New York for Beginners (28 page)

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 great 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 like 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.

They met for dinner that night at Mission Chinese on Orchard Street. The restaurant, which
The New York Times
restaurant critic had named one of the top-ten restaurants in the entire city, felt like an old watering hole. Its dingy dining room reminded Zoe of a grimy takeout stand, with dishes that were numbered for easy ordering. There were even photos of the dishes on the walls. But that was probably all meant ironically, Zoe realized. It was like hipsters who intentionally put ugly things like stag antlers on their walls or had 1970s porn-star beards.

“Any plans for lunch tomorrow?” Tom asked as their food arrived at the table.

“No,” Zoe answered, and took a small bite of the “smashed cucumbers” she’d just been served. A burst of spicy coolness bloomed on her tongue. “Why? Are you free?”

“Kitty has invited you to lunch at the Four Seasons.”

Zoe’s appetite disappeared in an instant. She hadn’t dared tell Tom about the strange conversation with his mother that night on the beach. She wasn’t quite sure herself how seriously she should take that “harmless old hag,” as Al had so charmingly called her. But she really didn’t feel the need to have lunch with her. Especially not alone, without Tom.

“Maybe I did have something planned.”

“Oh, come on,” Tom tried to persuade her. “I’m sure it would make Kitty happy. You should give her another chance after your slightly rough start in the Hamptons.”

Zoe didn’t think that was fair. The rough start had been Kitty’s fault, not hers. So why should she be reasonable now? She looked at Tom, who had perfected those manly puppy-dog eyes.

“OK. But I’m doing this for you.”

Zoe chose the most conservative outfit in her closet, a black Theory pantsuit. To go with it, she put on an ivory silk blouse with a granny-like ruffle at the throat. She was more nervous about this lunch than she was before her first job interview.

Zoe entered the restaurant at the Four Seasons Hotel on 52nd Street.

“I have a lunch date,” she told the hostess.

“In the Grill Room or the Pool Room, madam?” she politely inquired.

Zoe hesitated. She felt uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I didn’t know there was—”

“Who are you meeting today?” the hostess interrupted, which Zoe thought was less than polite.

“Katherine Whitney Fiorino.”

The hostess came out from behind her desk and started walking ahead silently. Zoe looked around. She was being led to the Pool Room, where, unsurprisingly, a white marble pool dominated the middle of the room. There were huge palm trees at each of its edges. Zoe felt as though she’d ended up on
Mad Men
. She could vividly picture the drinking binges that Don Draper would have had here in the sixties.

“Madam Fiorino always sits at Table 4,” the hostess explained when they reached a seating alcove where one could be seen by everybody in the restaurant, but which also offered enough privacy that not everybody could listen in.

Zoe sat down. She had arrived first, which made her feel awkward.
So Kitty Fiorino is making me wait,
Zoe thought. That was a common—and most likely foolproof—humiliation tactic. Zoe pulled out her iPhone and started playing around with it. She had to do something.

“Germans are always so exquisitely punctual,” a woman said, materializing out of thin air in front of her. It was Kitty, looking characteristically aloof in her nude-colored summer cashmere. Her greeting sounded like a reproach.

Zoe leapt up from her chair like a taut spring and realized at the same time how unconfident that must have looked.

Kitty held out her hand patronizingly and eyed her. “Good day to you, dear,” she said. “Are you attending a funeral?” Then she sat down.