New York for Beginners (10 page)

“Really, darling,” Gunn broke in. “The story is too good—we must tell it properly.”

“If you must,” she said, grudgingly.

“See the piece on the left?” Gunn asked, waving a hand at the white canvas.

“Yes . . .” Zoe answered hesitantly.

“It’s called
Stared At for One Thousand Hours
, by Francis Freeman, 2007 until 2012,” Gunn said.

“I don’t understand.” The painting looked like a Rothko without paint. Like an empty canvas from an art store.

“The painter stared at the canvas for a thousand hours,” Gunn repeated.

Stared? For a thousand hours? I mean, really?
Zoe thought.

“It’s called conceptual absence, my dear,” Gunn explained, as though he was teaching Art History 101. He obviously thought that Zoe knew nothing about art.

“But what if he only
said
he stared at it?” The words just slipped out of her mouth, and she instantly turned beet-red. Her question was completely honest, but it was probably also completely stupid.

“But that’s what it’s all about. Did he stare at it or not? Would it be the same piece of art if he hadn’t done it?”

“Oh,” she whispered, but still saw only an empty canvas in front of her. She wondered what a painting like that cost. Half a million? A million? More?

“But that’s not the story you wanted to tell, dear,” Darling reminded him.

“Oh, yes.” Gunn laughed, pointing first to the Freeman, and then to the child’s work. “This here on the left is not the original. We had him make another one—after our nanny unwittingly allowed our three-year-old to scribble on the first one with crayons. Freeman stared at the original from 1992 until 1997, before my son drew over it in 2007. We compensated poor Freeman for having to stare at another canvas for a thousand hours. Crazy, isn’t it?”

“So that’s the mad world of New York’s rich and beautiful,” Zoe said, as she and Mimi rode back to Manhattan in the stretch limo at two in the morning.

“You happened to meet a very amusing example of it,” Mimi said, grinning in the darkness. The chauffeur had put up the privacy panel and kindly turned off the disco light show so the two of them could relax on the trip back home.

Zoe’s thoughts turned to McNeighbor. She wondered if Thomas Prescott Fiorino belonged to this crowd. Was he one of the 1 percent who have wave pools in their yards, stared-at canvases on their walls, and wives whom they call “darling” instead of by their first names? It certainly must make it easier when they traded them in for new, younger models after a few years. Zoe had intended to ban McNeighbor from her thoughts entirely, but somehow none of this seemed to fit with the man she’d met on that damn Sunday morning.

“Is that really Fiorino’s world?” she asked Mimi. She faked a yawn, hoping Mimi would think this subject wasn’t actually of particular interest to her.

“Not really.” Mimi shook her head. “What you saw this evening was new money, sweetie.”

“And . . . ?”

“Tom’s world is old money,” Mimi continued. “Totally different ballgame.”

Zoe thought about it for a moment. It sounded kind of like a threat.

Fashion Week, or: Which Way to the Tents?

Not only does the New York calendar have a totally different time concept of summer, but two entire months every year have special meaning: February and September, the months of New York Fashion Week. In those two months, spring/summer and autumn/winter collections are shown in tents, in the area in front of the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center. Of course the fashion shows are not for mere mortals who want to see a few live mannequins strutting down the catwalk. No, there is a carefully chosen audience: buyers from large department stores, journalists, bloggers, filthy-rich customers, and a few Hollywood stars for decoration.

In the evenings there are exclusive dinners and after-parties with even more exclusive guests, the invitations to which are a hot commodity among designers and their PR agents.

(
New York for Beginners
, p. 63)

9

Zoe had registered for the fashion shows as the writer for StyleChicks, but in the end she’d been able to use Allegra’s invitation. Al had to be at a board meeting and couldn’t come herself. Getting to use Al’s invitation was a nice perk, because as fashion magazine royalty, Al got a seat in the front row, where all the celebrities sat, and where all the gift bags filled with cosmetics and other goodies lay on the chairs. Mere bloggers, on the other hand, occupied the fifth row or were relegated to standing room. Those areas were so far from what was going on that one could barely see the models’ upper halves. Her colleagues at the office called them the “nosebleed seats.”

