Mrs. Fiorino nodded graciously as if Zoe were a complete stranger. The she turned toward the couple behind Tom and Zoe: Mimi Buckley and Peugeot heir Jacques Montpellier. Tom and Zoe were seated at a table with them as well as Tinsley Mortimer and her husband, hedge fund manager Topper Mortimer. Later, they were joined by Amanda Hearst and her date, the Colombian finance mogul Alejandro Santo Domingo. The rest of the table was, according to Mimi, completely uninteresting, so Zoe didn’t have to bother memorizing their names.
“So you’re Tom’s new partner?” Tinsley Mortimer asked and gave Zoe a shameless once-over. She put an emphasis on “new,” as though the old one wasn’t quite out the door with all her things yet.
Tom bent over nonchalantly to Tinsley and whispered in a register that was audible to Zoe but not Topper: “And I see that you, my dear, have brought along your old husband, and not Casimir Wittgenstein-Sayn, with whom you were seen recently.”
Touché!
Under the table, Tom squeezed Zoe’s hand in triumph. Tinsley gave a scornful snort and turned to face Jacques Montpellier on her other side. “I hear you’ve designed your own collection of sunglasses. How exciting.”
Shortly before eleven o’clock, a small group of people—plus a few bottles of champagne—moved toward the Egyptian wing. In a large, glass-walled room, there was a real Egyptian temple that had been transported across the Atlantic Ocean piece by piece: The Temple of Dendur. On the 100-foot-wide terrace of the temple, which had probably once been on the banks of the Nile and now ended at a modern fountain, stood a Steinway grand piano. Alicia Keys was holding an exclusive concert. Her voice was so sexy and lush that Zoe could have melted. For a few seconds, Zoe was floating. She loved this city. She was in love with this guy. She savored the moment. Her life was perfect. For the time being, at least.
The powder room in the Metropolitan Museum of Art—or, as it was shamefully referred to in the US, the restroom—wasn’t made up of the usual clinically disinfected stalls and fluorescent lighting. Instead, there was dark-red brocade wallpaper, full-length mirrors in golden frames, and various upholstered seating options before you got to the toilets in the next room. A cozy fire was burning in the fireplace.
“Hello, Kitty. It’s nice and warm here, isn’t it?” Zoe said, trying to strike up small talk with Madam Fiorino, who stood next to her by the fire.
“Like Bermuda in January,” she replied. She said it without a hint of arrogance, as though everyone knew what Bermuda in January felt like.
Zoe had no idea how to respond. The discussion felt surreal to her. Only now did Mrs. Fiorino begin to notice Zoe’s discomfort. “You speak excellent English, dear.”
“Thank you,” Zoe said, taken by surprise by the sudden compliment.
“But you’ll never speak my son’s language,” Kitty added coldly, whirling around and disappearing from the powder room.
Zoe stood in front of the mirror for another moment, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “That conversation can’t possibly have just happened,” she said to herself. Then she shuddered, as though to shake off a spider from her gown. Outside in the hall, Tom was waiting for her. Zoe was tempted to tell him about her charming encounter with his dear mother, but she didn’t want to ruin the evening.
“Come on,” Tom said, pulling her by the hand toward the exit. By the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, a driver waited with an opened door. “We need 6th Avenue and 50th Street,” Tom said.
“Where are we going?” Zoe asked.
“You’ll see.”
They entered Rockefeller Center through the NBC side entrance and took the elevator all the way to the Top of the Rock. The observation terrace allowed a 360-degree view over the entire city. They could see the Empire State Building glowing to the south, the silvery Chrysler Building to the east, and farther in the distance, the elegantly curved Brooklyn Bridge. To the north, they could see the vast black nothingness that was Central Park, and to the west, they could see the Hudson River stretching all the way to New Jersey. Zoe shivered, not only because it was cold, but also because the moment was so immensely perfect. Not even Kitty “Bermuda in January” Whitney Fiorino could change that.
“You make me happy, Zoe.” Tom put his arms around her shoulders and rested his chin on her head. “You’re the first woman in my life who really makes me happy.”
