New York for Beginners

by Remke, Susann

  “And you really need to work on your clichés, pronto.”

  Tom pulled out a checkbook, wrote a check for the first month’s rent as a deposit, and handed it to the broker. “We’ll take it,” he said.

  The broker was apparently quite used to this kind of quick decision. She stowed the check in her briefcase and pulled out a rental contract, saying, “Please sign here.” Before she disappeared back into the elevator, she put down the keys on the kitchen counter, pulled a miniature bottle of champagne out of her handbag, and handed it to Zoe with a big “Congratulations!”

  Tom waited for the elevator doors to close, and then he put his arms around Zoe and lifted her up onto the kitchen counter. “Welcome home, darling.” He kissed her. First her lips, then he worked his way down the side of her neck.

  “This reminds me of the Hamptons,” Zoe breathed, “when Lucia came into the kitchen.”

  “Now I’ll finish what I started back then. I promise,” Tom whispered. “And this time there isn’t anybody to come in and surprise us.”

  “The interior design is completely in your hands, my dear,” Tom told her the morning after their intense testing of the built-in kitchen. “You can have whatever you want, but, please, no DIY furniture to assemble.”

  And so, Zoe, who’d never furnished an apartment or an entire house from scratch, had gratefully accepted the help of Mimi’s interior designer. Lara Mulligan was a petite, wiry woman in her early fifties. Mimi described her as “no nonsense.”

  “If she’s working for you, she’s a pain in the neck. She only lets go when the project is 100-percent perfect. But if you’re working for her, she’s a nightmare. You don’t want to know what the contractors call her.”

  That was how the “pain in the neck” ended up in Zoe and Tom’s apartment a few days later, scoping out the rooms. According to the expression on her face, their place wasn’t completely hopeless. Then she unrolled the loft’s floor plan on a folding table that a silent assistant had carried in for her.

  “Where’s your mood board?” she asked Zoe somewhat impatiently.

  “My mood board?”

  “This is usually the moment when my clients pull out boxes of magazine cutouts, possible color schemes, and materials. So I know what direction to go in,” she explained.

  “Oh,” Zoe answered. She felt like a second grader who’d forgotten to do her homework for her favorite teacher. Instead of worrying about the interior decor she’d gone out to explore the neighborhood. That was what she had hired an interior decorator for, wasn’t it? On the very first morning after they signed the rental contract, she had walked from the loft to Café Gitane. Seven minutes and forty-two seconds. Not bad! Then she went looking for a supermarket. But, apart from the fine foods store Dean & DeLuca, she hadn’t been able to find one. Whoever lived in SoHo could probably afford to pay $6.50 for a small cup of strawberries that had been watered with Evian and picked by Peruvian virgins. After that, she had gone to Balthazar’s for a welcome-back lunch with Mimi and Eros.

  “All right, then,” the decorator said in resignation. “We’ll go to ABC Carpet & Home. That’s New York City’s mood board, per se.”

  “I’m so confused,” was all that Zoe could manage to say when they stopped for lunch. All morning, she had been combining and testing so many style, color, and material options that she had no idea what she wanted anymore. It seemed like she and Lara Mulligan had analyzed every single piece of furniture together in the store. They had wandered through all the ethnic pop-up shops on the ground floor, with their dinner services crafted from clay by Tibetan monks. They had inspected handmade rugs from guaranteed child-labor-free family businesses, hand-painted silk tapestries, couches made from certified organic wood, beds, bedding, lamps and candelabras, curtains, pots, vases, and whatever else a well-situated, eco-friendly New Yorker with exquisite taste and an unlimited Amex Centurion card would want to put in their apartment.

  “Let’s have some lunch before discussing our options,” Lara said in a kind, soothing, grandmotherly tone. She ordered two prix-fixe lunches without even asking Zoe what she wanted first.

