I had always found an odd sense of beauty in firsts. Not your usual firsts, like first words or steps, but the first sunrise you’re up early enough to see through your foggy apartment window, or the first dollar you earn from your first job. They’re the things you always remember, whether you like them or not, and they stick with you until the grave. My first apartment in Manhattan was certainly not beautiful, but it was memorable to say the least. And Miss Pam Beesly living the floor below in our old brownstone apartment was a fond memory attached.
The place was nothing special. It was 2 rooms at a stretch, without including the bathroom, and the whole thing was doused from top to bottom in a sickly off-white paint. Once my furniture had been moved in, replacing the itchy couch I’d spent many nights sprawled out upon, I could barely move about the place. My desk was placed by the only window in room one, looking out onto the fire escape, and I often spent most of my time there, smoking cigars and willing my fingers to type upon my dust-collecting typewriter. Still, it was home, the first place that I could call my own, and no bad paintjob or old carpet could keep me from calling it that.
After my first week there, I had a letter arrive from my sister. It was shoved unceremoniously into Apt. 2’s mail slot, as if the mailman had better things to deliver, and I had to pry the crumpled thing from the box, being careful to not rip it. It was there, while I was straightening out the crumpled envelope against my jacket, that I saw her name scrawled in the top corner of the stiffly printed Apt. 1 label. Miss Pamela Beesly had personalised the bland sticker, and though it was only in black ink, as boring and monochrome as the rest of our names, it was different in the way that it hadn’t been stamped in thick black type by our landlord, which meant she was special enough to let him be convinced for her to do whatever she wanted with her mail slot.
The first time I’d seen the girl was the morning after I’d collected my letter. She had arrived in the late evening, around the time where I liked to sit by the open window, and she had crawled through her bedroom window to sit out on her part of the fire escape. She often did that, though I had never stayed long enough to see what she was out there for. Taking a cigar from my desk, I leant against the windowpane to see what she would do. My position was one easily spotted, all she had to do was take one look up to the left from her sketchbook to see me seeing her, but I took a gamble, deciding that if I was caught, the least I could to was properly introduce myself.
“You know,” she said after a moment, catching me by surprise. “If you’re going to sit there and smoke like that, you could at least offer me one.”
She was looking up at me, big pale green eyes shining with humour, her peach painted lips pulled up into a smile. Of course, I obliged, because who could say no to a girl like that, slipping her a pipe through a gap in the stairs. She grinned, then, a beautiful picture of pearly whites and joy, a look I had never seen from her before- not that I could say I’d seen many looks from her, however.
“Thanks much, dear.” She said, her voice smooth and sweet to the ears.
I only nodded, taking my seat back on the edge of the window, peering down at her again. Miss Beesly, the girl, had always had an air of glamour about her, not that she was particularly rich, none of us were, living in that brownstone apartment, but that her hair was always done, always looked well kept, and that even in the plainest of dresses, she could quite easily outshine any woman from the Upper East Side.
“It’s beautiful, darling, isn’t it?” It was clear she had not learned my name yet, like I had learned hers, since she kept calling me by pet names that she reserved for just about anyone. “The city, I mean, when it’s like this. Quiet. For just a moment of the day.”
She was right. In the late afternoons, when all the people were just getting home from their nine to five’s, taking time to get ready to go out for the night, our street was almost silent. And with the sun setting nicely behind the buildings before us, I was filled with a serenity that I had never found before.
“Such a sight.” She spoke with her airy voice again, taking a drag from her cigar before gesturing at the sketch in her lap “You can have this if you want it. When it’s done. I’ve got plenty already, honestly, nowhere to put them. Please, do take it, darling.”
“Of course. You have quite a talent.” I tapped the ashes on the metal barrier, staring curiously at her sketch.
“Please.” She scoffed, throwing her head back with a small laugh. “It’s nothing compared to the things I’ve seen before.”
“It’s hard, you know.” She spoke again, and I felt oddly annoyed that she was willing to talk so much. “Sneaking into a gallery, that is. So many people with so many posh accents, hugging their Chanel bags to their big chests, running off their mouths about whatever comes to their mind. They know nothing. They don’t know it like I do. Oh.” She sighed, puffing out smoke. “But once you get in. The place is beautiful, so many beautiful pieces on the walls, so intricate, so powerful. It’s there I feel welcome, like I could be one of the fat-cats who could actually pay to get in.”
Clearly, she knew what she was talking about. I was in no place to judge her for something that she quite often did, since I might’ve done the same, and even if I were to say something, I doubt that she’d listen.
“Do you ever talk?”
“Yes. I just have nothing to say.”
“Strange.” Her lips quirked up into that smile again. “Men always want to talk to me. Wherever I am there’s always one chatting in my ear about one thing or another, asking me for my number. Once, I even had a man chase me down the street to ask me my name.” She laughed. “But you, darling, you’ve barely said 10 words to me. I should be insulted, throw your cigar to the ground and spit on it. But I like it. It’s nice to talk without being badgered.”
We were silent again, save for the occasional car driving past. My cigar was running low. Usually, I’d put the thing out and head back inside, settling down for dinner, but instead I reached for another, smaller, one, lighting it outside. “What’re they like? The men. Where do they come from? What do they want?”
