“Here’s a sandwich, in case you’re hungry.”
Zoe could have thrown her arms around him . . . but she just said “Thank you” and breathed a huge sigh of relief.
The Marc Jacobs show was spectacular. The collection was reminiscent of an eighties prom. Pretty in Pink meets The Breakfast Club. Jacobs allowed himself the luxury of having a new model for each of his fifty-five looks. None of them had to change and come out again. After the parade was over and Marc came up on the catwalk to take a bow, briefly and a little shyly, there was thunderous applause. Even from the typically merciless Anna. Then McSlimy took Zoe’s hand without invitation, and whisked her through the crowd out the back exit.
“My driver will take us to the after-party.”
Zoe noticed she was nodding. Even though her brain didn’t want her to, some other part of her obviously did. Whether it was her grateful stomach or her hormones, she wasn’t sure.
The Marc Jacobs after-party was at the Gramercy Park Hotel, where Allegra liked to crash when she was in town. A standard room there cost $600 a night. Zoe looked around the hotel curiously. The lobby’s design looked like a cross between the Museum of Modern Art, a medieval castle, and a French boudoir. The Rose Bar to Zoe’s right was very obviously closed to hotel guests, and was guarded by a huge, muscled bouncer and a female creature that—based on its body mass index—had to have been an elf. But McSlimy, whose name was doubtlessly chiseled into the exclusive Rose Bar guest list, continued to pull Zoe by the hand toward the elevators.
Allegra had once told Zoe that the only people who had access to the roof terrace, with its rattan sofas and potted geraniums, were the chosen ones in possession of a black elevator card. McSlimy pulled a black card out his wallet, stuck it in the card reader, and the two of them were whisked silently up to the penthouse. The nighttime view of the glittering Empire State Building, which seemed close enough to touch, took Zoe’s breath away.
“I want to show you something,” McSlimy said, pulling Zoe into a side room that seemed to be for private dinner parties or something. On the wall hung a gigantic pharmacy shelf filled with medicine bottles and boxes: Tylenol, aspirin, Motrin. “This is Damien Hirst’s Pharmacy. An original.”
McSlimy was still holding her hand. Their shoulders were touching, and Zoe could feel the heat emanating from his body. He smiled his amazingly charming, lopsided smile. Blue eyes. Bed head. McNeighbor.
Zoe repressed the urge to simply kiss him, right there and then. Her free hand wanted to reach up to the back of his head and pull his face down to hers. She’d once read it was called Stockholm Syndrome, when hostages fell in love with their kidnappers. But then she remembered she was supposed to be pissed off at him. Extremely pissed off, even. With that, the magic of the moment was over, like a sudden drop in temperature after a strong storm.
McSlimy let go of her hand as though he’d read her mind. They left the pharmacy room and were walking back past the bank of elevators toward the roof terrace when one of the doors slid open and a very tall, handsome man walked out.
“Tom!” he cried, and beamed at McSlimy.
“Tom!” McSlimy cried, and put his arm around the other Tom’s shoulder in a brotherly manner.
“I heard you were back from London,” said the other Tom, pausing briefly while his eyes wandered over to Zoe. He added cryptically, “What’s the mood like over there?”
It seemed like McSlimy had to think about his answer for a few seconds, as though he had to Google London in his mind. “Stormy with poor visibility,” he answered, and then changed the subject quickly. “May I introduce the new Digital Queen of Schoenhoff Publishing?”
He put his arm around Zoe’s shoulders, scooted her a little nearer to the unfamiliar Tom, and said, “Zoe Schuhmacher, this is Tom Chrysler. Tom Chrysler, this is Zoe Schuhmacher. She’s a huge talent, and is responsible for the company’s new fashion website.”
Zoe could only nod affirmatively. Tom Chrysler was one of most famous fashion designers alive.
“But of course, Zoe!” Tom answered. “I can hardly wait to have a chance to talk to you, dear. Please call me whenever you want. Tom has my number. We simply must meet for lunch.”
