New York for Beginners

by Remke, Susann

  “But I don’t want to,” she blurted out. “In all honesty, Aaron. The two of us aren’t workplace-compatible. I’m not into the whole dominatrix thing, and all that.”

  “All that sells magazines. Fashion is a circus, a big festival of illusions, and I’m the lion tamer. Do you think I enjoy chewing people out all day long?”

  “I was under the impression that you did, actually.”

  Voldemort sighed. “Zoe, you’re good. You’re talented, and you’re going to make it big someday. Maybe in another year or two, you’ll be taking over the position of editor-in-chief for a big German publisher.”

  Zoe was, once again, astonished by the image people seemed to have of her, which didn’t quite fit with how she perceived herself. She obviously gave off a much more self-assured impression than she felt about herself. So why did she keep doubting her accomplishments—and herself—on an almost daily basis? Maybe I should finally get over my insecurities, Zoe thought. Apparently even successful people had recurring nightmares about failing their final exams. At least, that’s what she’d heard. Maybe it was time for her to pass her inner finals.

  “Maybe I will do that,” she responded. “But I’ve already found closure with New York. It’s not my world. I don’t belong there.”

  “Bull!” he exclaimed and smacked his hand on the table, making the glasses jump. Even the waiter turned to look at them in surprise. “You did a good job on the editorial team and presented yourself well at the Snowflake Ball, at least as far as I could tell from reading the New York Post. Nobody fits in with New York better than you. You find all that chichi crap interesting, but you don’t bend over backward for it. You stay who you are!”

  “Aaron, you make your money with Vision by bringing this—what did you call it?—chichi crap to the living rooms of Hamburg and Munich suburbs. And that’s perfectly OK. Hollywood sells dreams, so why shouldn’t Schoenhoff do that, too?”

  Aaron Papst was silent. Then he finally sighed and said, “Tom’s asking you to come back.”

  Zoe almost choked on her water. “Were you supposed to tell me that?”

  “Yes. Tom loves you. Because you’re you. And not a completely fun-free American Fifth Avenue Princess who takes her engagement ring to the first jeweler she can find to have it appraised so she can be sure that her fiancé invested the socially required three paychecks. That’s exactly how he described it to me.”

  “Really?”

  “Really! Right after your hasty departure, he flew to Germany to look for you.”

  “In Herpersdorf?”

  “No, in Berlin. Who would have guessed that you’d go hide in the countryside? But when you were taking a little too long for all of our liking on your self-discovery trip, we sent Mimi after you. A truly wonderful weapon, that woman is. By the way, it was Tom’s idea to send her.”

  Zoe was confused. It seemed that everyone had been talking about her—and even worrying about her—behind her back. That secretly flattered her a bit, but it also made her livid. Especially the part about Tom. Who did he think he was to send someone after her? Hadn’t he messed with her life enough?

  “But that changes nothing about the fact that Tom wasn’t honest with me, Aaron. I mean, damn it, first he doesn’t tell me he’s my boss before sleeping with me, and then he forgets to mention that he’s married.” Zoe jumped up so quickly that her barstool fell over and hit the floor with a resounding crash. Fuming, she said, “Thomas Prescott Fiorino is dead to me. You can tell him that, Aaron. With my kind regards!”

  She stormed out of the bar.

  When Zoe woke up the next morning, her mind felt like a roller coaster. What did McSlimy want from her? Hadn’t her escape from New York told him everything he needed to know? He should just leave her alone, dammit.

  She got dressed in slow motion. Mimi had given her a little suitcase of clothes. Right on top of the items inside was a T-shirt with the iconic inscription “I ♥NY.”

  “Very funny,” Zoe murmured, tossing it into the hotel’s trash basket. She chose a dark-blue silk blouse that had probably cost a fortune. She opened the hotel room door and had to look down at the floor twice to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating. In front of Room 707 lay a white bath mat with green garden cress sprouting out of it. Stuck amid the lush green was a note. Zoe picked it up, unfolded it, and read:

  Breakfast at the hotel at 10 tomorrow? I’d be grateful! Sincerely, Ben.

