THE NEXT MORNING when I stepped onto my balcony, I noticed the woman was already there.

She had a coffee mug in her hand, but her hair was no longer in a towel and she wasn't wearing a robe. If I hadn't known she was my neighbour, I wouldn't have recognised her. She had on a crimson dress, thick, round earrings hanging off her ears, and a bright red lipstick that was smudged on the edge of her mug. Her white boots were tapping against the balcony floor.

If she'd noticed me step outside, she didn't show any signs of it. Her eyes were focused on the garden below.

"Morning," I said.

She didn't respond.

Instead, she drank the rest of her coffee in a ludicrous gulp, heading back inside her flat. The glass door shut behind her loudly, echoing out into the brisk morning air.

"Fine," I mumbled to myself. "Have it your way, then."

Making friends with my neighbours was never such a big priority for me—although it seemed to have been my parent's second job—and I wasn't keen on making friends with her. It was mindboggling how offended she became over such a small comment. Not everyone has to like The Beatles, and, in my opinion, they weren't good enough to warrant such extremities.

Heading back inside, I grabbed my coat and made my way for the door. I had to leave an hour earlier than necessary, because showing up late to my interview would be unprofessional, and my vague knowledge of the Metro would do nothing but hinder me. 

Brooklyn was beautiful in the morning. The leaves were starting to turn red and orange, falling onto the browning grass near my feet. Men in suits were swinging their briefcases as they walked and women were clutching their newspapers tightly. It was an interesting contrast from the London environment; no one in their right mind would be up this early, and certainly not powering their way to work. America was busy. It made me feel like I was part of something great, or at least part of a well-oiled machine.

The Brooklyn Editorial resided in a building on the corner of Hicks Street, a red-brick confine with green rims on the edges. A man was pacing outside, a cigarette dangling from his hands and a book in the other, but he merely glanced my way as I passed by.

"Oh, Mr. Connor!"

I had barely stepped into the building, when a woman came barrelling towards me in excitement. Her accent was thick, almost too New York, and her arms were stretched out to give me a hug.

"Susan Specks," she said, squeezing me tightly. "We're so glad to have you here."

I smiled. "Charmed."

"How's Brooklyn for you?"

"Great. Lovely." The expression on my face hid my slight bitterness. "There's certainly some wonderful people here."

Susan, who's spectacles balanced on the very tip of her nose, waved me over towards the back of the room. People were clacking away on typewriters, talking on phones, and lighting smokes in the corner. I followed the woman into her office, which was located at the very end of the open-space.

She shut the door, gesturing for me to sit in one of her chairs.

"From what I understand, you're quite popular over in England?" She made her way to her desk. "Your agent was saying you're a regular celebrity."

I laughed. "I guess you could say that."

"Well, I think it's wonderful you decided to move to the States. It certainly will help with your exposure, and I'm honoured our magazine will be able to help."

"I'm honoured to be here."

She beamed at me. "You're just so polite, Mr. Connor."

"Call me Kit."

"Alright, Kit." Her eyes fell to her desk, where a pile of papers was scattered messily before her. "Here's the plan. I've got my best journalist working with you—she's both a writer and a photographer, so she'll be taking your interview and shots as well—and we're hoping to get this done by next week. Did you have any questions before we get into it?"

I opened my mouth, but was cut off by the door bursting open behind me. I winced at the sound of the rattling window-blinds and the squeak of wood against tile.

"Suz," a voice said. "You're never going to believe this piece of shit that just moved in next to me. He's quite literally—"

The room fell silent at the petrifying realisation.

The woman who just burst in, dressed in crimson and white, was in fact the one person I hadn't expected to see. My neighbour was staring at me in horror, eyes practically bulging out of her head. I watched her mouth open and close. She seemed at a loss for words.

"I thought we talked about this, [y/n]," Susan said, taking off her glasses. "If my door is closed, you shouldn't open it."

The woman broke our gaze, running a hand through her hair. A paleness seemed to have found its way into her cheeks, the bright red of her lipstick almost blinding now.

"He's Kit Connor?" She said.

Suz nodded. "Yes."

"No, he's not."

"I am," I said.

"Are you two acquainted with each other?" Susan asked, gesturing between us.

