THE FUNNY THING ABOUT THIS SITUATION—and it only took moving to New York City to realise it—is that the "American Dream" only exists to people who don't live here.

My keys are fumbling to fit into the lock of my new flat, but I keep glancing behind me to see if my luggage is still sitting on the steps. Mum wouldn't let me get on the plane without promising not to get robbed. 

You be careful out there, Love, she'd said, pinching my cheeks. Those Americans will get you when you least expect it.

I'd shrugged it off with a laugh, but after dragging my belongings through crowded streets and smelly subway stations, I realised she might have been right.

The flat I managed to get is in one of the nicer areas of Brooklyn, shadowed by a line of blooming maple trees and staircases, but I still can't get the sense of unease out of my stomach. There's something about this place that makes me want to rip out my hair, go dancing in the street, or curl up into a ball and cry. It doesn't take more than a turn of the lock for me to realise that it's not New York—it's me.

Grabbing my luggage, I hauled myself into the building, shutting the door with my foot. My "American Dream" was a big white sign that sat on the rolling hills of California, but the film industry in Britain meant nothing to the shiny silver of Hollywood. It was false assumption that Americans had dreams at all, because one quick look outside would only provide lifeless expressions and overworked bodies.

My flat was almost the same. Bare walls, empty cabinets, and a sprinkle of furniture that needed to be replaced. Leaving my things by the door, I made my way to the small couch in the centre of the living room and crashed on top of it. The plane ride here had been exhausting, stressing, and bloody terrible. I'd been sat between a crying baby and a snobby teenager. When one wasn't whining itself to death, the other was begging its mother to be fed.

Finally, after all this time, I'd be able to rest.

But before I could close my eyes, the sound of guitars and cymbals came blasting in through the walls. The shock alone almost sent me rolling off of the cushions, but I managed to catch myself on the backboard.

Oh, yeah, I'll tell you somethin', the music screamed. I think you'll understand.

The true horror of the situation wasn't the song itself, but the idea that it wasn't coming from my building. The wall across from me was almost vibrating with the ruckus, shaking specks of dried paint onto my floor.

"You've got to be joking me." I frowned, standing back onto my feet. "Americans."

Storming towards the door, I made my way back outside, following the thunderous noise. A few people on the pavement tossed me odd looks, but my concern was on getting my rest. Knocking my neighbour's door down was starting to seem like the only option.

Pressing their doorbell, I waited impatiently in the sharp autumn air.

And when I touch you, I feel happy inside, the music sang. It's such a feeling...

I pressed the bell again.

I can't hide!

No response.

I can't hide!

To my disappointment, it suddenly dawned on me that my neighbour couldn't hear the doorbell through their incredulous choice in music. There was no hope—and no point, either—to keep loitering outside. My options were limited; One, I could attempt to sleep with the rock and roll madness, or two, I could leave and hope they'd stopped by the time I returned.

I want to hold your hand, I want to hold your—

Leaving it is.

➵

A coffee shop was located a few blocks down from my flat, and the barista working there was particularly infatuated by my accent. I'd been questioned about my birthplace, my opinion on the Royal Family, and the invention of beans on toast well-before I got my order in.

"God save the Queen," she said, handing me my cappuccino.

I decided it was best to never return.

Now, with my beverage and my bearings, I scouted out a telephone booth in front of a pharmacy. The enclosed space gave me a privacy that almost made my hectic day feel better. Familiarity in the exchange of coins for an operator was grounding—especially in a country I still felt lost in. I waited for them to patch me through before letting out a breath.

"This is Daniel," my agent said from the other end.

"Hey, Dan," I said, balancing the phone against my shoulder. "It's Kit. I'm in New York."

"Ah, Kit! How was the flight?"

"Had better. I wanted to check in about the editorial for tomorrow."

There was shuffling from the other end. "Oh, yes. I should have mailed the information to your new place. Did you get it?"

"Haven't had a chance to take a look, to be honest."

"That's okay. Hey, I'll tell you the address for the place right now. Got a pen?"

"Yep."

I set my coffee on top of the phone-box, fishing into my pocket for a pen. Daniel began listing off a string of unfamiliar numbers and names, his western accent thick against the speaker. I jotted them down clumsily.

"Right, thanks," I said once he was done. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Knock em' dead, Kit."

Hanging up the phone, I grabbed my coffee and left the booth. Other than my dreams of making it big in Hollywood, my purpose for moving to New York was to build my career. In London, I was a household name (a title from The Telegraph, not me) for the films I appeared in. But in the grand scope of the world, being an actor outside of Los Angeles, California was like being last in line for a cab.

Daniel managed to get me an interview and photoshoot with a local magazine here in NYC—the Brooklyn Editorial, I think—and my first meeting with them was tomorrow morning. Hopefully, this opportunity would give a boost to my American-soil exposure. God knows I need it.