Rent, or: What Am I Supposed to Do—Sleep Under the Brooklyn Bridge?
The average monthly rent for a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan is currently around $2,400. A two-bedroom apartment is available starting at $3,200 and a three-bedroom apartment at $4,300. Tribeca remains the most expensive Manhattan neighborhood, where a two-bedroom apartment averages $4,200 a month, and a three-bedroom apartment goes for $7,800.
(New York for Beginners, p. 208)
19
DECEMBER
The next morning, Zoe woke up in Apartment 47A. It was already light outside, and she didn’t have to reach over to know that Tom was lying next to her. She could feel him there. Without opening her eyes, she thought back to last night, which had undoubtedly been the most wonderful night she’d spent in New York so far.
Tom and Zoe had gotten back into the elevator at the Top of the Rock—and would have missed their stop if the elevator operator hadn’t cleared his throat. It was entirely possible that he had cleared his throat discreetly several times before. By the time they’d noticed, everyone else had already left the elevator and vacated the adjoining hallway. Tom and Zoe were alone, standing in a corner of a glass box, wrapped tightly around each other, and kissing until they reached some kind of nirvana.
“Uhmhummm,” Tom cleared his throat, too, awkwardly fished a $10 bill out of his pocket, handed it to the stunned elevator operator, and thanked him effusively. “Good job. Great ride. Nice and smooth. Keep it up.” Zoe giggled. Tom took her hand and they ran outside, laughing.
Zoe slipped slowly from beneath the white sheets so as not to wake Tom, padded past her borrowed evening gown that was lying on the floor in front of the bed in a crumpled heap, and followed the trail—various shoes, tuxedo trousers, purses, hairpins—in the direction of the kitchen. A forensic investigator would analyze the crime scene this way: heavy making out in the hallway (evidence: dent from a high heel on the wall), followed by physical acts on the kitchen counter (evidence: a water bottle had been pushed over, a copy of The New York Times had fallen on the floor, and there was a dress shirt with lipstick marks on its buttons lying in the sink), and completion of the act on the bed (evidence: naked guy).
She grabbed the shirt from the sink, pulled it on without buttoning it, and opened the fridge. First some coffee, then a bath, her still somewhat foggy brain demanded. But the fridge was empty. It actually smelled brand-new, of plastic and “never been used.” No milk, no coffee. Zoe plodded toward the bathroom.
In the mirror, she encountered a woman who, admittedly, looked a little unkempt. But in an artful way, as if a Hollywood stylist had just added the finishing touches before shooting a commercial about shaving cream or something. Aside from that, Zoe had on her face the deeply satisfied smile common to people who were madly in love—the kind of smile that was horribly annoying to everyone else. It was the smile of someone who was in constant celebration because life suddenly felt like one big, long weekend.
Zoe set the shower to 120 degrees without having to convert to Fahrenheit in her head, and let the warm water run over her body. That amazing guy in the bed is mine, she thought. When she got out of the shower a little later and dried herself off, she heard him on the phone in the kitchen. “That’ll be all. Thank you,” Tom said, and hung up. She sneaked toward him.
“Good morning, stranger,” she whispered, hugging him from behind. He smelled like sandalwood and sea water, but also, above all, like he’d had a very, very naughty night. Zoe had put Tom’s tuxedo shirt back on for lack of other clothes, but she had primly clo
sed buttons number three, four, and five from the top. “Is the Master of the Universe giving orders again?”
“I ordered us some breakfast,” Tom explained. He turned to face Zoe, slipped a hand under the shirt, and kissed her hungrily.
“Whoa! Stop! I’m not your breakfast,” she said, defending herself. “And what does ‘ordered’ mean, anyway? We’re not in a hotel.”
“So what? I ordered room service from the Peninsula Hotel’s concierge.”
Zoe was a little confused. “May I point out to you that we’re not staying at the Peninsula Hotel?”
“So?”