“God knows where.” She shook her head, waving the cigar above it. “They’re all the same, and they all want the same thing, rich men looking for a rich young girl to take home and show off to their parents. They’re very easy to trick, you know, one time I managed to convince a poor fellow that I was practically rolling in money. As you can see dear, that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
I was the one who laughed this time, catching her smiling eyes. “Do you like the attention?”
“Oh of course. I’d be mad not to. Any girl loves that kind of attention, and if they don’t then they’re either lying or they’re good for nothing Mary’s with nothing better to do than find one good man to settle down with. A soulmate. As if such a thing exists.” Tutting, she stumped the cigar out on the metal grate, holding the last few centimetres of it between her fingers. “I shall keep this. A reminder for the only conversation with a man who hasn’t tried to buy me anything.”
I thought it was strange for her to want to keep such a thing, but also quite endearing, and I finished my second cigar while she slipped back inside to put away the tobacco.
“Anyway.” She was halfway out the window when she started talking again. “The Mary’s. I can’t understand how any man or woman can believe in a soulmate. It’s goddamn ridiculous, that’s what I think. Imagine it, spending all your life trying to find the perfect person. Nobody’s perfect, darling, you believe that don’t you.”
“Sure” I drawled, shifting from the window to the cool metal floor. A warm Summer breeze pushed through my hair, and I was glad to be wearing my light shirt. “But, how can you live your life being so cynical? Doesn’t it make you sad?”
“Nonsense.” She waved her hand dismissively at me, still too busy with her sketchbook to look my way. “I can pay attention to other things. How miserable to spend one’s life thinking about love. Look at art, have a party, go outside for heaven’s sake.”
“But you must think about it sometimes?”
“You ask a lot of questions. What do you do for a living?”
I told her I was a writer, trying not to dwell on the fact that she’d ignored my question completely. Perhaps that was the kind of thing she did, ignored things that she didn’t want to, or couldn’t answer.
“A writer? What do you write? Novels, observations, what?”
“Anything.”
“Now that’s not much of an answer is it.”
“Well I don’t know what else to say.” Laughing, I stood, leaning against the barrier, peering down at her. “I write anything. Anything I’m told to write, I’ll write.”
“Would you write about me?”
“If I wished to.”
“And do you?”
“Look at who’s asking a lot of questions now.”
I heard her huff from below, though I could only hope that she was smiling again, cheeks full and bright on that youthful face of hers. “You’re a difficult man, Mister, I’m glad you’re one of the very few I’ve met.”
“Well unfortunately, I haven’t the money to buy you expensive gifts. So I can only reward you with being difficult, I hope that’s still worthy to you.”
“Well of course you don’t. You’re living here. And unless you’re some mogul disguising himself with us common people, the best thing you own is a television with mediocre signal.”
Miss Beesly was funny, intelligent, quick, things you could all see on her face, from the quirk of her brow to the subtle smirk she wore on her lips. I doubted that anyone had ever scratched below the surface of her, just seeing her as a pretty face and nothing more, and part of me liked to believe that I’d been the first that she’d opened up to this much.
“So you’ll take my drawing then? It’s finished now if you want it. Put some color on it, I could lend you watercolors if you wanted to.”
“But what if I ruined it?”
“Then I could draw you another. We could sit out here together again, and I could draw you asking me 100 questions a minute.”
She tore the paper from her book, coming up the stairs to my fire escape. It was here, when she was up close to my face, that I could finally get a better look at her. Her hair looked smooth, straightened out and curled once at the bottom. Her eyes, though pale, were sparkling with youth, her dark lashes brushing the tops of her cheeks. She had freckles upon her pointed nose, most likely received from long afternoons spent lying out in the sun. She wasn’t wearing her usual dress, instead in a long white shirt, the top 3 buttons undone, the sleeves rolled to her elbows like mine.
“Take it.” She thrust the paper into my hands, patting my knuckles with her slender fingers. “Frame it, hang it up in there.”
Pam peered through my window behind me, scanning the apartment with inquisitorial eyes. “It might liven up that wallpaper. It’s god awful, worse than mine.”
“Now then.” She straightened herself up, flashing me one of those quick smiles of hers before she went down the stairs again, putting one leg through the gap in her window. “It’s getting late, and I’m going out tonight, so I really should be getting off now. Tell me if you want those watercolors. Goodbye now.”
And the girl was gone, sliding her window back down, shutting me and the rest of the world out of her little bubble. I turned her sketch over in my hands, surveying it carefully. She was talented, just as talented as any old painter putting a couple of lines onto a page. I don’t think she would ever pursue it, too busy rushing out at night and returning in the afternoons to take up a career like that. And she probably didn’t even want to.
I went back inside, leaving my window open to let the cool air freshen up the musty apartment, shutting my cigar case with a click. By the front door, there was a faded patch of wallpaper, torn off by the old tenant, and I imagined hanging the frame there, smiling to myself as I turned on the stove, preparing to spend a comfortable night at home.
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:
So, I wasn’t planning on starting this yet, but I just couldn’t help myself
Also, if you haven’t, please please please read or watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it’s fantastic.
Also, if you haven’t, please please please read or watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, it’s fantastic.
Chapter End Notes:
I’m trying not to get too carried away, but I can’t make any promises for any upcoming chapters ;)
homemadejam is the author of 1 other stories.
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