  Zoe had to think for a moment. Sincerely, Ben. Who exactly was this Ben again?

  “Benni, this is really bad timing,” Zoe tried to explain when she met Benjamin Nikolaus Nigmann downstairs.

  “It’s Ben, please.”

  “Huh, Ben? What Ben?”

  “Please call me Ben, Zoe. I’m over Benni. Literally and figuratively.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve thought about myself a lot since you left me, Zoe. And I’ve changed a lot in my life—”

  “Wait a minute, who left who, here?” Zoe interrupted angrily. “Aren’t you . . .” Zoe took a deep breath and took on a drawling voice, “. . . happily married to your old flame?”

  “Not really.”

  Now Zoe Schuhmacher was curious. “Come on, Benni!”

  “Ben!”

  Zoe drew a deep breath. “All right, then, Ben!”

  “It was more like wishful thinking.” Ben lowered his gaze and stared intensely at the tablecloth. “It all went poof after a few weeks. At first, reconnecting on the Internet seemed so fated. As though we were meant for each other. But a lot of things are easier on the Internet than they are in real life.”

  Zoe laughed. “Did you find out she had the blues?”

  “No, she wasn’t depressed or an alcoholic, if that’s what you mean,” Ben answered indignantly. “Why would you think that?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Zoe said and giggled to herself, thinking about the royal-blue avatar she’d so spitefully imagined. “So what went wrong?”

  “Well, let’s just say she was complicated.”

  “Aren’t all women?”

  “She’s an accountant and always needs to be in control of everything. I mean, hell, she has an Excel table of what she’s going to wear to the office every day. Down to her underwear!”

  “So you guys never got married?”

  “No.”

  “You ended it?”

  “Yeah. If you’d read my texts and emails, you would already know that.”

  “So what do you want from me?” she asked cautiously, already dreading a tearful confession of love—“Zoe, you’re the woman of my life”—or some drivel like that, which, in her current position, she could happily do without. Male remorse, with that innocent look and desperate glint of hope for make-up sex—Zoe shivered in disgust. Please, dear God, let it be as short and painless as possible, she prayed silently. In some situations, Zoe Schuhmacher thought, it was appropriate to call the Boss instead of the Universe, which seemed to be more dedicated to finding parking spots.

  “Your mother told me that your friend Mimi was going to kidnap you and take you to the awards ceremony in here in Hamburg. I just wanted to make sure that you were more or less OK,” Ben answered shyly.

  “You’re still in contact with my mother?”

  Ben smiled roguishly. “Well, I am again.”

  It was then that Zoe realized she’d been holding her breath, and she exhaled in relief. No male remorse, no confessions, and above all—no glint of hope in his eye.

  “Whether I’m OK is open to interpretation,” she said.

  Both of them stirred their coffee in silence, mirroring each other’s gestures, the way very close couples do—or those who used to be very close do.

  “That thing with the obituary was really kind of juvenile, Zoe,” Ben finally said and then burst out laughing.

  Zoe c
racked up, too. “In retrospect, it’s all kind of embarrassing. I mean, I was really proud of my genius idea back then!”

  “By the way, I cut it out and kept it.”

  “You did what?”

  “The obituary is now framed and hanging in my bathroom.”

  She wouldn’t have credited him with having that much of a sense of humor. When he laughed, little friendly looking crinkles surrounded his eyes. But then he suddenly sobered up. “You really loved him, didn’t you?”

  Zoe gazed at Ben contemplatively. What, for the love of God, had her mother told him? It was no secret that Mrs. Schuhmacher would have liked to take her only daughter back under her wing. But playing matchmaker with her ex-boyfriend was going a little too far in Zoe’s eyes. She contemplated Ben. Should she really be discussing her ex with her ex-ex? Why not? Nobody knew her as well as Benni did.

  “Yeah, head over heels at first glance,” she answered truthfully.

