Sofia

I was obsessively scrubbing the bath when there was a knock at the door.

          “I’m not making any noise! Seriously! I’m just cleaning the…” I pulled the door open and was face to face with Sofia. She looked radiant, stunning, glorious, heavenly…every single adjective that had never been used to describe me.

          “Good morning George. My friend let me down and Van mentioned you needed a dress for the premiere so I thought…” she trailed off, strangely self-conscious.

I stood staring at her, rubber gloves on, hair pulled into a messy bun and a scrubbing brush held in midair.

          “Come in, come in before you get murdered!” I said.

She laughed, but I wasn’t joking.

          “He shouldn’t have let you come here, it’s so dangerous!” I said in a squeaky voice, freaked out and ashamed at the state myself and the flat were in.

          “He obviously hasn’t told you that I’m a third Dan in Taekwondo. I’ll be fine. You live here alone?” She asked. “You’re such a little thing.” She placed a hand on my arm and I didn’t know what to do.

          “I’m so sorry about the state of the place, but it’s just a complete dump no matter what I do and…” I was babbling.

She held up a hand and smiled reassuringly.

          “I was born in a trailer park my sweet, this is a palace in comparison.” She was being serious, there wasn’t a hint of teasing in her tone. I was waiting for the love to turn to hate, because I was DESPERATE to loathe her, but each time I spoke to her, I was a little bit more in love with her. Not in a gay way, just in a ‘I want her to be my best friend/sister/aunt/roommate’ kind of way.

I noticed that although she was immaculately dressed, she didn’t have fake nails, her brows weren’t plucked out and redrawn in and she didn’t seem to have had Botox from the way her forehead actually moved when she smiled. Please God don’t tell me she’s naturally that beautiful! Urgh!

          “Oh. Um…I just need to go changed and then…I would say make yourself at home but I don’t have any chairs…”

She laughed, the sound so full of light and joy

Nothing I owned was remotely suitable for shopping with a world famous super model, so I gave up and settled on clothes I would wear for work. Everything else I owned was flip flops, band t-shirts and jeans with half the knees worn out.

          “Don’t look so worried.” She said when I reappeared, scraping my hair into a ponytail as I hadn’t had time to wash it.

Why couldn’t I have woken up looking half decent for once?

          “Van’s given me some money for a dress and shoes, and warned me you hate shopping so I’ll go easy on you.” She linked her arm through mine and lead me to the door.

I grabbed my keys and other junk and chucked them in my huge bag.

          “George, I need to tell you something, or several things. I also hate shopping, but it became a necessary evil for my job. I hate spending more than $20 on an item of clothing and most of what I own was given to me. You look terrified, but you don’t need to. We’re far more alike than my job would imply.” She squeezed my arm in a way that reminded me of Van, and I felt guilty for trying so hard to hate her.

          “We’re going to have fun, I promise. We’ll get lunch, I know an amazing Vegan restaurant and we’ll bitch about Van and men in general.” Her smile was deliciously wicked and I knew that I had found my role model in life. Obviously I’d never be anything like her, but she was utterly perfect in every way that I could see.

 

What a day! Sofia is everything a girl could want in a friend; she’s fun, humble, sweet, as charismatic as her ex, generous with her time (and unfortunately her money, I felt so guilty) and unfailingly polite to everyone. She also has a wicked sense of humour that I wouldn’t have expected from how sweet she was, but I spent most of the day laughing my ass off and snorting in a really unattractive way. I know for a fact we were photographed, but couldn’t be surprised about that. She was apparently the most successful super model of our time. I admitted to her that I hadn’t heard of her before I met Van, and she thought it was brilliant.

          “There is nothing more awkward than having everyone know your name when you know none of theirs. It makes me feel incredibly rude.”

          She was closer to Van’s age than mine, but could have been my sister. Up close I had hoped to find at least one tiny flaw, one hair out of place, but she truly was perfection incarnate. She won me over effortlessly and we found an amazing dress to boot. Shopping hadn’t been remotely painful, in fact, I didn’t remember ever having so much fun in my life. Even with Van. I was getting a girl crush on my beloved’s ex. I hoped I never had to take sides as I would probably take hers. God she was wonderful. She also now had someone who would defend her to the hilt as I was damned if I’d ever hear a word said against her in my lifetime.

          She was also incredibly wise and intelligent.