Zoe and McSlimy, who seemed to be imitating McNeighbor again, sat on the southeast side of the terrace with a view of the Midtown skyscrapers, and the brightly lit living room and bedroom across the street. New York really was the world capital for voyeurs.
“Vodka tonic,” McSlimy ordered. “And for you, my dear? A cucumber Saketini?”
Zoe nodded again. Her conscience was setting off all the alarm bells, whistles, and flashing red lights. Don’t forget your resolutions! Resolutions are made to be kept! Anything else will end in chaos! But her brain was currently being steamrolled by an avalanche of a hundred thousand different impressions and emotions, and she didn’t know whether she would be completely swept away or she’d be able to find her way out of the rubble. Make swimming motions, she’d learned once from a ski instructor during a lesson while skiing in deep powder. That’s how you created an airspace if you were caught in an avalanche.
She shook her head to clear it. Manhattan. Roof terrace at night. McSlimy, who smelled like McNeighbor, and was acting as if he was a decent human being. Anna, Rachel, Calvin, Ralph, Marc, and of course Tom Chrysler, and all the VIPs of the day—and little Zoe Schuhmacher from Herpersdorf bei Ansbach, Germany, was swimming in the middle of all of it, desperately gasping for air. The only thing that could help her now was alcohol. Or maybe a therapy session with Woody Allen’s shrink.
“Cheers,” said McSlimy/McNeighbor. He raised his glass.
“Cheers,” Zoe said. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Get me an interview with Tom Chrysler?”
“First, because I can. And second, because Tom and I are friends, and have been business partners for a long time.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“But I wanted to do it.”
“Did you do it because you had a bad conscience, or because you already reserved a room here in the hotel on the off chance that you might be able to use it, and figured you might as well try to create the right atmosphere?
“What do you think of me, Zoe?” he said, laughing.
“I wish I knew,” she answered. “It fluctuates between total idiot and Prince Charming.”
“Are you Europeans always so honest?”
“It would be very welcome if you were a little more honest, yourself.”
They were finally talking—but they still weren’t talking about the main issue: the fact that he was her boss, and he had slept with her. But that elephant had been standing in the room for a while now. Or in their special case, on the roof terrace. Zoe liked that American expression; she could really picture the elephant standing there and everyone ignoring it.
“OK, good, I’m sorry,” Tom said, suddenly giving in.
“That’s not enough for me.”
“I’m sorry” didn’t cut it for Zoe. I’m sorry I broke your favorite coffee cup. No problem. I’m sorry I made a dent in your car. Accepted. Im sorry I ate the last of your Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. Forgiven, but only if you drive to the 7-Eleven right away and buy more for me. I’m sorry I lied to you and let you simmer on lukewarm . . . No, he’d have to come up with something better.
“I behaved completely unacceptably and irresponsibly.”
That was better.
Before Tom could continue, the waiter reappeared with fresh drinks. There was a moment of silence that Zoe tried to ignore by folding her cocktail napkin into tiny triangles.
Then Tom said quietly, but clearly, “I never should have slept with you once I knew you were going to be working with me.”
He looked up hesitantly, as though he expected to be slapped. Zoe actually did consider gettin
g up and leaving.
“But I just wanted you, and you wanted me, too, and the champagne didn’t exactly help me think clearly. I thought somehow we could make it work out anyway. I’m really sorry.”
Zoe was speechless. Was he just playing with her, or did he mean it? Did carriers of the XY chromosomes even have the ability to formulate a speech like that? Or had he just memorized the script? She looked at him thoughtfully.
Thomas Fiorino. Suddenly he didn’t strike her as particularly egotistical anymore. He seemed to have a conscience. Not only that, he’d just arranged an interview for her with Tom Chrysler. Was that totally selfless, as he purported, or was he showing off? In this case, Zoe gave him the benefit of the doubt and decided to accept his apology. The man was just too good-looking and likeable—without seeming affected or slick. There was something genuine about him. He could listen to her with an almost irritating attentiveness, and was as charming as Cary Grant in the old black-and-white movies. Actually, a man like that was almost too good to be real.
