New York for Beginners

by Remke, Susann

  Then he got a serious look on his face, and started tracing a pattern on the back of Zoe’s hand with his finger. “Anyone born a Fiorino gets not only a very comfortable childhood, but an entire sphere of association. It’s like the Kennedys, who stand for charismatic men, the myth of Camelot, and tragedy.”

  “And the Fiorinos?”

  “The Fiorinos evoke art, culture, and charity. My mother is on the board of the New York-Presbyterian children’s cancer center. She’s also the hostess of the annual UNICEF Snowflake Ball, a very important social event for East Coast society.”

  “And your father?”

  “My father is a professor at Columbia Medical School and Chief Physician at the New York-Presbyterian Children’s Hospital.”

  “So you’re American nobility, basically?”

  “Let’s just say that I have high expectations to live up to.”

  “And that includes a degree from Harvard and a wedding to the Queen of Sheba?”

  “Not quite. Elite Swiss boarding school, MBA from Columbia University, publishing management of the Planchette Group in London. My little brother took care of the doctor role. He’s a heart surgeon.”

  “Then you’re the black sheep of the family? How romantic!”

  “The opposite. My father always praised me for going my own way.”

  “And what did your brother have to say about that?”

  Tom hesitated for a second, and then his face went carefully blank. “We’re not getting along very well at the moment,” he answered, obviously trying to remain neutral.

  Zoe didn’t dare press the matter. She changed the subject. “And your mother?”

  “She’s permanently occupied with finding the right color linen napkins to match her annually changing ball themes. It always has to be a shade of white, so it’s tricky.”

  “Maybe she should hire an Eskimo as an adviser. I’ve heard they have at least fifty words for snow.”

  Tom just smiled.

  “So you’ve known Justus von Schoenhoff since you were children?”

  “We were at boarding school together and spent almost every summer vacation together. Either on the island of Sylt off the coast of Northern Germany, or in the Schoenhoffs’ villa on the Côte d’Azur. He was my best friend, and Franziska Schoenhoff is like a mother to me.”

  Zoe had to admit that she was a little overwhelmed. In a way, she felt at home with global high society. After all, she was an avid reader of People, Star, Bunte (a German gossip magazine with a special section for royalty-watchers), and OK! So she was well informed about the anguish of the firstborn—like Prince William, for example, who was unfortunately looking more and more like his daddy every day. He had done well to marry the pretty, unspoiled Kate Middleton so he didn’t end up with someone like Camilla Parker Bowles. But Zoe hadn’t realized that the same kind of luxury and drama existed outside of royal households.

  When one heard the classic American rags-to-riches tales, one might think that America was a classless society. But it wasn’t. Zoe had figured that out, anyway. Class in America was much closer to a caste system. Royalty in the country of barely regulated banks and McMansions was largely based on the Mayflower passenger list. The descendants of any of the one hundred and two passengers were part of the elite. It was that simple.

  These days in New York, there were a few additional hurdles: Do you live on the Upper East Side? (Pleased to meet you!) Or on the Upper West Side? (Hmm . . .) The elite didn’t care that the Big Apple actually had five boroughs. Manhattan was the only one that counted. Everything else was social Siberia. Even trendy Brooklyn. Is your summer house in the Hamptons, on the water? (Pleased to meet you!) Or on the North Fork, in the woods? (Bah!) Do you live in Southampton (old money) or in Westhampton (new money, nicknamed “Worst Hampton”)? Did you go to an HYP college? That is, to Harvard, Yale, or Princeton, like your father, grandfather, and great-grandfather? In an emergency, other Ivy Leagues like Brown or Columbia will do. Zoe had figured that much out for herself.

  She remembered The Great Gatsby, which she’d read in her high school Advanced English class. Gatsby had desperately wanted to belong, but he hadn’t been allowed to. He’d thrown fantastic parties, and longingly stared into the green light on the other side of Long Island Sound, until he’d been shot in his swimming pool, and none of his fine friends appeared at his funeral. On the final exam, one of the questions was about the meaning of the green light. Hmm . . . maybe the hope for a better future? Bingo!

