“Your piece isn’t bad,” Voldemort said, waking her from her nightmare. “I didn’t believe you could actually write. And the new vertical isn’t so bad, either. I’d originally planned on firing you, but you can keep working for me.”
Papst hung up. Just like that.
“Thanks for the conversation,” Zoe said to the dial tone. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Voldemort liked her piece and had decided not to fire her. At least the imminent career change to Women’s Health Journal had been put off for a while.
“I’d originally planned on firing you,” she said, imitating Voldemort’s voice, “but you can keep working for me.” Saying the words out loud helped alleviate her nausea. “He could at least have said good-bye,” she added.
Zoe looked around. If Voldemort hadn’t destroyed her appetite, breakfast would have been in order. But first she had to figure out whose place she had actually landed in. She tiptoed toward the noise of rattling snores, which had to have been coming from a bedroom. There were men’s shoes in the hallway, but on the other hand, there was a rather unmanly string of lights with glowing yellow Tweety Bird figurines hanging over the doorframe. The door was open a crack and revealed a view of a very naked, very voluminous, and very hairy rear end.
“Eww.” Zoe shuddered. It was Eros Mittermayer’s butt. He obviously preferred to sleep without pajamas. He rolled onto his other side, and his front side came into view. It didn’t live up to the promise of his first name. Zoe escaped back to the living room and pulled the blanket over her head.
She heard the floorboards squeak. Someone had gotten up.
“Hey, darling, are you awake?” a sleepy voice asked. It sounded like it came from about two yards away.
“For goodness’ sake, put some clothes on,” Zoe answered, covering her eyes with her hands under the blanket. Some sights should be left unseen. The CEO in the sauna, for example, or a certain naked Bavarian guy with a funny Italian name after a night of heavy drinking.
“Where are we?” Zoe asked when Eros returned wrapped in a bathrobe.
“At my apartment in the Chelsea Hotel,” Eros answered, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to live in one of the most legendary hotels on the planet.
“You live in the Chelsea Hotel? That’s sensational!”
“And you got completely wasted and danced on the bar before falling off it. You were sensational, too.”
“With or without my bra?”
“Without.”
“Did I at least look good when I was doing it?”
“Like Marilyn Manson stage diving.”
“Thanks a lot! And why did I sleep on your sofa?”
“I couldn’t take you home, because you wouldn’t tell me your address—at least not the one in this country. You insisted that you lived at Husemannstrasse am Prenzlberg. That was a bit too far out of the way for me.”
“Was I that drunk?”
“You were that drunk! Who called before, by the way?”
“That was Papst. He kindly informed me that he isn’t going to fire me, after all.”
“He wanted to fire you?”
“Yeah. He probably wanted to send one of his buddies to New York to replace me. But now he’s not going to do it.”
“Because he thought your piece was good.”
“I don’t think the word good exists in his vocabulary. He said it wasn’t bad.”
Eros smirked. “That guy really knows how to express his feelings.” Then something else occurred to him. “By the way, did you ever get the damn interviews he wanted?”
Manners, or: Why One Should Never Answer the Question “How Are You?” Honestly
Americans don’t always mean what they say. Actually, they hardly ever mean it. When Americans say “Hi, how are you?” they only want you to answer “Fine, how are you?” They don’t care if your house was repossessed or if your dog got run over. Americans are always nonplussed when Germans happily give detailed explanations about the state of their health, for example, or their inability to sleep the night before because of a cough.
The word no presents an even more difficult challenge. It generally does not exist in the American vocabulary. Any critique is formulated positively. If you ask an American if he liked the movie Battlefield Earth—based on a novel by L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of Scientology—he’ll say something like “It was really interesting.” That actually means he thought it was horrible.
(New York for Beginners, p. 107)
15
Of course Zoe hadn’t been able to get interviews with Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, and Maria Shriver at such short notice. She was not looking forward to the next weekly meeting. She was sure the honorable Mr. Papst would show her no mercy the second time around. But then she had an idea. A fantastic one. Hadn’t the legendary Tom Chrysler promised her an interview? An exclusive interview, at that?