Zoe silently resolved to retire the name McSlimy and go back to McNeighbor. Or even McDreamy. And besides, maybe it wasn’t so naive after all to want to change herself, to become more daring and spontaneous. You can do it, Zoe Schuhmacher, she encouraged herself. You don’t need Plans B and C. You don’t even need Plan A. You should just let your life take its course for once. Because if she was being honest with herself, she liked Tom very much. And if she was very honest, she liked him so much that she was thinking of ditching bathroom-mirror resolutions 1 through 3, and at least going for “friends with benefits,” and waiting to see if anything else would come of it. You’re planning too far ahead again, Zoe, she scolded herself. Just let it happen.
Tom looked seriously into her eyes and bent closer to her. Now he’s going to kiss me, she thought. She closed her eyes expectantly.
“It won’t happen again, Zoe. I promise,” he said. “Let’s be friends.”
And she opened her eyes.
Retail Therapy, or: Why Shopping Actually Makes You Happy
According to Urban Dictionary, retail therapy is defined as “a vent for frustration” and “an antidote to stress.” It’s easy to shop away stress caused by career or relationships. You can trade it in for the one hundred thirtieth pair of shoes, for example. A study by the venerable Carnegie Mellon University affirms that improving your mood through random acts of shopping actually works.
(New York for Beginners, p. 117)
10
OCTOBER
Zoe, Eros, and Mimi turned onto 17th Street as they headed to the legendary Barneys Warehouse Sale. In front of the closed doors, they saw a pack of hungry fashion hunters already waiting impatiently. Zoe guessed that this was probably the highest concentration in the world of undernourished, overzealous, Prada-clad female beanpoles. She had always felt that sales had an inherently aggressive quality about them; they usually turned out to be civil-war zones, with fashion victims going at each other’s wrinkle-free throats.
It was just before three in the afternoon, and Barneys had already been closed by the fire department for allowing too many customers inside at once.
“What nonsense! Come on, let’s go get a drink somewhere,” Zoe said, exasperated.
“That’s absolutely out of the question,” Eros said. “It’s worth it. You have to suffer for beauty.” His eyes glowed with determination. “Everything is 50- to 70-percent off in there, Zoe darling. Dolce & Gabbana, Dirk Bikkembergs, and Versace. And all from the current collections.”
Suddenly the door opened again. Twenty customers loaded with bags were sent out, and twenty shoppers full of joyful expectation were let inside. The pack pushed past the red-velvet ropes and two doormen.
“To the shoes! Shoes first!” Mimi commanded before disappearing between the clothing racks.
The shoe department was basically ground zero of the Barneys Warehouse Sale. The shelves were already more or less bare. Instead, flats, pumps, kitten heels, Mary Janes, stilettos, and almost every imaginable kind of boot lay in huge heaps on the floor. Women sat between the piles, trying on Chanel, Lanvin, Miu Miu, Comme des Garçons, and every other high-end brand of footwear.
Zoe spied a sinfully expensive pair of strappy Prada sandals in lemon yellow that she’d tried on at Saks two weeks ago but had put back because they were too expensive. At full price, they had cost roughly the equivalent of a quarter of her monthly rent. Just as she was reaching for them, a Bergdorf blonde smashed her hand with the heel of a Louboutin.
“Ouch!” Zoe cried.
“Those are mine, bitch! Hands off!” Then, with a self-satisfied smile, she slid the straps of five pairs of sandals over her bony lower arm and stacked three pairs of bubblegum-colored flats, two pairs of black pumps, designer flip-flops, and forest-green Hunter boots on her left elbow. She balanced her chosen weapon—crocodile-leather Louboutins—on top. “Good luck, bitch,” she hissed, and left Zoe standing there with her mouth hanging open. Pure Social Darwinism was the rule here. Natural selection. Survival of the fittest.
Zoe was so shaken that she withdrew to the clothing section. She started on a rack of size-four clothes and found several nice pieces immediately: a chunky Theory sweater in ice gray, a denim Marc by Marc Jacobs maxiskirt, and a pair of skintight, chocolate-colored Ralph Lauren riding pants with black leather inserts on the inner thighs.
