handedly. It was coming towards the end of our first week in New York, and Barry, Fiona and I had just had dinner at Café Select in SoHo. Fi, having picked at her delicious potato
rösti
, had just airily announced that she was off to see a man about a shag.
‘Raúl, remember? At the on-board bar? We exchanged numbers. He’s really interesting, actually. He lives in
Brooklyn
.’ She waited for us to express admiration, even though none of us had ever been to Brooklyn.
‘Shut up, you knobber,’ Barry interjected calmly. ‘Fiona, I’m from Barry Island. And she’s from Stourbridge. Why, I ask you, would we know
anythin
’ about Brooklyn? Do you know what I’m sayin’ here, babe?’
Barry had always been good at plucking Fiona out of whatever lofty fantasy she was floating on and depositing her rudely back in the present.
‘Ah, shut up yourself,’ she replied warmly. ‘Well,Brooklyn,’ she mused, taking a chug of her Manhattan. (We’d been unable to resist.) ‘Well, it’s … it’s cool and interesting and alternative.’
Barry snorted. We both knew that someone else had put these words into Fiona’s mouth. ‘Lots of … um, vintage shops and cultural initiatives,’ she continued. Barry was now openly laughing. ‘Raúl went halves with a friend on a derelict warehouse, about fifteen years ago, and he lives on the top floor and rents the rest out for a fortune. I think some of his tenants are artists. Oh, shut
up
, Barry.’ She fiddled
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