Anna: It might not make sense for you to come out for 3 days . . .
Neff: You have a point.
Anna: So you’re out?
Neff: Hmm I guess so.
Anna: Ok good luck with your shoot.
In sharing the exchange with me, Anna was hoping I’d affirm that her messages to Neff came across as clearly hostile. But they didn’t seem that way to me. If I were Neff, looking at those messages without knowing that Anna was upset, I wouldn’t have guessed it. Anna’s words were too subtle to reflect the depth of her annoyance.
Anna sent me Snapchat messages from Omaha, including video of a rowdy, drunken visit she paid to the Henry Doorly Zoo and Aquarium in the company of some businessmen who were attending the shareholders’ meeting. When she returned from the trip, she and I spoke on the phone. Our departure for Morocco was only days away. Now that Neff was out, Anna was struggling to find a replacement videographer. It seemed like she’d be happy with anyone who knew how to work a camera as long as we filled the space. Anna brought up the idea of inviting Nick. I asked him, but he declined, ostensibly because he was a still photographer and did not shoot video. This was true. It was also true, however, that he had become uncomfortable with the dynamics of my friendship with Anna. The last time I’d invited him to join Anna and me for dinner, he’d asked, “Where?”
“At Le Coucou,” I told him.
“Let’s go somewhere else. Maybe the Odeon,” he suggested.
“I don’t think Anna will want to.”
“Why? Doesn’t she ever leave her hotel?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t you think that’s weird? She chooses the restaurant. She chooses everything.”
By that point, I’d accepted the idea that because Anna paid for almost everything, she got to make all the choices, and I became defensive. I figured it was just the way some relationships were structured. I fended off his concerns, arguing that my friendship with Anna was real, and blaming anything he saw as weird as a harmless by-product of her hard-to-explain character.
Anna and I met up that evening for a drink and continued our conversation about who else to invite to Morocco. I was due to have dinner with a friend who was in town, but when it was time for me to leave, Anna was suddenly clingy. “I’d invite you, but I haven’t seen my friend in forever,” I explained. Jesse and I had become friends when he was working as a photo assistant and living in Brooklyn. He had subsequently bought a Winnebago and driven it across the country to Los Angeles, where he had been living for the past couple of years. It had been a long time since we’d seen each other.
Anna didn’t take no for an answer, so minutes later I sent Jesse a warning: I stopped by to say hi to my friend Anna who lives in 11 Howard . . . She asked if she could walk over to grab a bite (when I head over) and I felt awkward saying no . . . I told her I really want to catch up with you as it’s been forever (!!!!) She should get the hint and not stay long. You’ll like her though. She’s a bit crazy but actually very sweet and fun.
Love crazy. All good, he wrote back.
We met at a taco place called Tacombi, in Nolita. Anna did not leave after “grabbing a bite to eat,” like she’d promised. She stayed for the entire meal and I let it happen. She and Jesse got along. Before I paid the check, without asking me, Anna invited him to Morocco. He accepted on the spot, granting Anna credibility based on her relationship with me. Apparently, my consent didn’t matter to anyone; all around it was viewed as either irrelevant or implied. This bothered me, but I couldn’t think of a way around it: I didn’t want to stand in the way of Jesse’s free trip (I’d be glad to have him with me), nor did I want to complain about Anna’s inclusiveness. I could only let it go.
* * *
Having invited Kacy and Jesse, Anna looked to me for insight about what they’d expect her to pay for—aside from the hotel, which, according to Anna, was already a done deal.
“Well,” I explained, “since you’re essentially hiring each of them to do a job, they will expect you to cover their flights and expenses.”
Anna processed this information quietly before graciously offering, “And I’ll pay for yours, too”—as though this had always been her plan.
“Oh . . . ,” I replied. “Thank you, Anna. You really don’t need to. That’s a very generous gift.”
“I’m happy to take care of it,” she said.