  Ben looked a little sorrowful, but then apparently took the news in stride and changed the subject. “So what are you going to do now?”

  “Set up an online platform with Allegra.” Zoe explained the concept of Yearning while Ben listened attentively. He asked a few intelligent questions about financing and monetization, and they discussed the ideas for the different verticals.

  “Do you need a developer? I could do it,” he said after their mutual brainstorming and his third cup of coffee. “My most recent start-up just failed because we ran out of financing. So I’d have time. And there’s still a little money left. I could join the Yearning team.”

  This can’t be a coincidence, Zoe thought. It must be a stroke of fate. She had already been wondering where she’d find a competent programmer who would join in on something as uncertain as Yearning—and where she’d find the money to pay one. Benni—no, Ben—was the ideal solution! She would create the concept, and he would, contrary to his previous job, only be in charge of execution. That would ensure that this endeavor would actually have a realistic chance of succeeding. Zoe jumped up in excitement, darted around the breakfast table, and hugged Ben—platonically but enthusiastically.

  “It’s a deal!”

  23

  FEBRUARY

  Zoe found it strangely refreshing to eat pizza right out of the box and drink beer straight from the bottle. It was just like being back in college. There was a feeling of excitement and expectation in the two-room Hamburg apartment that Allegra kept as something of a hideout, away from the hustle and bustle of Munich and Berlin. Boxes of high-tech materials were everywhere; the living room had been transformed into a programming jungle, with a tangle of cables that only a professional like Ben could even begin to make sense of. While Zoe wrote copy, Ben wrote code. They had hours-long talks about user experience, site management, and server capacities. The days and nights were starting to blend into each other. Zoe, Ben, a graphic designer they’d hired, and sometimes Allegra (who Skyped from India) solved problems, improved ideas, and even occasionally started all over from zero until they were satisfied with the results.

  “I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?” Ben asked.

  “It’s just after midnight, idiot,” Zoe answered and looked up from her laptop. “But what about a piece of crumble from Le Petit Café?”

  “Is it still open?”

  “Nah, but we still have a huge piece left from two days ago. The edges are just a little dried out.”

  “That’s fine for starters. But later I’ll cook something really delicious.”

  “What would that be?”

  “It’s a secret.”

  At around one o’clock in the morning, Ben disappeared into the kitchen. Zoe took the opportunity to shower, which she hadn’t done in at least forty-eight hours. Standing in front of the foggy bathroom mirror a few minutes later, she could hear pots and pans banging in the kitchen.

  “Well, now I’m curious,” Zoe murmured. “If I remember correctly, the fridge looks about as empty as if I was planning on moving to Australia tomorrow.”

  Then there was a knock on the bathroom door. “It’s ready.”

  When Zoe entered the kitchen, Ben was in the process of lighting two horribly clashing candles, which he’d stuck into empty wine bottles. One was red and the other was pastel pink, one only a stub and the other almost brand-new. On the wooden kitchen table he’d spread out a pastel tablecloth with a cute Easter motif, which he had surely found somewhere in the depths of Allegra’s drawers. For a change, the table was set with real silverware (which one of them would have to wash later) rather than plastic forks and knives.

  “Please have a seat, milady.” Ben chivalrously pulled out a chair for her and then pushed Zoe and her chair back toward the table, just like a trained maître d’. Then he served the feast: spaghetti with ketchup. And to go with it, tap water with a mango-flavored multivitamin pill. It was one of the most delicious meals Zoe had eaten in a long time.

  Ben had rented a one-bedroom apartment nearby that he actually slept in, except for when he pulled an all-nighter. He treated Zoe protectively, like an older brother. He made sure she ate regularly. He sent her to bed when her eyelids started drooping around two a.m., while he worked through the night. And he even got rid of her nosy mother, who kept calling to ask how the project—which still seemed very vague in her eyes—was coming along. And all the while he sweet-talked Mrs. Schuhmacher so much that Zoe couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Why did he still feel he had to make a good impression on her mother? Was he planning something?

