“Nothing,” he answered mildly and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “It’s the thought that counts.”
“I don’t want the damn thought to count. I want it to be appreciated.”
Tom took a deep breath. It took what felt like an eternity for him to answer. “Well, my mother is very particular, and she doesn’t have much imagination when it comes to cultural differences. The flowers . . . I guess you’ve never seen an arrangement like that before, am I right?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful! I don’t know how anyone could find it offensive.”
“They’re funeral flowers. It’s an arrangement to drape over a coffin.”
Zoe felt the blood drain from her face. What had she done? What did Kitty think she was trying to say? Of course the other flowers in the shop had been reserved for a special event—for a funeral! In Germany, flower arrangements like that weren’t normally used, because people were usually cremated and buried in urns instead of coffins, mostly because of lack of space in graveyards in the densely populated country. And even if they had been, Zoe hadn’t been to very many funerals, so it hadn’t even occurred to her that it could possibly be anything like that. And the white lilies and roses had just seemed so perfect for a summer party. She groaned as she pictured the funeral arrangement draped over the polished wood of Kitty’s grand piano. She wondered how many people would be tempted to peek under the lid to look for a body. “But I didn’t know!” she gasped.
“Of course you didn’t. And if Kitty wasn’t missing her sense of humor, it would almost be funny. But aside from that, if people give flowers, they usually have them delivered in a vase after the event as a thank-you. It’s just a little strange to bring them all the way from Manhattan in a box. Not to mention the fact that Kitty went over the decor in detail with the caterer, the decorator, and the florist. Next time, you can ask me what to bring.”
“So what should I have brought then?”
“Scented soaps, for example. Monogrammed ones. Kitty always loves those. And then you send a handwritten thank-you note once you get back home.”
Scented soaps. Great. Why not monogrammed urinal cakes? Zoe thought angrily. “So if they’re funeral flowers, why did she put the damn things on the grand piano right in the middle of the living room where everybody can see them?”
“Because she wants to be polite to you, her guest.”
“American politeness.”
“Exactly. She would sooner eat the flowers than not display them prominently. That would be a much worse faux-pas.”
Tears were gathering in Zoe’s eyes. Not so much because of her obvious miscalculation, but because she would have to look at a gigantic, conspicuous flower arrangement that was glaringly out of place, even though it was white (white, dammit!) all weekend long. Kitty had created a physical monument to Zoe’s ignorance, and had succeeded in rubbing it in without saying a word.
The next morning, Old Trees was alive with nervous activity. It felt like preparation for war, and Kitty was The General. The General skillfully directed her staff on the battlefield. The white party tents had already been set up and were fluttering gently in the breeze. An army of waiters in uniforms of black trousers and white starched shirts had been briefed. Blue Point oysters, duck from the North Fork, and local wines from Wölffer Estate were being unloaded. To go with the seaside theme, the florist had brought in a sea of flowers in shades of blue. Everything was to The General’s utmost satisfaction. Kitty was definitely hard to please, but she gave such detailed instruction that mistakes were almost impossible.
Meanwhile, Tom was playing a game of tennis with his father at Southampton Bath & Tennis Club. He was lucky. For carriers of the XY chromosomes, an event like Kitty’s summer party wasn’t nerve-racking at all. The men hopped in the shower, maybe even shaved, pulled on khakis, a white shirt, and a dark-blue blazer—and they looked presentable. Women, on the other hand, experienced minor nervous breakdowns, starting with choosing a dress. That was how Zoe felt. She’d brought three different dresses with respective matching shoes and purses. When she looked more closely at the party preparations, she decided that the short Calvin Klein piece was simply too short. Sadly, her favorite dress, a floor-length peacock-colored Calypso St. Barth piece, clashed terribly with Kitty’s color scheme. And they’d been through that drama already. All that remained was her simple, also floor-length, backless navy-blue dress from J. Crew. Zoe wondered if she should cut off the label so she could tell people it was by Donna Karan or something.
