New York for Beginners (7 page)

When Zoe returned to the Four Seasons Executive Residences, she paused in the hallway between 47A and 47C. 47A was completely quiet.
Maybe McNeighbor moved out
, she thought, the worst-case scenario racing through her head. After all, these were temporary business apartments. She considered knocking but couldn’t persuade herself to do it. Somehow it didn’t seem right to chase a guy who had ignored her for the past thirty-six hours. On the other hand, she had made up her mind to be foolish, and she’d already put it off once on Sunday. She decided to risk taking a step over the imaginary line that divided her side of the hall from McNeighbor’s when she heard the elevator doors open with a hydraulic swish. Zoe sprinted to her apartment, closing the door behind her as fast as she could. She was afraid to look out through the peephole in case someone could see that she was looking; they’d see a grossly distorted eye or something. So she pressed her ear to the door and tried to determine if it was actually McNeighbor. But according to her acoustic analysis, it must have been someone who lived at the other end of the hall.

“You are being very silly,” she said to herself and sat down on her desk. But she couldn’t get her damn neighbor out of her head.

She switched on her laptop and went to look over the photos on her phone for StyleChicks while her computer loaded. She’d received three text messages from Benni since checking her phone last.

I know where u r now. Do u want 2 talk?

Zoe, b reasonable!

Can we ever b friends?

This time, Zoe answered.

No, no, and no.

Zoe actually found it offensive that BNN wanted to be friends with her. What was the point of that? So that she could watch a live stream of his wedding to the blue avatar, and then see the photos of their (probably light-blue) babies? And watch BNN become one of those constantly stressed but sensationally happy fathers who fell into bed with exhaustion before the late-night news every night? Or maybe he’d sleep on the sofa because the light-blue babies were sharing the bed with his wife?
No thanks!

After Zoe calmed down again, she posted the pictures of the two girls on the blog. Then she Googled New York rental apartments. She had to find something by the end of the month at the latest. She entered her criteria on the Corcoran website, which had been recommended to her: 1BR, Manhattan, Nolita or SoHo District, outdoor space (a balcony would be nice, wouldn’t it? After all, she earned $180,000 a year!). But she got only one result: a one-bedroom apartment on her beloved Mott Street, with no balcony or terrace, for $5,500 a month.
That has to be a mistake,
Zoe thought. Maybe Corcoran was the real-estate agent for movie stars and only accepted VIP clients.

She clicked on the second-best agency. There she got three results from her search. A loft on Mercer Street, completely decorated in white, for $11,000 a month; an apartment on Greenwich Street for $5,595 a month; and a dark hole of doubtful nature on Broome Street for $3,500 dollars.

“Hmm, this could be tricky,” she said and sighed. This wasn’t how she had imagined things going when she had haggled for her new American salary back in Berlin. She knew that New York City apartments were expensive. But
this
expensive? After a few more searches, in which her requirements became looser and looser, it looked like all she could afford was an apartment in Brooklyn.

6

SEPTEMBER

Zoe learned from her colleagues that the New York calendar had its very own seasons. Summer began on Memorial Day weekend and ended on Labor Day weekend. The summer rental season in the Hamptons ran on this schedule. One could rent a ramshackle three-bedroom hut disguised as a vacation house for $25,000 for the summer. Or the daughter of a Russian oligarch could shell out the $750,000 rent for a place in Bridgehampton, without the least effect on her father’s blood pressure. It was all documented on Page Six of the
New York Post
.

In New York City, the first Tuesday in September was not just the first day of autumn, but also the first real work day of the season. In July and August, summer hours applied (eight in the morning until three in the afternoon) and dress was “summer casual” (bare legs, no ties). Starting today, the first Tuesday in September, it was back to business.

Zoe wasn’t dressed for autumn, first of all because no one had initiated her into these mysterious traditions (or any other unwritten law of New York society), and secondly, because it was still at least 78 degrees outside—at seven in the morning. Aside from that, Zoe hadn’t managed to completely unpack her suitcases yet. She’d spent the rest of August shopping diligently, and now her new normal closet didn’t have enough space for all of her acquisitions. Zoe had moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. On the top floor of a walk-up. For $2,850 a month.

When she had finished moving out of the Four Seasons Executive Residences on the Friday before Labor Day and was closing the door to 47C for the last time, she mustered all of her newfound courage and pushed a note under 47A’s door. She knew from the doorman that McNeighbor would be staying there until the end of November, although she herself had neither seen nor heard anything from him since their last encounter. She’d written “Hey, stranger, I’d like to see you again sometime!” She added her cell phone number below. As soon as the slip of paper was irretrievable for even the thinnest of fingers, Zoe was overcome by the certainty that she was going to regret having left the note.