          “Van and I met when we were very young. We got on wonderfully and I think we both confused that for love. I adore him and I will always love him, but I was never in love with him, I just wanted to be. It was the same with him. The newspapers loved us as a couple to the point where we weren’t really sure what was true and what was fiction. Luke was a happy accident, neither of us had wanted kids at that point, but I have no regrets. Van is the most amazing father and my son is the light of my life.” She looked so blissfully happy in that moment that she was even more beautiful if that were possible. Her radiance lit up a room, her presence making everything seem a little better. And her laugh! She had the dirtiest laugh I’d ever heard! It was brilliant! She could have been laughing at me and I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself joining her it was so infectious. So I was now a little in love with Van’s ex. Maybe the three of us could get married? I wasn’t remotely gay or bi, but I really wanted her in my life, she was unearthly. I was in absolute awe.

          I think she even guessed how I felt about Van, but she was tactful enough not to say it in so many words. I was a little sad when the day ended, but she promised that if I followed Van back to NY, we’d make it a regular thing. Why would such a successful, amazing woman want me in her life?

 

The dress was hanging from the shower curtain rail, covered in layers of protective plastic, but just having it here made me worry it was going to end up contaminated. It was simple in style, but elegant and made me look like an adult rather than a child playing dress up. Sofia had suggested the perfect hair style to go with it, along with colours for makeup that would suit my colouring and make my paleness almost iridescent rather than washed out. She’d given me the number of a local makeup artist and hair stylist she used locally and had emailed them her ideas. I was truly grateful. I had NO clue about that kind of thing.

          I gazed at the dress for entirely too long, excited about it in a way I’d never been about clothes before. It was a soft pink, one shouldered dress of taffeta and gauze looking like something a fae or elf might wear. I loved it. When Sofia had headed straight for it in the shop, I was happy to see we’d both zeroed in on exactly the same one. There was also the fact that it was made by a small designer who would benefit from exposure and it had cost nothing in comparison to some of the others we had looked at. The designer (and owner of the small boutique) was euphoric to know it would be worn at a premiere, and hid her disappointment well when she realised it was me and not Sofia who would be donning it.

          Now that all that was arranged, I was left with the all-consuming terror of how to behave and how in the hell I was going to make it through the evening without flipping out, swearing or spilling something down the dress. I was comforted by the fact that Van used his ‘one fingered salute’ in every situation imaginable, so that may make it less horrific if I do swear at an inappropriate time (the whole evening). There would be famous people here, and I might actually have heard of some of them. How would I manage not to freak out and go ‘fan girl’, screaming and pointing with a ‘OH MY FUCKING GOD IT’S JARED LETO!’ I hoped to god Jared Leto isn’t there as it would not be possible for me to control the squealing and ensuing embarrassment as I start crying or stalk him all evening. Van would probably find it hilarious, but I doubted Hollywood royalty would. If I was really lucky, I would be beneath all their notice and I could just hide, enjoy the movie and leave having crossed another first off a list I hadn’t realised existed in the PA stakes.

          I was in so over my head it wasn’t funny. So far I had managed to get by, I was even starting to excel at some things, but this…this was seven kinds of hell for me. I knew it wasn’t Van’s cup of tea either, so hopefully we could hide somewhere together. This was his movie though, not just some random premiere, so he would be hassled on the red carpet constantly. Did I have to arrange those interviews or did they just grab him as he walked by? And there would be tons of his fans there, would they be pelting me with rotten fruit or rocks? This was going to be so bad!

          No. No, this was going to be awesome. People would kill for this, so I am going to enjoy myself regardless of what happens. If I mess up, well, it’ll be in the paper and Van will get more column inches which will help spread awareness of him. Plus I might actually get the crown for most hated girl in America, not just this state. I was being a selfish, unprofessional cow. This was Van’s night and I needed to focus on that, not my own petty little problems, after all, there were an infinite number of worse situations to be in. I was going to enjoy this and make it as awesome as possible by keeping my mouth shut and smiling politely at everyone. I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t lash out of people said my accent was ‘cute’ though. That might be the line I will cross.

 

I was gazing lovingly at my dress again, fantasising about how Van would fall in love with me when I was all dolled up and we’d run away into the sunset together (the stuff of fan fiction actually), when my phone rang. I rushed to pick it up before my crazy bitch neighbour started banging on the door. It was an unknown number. Could it be Masanobu?

          “Uh…Hey, Georgiana. I’m really sorry I didn’t call before, but I ran out of credit.”

He was poor like me! Awesome! As much as I know I would trade in a lung, kidney and half my liver for a relationship with Van, it would be too uneven. He was wealthy, I wasn’t. He was talented, I wasn’t. He was beautiful…well, you get the picture.