  They were sitting in a restaurant called ABC Kitchen, which was adjacent to the furniture store. It belonged to celebrity chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten, whose cuisine was called “haute organic,” which meant gourmet organic food. The place was decorated cleanly in whites and wood. The heavy wooden beams on the ceiling, which were probably supposed to remind you of an old farmhouse, had once been planks on a fishing boat in Maine. The rustic tables finished with a white varnish were made from wooden railroad ties, and the eclectic silverware came from various estate sales. That was what it said on the menu, anyway—which was, of course printed on 100-percent recycled paper.

  Zoe and Lara ate barbecued calamari in a pretzel crust, followed by a mini pizza with mint, mussels, and fiery-hot chilies. For dessert, they had ice cream sundaes with salted-caramel popcorn. Everything was organic, carbon-neutral, and absolutely fantastic.

  When Zoe could finally think straight again, she looked around and said to Lara, “This is exactly what I want. Sustainable, natural, simple, and sexy.”

  For the remainder of the afternoon, the two of them created a mood board with catalogue cutouts, fabric and wood samples, and various cell phone pictures of ABC Carpet showroom pieces and elements from ABC Kitchen that Zoe liked. Somehow, wondrously, Lara managed to print out the phone pictures somewhere in the furniture store. Apparently she knew people there. And then, two weeks later, Zoe and Tom’s new apartment was completely furnished in a style that Zoe had baptized Urban Zen.

  “We should throw a spontaneous housewarming party tonight,” Zoe suggested, and detached herself from Tom’s morning embrace so she could turn over in bed to face him. The first night at the loft had been somewhat sleepless, due to the new Ligne Roset bed—and not just that. Zoe yawned. It’s funny, she thought, what an effect elevators, natural dining tables, and waterfall shower heads can have on you.

  “That’s way too last-minute.” Tom said, stretching lazily. “First, you won’t be able to find a single catering service that will deliver the same day, and second, I’m not letting you get out of this bed.”

  “What do we need a catering service for? We can cook ourselves, you snob.”

  “Oh, no, don’t start getting all modest again,” Tom grumbled. Zoe pulled the covers up over his head.

  “We’ll pick stuff up at Dean & DeLuca, you spoiled private-school brat. I’m sure they take black Amex cards.”

  Their first guest to arrive that evening was Eros, who walked out of the elevator heavily loaded with bags. When he saw Zoe standing in the kitchen, he dropped his burden and rushed over, throwing his arms around her enthusiastically.

  “I’ve missed you so much, darling!” he cried, giving her a loud smack on the cheek. “I can’t wait to switch to your team next week. Papst’s throne has been shaken, by the way. He had some really bad circulation numbers for his first two issues as editor-in-chief, and without you, the number of StyleChicks viewers fell dramatically.”

  Zoe laughed, gave him another squeeze, and put her hands on Eros’s shoulders. She turned him around to face Tom, who was leaning on the counter behind him listening with interest, an eyebrow cocked.

  “The two of you have already met. Eros, this is Tom. Tom, Eros.”

  “Um,” Eros mumbled sheepishly while setting down his bags. “The part about the throne, of course, is only a nasty rumor without any substance.”

  “Is it, now?” Tom asked with amusement.

  “Of course. Definitely. Certainly,” Eros answered hastily.

  “You don’t have to act like the big boss here, Tom. You’re making Eros nervous,” Zoe said, intervening. “Everything we talk about here tonight is strictly off the record.”

  Eros looked relieved. He dug through his bags and pulled out one lilac-colored box
after another. “Look what I brought for you: macarons from Ladurée. I got fleur d’oranger, framboise, and cassis-violette.”

  “French macarons?” Zoe asked, amazed.

  “Macarons are the new cupcakes,” Eros lectured her. “What rock have you been living under? Cupcakes are sooo last week.”

  Then the elevator door opened again, and Justus and Mimi entered. Justus was carrying four bottles of champagne, and Mimi was holding something the size of a soccer ball wrapped in a burlap sack.

  “Hi everyone,” Justus said, and hugged them one after another. “Mimi and I just ran into each other down on the street. Just to forestall any gossip here.”

  “Don’t worry, Justus, Mimi’s only into married men,” Zoe answered, waving him off with a laugh.