But the day before our departure, Anna had yet to book our flights. Her procrastination hardly surprised me. I’d seen Anna leave arrangements to the last minute time and again. Flights to Marrakech weren’t sold out, and Anna didn’t care about getting a reasonable fare. Anna’s trip, Anna’s rules. If she wasn’t worrying, why should I?
She wanted to leave late in the evening, she said. She had a lot to wrap up before we left. This was fine by me; I had a lot to do, too. After Marrakech, I’d be traveling on my own directly to the South of France. It was something I’d always wanted to do. When I studied abroad, I had planned to visit Provence in late spring, but when late spring arrived, I didn’t want to leave Paris—so I put off the trip for later in life, and the time had finally come.
It was a mad scramble to prepare for two weeks out of the office. Probably even more so for Anna, since many of her meetings seemed to take place in person. I had played it cool when flights weren’t booked earlier in the week, but on the day we were scheduled to leave, it was time to nudge things along.
I wasn’t the only anxious one. Kacy and Jesse both sent me texts that morning. Jesse was heading to set, to assist on a photo shoot during the day, and needed time to get to the airport well in advance to park his Winnebago in long-term parking. I was the Anna whisperer, an involuntary intermediary. Aware of her characteristic aloofness, everyone texted me instead of her.
I sent her a text at eight a.m.: We could leave tomorrow if getting out today is too stressful. I do think people are slightly anxious about knowing the plan/flights being ticketed.
Wanting to make the process as easy for her as possible, I looked up different flight options. Booking travel was a big part of my job, and since Anna struggled with logistics, I was happy to take on that responsibility. I took screenshots and sent her two itineraries that could work, one that evening and one the next day.
What happened next is puzzling: Anna’s moves were smooth and fast. She and I texted back and forth with various flights and thoughts on what was available. Then she found the perfect option: a TAP Air Portugal flight departing from JFK at 11:25 p.m. The departure was late enough that everyone would have time to get ready: Kacy could pack and Jesse could park his Winnebago. The itinerary involved a long layover in Lisbon, but what did it matter? We’d finally be on our way!
Looks good to me! I texted, followed by a few dancing-girl emojis.
Will need to change the pick up from the airport as well, she replied, confirming she’d take care of it.
Good call. I’m sooo excited, I said.
Then, five minutes later, I received another text.
You busy? Anna asked.
I can talk, I replied.
I get interrupted all the time and about to get into meeting. Could you finish our flights booking? Just one way economy for everyone.
With what card? I inquired.
She texted two images: the front and back of a J.P. Morgan debit card belonging to “ANNA SOROKIN-DELVEY.”
K! Yes I’m happy to help. Just forward me Kacy and your info. I have Jesse’s.
She sent through a photo of Kacy’s passport and then a scan of her own.
They left out ‘delvey’ on my esta [visa] so maybe just leave it out on the tkts as well. Billing is 11 howard st, 10013 ny.
Her passport, issued in Düren, Germany, said “ANNA SOROKIN-DELVEY,” but I did as she asked.
Got it. Booking now, I told her. Funny that her billing address was the hotel where she’d been living, I thought to myself, but what else would it be? I guessed that’s how it worked living the way she did, fu
ll-time in a hotel.
Thanks. It kicks me off the site after 1min, she said.
Right after I booked the one-way tickets using Anna’s card, I received a phone call. It was a man from the travel agency, telling me that Anna’s card had been declined. Fair enough. The flight total was around $4,000 for the group, so I assumed she’d need to call her bank for authorization. He asked me to call him back once Anna approved the transaction, so I took down his number and messaged Anna.
Hi Anna, card was declined. Can you call your bank to authorize the charge?
Will do, she replied.
Text me when done. Sorry for the hassle, I told her.
I’m on hold with bank, she replied. They say they will call me back once the block is lifted and I need to raise my limits since Mamounia preauthorized today as well.