          Masanobu on the other hand had a normal job and was struggling to get by, like I had been until I met Van. Sure I wasn’t rolling in it, but I was content and he was pretty generous with covering costs, travel etc. and always paid for our lunches etc. With Masanobu I would feel more sane. Life would be grounded and domestic and…did I just say life? Was I seriously thinking long term when we hadn’t even had a date yet? Hollywood was getting to me, this place was like a virus entering your brain and changing your perception of everything around you until you were flipping out about stupid things and staring at dresses like they were magical.

          “Hi! I’m so glad you called.” I said, trying to hold back the desperate.

          “Are you busy tonight? I was hoping we could grab a drink or something…” He trailed off.

          “I would love to. What time and where?”

          “I’ll come pick you up, in an hour?”

I gave him my address etc. and hung up, wondering what the hell I was going to wear. On the plus side, my band t shirts and well-loved jeans would probably be more acceptable with Masanobu, and we were going for a drink, not a formal dinner. I couldn’t have afforded dinner anyway, I was saving up to get something for Van’s birthday next month, though I had no bloody clue where to start. He wasn’t one for material possessions, and I just couldn’t think of something more personal to get him.

          I settled on the only none destroyed pair of jeans I had, though they were a little tight. My top was black with lace capped sleeves. It was cute, but casual and not me trying to be someone else.

I walked down to the lobby to wait for Masanobu, not wanting to step outside as the usual posse were gathered around the door, smoking god knows what and shouting to each other even though they were only stood a foot apart.

          Masa’s car pulled up and I instantly loved it. It wasn’t brand new, it wasn’t a Bentley and it looked well loved. Perfect. It was an old school Chevy truck, the kind of thing Van would appreciate. Masa caught my eye and looked slightly ashamed of his ‘humble’ truck with its faded paint, but I couldn’t have been happier. I hated the way everything was ‘perfect’ here, it was an illusion and so false. I liked things that were lived in and worn because they were real. Masa probably earned less than I did working where he did, and for that I felt a little guilty as I really didn’t deserve the good fortune I’d had with my job.

          “Hi!” I said, opening the door and jumping in before a shoot-out erupted or a crack whore tried to garter business from my date.

          “Looks a lot like where I live.” Masa said with a laugh, pulling away.

          “I love feeling like I’m going to be murdered every time I open my door. But at least it keeps me on my toes.” I said. “So where did you want to go? I haven’t really explored much as I have a habit of getting lost in my own street.”

He laughed and caught my eye in the rear view mirror. He looked even more beautiful than the last time I’d seen him -if that were possible. His eyes were brighter, his hair a mussed up style that looked effortless and obsessive all at once, his clothing was similar to mine with the jeans and tee, but his had Kanji all over it. I could only hope it didn’t say something like ‘Death to all English Girls!’

He caught me looking at it and translated for me.

          “It says ‘Gaijin not permitted’” He laughed.

          “Gaijin is barbarian or foreigner isn’t it?”

He nodded.

          “I thought it was funny as I would more than likely be the Gaijin here, or at least my mum would be. My dad’s all American, but my mom is from Kyoto.”

          “Very cool.” I said, jealous that he had such an interesting background.

The extent of my family tree was that my dad’s side were English, my mum’s Irish. That was it, I didn’t speak a second language or even have a cool Irish accent. It was only my Nana and a couple of my aunts and uncles that did. I could only imagine how crazy the Americans would go over an Irish accent if they thought my English one were cute.

          Masa was constantly sneaking looks at me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Whenever I caught him, he would blush a little, staring intently at the road like I had imagined it. We stopped at a small bar about ten minutes from my flat. The neon flashing sign was in such an elaborate script that I couldn’t make it out, but it looked nice enough. It was dead inside, which suited me down the ground. I’m not good in busy places. We found a table and Masa left to head to the bar.

          I looked around at the sports paraphernalia nailed to the wall; framed baseball shirts, baseball mitts, photos of sport’s stars…it was all lost on me, but the colours were nice to look at and I used the opportunity to familiarise myself with some of the teams in case it ever came up in conversation.

He returned with my diet coke and I was relieved to find no trace of alcohol in it when I took a sip. Van was notorious for sneaking booze into my drinks, though it was never much, it was there. He gave himself away with the awful ‘innocent’ smile he would always use. He was guilty as sin.

I shook myself. I was here with Masanobu, I shouldn’t be thinking about another man, it wasn’t fair.