  “Now you know everything about me,” Tom said, bringing Zoe back to the present. He stroked her upper arm slowly with one finger. Zoe’s skin prickled pleasantly.

  “I don’t know nearly enough.”

  “Would you like to come up to my personal IKEA showroom for a nightcap?” Zoe asked later, when she was leaning against her building’s garden fence.

  “Do you know what a nightcap is really called?” Tom replied.

  “No, what?”

  “A sleepover.”

  Zoe groaned. “I’m not trying to seduce you, Mr. Fiorino. I’d just like to offer you one last glass of wine for your troubles. Out of brand-new water glasses that go by the name of GODIS, which means ‘goddess’ in English.”

  “You speak Swedish?”

  “No, I’m just free-associating. So, what’s the word?”

  Tom deliberated as though he had to make the most important decision of his life. Jaguar or Aston Martin? The villa in St. Barts or the place on Nantucket? Zoe was slowly losing patience. He was behaving like a teenaged girl.

  “And anyway, would it really be that bad?” The carafe of Sancerre had made her more courageous. Maybe too courageous.

  “What?”

  “If it happened again.”

  “No, of course not. That is, yes, of course it would be.”

  Zoe took that to mean that her opinion was correct. “You have the logic of a thirteen-year-old, my dear. So that one time was so horrible that it should never be repeated?”

  “Zoe Schuhmacher, don’t make things more difficult for me than they already are!” he snapped. Finally, he was showing some real emotion.

  “I don’t know what your problem is,” she replied. “Are you suddenly going through a Victorian phase, after twenty years of sleepovers with every girl on the Upper East Side? Let me put your mind at ease: Even Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth got their happy ending. Or is my family tree just not good enough for you?”

  “With all due respect for your sarcasm, Zoe, I’m trying for once in my life to do the right thing.” Tom sighed as he leaned on the iron fence. “You’ve got an incredible amount of talent for your job. You say you want to focus on your career completely, so you should. And not on me. I’d only make a mess of things.”

  Zoe felt like stamping her foot and throwing a tantrum. “First of all, could I please decide for myself what’s good for me? And secondly, why can’t you just admit that it wasn’t good enough for more than a one-morning stand?” Her eyes filled with tears. She turned away so he wouldn’t see them.

  Tom put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him, despite the garden fence between them. “I thought you were amazing. From the very first second,” he admitted. “In your unmatched underwear in the hallway. The young international-crisis reporter who almost sets her apartment on fire while frying eggs.”

  “So you’re into dim-witted, badly dressed, helpless airheads who can’t focus on their life-long dreams, and commit suicide by mistake?” Zoe said with a sniff.

  “That’s not how I meant it, and you know it.” He stopped and lifted Zoe’s chin with his finger so she had to look him directly in the eye. “And now I’m going home. On the subway, by the way. Victor has the evening off.”

  The Chelsea Hotel, or: The Rebel Mecca of New York

  The Chelsea Hotel is a legendary but rather dilapidated building
on 23rd Street. To crash there is to get a taste of history. The Grateful Dead have performed on the roof, Sid Vicious was probably stabbed by Nancy there, and Arthur Miller wrote After the Fall there, after breaking up with Marilyn Monroe.

  During the hotel’s renovation, which has been going on for years, only long-term guests are allowed to live there. So not just anyone can reserve Room 100, which is haunted by the ghost of Sid Vicious.

  (New York for Beginners, p. 19)

  14

  NOVEMBER

  Zoe threw herself into her work in order to forget the embarassing, overemotional scene that had been running in a constant loop in her mind. Mimi called women like her needy—women who were whiny and were always demanding emotional reassurance from men. Zoe didn’t want to be like that.

  In the meantime, she had found a new programmer. Luckily, he was neither vegan nor a dog owner. But hiring him also meant that she finally had to finish her article about mistresses. There was no more time to worry about her non-relationship with Tom.