At this point in the conversation, it was exactly 1:45 in the afternoon. We’d been texting about travel since early in the morning. I was impatient, ready to get things sorted out and move on with my day. That said, I have trouble in hindsight understanding why Anna’s next text seemed plausible, but at the time it did.
Airline ppl calling me saying they are leaving in 10, she told me.
I wasn’t sure what to do with this information, but I felt the urgency.
Should I put on my card and you pay me back? I asked.
And that’s how it started, the beginning of the end.
Chapter 7
Marrakech
* * *
Travel is telling: the way different people like to pack and plan, or how early they leave for the airport. I’ve traveled so frequently for work that I’ve developed my own tried-and-true routine. I’m a proud member of the too-early club. I leave loads of time. TSA PreCheck (shoes stay on), headphones in, Hudson News for snacks and a bottle of water, and then a leisurely stroll—maybe I’ll read a book while I’m waiting to board. The alternative is stressful to me: rushing in, carsick from a speeding cab, cutting in line, and jogging the umpteen miles to the gate. No, thank you. That sort of intensity makes me more vulnerable to the rudeness and bad moods of strangers in airports—and people can become unhinged in airports; stress does funny things. So I hide in my little bubble, going at my own speed.
I wanted to leave for JFK on my own that Friday evening. Anna’s habitual tardiness was more than I could handle. I’d heard her talk one too many times about the six-minute helicopter flight that she could take as a last resort, if she were too late for a car. That kind of stress was unappealing to me—as was the unnecessary expense (although, as Anna put it, one day her time would be so valuable that taking a $700 chopper ride would be more cost-effective than wasting an hour in traffic). As for me, I’d rather leave wildly early and take the subway than rush and take a helicopter.
I may leave for the airport quite early so I can finish work when I get there, I told Anna.
Ok let’s go together, she replied.
It was a nice try, anyway.
I went home to finish packing and told Anna that I’d pick her up around seven, thinking that if I booked the car we were more likely to stay on schedule.
Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Anna had been butting heads with the management at 11 Howard for days. They had asked her to start paying for her reservations in advance, and she was infuriated by this irregular treatment. (“No one else must do that,” she had complained.) Her retaliation was twofold. First, she canceled her upcoming bookings. Then, having made note of the general managers’ names, she proudly declared that she had purchased the corresponding Internet domains.
She sent me a text around five p.m. Fucking assholes, she complained. Without a reservation, 11 Howard was now refusing to store Anna’s belongings.
Will the Mercer let you? I asked.
Yes, she said. Booked a month at Mercer. Fuck them.
We would pack up all of Anna’s stuff and drop it at the Mercer en route to the airport. We made plans to meet at 11 Howard around seven p.m., but when the time came, Anna was busy getting her hair done. I needed an extra half hour to pack anyway, so it made no difference to me.
Beneath my open suitcase and a mess of clothing, my bed was hardly visible. I took stock of each garment as I folded it: pajamas, stuff to wear with a bathing suit, shorts and pants, tops, and dresses. Once my large suitcase was zipped, I would go through a similar process for my carry-on. I was tugging a mini roller bag down from the deepest corner of my crowded closet when I got another text from Anna.
Shall I email them I bought their domains or not yet? she asked.
I wouldn’t do that yet, I replied. I had tried to talk Anna out of buying the domains in the first place. Real estate developer Aby Rosen owned 11 Howard—along with the building that Anna wanted to lease for her foundation. If the managers told him about Anna’s bullying tactics, it wouldn’t be a good look. But Anna had insisted that Aby would condone, maybe even applaud, her behavior. Without sincere interest in my opinion, she had done exactly as she pleased.
Why not? she asked.
It’s a bit much, don’t they have a relationship with the Mercer? I just don’t want them to talk shit about you before you get there and settled and meet people for yourself. Her spitefulness was excessive. I was trying to talk her out of it by pointing to potential consequences.
No it’s André [Balazs’s] hotel, she argued. There is no shit to be talked about me. I didn’t do anything.