          “So how was your day?” I began.

 

The evening was pleasant enough. Masanobu was endearingly shy and sweet, asking me a lot of questions but not answering many of mine. I didn’t mention who I was PA to as I didn’t think it was fair to Van, besides, people could try to use it against us. I had no doubt that people would ply me with sneaky questions that I would answer innocently enough, but that could cause Van all kinds of problems.

          As much as I enjoyed Masa’s company, I didn’t feel the all-consuming attraction and spark that I got every time I saw Van. Had I been ruined now? Would no one come close to him and his chain smoking, caffeine dependent self? I tried to list his faults, but came up short, he had so few.

We agreed to meet for a second ‘date/drink/thing’ but didn’t set a specific time due to us both working weird shifts. I would see him again as he was easy to talk to, we were both Vegan so could have a good bitch about Omnivores and I really did enjoy his company. I just didn’t feel like I needed to see him again, which was a tugging on my heartstrings that I got whenever I left Van’s side. I was clearly a messed up individual if I was pining after a man I could never have. Never, ever, ever in a million years, even if I had a personality transplant, extensive surgery and won the lottery, it just wouldn’t happen. He didn’t see me like that.

Masa dropped me back in front of my flats and I let myself in.

 

Being a Genius

All events in these diary entries are true, apart from those that aren't. I've had to change names, ages, descriptions to protect the identity of those I work for and with. I am posting this with the full consent of my boss (He's awesome). There will be a LOT of swearing. If this offends you, please do not read.

I must have been high on sugar, or so thoroughly fed up of feeling sorry for myself that I decided I was leaving the country. What a good idea! I’m scared in my own country and suffer from anxiety attacks just going to the supermarket I have visited for years, but I know! I’ll go somewhere I have no clue about, probably can’t afford and will be bloody terrified of. I had a passport, Visas were easily sorted and I had ‘some’ money I could use for flights and accommodation.

I did my research on which countries were currently ‘safe’ I.e. No wars, floods, earthquakes, plagues of locusts etc. Also they have to speak English as my Spanish is very rusty (and I was never good in the first place) and the few words of Japanese I know are not going to get me anywhere. I can ask where things are, say good morning, thank you and name random objects. I can also say I don’t understand which would probably be useful, but I don’t think it would make me popular.

          America it is then. They apparently speak English (they take the ‘u’s out of everything! And WTF is a faucet? It’s a frelling tap!) and it’s cheaper than rip off Britain, or so I’ve heard. Plus I might have to buy petrol over there (even though I don’t drive or have a car) just because it’s cheaper. I might also take photos of the signs for petrol prices over here, then show them to Americans who are complaining about gas prices. I’m going to be so popular over there.

          What will really happen is this; Terrified of the airport, claustrophobic on the plane, terrified at US airport, forget Visa papers, look guilty, get arrested, have cavity search, homeless, jobless, die of exposure. It’s lucky I can’t afford (and am not attractive enough) to be a crack whore. I think if I get scared enough I’ll be willing to do anything to get myself through it. Though I am far too much of a control freak to do drugs, smoke or even drink. Tea and crumpets bitches!

          They were going to love that I was the typical Brit chick in the sense that I was relatively well spoken (not posh, but not chavvy. I said darnce rather than dance.) I drank tea, moaned about the weather etc. etc. I was expecting that I would get a lot of questions about the Royal Family, because everyone in the UK is on a first name basis with all of them, and frequently get invited to the Palace for high tea. They were going to think my accent was ‘cute’ and ask what part of London I lived in (because everyone in England lives in London.) I would hide the fact that I had Irish roots as I think they’d go even more loopy over that. I’ve been to Ireland once, so don’t think I would be able to answer any questions.

 

I was packed (it was pathetic how little I had; just a few clothes, toiletries, my iPod, a book…) and had everything sorted. Due to my complete and utterly level of genius-ness, I had chosen Hollywood. Yeah. A girl who doesn’t wear make-up or care about fashion chose Hollywood. Nice move idiot. But I suppose I thought that if I’m going to do something stupid and crazy, I should push it that little bit further. Why do things by halves?

 

The airport in England was bad enough. Having no one who cares enough to see you off, or telling you they’ll miss you, and to write soon, is deeply depression. Plus it is a scientific fact that time goes backwards in airports. Duty free only burns so much time, and then it’s just you staring at the departures board to see that your flight has been delayed for two hours. Awesome. I don’t know how I passed the time. I spent a lot of it in a toilet cubicle having a huge, epic, mother of all panic attacks which was fun. Once the adrenaline was burned out, I felt like I might not die, which was nice.