  It was shortly before half past six in the evening. Zoe was armed with a Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte that was as big as a bucket. A document with just two of the three hundred required lines was on the monitor in front of her. The next morning at nine o’clock German time (three a.m. in New York) was the deadline for the “Sex & Love” vertical, which was supposed to include her article. If she screwed up “The Other Woman,” Lord Voldemort would probably have her drawn and quartered, grill her remains over an open fire, and serve them medium rare to his interns for lunch.

  Zoe was actually surprised that the new boss still wanted a project that the old boss had come up with. And she was just as surprised that the new boss still wanted the Digital Queen that the old boss had hired. But how could anyone know what was happening in the dark neural passageways of a person who had worn nothing but black since his thirteenth birthday?

  Zoe felt the panic growing inside her. Her heart was racing, her hands were starting to sweat, and it felt as though she was slowly being surrounded by a dark cloud of even darker thoughts. What would happen if she didn’t get any ideas and was still sitting there tomorrow morning with only two lines?

  Her office was as warm as soup. It was almost 80 degrees outside—unseasonanly warm for November—and in the Chrysler Building, maintenance had just turned off the air-conditioning. You would think that in a first-world country it would be possible to choose a temperature that was between sweating and shivering. With a thermostat, for example. But that wasn’t an option in American office buildings. In the summer, the central air-conditioning constantly pumped out such incredibly cold air that her colleagues often left the only openable windows open a crack. And at closing time, six p.m. on the dot, it was simply switched off.

  Later, after various panicky inner monologues and several torturous hours, letters, words, and sentences finally started to collect on Zoe’s monitor. At some point later, she finished. Zoe Schuhmacher was a pro, after all.

  It was after midnight. She had read her article so many times that she could no longer judge whether it was brilliant or profoundly idiotic. It didn’t matter. Zoe courageously gave herself up to her fate and clicked “Send.” “The Other Woman” was gone—and maybe her career was, too. She packed her things and went to the door, which suddenly seemed to open by itself. A man was standing in front of her.

  Zoe cried out in shock.

  The man cried out in shock.

  “Eros, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

  “Zoe, what are you doing here in the middle of the night? I saw a light on in your office, so I came over to see what was going on.”

  “I had to finish ‘The Other Woman’ for Lord Voldemort. Don’t be so nosy.”

  “I just got back from a photo shoot with Cara Delevingne and wanted to put the borrowed jewelry back in the safe. I don’t like walking around at night carrying diamond necklaces worth a few hundred thousand dollars.” Eros hesitated. “Are you done?”

  “Yes, I’m done, but I’m also terrified Voldemort will give me the middle finger. Do you think the ending is OK like this?”

  She read aloud: “Of course he will never separate from his wife. Why should he? He has everything he wants. And what about the other woman? She’ll continue to wait for him.”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Eros said, trying to comfort her. His eyelid was twitching nervously. “Your ending might be totally bleak, but he’ll love it. He’ll totally be able to relate to it. After all, he’s a mistress, too.”

  At that moment, the Earth stopped spinning on its axis. The yellow taxis on the street stood still. Airplanes in the night sky over Manhattan stopped in their positions on the horizon. Zoe slapped a hand to her forehead in slow motion. Her brain processed this tiny, seemingly unimportant bit of information and sent it to her limbs faster than an answer could form on her lips.

  “Aaron Papst is a what?”

  “A mistress, so to speak. Didn’t you know that? These days it applies to men, too. Papst has been the other man to Elsa Gravenbroicht, the Hamburg shipping heiress, for several years. He even asked her to marry him. But it was all in vain. She just won’t leave her husband.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me that?” Zoe shouted. She didn’t want to think about the details she had used to pitilessly describe the tragic species of the mistress.

  “Because everybody knows it.”

  “Well, I didn’t!”

  Now Eros suddenly understood. The lightbulb that went off in his head was like a construction site floodlight. “Oh, crap, crap, crap! What can we do? Can you get the email back?”