Returning to my flat, I felt a sigh of relief at the sound of silence. My neighbour had finally stopped blasting their terrible music. Skipping up the stairs of my building, I let myself back into the house and locked the door behind me. My luggage was still pooled by the door, but I decided I'd unpack later.

Setting my keys down on the nearest table, I surveyed the living room with a keener eye. I hadn't noticed a glass slide behind the couch. Wandering over, I slid it open, stepping out onto a small balcony at the back of the flat. There wasn't room for anything other than myself, but the view overlooked a small garden between my house and that on the opposite end of the block.

The sound of another door sliding open snapped my attention to the balcony next to me. A woman stepped out into the brisk air, the evening sky contrast against the orange of her place's lights. I wanted to appreciate the sight of her—the twinkle of the moon in her eye, the toothbrush between her lips, and the towel wrapped around her head—until it suddenly dawned on me that the woman was my neighbour. The neighbour. The person who was blasting that god-awful music at a thousand decibels.

She turned to look at me, expression just as surprised as I was. The toothbrush was taken out of her mouth quicker than I could blink.

"Hi," I said.

She tried to say something back, but by the way the dribble of pre-brushed toothpaste almost spilled onto her robe, it was clear she wasn't in the right state to. I watched her look around for a cup in frantic bearing, before she decided to swallow the thing whole. There was something almost endearing about her lack of decorum, but her identity was already bitter in my mind.

"You're new," she said, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her robe. "I didn't think anyone had moved in yet."

I blinked. "I gathered that."

"You're Australian."

"I'm British."

"Oh." Her eyes flickered over me, as if my appearance was at fault for her lack of worldliness. But a quick beat of time was enough to spark something in her mind. I watched her expression morph into that of wonder. "Oh."

"Your music's too loud," I mentioned.

She didn't seem to hear me. "You're British."

"Yeah."

"Imagine that." The toothbrush spun between her fingers, nearly hitting itself against her balcony's rail. "You don't happen to be from Liverpool, do you?"

"No."

"Bummer. If you were, this could have been the beginning of something really special."

She laughed, but I wasn't sure if a joke had been made. By the state of her clothes and her towelled hair, I assumed she'd just been in the shower—though it was really an observation and not of any importance.

"Your music's too loud," I said again. "I was trying to sleep."

"Did you?"

"Obviously not. I could hear it through my walls."

"Bet you couldn't sleep 'cause you were too busy getting your groove on." She laughed again, pointing to the inside of her flat. "Just picked up the new vinyl of A Hard Day's Night from the shop across the street. Isn't it a gas?"

"It's too loud."

"It's rock-and-roll."

"Well, I'd prefer it if you didn't play your 'rock-and-roll'. At that rate, I'll go deaf before you do."

She furrowed her brows as if she couldn't understand me. "It's the Beatles."

"I don't care who they are. It's annoying and I don't care for it. Or them, either."

"Excuse me?"

"That's right. Ask any respectable person, and they'll tell you their music's shit."

"And you think you're a respectable person?"

"Absolutely. I wouldn't be inconsiderate with my music to begin with. That's more than I can say for a person like you, apparently."

Maybe it was the jet-lag—or maybe it was the crash of the caffeine's effects—but that came out harsher than I wanted it to. I watched the woman's face contort into an expression of the utmost horror, gaping at me with wide and disgusted eyes.

I wasn't a nan. I'd heard of the Beatles. They were practically the hottest thing in all of Europe, parading around concert venues with their suits and guitars. I didn't like their music, I didn't like the screaming crowds that came with it, and I didn't like how they seemed to have followed me all the way to New York City.

"Are all British people as stuck-up as you?" She frowned, narrowing her eyes. "I can turn down the volume all right, but if you disrespect the me or Beatles I don't think I will."

I tilted my head. "Excuse me?"

"I don't care if it annoys you. Serves you right."

"Serves me what?" I gasped in disbelief. "You're saying you won't turn your music down, simply on the basis that I don't like some trivial band?"

"Well, you weren't very nice about it."

"I wasn't aware I had to be."

"It's courtesy."

"Courtesy is turning your music down."

"Alright, you sour-faced Brit'," she said, pointing her toothbrush at me. "You better watch what you say, or you're going to find your tea dumped in the harbor faster than you can blink. I'm perfectly entitled to play music in my own apartment, and if it's not to your liking, then maybe you shouldn't have been so crass."

Before I could get another word in, she flashed me her finger, disappearing into her flat and shutting the door behind her. It wasn't more than ten seconds before I heard the blasting sound of an electric guitar through the walls again.

Before this dance is through, I think I'll love you too, the Beatles sang. I'm so happy when you dance with me.

I sighed, retreating back into my living room. Something—or someone, to be specific—told me that living in New York was going to be a whole lot harder than I thought.