          The plane journey sucked. Once you’ve taken off and landed, there isn’t really much else of interest. I’d been too poor to buy tickets on a flight that had a movie, and didn’t get the window seat. I also forgot to tell them I was Vegan so couldn’t even eat the food. 8 hours sat next to someone who snores, belches with their mouth open and has rolls of fat spilling over the arm rests. I honestly couldn’t tell if they were male or female, it was awful. I must have dozed at some point, but was woken by the god awful snoring of the ‘dude looks like a lady’ next to me. Their huge arm fell into my lap and I was unable to find anywhere else to rest the bloody thing. The armrest was enveloped in flab, the stomach was a huge round mound that wouldn’t let it sit. I kicked the person’s leg and pretended to be asleep. I was already feeling claustrophobic without feeling trapped by how much the person next to me was spilling onto my seat.

 

And it just got better when I got to the good ol’ US of A.

 

          “GET BEHIND THE GREEN LINE!” The official in the glass box yelled at me.

There was no green line! I looked around me everywhere in a panic thinking that maybe I had actually lost it, or he had, when I saw a grey patch on the carpet. Did he mean that? I stepped back behind it feeling thoroughly sick. I’d only just come into the country and I was being yelled at. I was already nervous enough without that. On TV, everyone in America was friendly and happy, cheerful and ‘have a nice day now’. This guy was evil. He stared at me with narrowed eyes even though he was checking other people’s passports. Mine was getting wetter by the second as my palms sweated on to it. I wiped it on my trousers, not wanting to annoy him even more. I could feel tears pricking at my eyes and my throat beginning to close up. I won’t cry. I won’t cry. He’s just having a bad day and taking it out on me.

          “NEXT!” He yelled.

I leapt clean out of my skin, hurrying over to the window on locked knees and shaking calves. I handed my passport to him in such an apologetic way, I probably looked incredibly guilty. I felt incredibly guilty. He looked it over several times, looking from me to it over and over. He wasn’t going to let me in. I was going to be sent back to England without even having seen any part of America but the depressing airport and the evil security guy. Shit.

He took a deep breath and nodded in irritation, practically throwing my passport through the window at me. I swallowed hard and continued on, feeling like a little lost lamb or something equally pathetic. This place was HUGE. I’d been to airports before, but not like this. How did everyone else know where they were going? At least I was in a country that spoke my language. Small mercies.

          I followed the signs to the luggage carousels, hating these god forsaken things with such a passion I was tempted to pay someone to grab it for me. My case was huge and probably equal to my body weight. This was going to be embarrassing and messy. I stood by the evil thing and watched as everyone else’s suitcases came out, people grabbing them easily and leaving. Soon I was one of two people left and there was still no sign of my case. I was feeling the usual signs of panic clawing at my chest and making my breathing pick up. Please god let it come out. I don’t know what to do if it doesn’t! What the hell was I thinking coming here? What the hell am I doing? Part of me wanted to find a payphone and call my mum. I was 29 for Christ’s sake! I shouldn’t even be thinking like that. This was my chance to stand on my own two feet. The case would come, I was just being impatient.

          Eventually I saw it come through the curtain and my heart leapt ridiculously in relief. So easily pleased! I moved closer to see if I would be able to grab it in one attempt, thankful that there weren’t many witnesses around.

          “That yours?” A heavily drawling voice made me flinch.

          “Uh…yes.”

          “Tiny little thing like you is gunna struggle with that. Allow me.”

          “Thank you.”

He was tall, tanned, toned and wearing a cowboy hat. I assumed the accent was Texan, though I was no expert. He yanked my case off the conveyor as though wrestling a steer, placing it on the ground next to me with ease.

          “Thank you so much.” I said breathlessly, relieved at not having to look like an idiot dragging that thing off.

          “My pleasure Ma’am.” He said, tipping his hat to me before grabbing his own case and wheeling it away.

I stood there staring for a few minutes, unsure of what to do now. That was just plain weird, and feeding just about every cliché I had in my head about Americans, with the ‘ma’am’, the tan, the accent. If everyone here was like him, I would be ok I think. It didn’t hurt that he was beautiful. Maybe that wouldn’t be so great, I didn’t think my already crushed self-esteem could handle being surrounded by beautiful people all the time, but then I had stupidly picked the most plastic, fake, beautiful place after all. What an idiot. Maybe they’d find me quaint and unthreatening. Maybe they’d just assume that’s what the English are like. Maybe I’d be torn to shreds within two days. I shook the thoughts off and decided to deal with one thing at a time. I need a taxi. Deal with that and then come to the next thing, then the next, then the next. That was how we would get through this, by breaking it down into manageable chunks. Not by thinking I was a million miles from home, knew no one here, had very little money, needed to find a job and had no idea what the hell I had been thinking when I hopped on that plane. No, this was fine, everything would be good. I was fine. I was ok.