  Justus looked at her quizzically, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’ll explain later.”

  Meanwhile, Mimi greeted Tom. “You’re looking good, Fiorino. This intimate togetherness is agreeing with you. Who would have thought?” Then she hugged Eros, who was at least a foot or two shorter than she was. “I’ve missed you, lover-boy. When did we have lunch together last?” Finally, she turned around slowly, letting her gaze sweep the room. “It turned out beautifully, Zoe. This apartment is so you.” Then she thrust the burlap package into her arms. “My housewarming gift to you.”

  Zoe opened the wrapping, and out came a statue of an obese elephant with six arms, carved out of white marble. “Mimi, I saw that at ABC. It’s great—and costs a fortune,” Zoe cried out and hugged Mimi.

  “Oh, never mind. Not more than my last pair of Louboutins. It’s a Ganesh. It’s meant to remove all the obstacles from your life.”

  “Does it work on mothers-in-law, too?” Zoe whispered into her ear.

  “You mean witches? Like Kitty?” Mimi asked in amusement.

  “Uh-huh,” Zoe murmured.

  “I think so. If you ask him nicely. Why?”

  “I’m now officially invited to their summer party in the Hamptons. And I’m kind of scared to see that narrow-minded old trout again.”

  “Oh, that. We’ll have loads of fun.”

  “We?”

  “I’m coming, too.”

  The dinner conversation was all about Yearning.

  “I also thought about launching with some other topics,” Zoe told them. “While I still believe in the back-to-the-roots concept, I’ve now decided that we should open up with a less housewifey story than one about lavender.”

  “Like what?” Mimi asked. “Lemon balm?”

  Zoe ignored her. “Our society has a strong need for de-stressing. We have a very good article on choosing a slower way of life. It’s called ‘Stress—A Status Symbol: Why We Need to Unwind More, and How to Find the “Off” Switch.’”

  American Hospitality, or: How to Behave Correctly

  Americans are extremely hospitable and are always inviting their acquaintances over for a drink, dinner, or a weekend at their summer house. If they really mean it, which can only be determined after about the fifth or sixth invitation, the German guest should keep certain things in mind:

  The American host is not running a restaurant. While German guests barely dare to enter their host’s royal kitchen kingdom, American guests are constantly offering to set the table, cut vegetables, fill the dishwasher—and they do it, too. Dinner is usually more like a joint project. Exception: an event with waiters.

  The American host also doesn’t run a hotel. People who are invited for the weekend at least offer to strip the bed of dirty sheets and take the towels to the laundry room at the end of their stay. Or sometimes they just do it without asking.

  The American host is always happy to receive host gifts. It’s best to ask beforehand what is needed. Wine? Beer? A homemade dessert? And don’t be stingy: It’s better to bring all three!

  After a heartfelt spoken thank-you for the dinner or weekend, a handwritten thank-you note is the norm. Email is only appropriate if you know the host very well.

  (New York for Beginners, p. 49)

  27

  MAY

  “Don’t you think your mother should start an organic vegetable garden in your yard?” Zoe asked Tom on the Friday night before Memorial Day. They were sitting in the back seat of his black Town Car, stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway along with thousands of other weekend travelers. “I mean, have someone set it up for her. Some terribly famous garden architect.”

  Tom chuckled. “You’re honestly starting to scare me, Zoe, with your total devotion to your new project.”

  “By the way, I got a present for your mother,” Zoe said, purposely changing the subject.

  “Great. Very considerate of you.” Tom stared out at the traffic jam they were in and muttered, “Guess we should have taken the helicopter shuttle after all.”

  Regarding the hostess gift, Zoe had of course been a little worried and researched the best florist in the entire city. She was sure that Kitty would be super snobby about that kind of thing. Eros had recommended VSF; they did all the flower arrangements for Ralph Lauren. Whatever was good for Ralph must be just right for Kitty, Zoe decided. And VSF did indeed have the most beautiful—and expensive—flower arrangement that Zoe had ever seen. She had chosen a monochromatic beauty in white and ivory, which included the most glorious lilies. It was a flat spray that looked as though it was meant to lie on a table or buffet, and she was sure it would be the perfect accent for any decor because of its neutral colors. The one she’d seen in the shop had already been reserved for some important event, but the florist had been kind enough to make a copy in record time. It was every bit as beautiful as the original and was now buckled up in a gigantic cardboard box on the passenger seat. Better safe than sorry.