“Could you tell me where the fitting rooms are, please?”
The combatant to Zoe’s right looked at her aghast, as if Zoe had asked her to summarize the current state of the Arab Spring movement in three sentences or less. Then she pointed wordlessly to the other side of the women’s clothing department, where something that looked like a giant bed sheet was stretched across the room. Waiting in front of it were at least twenty women who were all balancing huge, seemingly random heaps of rumpled clothing in their arms. If you didn’t know any better, you might think they had robbed a Salvation Army. (Admittedly, one on the Upper East Side filled with designer clothes.)
Twenty-five minutes later, when she had finally managed to get behind the curtain, Zoe discovered at least forty women standing in front of a huge mirrored wall in various states of dress and undress. There were thin and very thin girls, including the ones whose collarbones jutted out so dangerously that they’d almost certainly come out of this experience covered in bruises.
Zoe didn’t like this communal fitting room at all. It wasn’t because she was self-conscious about her body (aside from the usual age- and laziness-related problem areas on her thighs and upper arms), but because she simply couldn’t stand to have someone else judge her until she was completely sure the piece she was wearing fit as though it had been made for her. She usually boycotted shops that didn’t have mirrors in the fitting rooms, on principle.
Zoe felt her discomfort begin to manifest itself in a wave of mini hot flashes, making her sweat, which was of course totally unacceptable in the US, where everyone was so hygiene oriented. What’s more, she’d been too lazy to shave her legs that morning. As soon as she took off her jeans she would surely be deported to Germany for her negligence. But what wouldn’t a woman do for a gorgeous maxiskirt from Marc Jacobs that had the additional advantage of perfectly covering the stubble on her shins?
She sped up to fast-forward, pulling the floor-length skirt on over her jeans, stripping those off underneath it, and then slipping the riding pants on under the skirt. She pulled the chunky sweater over her head and turned to the mirror.
“You look like a bag lady,” Mimi said, amused. “But an Upper East Side bag lady.” She calmly unbuttoned a Narciso Rodriguez dress, and then stood there in her smoke-colored Agent Provocateur underwear, which lived up to its name: it bore a provocative scrap of see-through lace with a seemingly innocent bow pattern, which on second glance turned out to look more like miniature handcuffs.
Dates, or: The Three-Date Rule
&nbs
p; In the US, dates strictly take place in three stages. On the first date, the man and woman go out for something casual: coffee, lunch, a drink, or a cultural activity. For the man, it feels like a job interview. The man pays. A pause of at least three days follows. Calling or asking for another date the next day looks much too desperate, so keep your hands off the phone! He calls her, after exactly three days. On the second date, the man and woman go out for drinks. The man pays. On the third date they go out to dinner, and afterward go to bed together. The man pays (for dinner, not for sex!). Under no condition should the woman pay for a meal, or anything. Even sharing the bill (going Dutch) is completely unacceptable.
(New York for Beginners, p. 19)
After several hours that exhausted their patience and their credit cards, Mimi, Eros, and Zoe went to the Empire Hotel and ordered a round of champagne. They appraised their spoils with satisfaction. After her frightening experience in the shoe department, Zoe had let Mimi talk her into buying a pair of black Prada over-the-knee boots and steel-gray Sigerson Morrison kitten heels. Mimi herself had landed six pairs of shoes, three handbags, and a Burberry trench coat. And Eros had made out with a whole new wardrobe of colorful Dolce & Gabbana and Versace pieces. Now it was clear to Zoe why so many New York women (and gay New York men) turned their kitchens into second closets. Because they had to! After that, they only ate takeout.
“The Empire Hotel is so bourgeois,” Mimi complained as she glanced at a group of men who, in their too-short, too-wide American suits, looked like insurance salesmen who just stepped out of a convention. And they probably were. “We should have gone to the Boom Boom Room instead.”
New York for Beginners Page 9