 

The sun was unreal as I stepped out of the air conditioned airport. SUN! I felt like maybe doing a little dance as it had been so long since I’d seen the damned thing, but I would stand out like a blatant tourist. I already did with my impossibly pale skin. I felt like a different species to every other person that walked by, they were all bronzed with sun bleached hair. The sun was normal for them; they weren’t breaking out in a sweat just by looking at it. I looked around for a taxi rank and began wheeling my stupidly heavy case over to it. The curb was something of a nightmare and I toppled the damned thing and crushed my foot, but no one saw so it was ok.

          “Where ya heading?” A middle aged guy with very little hair poked his head out of the window of the nearest cab and smiled.

I took the address from my pocket and handed it to him.

          “Need some help with the case?” He was already out and popping the boot, lifting it in with ease. Was I that pathetically weak? I knew the answer to that. When I had some money I was joining a gym as this was getting silly.

          “So where ya from?” He asked as he pulled out of the car park.

          “England, not far from Oxford.” I said trying to think of a place he might have heard of.

          “Oxford huh? You must love the sun?”     

I laughed.

          “It’s gorgeous! Summer was a complete wash out this year. I’m in awe of it.”

          “Your accent is so damn cute!” He said, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

And so it had begun. I knew I would be hearing that a lot while I was here. I didn’t have a posh voice, but I didn’t speak like a chav either with the ‘innits’ and ‘whatevs’ crowd. I used my ‘t’s and said barth instead of bath. Southerners, what would you do with them! So I’m sure to him I probably sounded like a snob. Who knows, maybe I could use it to my advantage; say I’m a Lady or something. They wouldn’t know otherwise.

          “Thanks.” I said, not knowing what kind of response was appropriate.

          “They’re gunna love you here. All Colin Firth or that new princess…’Kate’?”

          “That’s it.” I said sighing.

The royal wedding could not have interested me less, but I knew some Americans had been fascinated by it. I had hoped to escape all that by coming here, but apparently not. Could I put on a fake American accent? I knew the answer to that.

          “So here for business or pleasure?”

          “Both I suppose. I need to find a job; I have a long term working visa.”

          “You’ll be fine. There’s no end of places here that are crying out for waitresses, or the studios often need runners and gophers.”

Bugger. I had hoped for something a little better than that, but needs must. Life was supposed to be cheaper over here, I had come from rip off Britain after all, I’d be fine.

          “So where are you from?” I asked politely.

          “New York originally, but Hollywood calls to us all. That or Las Vegas.” He laughed at some inside joke, or maybe I was just being slow. I smiled politely.

We got to the apartment block in about an hour. When he pulled into the car park, I prayed he had gotten the address wrong. Shit, what a dump.

I paid and took my case from him, staring at the building as though it would magically transform into something nicer if I prayed hard enough.

We were clearly in a rough part of town, with cars racing past, over turned bins everywhere and people screaming abuse on the other side of the street. I was given the finger when a woman caught me looking at her, so I put my head down and rushed to the entrance. I was going to be murdered in a week.

          The front of the building was no better than the side; the sign had lost half its letters, or someone had stolen them, as it read ‘Ass Wood Apartments’. It was supposed to be the Classic Hollywood Apartments, but the ‘new’ name seemed to suit it better. The paint was flaking from all the wooden window frames, the windows on the ground floor were smeared with…I didn’t want to know what, and the door buzzer hung by exposed wires, swaying in the wind. I took a steadying breath before pushing the door open, hoping the inside was better.

It wasn’t.

The lobby area stank of urine, alcohol and cigarettes, and litter was everywhere. The lift was apparently out of order, and the guy behind the desk looked more likely to murder me than help. He wore a dirty white vest and had a lot of teeth missing. He took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction.

          “Yeah?”

          “I uh….I have a flat rented. My name’s Georgiana MacManus. Uh…George is fine.” I said, not knowing why.

He raised an eyebrow, looking irritated, puffing on his fag again before rifling through a pile of tattered papers on the desk.

