New York for Beginners

by Remke, Susann

  A man followed on the heels of the Schoenhoff CEO. On his place card at the head of the table it said “Thomas Prescott Fiorino, President of Schoenhoff Publishing, Inc.”

  He smiled an amazingly charming, lopsided smile.

  Blue eyes.

  Bed head.

  McNeighbor.

  The bite of blueberry muffin stuck in Zoe’s throat. Not just proverbially, but in a very real way. On a Sunday four weeks ago, she’d whispered things into this man’s ear that would have made her criminally liable in certain states in the Midwest. This man was her new boss.

  She flailed her arms wildly, unable to breathe. Her colleagues only stared, taken aback. No one did anything.

  “I’m choking, people!” Zoe wanted to shout, but she wasn’t able to, because she was choking.

  Finally a young man leapt up. Zoe recognized him despite the lack of oxygen in her lungs and brain. He was a fashion assistant from Germany named Eros Mittermayer. “Does anyone here know the Heimlich maneuver?” he cried.

  Silence. No one volunteered.

  Dammit, hadn’t anyone here had to do a first-aid course in their junior year of high school?

  Eros wrapped both of his arms around Zoe’s ribcage and swiftly lifted her out of her chair, letting her fall back so gravity could do the work. The slimy piece of muffin shot out of her mouth, flew in a high arch, and landed with a damp plop, right in the middle of the conference table.

  The CEO of Schoenhoff stared at her in disgust. Thomas Prescott Fiorino stared at her in amusement. Everyone else just stared at her.

  Silence.

  It was too much for Zoe. She ran out the door.

  Zoe Schuhmacher was not a fan of public restrooms in America, because they were, well, so public. The dividers between the stalls had gaps under them that made it easy to identify the occupants of other stalls by their shoes. And even vertically there was usually a gap at the hinges as wide as her thumb. No one had been able to tell her why this was, but so far it had been the case in nearly every public bathroom she’d seen. She suspected the American morality police wanted to hinder sex in the stalls and other such indelicacies.

  The door to the restroom opened. A pair of men’s loafers with bare, hairy feet in them appeared.

  “No men allowed, this is the ladies’ room,” Zoe shouted.

  “I’m androgynous, darling,” Eros Mittermayer answered. The slightly plump twenty-eight-year-old fashion assistant had a weakness for colorful bowties and matching pocket squares. His trousers ended above the ankle in finest Thom Browne style. “Don’t take it so hard. No one here ever had as memorable an introduction as you did.”

  “Thanks, very comforting. What happened after I left?”

  “The well-ironed Mr. Fiorino gave his inaugural address, slick as an eel, and waffled on about synergy and cooperation, and how the silo-structure of the company has to be broken up.”

  “He looks kind of like McDreamy, don’t you think?”

  “I think McSlimy fits better.”

  Zoe forced herself to come out of her hiding place to do damage control in front of the mirror. Her mascara, which was smeared from crying, made her look like a raccoon.

  “Sexy look, Zoe dear,” Eros said, trying to comfort her. Zoe was warming to him. “Kate Moss was once very successful with her ‘heroin chic.’”

  “Kate Moss was—and is—twenty pounds lighter than I am.”

  “Don’t fret, darling. I have something for you.”

  He held out a tattered little book with ink stains on the cover.

  New York for Beginners: A Guide to Cultural Correctness Among Americans

  By New York Fashionista

  “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “This is your new bible,” Eros announced solemnly.

  Zoe wasn’t very religious. She saw herself as a C&E Christian, only going to church on Christmas and Easter. She also liked to ask the Universe for things—things like free parking spaces. That was the apex of her spiritualism. She regarded Eros’s “bible” skeptically.

  “It’s all in here,” Eros said. “Everything you need to know about the American species. You have to swear to take good care of this book and absolutely never lose it. It’s worth at least ten pairs of Manolos.”

  “OK, OK, I get it.”

  She looked it over carefully. She was skeptical of Eros’s reverence for the volume. It was obviously a self-published work that had been made cheaply in a copy shop.

  “Did you write this and publish it yourself?”

  “Oh, no, I never would have been able to do that. Unfortunately, I’m not that brilliant an observer of American society.”

  “Then who is this New York Fashionista?”

  “She was the first German to work in this office, years ago. She believed you could only survive in New York if you mastered the unwritten rules of local society. The book has already passed through many hands, and it’s constantly being updated. We only give it to especially nice newcomers, Zoe. So you should feel honored. You’re one of us now.”

  Armed with the holy scripture, Zoe slunk back to her corner office followed by the pitying glances of her colleagues. Then she texted Allegra about the dreadful events of the morning.

  I slept with the new boss. And I threw up on the conference table.

  Sex in the office? Zoe, darling, I barely recognize you! But was it so bad??

  McNeighbor is the new boss!

  SKYPE ME! NOW!

  “Say something already, Zoe,” Allegra said, looking at her expectantly from the screen. But Zoe, who was sitting at her desk with her head buried on her crossed arms, remained silent.

  “Are you ill or something? Are you in shock?” Allegra said, sounding amused.