After her shower, Zoe’s hair was the next challenge. Kitty had basically forced her hairdresser and makeup artist on her. But Zoe had to admit that the androgynous creature who seemed to think he was so important that he didn’t need to introduce himself by name had created the most beautiful updo on her she’d ever seen. It was slightly a seventies style, with some strands falling out of a loose knot, low on her head. It was a perfect match for the plunging neckline of her halter dress.
When she stepped out on the patio to join Tom, who was just welcoming some new B-class arrivals, he put an arm around her shoulder possessively and whispered into her ear: “You look beautiful.” Then he grinned conspiratorially. “I just corrected Kitty’s seating order a little. Mimi’s sitting with us now, and I banished Mayor Bloomberg’s daughter, as nice as she may be.”
“Thank you,” Zoe said in relief.
The evening began with cocktails on the lawn in front of the tents. A band skillfully played its way through all of the greatest hits from the eighties. (Zoe was sure that Kitty had personally approved every single song on that evening’s repertoire.)
The convenient thing about endless sit-down dinners was that the eating kept being interrupted by toasts—meaning, even more drinking—which meant that the later it got, the funnier those toasts became. After Mayor Bloomberg, Donna Karan, and Alec Baldwin showered their hostess with thanks and compliments and even more thanks, Mimi decided that she should get up and make a toast.
“I think we should propose Kitty as Mother Teresa’s successor, what do you guys think?” she said to their table. “She could do that Indian slum thing right from her apartment in Park Avenue. She wouldn’t need to get her hands dirty or anything.”
Tom rolled his eyes and held onto Mimi’s arm tightly so that she couldn’t get up. Mimi and Kitty—that was a story in itself. They’d had it in for each other ever since Kitty had caught Mimi, who had been fifteen at the time, making out with Tom on her bed. As if that wasn’t embarrassing enough for everyone involved, Kitty not only recounted what had happened to Mimi’s parents in full detail, but also to the principal of the private school that Mimi and Tom attended at that time.
Zoe wondered how many mojitos Mimi had had so far. It must have been somewhere between five and seven.
After the delicious Maine lobster, Tom’s father clinked his spoon against his glass and announced a toast. First, Chuck Fiorino gratefully thanked the gods of good weather, and then he thanked “the most wonderful wife ever.” Kitty fluttered her lashes, smiling and blushing like a schoolgirl. Wow! Zoe thought. Madam should have been an actress. Zoe didn’t know anybody else who could blush on command.
Then, to the surprise of everyone there, Chuck proposed another toast. “I’d also like to welcome a very special guest tonight: Miss Zoe Schuhmacher. A truly enchanting import from Germany, who, with her European charm, delights not only my son Tom—but the rest of us as well.”
While Tom smiled with a kind of possessive pride and Mimi grinned at her, Zoe blushed raspberry pink. She still managed, however, to raise her glass with composure, nod to Charles gratefully, and toast in his direction. Kitty, whose face had glazed over for a nanosecond, recovered from her shock in a flash and also raised her glass with a smile. Nothing like a good facade. I wonder if Lady Di felt like this at some point, Zoe mused.
The party was a gre
at success. Shortly before midnight, the guests were dancing in front of the tents to the Beach Boys. Kitty materialized out of thin air next to Zoe and touched her arm lightly with her bony hand. Zoe jumped.
“Shall we take a short walk, dear?” she asked. It sounded more like an order.
They silently crossed the precisely clipped lawn, and went down to the beach. Kitty was always half a step ahead of her. The music was drowned out by the rushing of the waves. Zoe thought that with her high cheekbones, deep-blue eyes, and the proud posture of a ballerina, Kitty must have been a very beautiful woman at some point. “I know you make my son happy,” Kitty began when they had reached the wooden dock.
Zoe was sure that Kitty had never set a foot on the sand of that beach in her entire life.
“But I don’t want him to make the same mistake I did.”