          “302. Lift’s broke. Good luck with the stairs.” He laughed, pushing a set of keys across the desk to me.

My chewed on my lip to stop my eyes tearing up again. Weakness would be the worst thing to show a man like that.

I managed a flight of steps, dragging the case behind me, but had to stop and rest at the break between them. A suspicious liquid was all over the floor here and I was guessing it was pee from the smell. Excellent.

Land of opportunity my arse! But this was all I could afford. Hopefully if anyone did try anything, they’d kill me before raping me. Just thinking like that made my stomach roil dangerously. What was I doing here?

          It took a good fifteen minutes to make it to the third floor. Several people passed me, all laughing as I struggled, making no effort to help. I wasn’t really surprised, but I was a little disappointed. My ankles were in agony from whacking the bastard case against them as I pulled it up the stairs.

          I put my key in the lock of 302 and prayed to gods I didn’t believe in that it would at least be clean and not full of roaches.

How wrong can a girl be?

Opening the door disturbed several from whatever they were eating and they scurried away into the kitchen area. They were huge. I mean HUGE. There were Chihuahuas smaller than those things. I hate bugs! How was I going to sleep in here?

I closed the door behind me and wheeled the case into the centre of the main room. It was an open area with a kitchen part by the door, a bathroom opposite (I wasn’t feeling brave enough to open that door yet) and a tiny bedroom with a single bed. The mattress was stained with what I hoped was tea. The whole room was musty and damp, stains of it crawling the walls and converging in every corner. Gorgeous.

I opened the windows wide to get some air in, wondering what to do with myself now. I didn’t want to open my case with those roaches around, but I couldn’t kill them. I was a Vegan for Christ’s sake. Urgh! Urgh! Urgh!

          I put my case in the room and decided to go talk to the guy behind the desk. The room may have been cheap, but there must be some kind of rules about how clean it was?

          “Hi…there are cockroaches in my room.”

          “Just be thankful I don’t charge you extra for them.” He said with a laugh, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another.

          “I was hoping you could remove them please.”

He laughed again, like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. He got to his feet and leaned over the counter, towering over me and trying to make me feel small. I was fucking fed up. I was tired, irritated by dragging that bastard case up the stairs, my room was gross, the area dangerous and now this bastard was being an arsehole.

          “Look, you remove them and I won’t go to Environmental Health, ok?” I smiled sweetly, wondering where this burst of courage came from. I assumed it was either adrenaline or exhaustion and just hoped he wouldn’t punch me out.

          “Enviro what?” He blew smoke in my face.

God I missed the indoor smoking ban that we Brits enjoyed.

          “Environmental health, the authority that ensures that living conditions are up to a certain standard.” I thought for a moment. “According to Bylaw 32.5 all places of residence must be free of damp, vermin and in a sanitary condition before new tenants are allowed to live there.” I was so full of shit, but I hoped he would just assume I had some idea of what I was talking about.

          “Is that so?” He scratched a scab on his neck, picking the skin off and dropping it to the floor. “Whatever lady. I’ll move you to another room if that one is unacceptable.” His voice was laced with venom and I had no doubt I would be regretting this at some point in the future.

He smiled, but there was no warmth or kindness in it, it was a feral, sly thing. He was going to give me a worse room. Great!

         

My new room was at least free from bugs and damp, but was facing the main road. Cars zoomed past loudly and my new neighbours on either side liked to play their music very loudly. Fan-fucking-tastic. Today just got better and better. Maybe he’d give me back the roach room if I asked nicely? The mattress at least was clean, though I’d stupidly not thought to bring bedding with me. I unpacked what I could, feeling a little despondent at how empty this place was without a TV or radio to drown out everyone else’s noise. Maybe I could ask them to turn it down? I’d probably end up getting stabbed or worse. This area was no doubt filled with delightful people such as gang members or drug dealers, crack whores and every other kind of low life. Call it snobby, but I was more concerned with my personal safety than being open minded about the types of people that lived here. Sure there must have been those like me who couldn’t afford anything else, but there were areas like this back home and they were all bad news.

          I sat on my bed and stared at the wall, wondering what to do with myself. The sun was setting and I wasn’t sure it was safe to leave once it got dark. My stomach rumbled. I had no food. I took a couple of notes from my wallet and left everything else hidden I my case. If I were going to get mugged, I’d rather they didn’t get my passport and cards.

I descended the stairs, smiling at everyone I passed. One woman was clearly on meth, her face caved in, cheeks sunken and teeth rotted. Excellent. I was screwed.