Now, in Brooklyn, Zoe examined her reflection in an old full-length mirror with a peeling gold frame that the previous renter had been kind enough to leave for her. She decided she was ready for the big day. She wore a lemon-yellow Theory sheath dress with elegant, nude Michael Kors strappy sandals. She was ready to meet the CEO. Franziska von Schoenhoff had called in to say that she would be at the New York office to introduce new personnel. She wanted to introduce Zoe, the new Digital Queen, and the new head of the New York office. Zoe had heard through the office grapevine that he was an American, a friend of Franziska’s long-lost son. Justus Theo von Schoenhoff was actually supposed to take over Mama’s business someday, but during winter break of his final year of university, he had jetted off to Sravasti, India, for a course in Vipassana meditation instead of meeting his parents in St. Barts and had never come back.

Zoe walked down the stairs of her new home. The red sandstone townhouse was on President Street in a pretty part of Brooklyn called Carroll Gardens. The office messenger at Schoenhoff, Michelangelo, had grown up in the area and assured Zoe that it was very safe. “Unless of course you want to open a
ristorante
,” he’d said. Then she’d have to pay protection money. So Zoe Schuhmacher rented herself an apartment in the ancestral territory of the New York Cosa Nostra.

She walked along President Street, which was lined with big, old trees, and tried to remember where the subway station was. Apparently a new bakery/ice-cream shop with the unfortunate name of Momofuku Milk Bar had just opened right next to the station, as her new landlady had proudly announced at least three times. They had flavors of soft-serve ice cream that were so unique they were copyrighted. One such flavor was Cereal Milk, which tasted like the milk at the bottom of a bowl of Frosted Flakes, after the sugar had soaked into it. Zoe found the idea extremely clever. For the previous thirty-four years of her life she’d been convinced that one didn’t eat Frosted Flakes for the flakes, but for the milk that was left at the bottom of the bowl.

Zoe found
2nd Place, Momofuku Milk Bar, and then the subway station. The ice cream would have to wait until after work—as a reward for what she was certain would be a spectacular day.

The conference room had a view of the East River, and it was very full. Only senior editors were allowed to sit at the big table; interns and assistants sat on the windowsills or leaned against the walls. Zoe chose a chair at the back, on the left-hand side of the table. She was seated as far as possible from the enemy, just like the old days in Latin class. Both coffee and mineral water in funny tropical-print bottles that had actually been flown in from Fiji were available. And there were blueberry muffins. Zoe grabbed one immediately—after all, there clearly weren’t enough for everyone. She had just taken an extra-large bite when the CEO of Schoenhoff entered the room. She was sixty-four, was wearing one of those tent-like A-line Marni dresses that were so popular this season, and had styled her iron-gray hair into an artistic chignon. In the seventies, she had simultaneously built up a fashion-magazine empire and mail-order company. Twenty-five million copies of the legendary Schoenhoff catalogue, as thick as a telephone book, were released twice a year. Back then, it was eerily clever that the magazine
Women’s Beauty Weekly
had cheerfully praised a pink, bunny-shaped egg cooker (perfect eggs every time, guaranteed!) before Easter, which was then available in the catalogue for $12.99. Forty years later, the strategy would be called “synergy effect.”

A man followed on the heels of the Schoenhoff CEO. On his place card at the head of the table it said “Thomas Prescott Fiorino, President of Schoenhoff Publishing, Inc.”

He smiled an amazingly charming, lopsided smile.

Blue eyes.

Bed head.

McNeighbor.

The bite of blueberry muffin stuck in Zoe’s throat. Not just proverbially, but in a very real way. On a Sunday four weeks ago, she’d whispered things into this man’s ear that would have made her criminally liable in certain states in the Midwest. This man was her new boss.

She flailed her arms wildly, unable to breathe. Her colleagues only stared, taken aback. No one did anything.

“I’m choking, people!” Zoe wanted to shout, but she wasn’t able to, because she was choking.

Finally a young man leapt up. Zoe recognized him despite the lack of oxygen in her lungs and brain. He was a fashion assistant from Germany named Eros Mittermayer. “Does anyone here know the Heimlich maneuver?” he cried.

Silence. No one volunteered.

Dammit, hadn’t anyone here had to do a first-aid course in their junior year of high school?

Eros wrapped both of his arms around Zoe’s ribcage and swiftly lifted her out of her chair, letting her fall back so gravity could do the work. The slimy piece of muffin shot out of her mouth, flew in a high arch, and landed with a damp plop, right in the middle of the conference table.