  “What an idiotic question! Do I look like Steve Jobs or something?” Zoe realized she was getting hysterical.

  “At this point, there’s only one thing that will help,” Eros said. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  “I don’t need a drink, Eros. I need an entire bar,” Zoe moaned. “My career is over.”

  “I know the perfect place,” he said. Giggling in anticipation, he pulled Zoe out of her office and into the elevator. They hailed a cab. “Meatpacking District, 13th and Washington, to Hogs & Heifers,” Eros told the driver.

  “What’s that?” Zoe wanted to know.

  “It’s only the most legendary biker bar south of the North Pole.”

  Hogs & Heifers stuck out between the shiny, freshly painted facades like a relic from the old Meatpacking District days. Harleys with polished chrome were parked by the door on the uneven cobblestones, surrounded by men dressed in full leather. Inside, it was pitch black and smelled like a sailor’s bar, redolent of stale cigarette smoke and old beer. Their feet stuck to the floor with every step. The only thing missing was sawdust on the floor, like a Western saloon. Hipsters, Wall Street bros, and rockers created a strange but peaceful crowd. Bon Jovi thundered on the loudspeakers.

  “This is exactly the right place for the last fluid supper before the execution of the innocent,” Zoe said.

  Eros ordered a beer and a shot of tequila for each of them. Zoe hated both beer and tequila, but she drank them anyway. First one round, then two, then three. After that, she stopped counting. Someone put on “Brown Sugar” by the Rolling Stones, or maybe it was just playing on the jukebox. Zoe didn’t know. A girl jumped up onto the bar, behind which there was a huge set of moose antlers attached to the wall. It wasn’t possible to see much of them because they were covered with hundreds of bras. Black, white, pink, flowered, lace, and shiny patent leather. The crowd watched expectantly as the girl swung her hips lasciviously. She held a bottle of Bud Light, which she tossed to a guy in the crowd to free up her hands. Then she slipped her right hand under her T-shirt and fumbled with the clasp of her bra. The crowd roared, barely able to stand the suspense. The girl finally pulled a strapless, raspberry-colored push-up bra from the left sleeve of her T-shirt, and swung it triumphantly above her head li
ke a lasso. A second later, the bra was hanging from the moose antlers. There was thunderous applause, and the girl happily continued to dance.

  “That move could get you arrested in some states,” Zoe shouted to Eros over the music. He just grinned. “I want to try it, too!”

  “Zoe, no!”

  She hopped up onto the bar.

  The next morning, Zoe woke up to the shrill sound of her cell phone alarm. It must still be early in the morning, she reasoned, because it was just getting light out. Zoe lay on an unfamiliar sofa in an unfamiliar apartment. She hoped it didn’t belong to an unfamiliar man. She didn’t have the slightest idea how she’d gotten there or, above all, with whom she’d gotten there.

  The display on her phone showed a missed call from the editorial office in Berlin.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” She cursed, and pressed the callback button. Even though Vision was a monthly publication, her colleagues in Germany seemed to be working on the schedule of a daily paper. A weekend edition, to be precise.

  “This is Zoe Schuhmacher calling from New York. You called when I was asleep. It’s half past five in the morning here.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the secretary said without the slightest hint of regret in her voice. “I forgot about the time zones completely. But since you’re awake now anyway, I’ll put you through to Mr. Papst.” The secretary put her on hold, and Zoe heard elevator music. Her stomach turned. Beer, tequila, and Papst were a deadly combination for a nervous stomach lining.

  “This is Papst.”

  “Hello, Mr. Papst, this is Zoe—”

  “I know,” he said, interrupting her rudely.

  Now he would throw her out. Fire her by telephone. That still had a bit of style. Joe from the Jonas Brothers had broken up with Demi Lovato by texting, after all. And Lovato, at the tender age of eighteen, had ended up in the Betty Ford Center. Again. Officially, she was there to “work on personal problems.”