          “Is there a local shop nearby?” I asked her, not wanting to have to talk to the guy at the desk again.

          “Yeah, turn right when you get out of here and walk three blocks. Run by rag heads.” Delightful. Racist and a meth addict.

          “Thank you.” I said, trying to get away as quickly as possible.

Seriously, I don’t know what I had had in my head about coming here, but this was not it. I was slightly proud of myself though; I hadn’t cried, I hadn’t jumped back on a plane back to England, I hadn’t rung my parents telling them I lived in a drug den and I had sorted my room out…kinda.

          There were four guys smoking around the door when I left the building. They all looked me up and down before turning back to their conversation. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended. I stuck with relieved. If I’m ugly, hopefully I won’t be attacked.

I followed the meth lady’s directions, keeping to the street lights and walking quickly. It was getting dark quickly and I suspected a whole new group of creatures would be coming out when it did.

The streets themselves were a lot like back home, boarded up shops, graffiti, litter and people looking a little lost. The economy had tanked everywhere and no one was untouchable. The only difference was that here it was still blissfully warm, and some of the graffiti seemed to be in Spanish. Thank god I chose that over French at school- I might need it.

          I reached the shop, not feeling too reassured by the metal grating over the windows or the gun the shop owner had on the wall behind the till. Guns. Not something I had any experience with at all. No one I knew had them, used them, or even wanted to. I wasn’t so naïve as to think there weren’t any, but it seemed to be confined to the cities. I was happy to stay well out of it. The one mounted here looked to be some sort of shot gun, not that I really knew, I was guessing from the times I’d played Resident Evil and found it best for head shots.

          The owner didn’t seem pleased to see me, his eyes following me as I wandered the aisles. It was a dank, dreary little place, but I found bread, fruit, pasta and diet cola easily enough. Teabags, soya milk and sugar had been a little harder, but I found them in the end. I counted out my money and handed it to the owner.

          “You forgot the tax.” He told me the amount with the tax. Cheaper over here my arse! Why not just add the bloody tax to the prices? What the hell! I was not a happy bunny as I lugged my bags back to the building, wondering why people put up with never knowing how much anything ever was if the tax was added at the till.

I was in full rant mode in my head when I got back to the building. The four guys were still smoking, but they’d moved on from cigarettes.

          “Hey cutie, want to join us?” One of the men called out, blocking the doorway.

          “No thank you, I’m really tired.” I said, trying to smile, though my knees had started to lock. I felt like a rabbit in headlights, unable to move though I know I need to.

          “We can help with that honey.” One of the other men said.

It was too dark to make out features, but they were all in their late twenties at a guess, taller than me, stronger than me and smoking what smelt like pot.

          “I’m jet lagged, but thank you. Maybe some other time.” I said, trying to get past the one who blocked the door.

          “You’re English right? Awesome!” The guy who blocked the door was smiling down at me.

I nodded, took the handle and tried to pull it against him, losing the feeling in my fingers from the weight of the bags I was carrying.

          “You need some help with those?” He went to take them from me.

          “I’m good, but thank you. I really should be going.” I smiled as convincingly as I could manage, before pulling the door gently.

He took the hint and moved.

I let out the breath I had been holding as I got inside, leaning against the door for a moment and trying not to cry. They probably hadn’t wanted to do anything to me, but that didn’t make it any less scary. My heart was thudding, my hands were soaked and my knees were feeling unreliable. I sat on the bottom step and took a minute to catch my breath.

          “MOVE!” Someone shouted from behind me, kicking me sharply in the back.

I fell to the ground, hitting my knees on the hard floor and knocking my bags over. Everything spilled out over the floor as the guy stepped over me and spat. It hit my cheek and ran down. I was on all fours staring in disbelief.

          “What you fucking looking at bitch?” He yelled, squaring up and taking a step closer. I looked down at the floor and busied myself with picking up the shopping.

          I don’t know how I made it back to my apartment, but once the door was closed, I collapsed in a heap against it and began to cry. My knees were bleeding and bruising already, my hands were grazed, my back was pounding where he had kicked me and I was scared, genuinely scared.

What the hell had I been thinking coming here? Could things get worse than this? I hoped not. I was a heartbeat from getting a cab back to the airport and heading home.

          A banging on the door made me yelp in fear.

          “KEEP THE FUCKING NOISE DOWN IN THERE!” A female voice yelled through the door.

So I can’t even cry in peace. I hate this place. I stuffed the bottom of my t shirt in my mouth and cried as quietly as I could.