“I can hardly wait to have the chance to talk to you, dear. We simply must meet for lunch.”
That was what he’d said. Zoe was saved! Right before Voldemort decided to fire her after all because of the nonexistent politician interviews, she could inform him very casually about the interview with Tom Chrysler. True, it was like comparing apples and oranges, but at least it would be a good way to distract him.
She looked for the email in which Tom Fiorino had given her Tom Chrysler’s number. The great thing about Americans, Zoe had decided, was how amazingly available they were—even the most important ones. She dialed the number eagerly. This would surely get her a gold star from Voldemort.
“Tom Chrysler’s office.”
“This is Zoe Schuhmacher from the German fashion blog StyleChicks. Could I please speak to Mr. Chrysler?”
“What about?” The voice was so frosty that Zoe started to worry. Maybe she had distracted the secretary from an important task that was vital to the survival of the human race.
“I met him recently through a mutual friend, Tom Fiorino, and we made plans to meet for lunch.”
“I’ll leave him a message.”
Then the ice-cold creature simply hung up. Zoe held the telephone receiver in her hand for a few seconds with the irrational expectation that something else would be said. But that was it. What now? She shook her head in amazement. At Schoenhoff, an assistant like that wouldn’t last three days.
Tom Chrysler didn’t call back that morning, nor did he call back that afternoon. Zoe tried again the next day. Maybe her message had gotten lost. Or maybe the assistant had been fired before she’d been able to deliver Zoe’s message.
“Tom Chrysler’s office,” the same voice answered this time.
“This is Zoe Schuhmacher from StyleChicks. Could I please speak to Mr. Chrysler?” She made an effort to speak in a condescending tone, hoping it would give her voice some kind of authority.
“What about?” the assistant barked back.
“I already left a message. I got to know Tom through Tom Fiorino, and we wanted to meet for lunch. I’d like to make an appointment.”
“I’ll leave a message.” Then she just hung up again.
I can’t believe it! Is she crazy?! Zoe thought.
Zoe decided to write an email instead. She wouldn’t let a stupid trick like that put her off.
Dear Tom,
I was very happy to have a chance to meet you through our mutual friend, Tom Fiorino. I would be delighted if we could continue our fascinating conversation over lunch.
Kind regards,
Zoe Schuhmacher
“And he still hasn’t answered!” Zoe said to Mimi, still irritated. They were enjoying a girl’s night out, getting pedicures at Dashing Diva. They had chosen a shade called Marine Metallic for their toenails. They were sitting next to each other in pink plush chairs with Cosmos in their hands while their feet were soaking in warm water.
&nb
sp; “How could she be so rude?” Zoe said with annoyance.
“What’s so rude about that?” Mimi asked in surprise.
“Excuse me, Mimi, but it was his idea that we absolutely must meet for lunch. So at least he could answer my three calls and two emails, couldn’t he?”
“But he didn’t mean it that way.”
“What didn’t he mean?”
“The thing about lunch.”
“How can you not mean it if you say ‘I can hardly wait to have the chance to talk to you, dear. We simply must meet for lunch.’”
“But, sweetie, don’t you know? That actually means ‘I’ll just be polite to this hussy so I can finally end this conversation.’”
“What? But that’s basically the opposite of what he said to me!”
“Exactly. That’s the way it is with us Americans.”
After that, Zoe enlisted Mimi’s help for a little American-/German-linguistic coaching. To clear up all transatlantic misunderstandings, once and for all.
What the American Says / What the German Hears / What the American Means
We’ll do our best / It’s going to work out / It’s not happening
I hear what you’re saying / I agree with you / I’m of a different opinion entirely
Very interesting / Very interesting / That is so boring
I’m sure it’s my fault / I take full responsibility / This is really your fault
You must come for dinner / Come have dinner at my home / I’m only being polite and have no intention of cooking for you
Zoe and Eros were constantly asked if working for a fashion magazine was like The Devil Wears Prada. Until recently, they’d only laughed at the idea. But ever since Lord Voldemort had taken over at Vision, not only did wastebaskets fly through the air when someone’s page layout wasn’t the flavor of the day, but people were actually fired. Three on the first day, in fact. At least, that’s what Zoe had heard through the grapevine.