  “This! Is! Not! Funny!” Zoe finally managed to say, finally lifting her head.

  “Hmm, somehow it is. You go to New York to focus on your career and nothing but your career, and the first thing you do is sleep with your new boss. You really have a talent for zeroing in on the right man, sweetie.”

  Zoe had heard enough. “You, of all people, shouldn’t talk!”

  Allegra wasn’t exactly the authority on morals, when it came to men. Zoe had known her since they were both interns at Schoenhoff Publishing. Zoe had always secretly admired Allegra for her Teflon-like self-confidence; no amount of criticism ever seemed to stick to her. But Allegra also had the natural-born talent of always choosing the wrong man. Everyone who knew her saw it. Allegra herself couldn’t care less, because she firmly believed that she’d profited from every bad relationship.

  For example, at eighteen she fell in love with her biology teacher. The official story was that nothing had actually happened until after her final biology exam was graded. She got an A. Then came her French ski teacher. She’d lived in his apartment in Les Arcs during the winter season. His first and only visit to Hamburg had been a “nightmare,” but Al had still learned to ski like a goddess. Her next conquest was a married editor-in-chief whose wife was expecting a baby. Their affair cost him not only his family, but his career. He was permanently transferred to the office in Poland—but only after he’d promoted Allegra to department head. It didn’t bother her much that, from then on, she had the reputation of being the company hussy.

  In short: A reality show with the highest ratings could have been made about Allegra and her men. It would be called Vamps, Vices, and Vindication—or something like that.

  “Allegra,” Zoe said, “I’m not you. I don’t want people to think I’m successful at work because I slept with the boss. I want to make it on my own. Without a man pulling strings for me. That’s why I’m here. And now I’ve messed everything up, right from the beginning.”

  “Zoe, sweetheart, all due respect for your moral values,” Allegra said, “but it’s only the result that counts. Remember that! Women
have to beat men with their own weapons. Play with him a little. Make connections through him that you wouldn’t otherwise have had a chance to make. And then you can happily ditch him at the end.”

  Zoe slumped a little and said, “Do you not understand me, or do you not want to understand me?”

  “I only want to help you, dearest.”

  Then Zoe’s transatlantic spiritual advisor began to bury her client in work. “Work will distract you,” Al said. “If you’re working, you won’t have time for any more foolishness.” Of course, Allegra and Zoe didn’t necessarily share the same definition of foolishness.

  “So, here’s what I’m thinking. When I see the news about Tiger Woods, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the German TV presenter Joerg Kachelmann—and the twenty-seven or so mistresses they’ve collectively had—it makes me think of the partnership vertical. Why don’t you start it off with a bang? I’m thinking the first theme should be ‘The Other Woman.’”

  “Hmm,” Zoe murmured halfheartedly.

  “I want to know who the other woman really is. Behind the glittering facade of romantic encounters in luxury hotels, surprise packages of Agent Provocateur underwear, and diamond earrings from Tiffany for her birthday. How does it feel to sit alone at home on Christmas? What’s it like to have no long-term prospects for a real partnership or children? Or for growing old together?”

  “OK, whatever,” Zoe said. “I’ll put together a gallery with pictures of famous mistresses. That will get us plenty of clicks.”

  After she’d hung up, Zoe tried to brainstorm about “The Other Woman.” She thought about what the term conjured up. Loneliness? Thigh-high stockings? Crying in airports? Abruptly ended telephone calls? She made a few notes for herself.

  What a bunch of nonsense!

  Something was brewing deep inside her that she couldn’t exactly define. Of course it had to do with McSlimy. Idiot number two in her collection had slept with her even though he’d known exactly who she was. Even though he had known he would be her boss. After all, in her Sunday-morning champagne rush, she’d laid out half her life in front of him on the kitchen table. He knew that she had wanted to be a journalist since she was a teenager, and had finally gotten an internship at Schoenhoff publishing. He knew that she’d managed to get herself the reputation as a damn talented writer for Vision. That rat knew exactly who he was hopping into bed with—and he’d done it anyway.

  Zoe suddenly felt empty. How could he? Who would do something like that? “Sex, Lies, Arrogance: What Makes Powerful Men Behave So Badly?” was once a headline on the cover of Time magazine. Back then, Zoe had been so fascinated by that headline that she’d hung a copy of the cover on the wall of her Berlin office.

  “I slept with one of them,” Zoe murmured. “And I even slipped a note under the egomaniac’s door like a dizzy little girl.” She could have slapped herself.

  It was time for a plan. A plan for revenge. Cress seeds on the carpet, an obituary in the newspaper—that was all beginner’s stuff. You have to hit an alpha man where it hurts the most. And where was a titan’s secret weak spot? His ego, of course! Zoe decided to torture McSlimy by ignoring him. Because what alpha men always wanted most was what they couldn’t get.

  “Besides, your American pajamas look ridiculous, McSlimy,” she said poisonously to the potted plant. “Like something out of the loony bin at Bellevue Hospital!”

  The plant kept its opinion to itself, but Zoe felt better immediately. She strode out of her office with her head held high. “Good evening, everyone.”