I only mean that you bought their domains, I explained.
It’s not illegal to buy anyone’s domains. I didn’t publish anything on them yet.
It was pointless arguing.
How would you tell them? I asked.
Email each of them the screenshot of ownership. I’m never going to do anything with them. I like the idea of them knowing that I might.
* * *
When I pulled up to 11 Howard, Anna wasn’t back yet, so I waited in my Uber.
I will get the big car, so come out of yours and we’ll switch everything to mine, she said.
My car is pretty big, want to just stay in this one? It’s an SUV, I answered, conscious of the time.
Ok if you don’t mind circling around, she said. Can add [the cost] to my invoice .
Thirty minutes later, there was still no sign of Anna. With every passing minute, my anxiety increased. She asked me to have the bellhops load her bags, which I was glad to do since it would hurry things along. I exited the vehicle and orchestrated the packing as she’d requested. Two gold suitcases and bags from Net-a-Porter would come with us; the rolling rack and a large cardboard box would stay behind. When it was all done, Anna came scurrying down Howard Street, shuffling faster than a walk, slower than a jog. Her freshly blown-out hair billowed as she moved.
Our SUV soon hummed along the cobblestones of Crosby Street. The bellhops at the Mercer helped us off-load Anna’s bags and checked them to store until her return. Our errand complete, we climbed back into the car and set off for JFK. It felt like a small miracle—that I’d overcome the luggage obstacle and gotten Anna into the car, not as early as hoped but early enough to still be on time. I had always imagined that getting out the door, away from our busy Manhattan lives, would be the hardest part. And now we had done it. All that was left was to enjoy the journey—and we were ready.
Two hours before our flight, we were Marrakech-bound.
* * *
Kacy arrived at the airport first and went through security on her own. Jesse was waiting for Anna and me at the entrance to Terminal 5. I gave him a hug. The three of us gossiped and cracked jokes as we stood in the check-in line together. When we reached the front, I went first, on my own. The agent took my passport with a warm smile. We made small talk as she clicked away at her keyboard. To my pleasant surprise, she turned a blind eye to my overweight checked bag, sparing me a hefty fine. I thanked her and then joined Anna and Jesse, who were checking in together with another agent.
Jesse was a seasoned freelancer, so from the outset he expected Anna t
o pay for his expenses, including the cost of checking his gear. But there was a hiccup in the process. Although she had her passport in hand, Anna had mistakenly checked her black clutch, the one containing her credit cards. She turned to me, since she already owed me money, and asked if I’d mind covering the $200 cost for now. As she was paying for the trip, of course I didn’t mind; it was a relatively small favor to ask. Until Anna could recover her clutch, this pattern would continue: I paid $120 for sushi in JFK and $80 for lunch during the layover in Lisbon.
* * *
Finally, we landed in Morocco. It was Saturday, May 13. Marrakech Menara Airport was crowded, but La Mamounia had arranged for VIP airport assistance. Two men in coffee-brown uniforms met us at our arrival gate and led us through an expedited immigrations process. They left us before the baggage area, where the four of us collected our checked belongings and made our way to customs. The line was so long that we stood for a moment looking for its end.
That’s when Anna did something peculiar.
She walked ahead, disassociating from our group as though she had arrived in Morocco alone. She moved briskly to the front of the line, and then she slipped right through, leaving the rest of us behind. When we realized she was wandering off, we called her name and followed in her direction, but the guards took notice of us somehow, not her, and blocked our way—directing us to the end of the queue.
Anna looked back as though she hadn’t realized what was happening, and then her face broke into a smile. Given the length of the line the rest of us had to wait in, I understood why she had decided to test her luck—but I also realized, in a small but significant way, that Anna did not operate with a “one for all and all for one” mentality. She was on her own. Had she been like this in New York, too? It certainly wasn’t out of character, but it struck me differently now that we were so far from home.
My Friend Anna Page 10