Madison, the office assistant whom everyone simply referred to now as Blonde Poison, was wearing a Juicy Couture stretch dress of questionable taste in Miss Piggy pink. Even a twelve-year-old would have looked like a prostitute in it.

“Tom wanted me to ask if you’d like a ride to the show today in his Town Car,” Madison said, placing her uninvited ass cheek on Zoe’s desk once again.

Blonde Poison clearly didn’t see a problem in referring to her new boss by his first name. Zoe herself hadn’t seen McSlimy since their encounter in the elevator. Not that she minded. She was still extremely pissed off at him.

“Thank you, Madison. You can tell Mr. Fiorino I’d rather take the subway,” Zoe answered. You had to hit an alpha man where it hurt the most, didn’t you?

Madison looked a little disturbed by this decision. Zoe figured that her few brain cells had to work extra hard to traverse the empty space in her brain and recalculate the information. But as Zoe studied the subway map a little later, it became clear to her that there wasn’t really a subway line from the Chrysler Building to Lincoln Center. So she walked in her three-inch Louboutin heels until she was finally able to hail a cab on 5th Avenue.

The paparazzi were stationed in front of the tents, waiting for the stars. Zoe felt tremendously important as she strode over the red carpet in her Victoria Beckham dress. She had accessorized with a Chloe hobo bag from two seasons ago that she’d snatched up at a sample sale. A PR woman from Ralph Lauren gave her a cool once-over, as though she’d secretly scanned Zoe’s bag and found out that it didn’t belong to the current collection. But when she saw the name Allegra Sollani on Zoe’s invitation, she instantly pasted a saccharine smile on her face and led Zoe into the huge tent with a feather-light hand on her elbow. First row. The place cards to her left and right informed her that she was seated between “It Girl” Alexa Chung and McSlimy.

“Did you enjoy your walk?” McSlimy asked before sitting down next to her.

He wore a fashionable two-day beard, a slim-fitting dark suit, shoes that appeared to be from Savile Row in London and had certainly been handmade by illegal Tamil child laborers, and his charming lopsided smile. His hair stood up in all directions, orderly in its disorder.
Doesn’t this man own a comb?

Zoe nodded graciously and made an honest effort to punish him by ignoring him for the rest of the show.
Men play only minor roles in my life, men play only minor roles in my life, men play only minor roles in my life
, she repeated like a mantra in her mind.

The lights went out, the DJ turned up the bass, and Lenny Kravitz sang “Are You Gonna Go My Way.” It was strange to sit so close to McSlimy in the dark. It somehow felt extremely illegal. He smelled like McNeighbor and Issey Miyake. His arm touched hers very lightly. But then the first model appeared and shook Zoe out of McDreamy’s force field. Karlie Kloss wore a floor-length, high-cut evening dress of smoky-taupe chiffon, which flowed around her size-zero body. The look was accessorized by huge silver earrings. Right before she made her turn at the end of the catwalk, the flashes of the cameras fired like machine guns.

Zoe’s show schedule today was practically laughable:

• 10:00—Ralph Lauren
  
• 11:00—Rachel Zoe
  
• 12:00—Calvin Klein
  
• 1:00—Elizabeth & James
  
• 2:00—Patricia Field
  
• 3:00—Marchesa
  
• 4:00—Anna Sui
  
• 5:00—Reed Krakoff
  
• 6:00—Betsey Johnson
  
• 7:00—Proenza Schouler
  
• 8:00—Marc Jacobs
  

Every hour of the day was filled with killer heels, brilliant-white smiles, practiced pouts, and of course those endless camera flashes. First in the big tent, then next door to the small studio, back to the tent, to the press lounge for an espresso and a glass of champagne, and then back to the tent. The highlight of the day would be the Marc Jacobs show, which happened off-site in the 69th Regiment Armory on Lexington Avenue between 25th and 26th Streets. Very far from Lincoln Center. McSlimy and Zoe hadn’t exchanged a word with each other the entire day.