Fifteen minutes later, a breakfast buffet on a Peninsula Hotel caddy with a white tablecloth was delivered to Apartment 47A. It was presented to them by a uniformed room service waiter who’d probably had to roll the cart through a few Manhattan streets, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. Zoe lifted one aluminum lid after another from the white porcelain dishes. Out came blueberry pancakes, French toast with fresh strawberries, huevos rancheros with hash browns, and bagels with smoked salmon. She put together a small selection of everything, poured a generous measure of maple syrup over the pancakes and French toast, and sat back down on the bed.
“We’re eating in bed?” Mr. McDreamy asked, mischievously lifting an eyebrow.
“If it was up to me, we’d spend all Sunday in bed.”
“Well, it looks like we have the same opinion for once. And anyway, you don’t have any clothes in which you could flee this bed. You have no choice but to stay.”
“Ha. I could put on yesterday’s dress.”
“And do the walk of shame in a floor-length couture gown on a Sunday afternoon?”
Zoe looked at him in surprise. “What do I care? So the concierge or the taxi driver will figure out that I had a hot night out. What’s the big deal?”
“Really?”
“Really! Come on, Tom, what century is this?”
“Most American women would care.”
“But I’m not most American women.”
Tom pulled her very close, kissed her collarbone, and slowly but surely worked his way down south. “That’s exactly why I find you so irresistible.”
“Although every relationship has its own rhythm, it always follows a perpetually repeating pattern. After the phases of terrible yearning, infinite desire, and overwhelming passion, it’s either over, or a peaceful ceasefire occurs between the parties.”
That, at least, was what Zoe had thrown together a few years ago for a cover story for Vision with the charming title “That Dreaded Seventh Week: Tips for a Lasting Relationship.” She now found it incredibly satisfying to realize that she hadn’t written meaningless fluff back then, because that was really the way things were.
Two weekends after the ball, Zoe had claimed the left side of Tom’s bed for herself. She had marked her territory with the large, square German pillow that Tom had ordered specifically for her. The small, rectangular American one—on which no normal European would be able to sleep—had been subtly disposed of. Aside from that, there was also low-fat milk in the otherwise still-sterile refrigerator for the morning latte that Tom served her in bed whenever Zoe spent the night.
On this Sunday morning, she sat cross-legged on Tom’s bed, sipping her latte and leafing through The New York Times style section. The front page had an article about kale’s newfound popularity among American models, hipsters, and actors.
“Freshly squeezed kale juice with apples and cilantro,” Zoe cried. “I’m disgusted just reading this.”
“A juice bar chain with a delivery service would be a good business idea right now,” Tom replied, his nose buried in the international section of the paper.
“Kale is post-war food, as my grandma would have said.”
“Green juice cleanses are the new yoga is what I would say.”
Zoe leaned her head on Tom’s shoulder. The two of us have really reached the point of that peaceful ceasefire, she thought, remembering her article again. She certainly wasn’t complaining about it. On the contrary, Zoe thought. I’m almost thirty-five. Been there, done that.
Zoe Schuhmacher was ready for civilized togetherness.
Arriving at JFK at 2:20 p.m. and have a surprise for you after hours. T.
What kind of surprise???? Happy landing! XOXO, Zoe
A big surprise! 3,600 square feet!
Facts, please!
We’re looking at a loft in SoHo tonight. Wooster Street. Wouldn’t you like to move out of your IKEA showroom in Brooklyn?
And move in with you?
Exactly! Go have a look at Loft #1524830 on Corcoran.
Zoe was a little dazed as she typed in the listing number on the realtor’s website. It certainly was a surprise.
I’m moving in with Tom, she thought. Am I moving in with Tom? Do I want to move in with Tom? Is it a good idea to move in with Tom? Her last attempt at moving in with someone of the opposite sex had ended with her sowing a pound of garden cress seeds on a hellishly expensive carpet and watering it well—before moving to another continent.
On the screen was a loft with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, six obscenely tall arched windows, as well as thirteen-foot ceilings with original zinc tiles on it. The place was the most aesthetically pleasing thing Zoe had ever seen. It did, however, cost $15,000 a month.
Breathtaking! But not quite in my price range! She wrote.