As Zoe entered the conference room shortly before five a.m. on Wednesday, Eros was already sitting in front of the video monitor with his head resting on his arms and squinting with half-open eyes at the screen—which so far showed no signs of life besides an occasional flicker.
“If the damn connection doesn’t work today and I got up for nothing, I’ll kill myself,” he moaned.
“It can’t have anything to do with us. We’re online.”
They waited.
Suddenly, the screen flickered again. Images of their German colleagues, with the conference already in full swing, appeared on the screen.
“They started without us!” Eros complained.
“What about my story about illegal hormones in face creams? They’re especially dangerous to pregnant women,” the woman from the health section asked. “Isn’t that going in this month? I did six weeks of research for it. I even smuggled myself into the factory as an assembly-line worker. We paid ten thousand euros for the photographic evidence alone. We even filmed videos for the online version.”
“But that’s old hat,” Papst said, trying to wriggle his way out of it, even though he’d personally ordered the story to be written, ‘preferably yesterday.’ “I’ve seen it a thousand times.”
“That can’t possibly be true. You only got my manuscript yesterday. It’s a worldwide exclusive. No one has written about this scandal yet.”
“It doesn’t interest me. The whole thing is so terribly unappetizing, anyway, don’t you think? Pureed placenta and such. It makes me nauseated.”
Then dear Mr. Papst realized that New York was online. Zoe was suddenly wide awake.
“Ah, New York has deigned to bless us with their presence,” he said.
Zoe, who wanted to shorten the nerve-killing suspense preceding her potential beheading, spoke up to say, “Mr. Papst, we’d just like to let you know immediately that it didn’t work out with the interviews.”
“Which interviews?”
Zoe didn’t know what to say. Was he hard of hearing? “With Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, and Maria Shriver.”
“Oh, that,” he replied dismissively. “There’s time for all that.” Then he changed the subject to the fashion section.
“Voldemort is either going through early Alzheimer’s, or he just likes sending reporters on wild goose chases,” Zoe said.
“I suspect the latter,” Eros said. He got up from his place at the conference table and went to lie on the sofa that was placed against the wall. “Wake me at nine.”
Zoe was too wide awake to go back to sleep. Instead, she cleaned her desk. She tended to believe that only beginners needed order; geniuses could handle chaos. But even chaos had its limits. Shortly before nine, Blonde Poison strutted noisily into Zoe’s office and noticed the tidy desk. “My, you’ve been very busy this morning already,” she said.
“Very funny, Madison. What’s up?”
“Tom wants to have lunch with you today.”
“Tom Chrysler!” Zoe cried in surprise, and jumped up.
Madison looked at her blankly, like a parrot does when strange people jump around in front of its cage and try to teach it to talk in squeaky soprano voices.
“Tom Fiorino.”
“Not Tom Chrysler?”
“No, not T-O-M C-H-R-Y-S-L-E-R. Do you want it in writing?”
Zoe sank back into her chair, disappointed. “I can’t go anyway. I have an appointment at Jason Wu’s showroom and have to have lunch with his publicist afterward.”
Zoe was still embarrassed about the scene by the garden fence. Even the thought of needy women turned her off. In the past weeks, every time she had waited for the elevator, she had desperately pleaded with the Universe not to let Tom be on his way down. And as usual, her prayers had been answered. Zoe didn’t actually plan to see Thomas Prescott Fiorino anytime in the next millennium.
Madison sashayed back out the door, looking almost personally offended. Her expression was clear. It said, “Who would be so stupid that they wouldn’t go out to eat with their totally attractive boss?” Even her footsteps sounded huffy.