  “I still remember your warm apple cake. To die for!” he said in that slightly sugary tone that men tended to adopt when talking to middle-aged secretaries—always getting the best appointments with their bosses as a result.

  But surprisingly, there hadn’t been any tension—sexual or otherwise—between Zoe and Ben, as she was used to experiencing with other ex-boyfriends. In short: The world with Ben in it was as comfortable as a well-worn pair of shoes. Nothing rubbed; nothing was too tight. Zoe always knew exactly where she was with him.

  On February 28, Ben revealed the beta version of Yearning. Dramatically, he turned the big monitor toward Zoe and opened www.yearning.de. The Yearning logo was set in grayish orange. The rest of the site was mostly shades of gray and white, which Ben had at first found understated and cold. But when Zoe showed him the Atlantic Ocean pebbles and seashells she’d collected in the Hamptons, he understood the kind of mood she was trying to create.

  Zoe clicked the “Home & Garden” vertical. She navigated to an article about lavender: “21 Ways to Cook, Bake, and Decorate with Lavender.” She clicked the “People” channel. Under “People Who Change the World,” the opening article was a portrait of the activist Somaly Mam, who’d been exploited as a sex slave as a child and now worked to end child prostitution and human trafficking. On every page, there was a subtle section on the right-hand side with ads for sustainable furniture and home decor from Organic Design, a company that Zoe had been able to win over for the first thirty days of Yearning’s Internet presence.

  “Fantastic!” she cried and danced across the space that had once been Allegra’s living room. “We need to celebrate. With a real meal at a nice Italian place. Let’s go to Da Claudio. It’s right around the corner!”

  They made a last backup copy of the site and headed out. Down on Hegestrasse, Zoe linked arms with Ben and cried, “We did it! With the tested beta version, I can actually go to the Bright Young Things conference in April and present Yearning. I’m so proud of us!”

  “Me too, sweetie.” Ben pulled her in and kissed the top of her head.

  Zoe was taken by surprise, but she decided not to let her mood be ruined by Ben’s little breach of borders. Surely he had only kissed her out of habit, and not out of hope or even desire. She threw back her head and said happily, “Do you remember that old song we used to sing about hats and umbrellas?” The two
of them went singing down the street.

  A silver-gray Audi with slightly tinted windows passed them slowly. Zoe smiled at the driver somewhat apologetically. He must have thought the two of them were crazy. But then she froze for a moment. Was that Thomas Fiorino driving? The Audi accelerated and disappeared around the corner.

  “What’s up?” Ben asked.

  She composed herself. That couldn’t possibly have been Tom. She had told Aaron Papst very clearly what to tell him. And besides, if it had been him, wouldn’t he have come to Allegra’s crash pad instead of stalking her if he wanted to talk?

  Zoe tried to get back into rhythm. “Oh, nothing. It’s just that I almost tripped.”

  Claudio himself greeted them at the restaurant’s entrance and led them to a somewhat secluded table in a corner. It was mostly illuminated by candlelight. Claudio dimmed the remaining lights even more and handed them the menu and wine list, smiling as though he expected them to disappear into a storage room, overcome with passion, after an aphrodisiac shellfish appetizer. What was it about Italian proprietors and their matchmaking? She considered enlightening Claudio on the purely platonic nature of their relationship but then decided to drop it. Claudio didn’t need to know everything.

  “So, what are we eating today?” Zoe asked as she opened the menu.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Ben said hesitantly. He stared at the menu so intensely that it looked like he was trying to memorize it in case it contained a top-secret message to be burned immediately after reading.

  “Can’t decide, can you, Benni?” Zoe said, teasing him.

  “Sure I can,” Ben replied, slightly miffed. “What are you getting?”

  “First the beef carpaccio appetizer, and then spaghetti alle vongole as an entrée.”

  “I’ll have that, too,” Ben said, obviously relieved. He closed the menu with a snap and pushed it as far away from him on the table as it would go, as though he was afraid he’d change his mind another seven times if he kept it closer.