“Would you like a ride to the Marc Jacobs show?” he asked when they almost walked into each other at the exit.

“Thank you, Mr. Fiorino, but I’d rather take a taxi.”

“You know, of course, that Marc is notorious for starting late, that it will be ice-cold in the armory, and that it will be much more comfortable in my Town Car?”

“Over my dead body,” Zoe responded coldly, and stormed off.

Of course it was impossible to get a taxi shortly before eight p.m., when the last show in Lincoln Center had ended. “Of course all the
insiders
know that,” Zoe muttered to herself with annoyance, and made her way toward the subway station again. She was stressed and in a permanent state of panic about getting sweat stains on her own haute couture when she finally arrived in the no-man’s land of the East 20s (was it Murray Hill? or Gramercy?) and made her way on foot to the Armory. In front of the gates was a line at least two hundred people deep. Some were waving their invitation cards wildly, and others were demanding in shrill voices that they were on the guest list. Doormen in black suits with football-player physiques and radios in their ears like Secret Service men held their positions stoically. At 8:45, forty-five minutes late, Zoe was finally allowed to go inside. The gigantic Armory hall, with its pillars and ornamented ceilings, was still half empty. Zoe took her place on a cold metal bench in the first row. There was no trace of VIPs like Hollywood’s Sofia Coppola or fashion queen Anna Wintour. And no show began before Anna arrived. That was the law. McSlimy was probably still sitting in his warm, chauffeur-driven Town Car, peacefully drinking an Americano and reading a newspaper.

The building was the size of an airplane hangar. It had once been the headquarters of the 69th Regiment. When it was built in 1851, nobody had bothered to put in central heating. It was damn cold in there, and Zoe was hungry. Hunger was a bad sign for Schuhmachers. Zoe actually thought that she was relatively low-maintenance, all things considered. But when she got hungry, bystanders had to beware. Things could get ugly.

Meanwhile, it was five past nine. The show should have started over an hour ago. The audience was getting fidgety. But Anna still wasn’t there. McSlimy wasn’t, either. Zoe’s stomach growled dangerously. She wondered if she should just leave. The whole thing was an affront. People were saying that the shoes for the show had been held up in the airport by customs, and would be arriving in a few minutes.
So let the models walk barefoot
, Zoe thought. She was cold, she was murderously hungry, and as a member of upper echelons of the fashion elite, she felt completely snubbed. Then, at 9:37, the lights were suddenly dimmed, and a few figures hurried to their seats. Zoe recognized Anna even though she was wearing sunglasses. She also spotted Beyoncé and Winona Ryder. McSlimy glided noiselessly to his seat next to Zoe. He dropped a paper bag in her lap, which smelled sensationally of avocado and grilled chicken.

“Here’s a sandwich, in case you’re hungry.”

Zoe could have thrown her arms around him . . . but she just said “Thank you” and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

The Marc Jacobs show was spectacular. The collection was reminiscent of an eighties prom.
Pretty in Pink
meets
The Breakfast Club
. Jacobs allowed himself the luxury of having a new model for each of his fifty-five looks. None of them had to change and come out again. After the parade was over and Marc came up on the catwalk to take a bow, briefly and a little shyly, there was thunderous applause. Even from the typically merciless Anna. Then McSlimy took Zoe’s hand without invitation, and whisked her through the crowd out the back exit.

“My driver will take us to the after-party.”

Zoe noticed she was nodding. Even though her brain didn’t want her to, some other part of her obviously did. Whether it was her grateful stomach or her hormones, she wasn’t sure.