  Memorial Day was the unofficial beginning of summer, when anyone who could afford it finally returned to their summer house on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean to get the place ready for the season. And from now on, you could wear white again without immediately looking like you were fashion illiterate.

  Kitty always hosted the most important party of early summer on Memorial Day weekend. The guest list included people like Mayor Michael Bloomberg, fashion designer Donna Karan, actor Alec Baldwin, and multimedia queen Tina Brown. Tom had kindly sent Zoe the guest list via email—an illustrious gathering of the who’s who of East Coast society—so she could scare herself silly before the weekend. Zoe couldn’t quite decide who scared her more: Kitty, or her guests?

  When they turned into the driveway to Old Trees, a parking attendant directed the driver to his designated parking space. Tomorrow, valets would be there as well, to park the guests’ vehicles. The houseguests staying in one of the estate’s numerous bedrooms that weekend were a kind of A-class; those invited only for the party were B-class.

  “I am so glad you’re here—I could hardly wait to see you,” Kitty said upon their arrival, as though Tom and Zoe were two castaways who’d been rescued from a desert island after ten years. She theatrically air kissed Zoe’s cheek and held out her forehead for a tender kiss from Tom.

  “You’ll be staying in the yellow room,” she said, a note of reproach just barely audible in her voice. It was probably standard to have non-engaged and non-married couples sleep in separate rooms, Zoe supposed. But Kitty had a full house this weekend and had apparently made a gracious exception for them.

  Zoe waved to the driver to bring over her gift. The poor guy was almost completely buried under the truly stunning array of hydrangeas, lilies, and roses bursting out of the cardboard box. Kitty’s and Tom’s smiles froze on their faces.

  “What am I supposed to do with those?” Kitty gasped.

  “Are those flowers?” Tom whispered.

  “Yes, the most beautiful flowers to be found in the entire city,” Zoe explained, sensing that something was very wrong.

  “How considerate, dear.” K
itty had caught herself and immediately directed the arrangement into a maid’s arms. “Beautiful. Truly beautiful. Place them on the grand piano in the living room, would you, please?”

  Then she turned to face Zoe. “Thank you so much, dear. Thank you.” And she disappeared.

  Zoe followed her with her eyes, a frown on her face. What was that all about?

  In the main building, they met Tom’s father, who’d just returned from a walk on the beach with their two dogs: Windsor, an English Cocker Spaniel, and a black Labrador named Washington. His Richard Gere hair had been tousled in the breeze, and the dogs, which had obviously been in the water, looked similarly rumpled.

  “Zoe, I’m so glad to see you again at last,” he cried and gave her a warm, welcoming hug. He gave his son a manly clap on the shoulder. “Let’s have a drink in the living room.”

  They sat down in heavy chocolate-colored armchairs and drank Pimm’s with fresh strawberries and blueberries, served by the uniformed maid from before. It was just like at Wimbledon.

  Tom’s father wanted to know “everything about Germany,” a country he’d apparently visited quite often when he was staying in Zurich. He spoke of everything with equal excitement, be it Goethe, Goulash, German efficiency, or the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth.

  “So your father is a physician, too?”

  “Yes. But only a country doctor.”

  “What do you mean, ‘only’? Sometimes I think that must be the more fulfilling occupation. You’re much closer to people, some of whom you even care for their whole lives.”

  Zoe realized one thing from their conversation: At least Charles seemed to like her.

  “Why did I get the feeling that Kitty would liked to have thrown the flowers on her compost heap?” Zoe asked when she and Tom were finally alone in the yellow room.

  He avoided her eyes awkwardly.

  “Come on, out with it. What did I do wrong now?”