"Yes," I said.

"No," my neighbour said.

I refrained from glaring, because I was supposed to maintain an act of professionalism. Perhaps it was just how they did things in New York City, but I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that an employee had burst into their boss's office to talk about a "piece of shit" they'd just met. It made it even worse that said "piece" was me.

But I knew better than to trifle any longer, so I stood from my chair.

"Kit Connor," I said, extending my hand.

The woman took it hesitantly. "[y/n] Harrison."

"It really is a pleasure to meet you."

The sarcasm in my voice may have gone unnoticed by Susan Specks, but the woman in front of me picked it out instantaneously. Tightening her grip, she crushed my fingers in the handshake. I tried to hide my wince.

"So glad to finally meet an Australian," she said bluntly. "I'm sure you have fantastic music taste and decorum."

"I could say the same thing for a New Yorker such as yourself."

"It would be a shame if you felt too homesick to stay."

"Oh, hardly. I think I might never leave." I flashed her a smile, wrenching my hand out of hers. Turning to Susan, I sat back in my chair. "You were saying?"

The boss was a smart woman, but she either didn't care for our tense nature or she felt it was too trivial to acknowledge. Her focus had returned to the papers on her desk. But as I awaited a response, I couldn't rid myself of the sense of [y/n] Harrison breathing down my neck. I could see her figure in the corner of my eye, practically twitching to strangle me.

"Take Kit to costuming," Susan said, waving her hand. "We'll do the interview tomorrow to give us time for any alterations."

"Thank you, Susan," I smiled. "Great to meet you."

"Bye, Kit."

"Bye."

As I left her office, the false charms had disappeared entirely. [y/n] took off without warning, speeding up the staircase without so much as a word. I stumbled after her, trying not to call out in annoyance. That would be what she wanted—and I was perfectly capable of keeping up.

She led me to the second floor of the building, down a winding hallway, and into a giant storage room. Racks of clothes were lined up against all sides, posters of models taped onto the walls. I recognized some familiar faces; Elvis, Leslie Gore, the Supremes, and an array of superstars that I wished I could be.

"Mary," [y/n] said, pointing at me. "Kit Cobbler is here."

I noticed a woman sitting at a sewing machine. "It's Connor, actually."

Mary, who had on a neon yellow rain jacket, sunglasses, and blue eyeshadow, stood from her workstation and smiled at me. She held out her hand. "Hi Kit. Mary Bright, costumer."

"Pleasure."

"Alright if I take your measurements?"

"Go ahead."

[y/n] had fallen back to the corner, hiding her face behind a rack of fur coats. It was relieving to know her name, but it was worse to know she was her. Of all people in New York City, she—the Beatle-defending, loud music playing, obnoxious and petty neighbour—was my photographer and journalist. At this rate, she'd probably end up being my new manager.

Not that I'd want that.

"I heard you're an actor," Mary said, holding a measuring tape against my shoulder. "Been in anything I know?"

I chuckled sheepishly. "Not likely."

"He's from Britain." A voice echoed out from behind the fur coats. "He's not really an actor."

"Excuse me?"

[y/n] split the row of fur coats apart, revealing her pensive face. "If you want to be an actor, you gotta' go to Hollywood first. You're not an actor yet, Stonehead."

"Stonehead?"

"You heard me." She shoved the fur coats back in place, disappearing from sight.

I cast a confused glance towards Mary, who sent me a sympathetic smile. Whoever [y/n] Harrison was, she was practically insane. She also seemed to think I couldn't see her behind the fur coats, but her bottom half was still visible.

"You must have said something about the Beatles," Mary whispered. "She's hardly ever like this, I promise."

I pursed my lips. "I find that hard to believe."

"She'll come round."

"What's a Stonehead got to do with the Beatles?"

Mary paused to jot down a number on her notebook. "The Rolling Stones are supposed to be their competition. Anyone who doesn't like the Beatles is likely to like the Stones instead—hence the Stonehead."

I glanced back at the fur coats. [y/n] was tapping her white boots against the floor impatiently. Almost as if she could sense me staring at her, a hand protruded from the line of mink and fauxs, flashing its finger straight at me.

I pretended I didn't see it.