  She got in the elevator. Before the doors closed completely, another person shoved them back and slipped inside.

  “Are you feeling better?” McSlimy asked. He leaned casually against the back wall of the elevator and looked at her expectantly, like a man looking at a giant cake at a bachelor party, hoping an attractive, naked girl will jump out.

  I should really give him a piece of my mind, Zoe thought. She should ask him what exactly he had been thinking during their encounter. But what if he actually hadn’t been thinking about anything? Zoe felt a little like a wife who suspected her husband of having an affair, but would rather not check his phone or emails in case it turned out to be true.

  The elevator started moving. There wasn’t a lot of space for the two of them. Zoe didn’t know what to do with her hands or where she should look. McSlimy smelled exactly like McNeighbor, which didn’t help her situation. She briefly considered the benefits of pushing the emergency button. But in American movies, when people pushed the emergency button the elevator always got stuck between two floors, and until help finally came, the stranded couple always had sex with each other—which really wasn’t an option in this case.

  “And how was your day, Mr. Fiorino?” Zoe asked, pulling herself together. She tried her best to look bored—and above all, to avoid his gaze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a smile cross his face.

  “Fine, thanks,” McSlimy answered. “I was neither in danger of choking on a blueberry muffin nor of missing the CEO’s visit.”

  Zoe stared intensely at the illuminated display, watching the torturously slow countdown of the floors. Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to speed up the elevator by sheer force of will. Then it shuddered, and they were suddenly on the ground floor. The elevator opened into the lobby, and Zoe stormed out.

  “Don’t play with fire, Zoe!” Tom called out after her. Without turning, she knew from his voice that he was highly amused. She finally made it out to Lexington Avenue. A honking yellow school bus followed by a shrieking fire engine thundered past. And angry tears flowed down her cheeks.

  7

  The next morning, Zoe really didn’t want to return to the scene of her humiliation and face the people who had been witness to it. She seriously considered staying buried under her blanket and not getting out of bed.

  Maybe the whole concept of turning her life upside down, of “being foolish,” was nothing but terribly naive. Audacity and spontaneity weren’t exactly personal strengths of hers.

  She was more of a serial offender. A serial monogamist. Ever since she became interested in the opposite sex, she’d always been in a serious relationship. One after another. She had actually never been single for very long. A few weeks, maybe, in between men. She had always thrown herself into every relationship wholeheartedly, and, if she was being honest, had defined herself in terms of the man she was with.

  With the outdoor freak, she had mountain-biked and gone on two camping trips in Canada, even though the first time her back had hurt from sleeping on the thin foam mat. She’d encountered about two million mosquitoes, but hadn’t seen even one black bear. Then there was the clubber, who took her to raves in Ibiza, where they drank through the nights together. Zoe would rather not think about what they’d smoked. Basically, she wasn’t interested in drugs, but their consumption just seemed to be required to fit in with certain social circles.

  And Benni? She could just talk to him so easily. He read real books, was always ready with a fitting quote from Hegel or Kant, and dreamed of opening a literary salon, like in the Gründerzeit of nineteenth-century Berlin. Benni was also surprisingly civilized and well educated.

  For the first time in her adult life, Zoe was actually solo, and maybe a little lonely. And she was afraid of her own courage.

  Her gaze fell on the tattered little book on the floor next to her bed. Maybe Eros’s holy scripture would shine a light on Zoe’s life, since her future prospects were so nebulous at the moment anyway. The pages were dog-eared and a little dirty. How many American immigrants had the book already helped adapt to their new environment? As Zoe started to flip through it, one particularly wrinkled page caught her attention.

  First Commandment, or: Never Kiss the Boss

  In fact, never sleep with anyone at all in your department—and especially not after the office Christmas party or the company picnic. The n
ext day, and the day after, and the day after that, until you quit and move to New Zealand, you’ll see the guy in the office again and again. This applies worldwide, not just to New York.

  But here’s a special rule for the US: Every office romance carries the risk of sexual-harassment charges if it goes wrong. See the movie Disclosure with Michael Douglas and Demi Moore, 1994.

  That’s just peachy, Zoe thought. She rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling.

  A little later, Zoe walked into the main office on the twenty-ninth floor with her iPhone to her ear, seemingly absorbed in an important conversation. Actually, she hadn’t even dialed a number. She was only faking it to get to her own office as fast as possible without having to talk to anyone. Once she got to her desk, she forced herself to go through her notes for the article about mistresses. Work would distract her—that was Allegra’s theory. If she worked, she wouldn’t have time to worry.

  Apparently, practically everyone in a serious relationship cheated at some point, Zoe had read during her research. The usual scenario is that at first, the mistress feels superior to the wife. The wife doesn’t know or notice. The guy probably hadn’t been getting very much action in bed for a while aside from some vanilla sex that happens out of a sense of duty. The mistress is free, independent—and thus attractive to the husband, who wants just one thing: no stress (and, of course, plenty of sex). Until he slowly and probably subconsciously forces the mistress into dependence. Then she becomes a new wife, whom he eventually betrays with a new mistress.