The CEO of Schoenhoff stared at her in disgust. Thomas Prescott Fiorino stared at her in amusement. Everyone else just stared at her.

Silence.

It was too much for Zoe. She ran out the door.

Zoe Schuhmacher was not a fan of public restrooms in America, because they were, well, so public. The dividers between the stalls had gaps under them that made it easy to identify the occupants of other stalls by their shoes. And even vertically there was usually a gap at the hinges as wide as her thumb. No one had been able to tell her why this was, but so far it had been the case in nearly every public bathroom she’d seen. She suspected the American morality police wanted to hinder sex in the stalls and other such indelicacies.

The door to the restroom opened. A pair of men’s loafers with bare, hairy feet in them appeared.

“No men allowed, this is the ladies’ room,” Zoe shouted.

“I’m androgynous, darling,” Eros Mittermayer answered. The slightly plump twenty-eight-year-old fashion assistant had a weakness for colorful bowties and matching pocket squares. His trousers ended above the ankle in finest Thom Browne style. “Don’t take it so hard. No one here ever had as memorable an introduction as you did.”

“Thanks, very comforting. What happened after I left?”

“The well-ironed Mr. Fiorino gave his inaugural address, slick as an eel, and waffled on about synergy and cooperation, and how the silo-structure of the company has to be broken up.”

“He looks kind of like McDreamy, don’t you think?”

“I think McSlimy fits better.”

Zoe forced herself to come out of her hiding place to do damage control in front of the mirror. Her mascara, which was smeared from crying, made her look like a raccoon.

“Sexy look, Zoe dear,” Eros said, trying to comfort her. Zoe was warming to him. “Kate Moss was once very successful with her ‘heroin chic.’”

“Kate Moss was—and is—twenty pounds lighter than I am.”

“Don’t fret, darling. I have something for you.”

He held out a tattered little book with ink stains on the cover.

New York for Beginners: A Guide to Cultural Correctness Among Americans

By New York Fashionista

“What’s this supposed to be?”

“This is your new bible,” Eros announced solemnly.

Zoe wasn’t very religious. She saw herself as a C&E Christian, only going to church on Christmas and Easter. She also liked to ask the Universe for things—things like free parking spaces. That was the apex of her spiritualism. She regarded Eros’s “bible” skeptically.

“It’s all in here,” Eros said. “Everything you need to know about the American species. You have to swear to take good care of this book and absolutely never lose it. It’s worth at least ten pairs of Manolos.”

“OK, OK, I get it.”

She looked it over carefully. She was skeptical of Eros’s reverence for the volume. It was obviously a self-published work that had been made cheaply in a copy shop.

“Did you write this and publish it yourself?”

“Oh, no, I never would have been able to do that. Unfortunately, I’m not that brilliant an observer of American society.”

“Then who is this New York Fashionista?”

“She was the first German to work in this office, years ago. She believed you could only survive in New York if you mastered the unwritten rules of local society. The book has already passed through many hands, and it’s constantly being updated. We only give it to especially nice newcomers, Zoe. So you should feel honored. You’re one of us now.”

Armed with the holy scripture, Zoe slunk back to her corner office followed by the pitying glances of her colleagues. Then she texted Allegra about the dreadful events of the morning.

I slept with the new boss. And I threw up on the conference table.

Sex in the office? Zoe, darling, I barely recognize you! But was it so bad??

McNeighbor is the new boss!

SKYPE ME! NOW!

“Say something already, Zoe,” Allegra said, looking at her expectantly from the screen. But Zoe, who was sitting at her desk with her head buried on her crossed arms, remained silent.

“Are you ill or something? Are you in shock?” Allegra said, sounding amused.

“This! Is! Not! Funny!” Zoe finally managed to say, finally lifting her head.

“Hmm, somehow it is. You go to New York to focus on your career and nothing but your career, and the first thing you do is sleep with your new boss. You really have a talent for zeroing in on the right man, sweetie.”

Zoe had heard enough. “You, of all people, shouldn’t talk!”

Allegra wasn’t exactly the authority on morals, when it came to men. Zoe had known her since they were both interns at Schoenhoff Publishing. Zoe had always secretly admired Allegra for her Teflon-like self-confidence; no amount of criticism ever seemed to stick to her. But Allegra also had the natural-born talent of always choosing the wrong man. Everyone who knew her saw it. Allegra herself couldn’t care less, because she firmly believed that she’d profited from every bad relationship.