Zoe was simultaneously surprised and shaken by Kitty’s completely un-American openness. Her husband, the smart, hardworking, handsome, and—not to mention—rich Charles Fiorino, was a mistake? Just because his far-off ancestors had been from the wrong side of town? Zoe was certain that Kitty would deny vehemently that this conversation had ever taken place if anyone ever asked her about it. That was absolutely clear to Zoe.
“A relationship between two people should be a strategic pact, dear,” Kitty continued.
Zoe kept a shocked silence while blushing with embarrassment. Luckily, it was dark already, with only the thin sliver of a new moon illuminating the beach. Damn it, what do I have to be ashamed of? she chided herself silently. “So what you’re trying to say is that I’m a mistake?” she managed to say.
Kitty was silent for a moment. “Mistakes are a terrible thing, my dear. They should be avoided, no matter the cost,” she finally responded icily, and then disappeared silently into the night. Like an apparition. Only her perfume remained, lingering on the air for a few seconds, until a breeze from the sea carried it away. Chanel No. 5.
Small Talk, or: What to Talk About at a Dinner Party
The social status of a person depends not only on which charity balls, fashion shows, dinner parties, and other social events they are invited to, but also to whom they talk, for how long, and about what.
The following mispronunciation errors are to be avoided:
Diane von Furstenberg: right = DEE-On; wrong = Dye-ANN
Charles Koch: right = Coke (like the soft drink); wrong = Kotch
Proenza Schouler: right = SKOOL-er; wrong = SHOO-ler
You should never admit to knowing any of the following people, and you should never mention them in conversation: Imelda Marcos, Bernie Madoff, Jeffrey Epstein.
The following names should definitely be worked into conversations:
“When I was with the Clintons . . .”
“Andy Warhol would have liked this . . .”
“Barack and I . . .” or alternatively “Michelle and I . . .”
A little advice about seating arrangements: At parties with fewer than ten guests, the hostess shows people individually to their places. With more than ten guests, remember: Always seat couples separately, man/woman/man/woman as well as ugly/pretty/ugly/pretty or talker/quiet/talker/quiet.
(New York for Beginners, p. 187)
28
JUNE
Zoe quickly learned that summer in New York City could be described in three words: Long, hot, and sticky. The city’s power system was always at risk of breaking down because every apartment, restaurant, flagship store, and office building had its AC on full blast. Like every other summer, this year featured the usual heat waves, during which TV reporters fried eggs on the nearly melting pavement of 5th Avenue, to the amusement of their viewers. And, as the New York Post declared, the homicide rate was skyrocketing, as was usual for this time of year.
When you love somebody, Zoe thought, you don’t just welcome a new person into your life; you also accept what the Americans called “baggage.” In other words, all that stuff that came with the territory. That meant mothers-in-law, fathers-in-law, brothers, sisters . . . maybe even kids, dogs, and occasionally ex-wives. But how many pieces of baggage could one woman deal with without having to pay a big, fat emotional extra baggage fee someday? That was the million-dollar question that occupied Zoe’s mind these days.
At least she had Tom and science on her side. American scientists had discovered that an unconventional love, provided it was given enough time, would only grow stronger as the pressure from outside increased. That was what Zoe had read somewhere, anyway. Partnerships outside of the norm were apparently very stable, scientists said. They either fell apart immediately, or they survived significantly longer than the average marriage.
Zoe reached for her phone and texted Allegra, who, according to her calculations, was still in Bali:
Can a relationship with Tom really work?
No guarantees there, sweetie!
What are you doing?
I’m looking for Ketut, that toothless old guy who predicted Elizabeth Gilbert’s future.
What are you going to ask him?
If I’ll find my true love. Duh!
Do you think Tom’s the man of my dreams?
How am I supposed to know? What do you think?
I’m convinced he is!
So where’s the problem?
Tom and I are like the North and South Poles, with Kitty in between.
Kitty, the new global warming? Ha!
Oh, hilarious, Al! Sometimes I feel like Tom’s not completely on my side. Like when I think of those freaking funeral flowers.
Funeral flowers?
Oh, forget it!
