New York for Beginners (27 page)

“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.” Kitty 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?”

“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.”