Who said you have to pay the rent? I’ll pick you up later!
On that same evening, three weeks before Christmas, Tom and Zoe left the Chrysler Building together. It was unusually warm for a December in New York, maybe 55 degrees, and it had just begun to rain. Not a constant drizzle like you got in Germany in the winter, but big, fat aggressive drops. Anybody who had ever experienced a thunderstorm in New York knew that it couldn’t be more than five minutes until total annihilation began. Five minutes until no umbrella could protect you from the gales whipping through the valleys between the skyscrapers. Until the city’s sewer system would fill up and the overflowing drains would turn the avenues and side streets into little lakes of an unknown depth. Zoe looked up at the sky. The clouds piling up glowed red, gray, and purple, like a bruise. But Tom didn’t seem to notice the impending doom. He was jittery with excitement. He put his arm around Zoe’s shoulders and pulled her close.
“I want a polar bear rug by the fireplace,” he declared, laughing.
“Don’t be silly. We’ll have PETA camping out on our doorstep.”
“So we’ll get a sheepskin r—”
Tom stopped abruptly under the awning of a building—and in front of an unfamiliar woman.
“Vicky, what are you doing here in New York?” he gasped.
“I thought, daaahling, it was time to come visit and see what you’ve been up to,” the tall woman with indecently orange-red curls said, beaming at him.
With her unmistakable British accent, she could have been the beautiful, slender sister of Sarah Ferguson. The only question was, was she any saner than Fergie? Fat, pelting raindrops, which hopped up a few inches in the air again after striking the pavement, and then burst in all directions, were hitting Lexington Avenue faster and faster. With the purposefulness of a combat drone, the redhead turned to face Zoe and held out a hand in a leather glove.
“Good evening, dear. My name is Victoria Lancaster Fiorino,” she said, tilting her head in pointed interest like a parakeet. “And you must be Zoe Schuhmacher, the woman who is sleeping with my husband.”
20
In the free state of Bayern, in the administrative district of Mittelfranken, between nearly endless fields and cow pastures, there is a small village called Herpersdorf with no more than 247 inhabitants. That’s where Zoe Schuhmacher had escaped to. She had moved back into her old childhood bedroom in her parents’ half-timber house. Nothing had changed in Herpersdorf. On
the yellow city-limits sign you could still see the “Nuclear power—no, thanks!” sticker that Zoe and her friend Steffi had stuck there after their parents had strictly forbidden them from attending a demonstration in Wackersdorf, where a reprocessing plant for nuclear fuel rods was to be built. On the bookshelf she rediscovered her Hanni & Nanni collection. And the huge blue stuffed Smurf that her Uncle Peter had won for her at a fair was still sitting on her bed, unworried about anything. Normally, it would have been creepy if nothing noteworthy had happened in a place after ten or fifteen years. But in this case, it was comforting. It made Zoe feel as though nothing bad had happened.
On the way to Herpersdorf, Zoe had thrown her cell phone in the garbage, and with it her American life. Her laptop was sitting in its bag, still packed, downstairs in the hall, and she’d told her parents that she wouldn’t be taking any calls, that she didn’t even want to know who was calling. She was back where she’d started. She’d basically come full circle. It had been a mistake to leave, Zoe was convinced in hindsight. Maybe even a prideful mistake. It had been a mistake to go study in Munich, to work at Vision in Berlin, and to go on to New York. It had been a mistake to think that the world out there was hers. It was certainly more colorful than it was here—more alive, and with more possibilities for growth. But it wasn’t hers.
“Don’t you at least want to talk about it?” her father asked at breakfast for the fourteenth time in two weeks, while Zoe stirred her granola morosely.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“At least an outline of what happened?”
“All right, fine,” she snapped. “Let’s get this over with: My new boss was a crazy person who treated his team like slaves. And the man I thought I was in love with unfortunately forgot to tell me he was married. The journalist Zoe Schuhmacher, who was nominated for the German Women’s Journalism Prize for her online feature about heartbroken mistresses, was a heartbroken mistress herself.”
New York for Beginners Page 17