Mystical Lady Allegra bets that Tom’s astrological sign is Libra.
How did you know???
He’s the perfect diplomat. He’ll never be on anybody’s side 100% but will always acknowledge an opponent’s argument. Even if it feels like disloyalty to you, he doesn’t mean it that way. That’s the way he is. You can’t change it.
But Kitty’s like a wicked stepmother from Grimm’s Fairy Tales. She wants to cook me in gravy as soon as the king leaves the castle.
Oh, don’t be ridiculous.
She threatened me, Allegra! Honestly! How can you be so blasé about that?
Kitty’s just a harmless old hag.
Yeah, that’s what you think. But I have a huge problem with her. Who knows what she’s capable of?
Huge problem? Bull. While you’re having hot sex with the hottest guy in North America, who’s also intelligent, successful, and filthy rich, I’m over here looking for a toothless fortune teller. That’s what a huge problem looks like!
“How do you know when you’re having a midlife crisis?” Zoe asked herself while staring intently at her screen.
She was sitting in the new Yearning office at General Assembly, a start-up incubator on 21st Street. They were going over the hopeless pitches from various ad agencies again. Justus got up, walked around the desk, and stood behind her.
“When you start Googling the average lifespan of German women?” he asked, amused, pointing at Zoe’s monitor.
“I’ll be thirty-five this weekend, Justus. That can make a woman think, you know? Thirty-five is half of seventy. An average woman who was born in the same year as I was lives around 74.67 years.”
“You’re no average woman,” Justus said, laughing.
“And you’re a kiss-ass. But that isn’t changing anything. Half of my time is over.”
“Thirty-five is the new twenty-five, dear.”
“Yeah, right. It’s all downhill from thirty-five.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not kidding! If I were to get pregnant now, it would be a high-risk pregnancy. That practically entails being admitted into a maternal convalescence home. And I’m also seriously considering wearing only skirts that cover my knees now, because it seems li
ke they got fat and knobby overnight. How does that happen? And if I stay up past midnight and have more than two glasses of wine, I have such a hangover the next day, it’s like I’ve been drinking away the entire weekend. Do you know what that’s called, Justus?” She didn’t wait for his answer. Besides, in this situation, every possible answer would have been potentially bad. “Old! It’s called old.”
Justus burst out laughing. “I’d call it overworked.” He laid his hands on her shoulder and started giving her a neck rub.
“Justus, what if Yearning fails?” Zoe asked suddenly.
“Ah! So that’s where this is coming from. You women always express your worries in such a complicated way. What are you afraid of?”
“Of failing!”
“Failing with Yearning or failing with Tom?”
“You cheap shrink! You’re acting like those things have anything to do with each other.”
“Well, don’t they?” Justus asked, looking at Zoe expectantly.
“No! Well, maybe a tiny bit.”
“And how so?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Zoe stared out the window stubbornly.
Justus turned her desk chair around so she had to face him. “Out with it! Come on!”
“If Yearning fails, I’ll have nothing left.”
“You have Tom. Zoe, he didn’t fall in love with Yearning. He fell in love with you.”
“But then everybody is going to think I’m after him for his money. Especially his mother. Because, without Yearning, I’m completely dependent on him.”
“Well, you can’t worry about things that haven’t happened yet.”
But Zoe Schuhmacher could. She was the world champion of that sport. Even as a little kid, she had lain awake brooding for hours, wondering if the dentist would have to drill, and how much that might hurt, as soon as her mother had made the appointment. And as a teenager she wondered for days whether to give the note she’d spent three weeks writing to the boy in ninth grade she had a crush on. It contained one sentence: “Do you want to go get some ice cream with me?” Would he hang it up on the school’s bulletin board for everyone to see, and make her the laughingstock of her entire class? Zoe was one of those worst-case-scenario types who always imagined the ultimate disaster. Surprisingly, it seemed to help her in her life, since those kinds of catastrophes almost never happened. The downsides, though, included nervous stomachaches and lots of time lost worrying.
New York for Beginners Page 24