Two minutes later, she was standing in front of Zoe’s desk again, posed like a dominant rooster. “Tom said to inform you that it’s an official order: twelve-thirty at Michael’s.” She turned and made a swift exit, before Zoe could protest.
Zoe looked after her, puzzled. “Now the boss is playing boss, and ordering me around? Who does he think he is, anyway?”
What did he want from her, now that he didn’t want anything from her?
Lunchtime at Michael’s: where the who’s who of the media and entertainment worlds convened. Careers were made there. And destroyed.
A permanently smiling hostess guided Zoe to a corner table at a front window. They passed S. I. Newhouse, Graydon Carter, and Johnny Depp. Tom was already there. Today he wore a pinstriped suit, without a tie, as usual. As their eyes met, he smiled his charming lopsided smile. His smile should be licensed as a weapon, Zoe thought.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” he said.
“I’m so glad you forced me to,” she answered. Playing offense was fast becoming Zoe Schuhmacher’s favorite form of defense. She forced herself to practice restraint, at least until their waiter took their order.
“We have to talk,” McSlimy finally announced. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Now I’m curious,” Zoe said, trying to pack as much sarcasm as possible into that short sentence. Would he finally tell her that he didn’t want to have anything to do with her? That it would be best for both of them if they stopped seeing each other outside of work? Zoe felt slightly sick to her stomach. She began to sweat. She felt almost carsick, as though she’d been reading in the back seat of a car stuck in traffic.
Before she could say a word, the waiter brought their salads. Watercress with bleu cheese for Tom, and roasted beets wi
th pine nuts and goat cheese for Zoe. They ate in silence. Or, to be precise, Tom ate silently, and Zoe picked at her food silently.
“I’ve tried to leave you alone. But I just don’t want to anymore,” McDreamy said, after what seemed like an eternity. He flashed his irresistible smile again. Blue eyes. Glowing. Intelligent. “Someone like you shouldn’t just be given up.”
Zoe stared at him, speechless. She was almost tempted to ask him to repeat himself, and confirm it in writing.
“We should go out to a restaurant, Zoe,” Tom said.
“But . . . that’s what we’re doing,” Zoe stammered.
“I mean on a date, not a business lunch.”
Zoe thought about it for a second. “Yes, we should,” said a voice that must have been her own.
“How about Saturday evening?”
“Saturday evening is fine,” the voice answered.
“Or Friday?”
“Friday’s fine, too.”
“Or should we just leave early on Friday for a long weekend in the Hamptons?”
Sex: The American Rules
In the US, ever since Bill Clinton claimed not to have had sex with Monica Lewinsky, a blowjob doesn’t count as sex. The practice of holding on to one’s “technical virginity” has become wildly popular among American teenagers. Now that can really be called successful sexual education!
American sex, like dating, has specific phases, which are made more easily understandable for the male participants by comparing them to America’s national pastime, baseball.
First base means kissing. Second base includes contact with primary and secondary sexual organs, although the participants stay fully dressed. Third base is oral sex and (hopefully) ends in orgasm. Actual sexual intercourse is called a home run.
Strictly forbidden: Sex before the third date.
(New York for Beginners, p. 72)
16
Tom and Zoe arrived at his parents’ summer house in the Hamptons at noon on Friday. They hadn’t really been able to talk on their way there, because Tom had had to compress his entire workday into the three-hour drive, organizing everything via cell phone. The Fiorino estate was on Southampton’s Meadow Lane. It was the “Park Avenue of the Hamptons,” Zoe had discovered when she’d Googled it. The driveway stretched more than half a mile between carefully manicured boxwood hedges—symbolizing the distance between the Fiorinos and the masses. Like all estates belonging to the American aristocracy, this one had a name. Nothing tacky like Serendipity of Sweet Dreams, which was what Zoe imagined the nouveau riche would name their yachts. The Fiorino estate was called Old Trees. Zoe had long ago figured out that nothing was more important to WASPs than total understatement.
New York for Beginners Page 14