The Marc Jacobs after-party was at the Gramercy Park Hotel, where Allegra liked to crash when she was in town. A standard room there cost $600 a night. Zoe looked around the hotel curiously. The lobby’s design looked like a cross between the Museum of Modern Art, a medieval castle, and a French boudoir. The Rose Bar to Zoe’s right was very obviously closed to hotel guests, and was guarded by a huge, muscled bouncer and a female creature that—based on its body mass index—had to have been an elf. But McSlimy, whose name was doubtlessly chiseled into the exclusive Rose Bar guest list, continued to pull Zoe by the hand toward the elevators.

Allegra had once told Zoe that the only people who had access to the roof terrace, with its rattan sofas and potted geraniums, were the chosen ones in possession of a black elevator card. McSlimy pulled a black card out his wallet, stuck it in the card reader, and the two of them were whisked silently up to the penthouse. The nighttime view of the glittering Empire State Building, which seemed close enough to touch, took Zoe’s breath away.

“I want to show you something,” McSlimy said, pulling Zoe into a side room that seemed to be for private dinner parties or something. On the wall hung a gigantic pharmacy shelf filled with medicine bottles and boxes: Tylenol, aspirin, Motrin. “This is Damien Hirst’s
Pharmacy
. An original.”

McSlimy was still holding her hand. Their shoulders were touching, and Zoe could feel the heat emanating from his body. He smiled his amazingly charming, lopsided smile. Blue eyes. Bed head. McNeighbor.

Zoe repressed the urge to simply kiss him, right there and then. Her free hand wanted to reach up to the back of his head and pull his face down to hers. She’d once read it was called Stockholm Syndrome, when hostages fell in love with their kidnappers. But then she remembered she was supposed to be pissed off at him. Extremely pissed off, even. With that, the magic of the moment was over, like a sudden drop in temperature after a strong storm.

McSlimy let go of her hand as though he’d read her mind. They left the pharmacy room and were walking back past the bank of elevators toward the roof terrace when one of the doors slid open and a very tall, handsome man walked out.

“Tom!” he cried, and beamed at McSlimy.

“Tom!” McSlimy cried, and put his arm around the other Tom’s shoulder in a brotherly manner.

“I heard you were back from London,” said the other Tom, pausing briefly while his eyes wandered over to Zoe. He added cryptically, “What’s the mood like over there?”

It seemed like McSlimy had to think about his answer for a few seconds, as though he had to Google London in his mind. “Stormy with poor visibility,” he answered, and then changed the subject quickly. “May I introduce the new Digital Queen of Schoenhoff Publishing?”

He put his arm around Zoe’s shoulders, scooted her a little nearer to the unfamiliar Tom, and said, “Zoe Schuhmacher, this is Tom Chrysler. Tom Chrysler, this is Zoe Schuhmacher. She’s a huge talent, and is responsible for the company’s new fashion website.”

Zoe could only nod affirmatively. Tom Chrysler was one of most famous fashion designers alive.

“But of course, Zoe!” Tom answered. “I can hardly wait to have a chance to talk to you, dear. Please call me whenever you want. Tom has my number. We simply must meet for lunch.”

Zoe and McSlimy, who seemed to be imitating McNeighbor again, sat on the southeast side of the terrace with a view of the Midtown skyscrapers, and the brightly lit living room and bedroom across the street. New York really was the world capital for voyeurs.

“Vodka tonic,” McSlimy ordered. “And for you, my dear? A cucumber Saketini?”

Zoe nodded again. Her conscience was setting off all the alarm bells, whistles, and flashing red lights.
Don’t forget your resolutions! Resolutions are made to be kept! Anything else will end in chaos!
But her brain was currently being steamrolled by an avalanche of a hundred thousand different impressions and emotions, and she didn’t know whether she would be completely swept away or she’d be able to find her way out of the rubble. Make swimming motions, she’d learned once from a ski instructor during a lesson while skiing in deep powder. That’s how you created an airspace if you were caught in an avalanche.