My Friend Anna

by Rachel DeLoache Williams

  Anna had spoken about knowing Shkreli, the infamous “Pharma Bro,” on occasion. The first time was when she had bragged about having met with him over lunch at Le Coucou. “After my meeting, all of the employees at 11 Howard were, like, coming up to me and saying, ‘Anna, why are you meeting with one of the most hated men on the planet?’ ” Anna had told me. She had been annoyed by the hotel employees’ nosiness. (“I had Martin sign an NDA. What, do I need to have everyone else sign one, too?”) She hadn’t realized how many people knew who Shkreli was—nor how strongly everyone felt about him. “Well, yeah, Anna,” I had replied, “he’s a pretty notorious villain.” She had been quick to defend him by arguing that he was just making decisions based on business, that he was taking advantage of the system in a way that cost insurance companies, not individual people, and that what he was doing wasn’t illegal. To me, Anna’s logic demonstrated that she was able to willfully separate business transactions from their moral and ethical consequences. Observing her coldness, I had supposed it was a mentality that she’d had to adopt in order to hold her own in the world of finance. I didn’t agree with her, but she left me no room to argue.

  I told her not to mention it to anyone, Anna continued to text, venting about Neff, and she’s like of course not, I’d never.

  I sympathized with Anna’s frustration. You’re joking, I replied.

  Its so easy for anyone whos not completely stupid to put two and two together. Like she works at the hotel im staying at. What a coincidence, Anna said.

  Yeah. Not cool. You should ask her to take it down.

  She’s just fishing for attention, said Anna. She removed that tweet but never texted back. Uh whatchu gonna do

  Furget about it, I replied.

  Kathryn and Mark picked me up and we drove together to Arles. The trip took less than an hour. It was Tuesday evening, and our return flights weren’t until Saturday. The opening of the Annie Leibovitz exhibition would take place on Friday, so we had a couple of days to do as we pleased. With Kathryn and Mark, I happily relaxed my producer brain’s need to make plans and was content to go along with their agenda. As a group, our dynamic was much like that of a niece traveling with her aunt and uncle. What’s more, they’d been to Arles before; Kathryn had traveled there for photo shoots. She shared its haunts and stories—tales from the Grand Hôtel Nord-Pinus—like cherished folklore, and I felt lucky to be along for the ride. I looked and listened, wide-eyed and thankful.

  * * *

  On Wednesday morning, we went by the Luma Foundation, where Annie and her team were readying the show. The works were still being installed, but the scale was already staggering. The exhibition was entitled “The Early Years: 1970–1983: Archive Project #1.” More than eight thousand photographs, printed and unframed, were being pinned to freestanding walls inside an expansive industrial warehouse. The prints didn’t feel precious: they felt raw, and granted intimate access to their subjects. The collective impact was astounding.

  Afterward, on our way to lunch at La Chassagnette, a restaurant and organic farm a few miles outside of Arles, I received a text from Anna.

  How is it going? In arles? she asked.

  Got here last night, it’s good!! Haven’t received the wire yet, maybe I should call chase? Are you and jesse still in Marrakech?

  An hour passed. Mark, Kathryn, and I sat in the dappled sunlight that came through La Chassagnette’s vine-covered trellis. We sampled wines and devoured small tasting dishes the moment they arrived at our table.

  Anna kept texting.

  I will forward you the FedRef so your bankers can track it. They called me yesterday to confirm.

  perfect thank you, I wrote back. You guys traveling today?

  Yes. My friends are coming for one of their wives birthdays this weekend to marrakech so i might stay a night or two longer to see them but jesse has to return.

  Friends? I’d not heard her mention them before, but I didn’t give it much thought. Given my response, it was possible I’d misread her text. Bon voyage!!! I replied. I hope the settling into Mercer goes smoothly.

  Anna’s texts kept arriving over the course of the afternoon. She wanted to try a new personal trainer, she said. Someone to see on days when we didn’t work out with Kacy: Maybe they have some empty room at mercer that we can use for the workout, otherwise im not sure where.

  After lunch, Kathryn, Mark, and I drove through the Camargue to Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. The seaside town was filled with caravans thanks to the Gitan Pilgrimage, an annual event when Romani people from across Europe come together in honor of their patron saint, Sara-la-Kali, or “Sarah the Black.” We watched from the car as we slowly drove through. I saw bare feet on asphalt, a blend of colors and people. “Eternal pilgrims on the world’s roads,” as Pope Paul VI is said to have called them.

  Back in Arles, we met up with colleagues who had gathered in anticipation of Annie Leibovitz’s opening when Anna resurfaced. Jesse just left, im staying here till fr night, she texted.

  This was good news. When I left Marrakech, I had wondered how he and Anna would get along. In their company, my presence had often served as a buffer. Once I left for France, Jesse kept in touch with me via text message. At first, he seemed okay. He and Anna rode mules on a trek through the Atlas Mountains. He said hi to Richard Branson when he saw him on the property. Like in Marrakech, Anna asked the hotel for private tennis lessons. Eager to accommodate her request, Kasbah Tamadot brought in a coach from La Mamounia each day. The coach became friendly with Anna, and his company outlasted their tennis lessons. He joined Jesse and Anna for dinners and a hike. I imagined a third party was good for their dynamic. But Jesse’s tone quickly grew restless: FYI- anna tried to book flights today for tomorrow. Can’t book under 24 hrs for US flights out of here, he said.

  What happened? I replied. Remembering that I’d booked a flight for Kacy without any issue, I wondered if he was mistaken, but assumed he’d done his research.

  I’ve been asking everyday what flight we got. She just didn’t buy them. I dunno why.

  Par for the course amigo, I answered.

  It’s driving me nuts inside, he said.

  Jesse was clearly ready to leave. He was relying on Anna for a flight home, but she kept avoiding buying a ticket. I was relieved when Anna said that he had finally gotten out.

  Kathryn, Mark, and I returned to our apartment. As we went about our evening, Anna kept rambling by text. She was going to stay in Morocco for a few days to celebrate the birthday of one of her developers’ wives, she confirmed. And from there, she would fly to Los Angeles to attend Recode’s annual technology conference. Her focus ricocheted: Morocco, LA, New York. She forwarded an email from Peter Bracke, who was involved in reservations at the Mercer. It confirmed her new arrival date and included information about the hotel’s relationship with a nearby gym. She wanted to know if we should suggest that gym to the new personal trainer.

  Anna: Next week 3 times?

  Anna: I think if we say we’re from mercer they let us do anything

  Anna: So i can plan kacy on other days

  Anna: Ugh i forgot i might be going to California

  Anna: Maybe let’s start with key [the new trainer] the week of the 5th

  Anna: Unclear how tolerating he is to last minute schedule adjustments we dont want to throw him off from the start

  I was feeling refreshed and centered after my alone time, and was beginning to think that it was time to slow down my friendship with Anna. Our travels had shown me just how different we were as people—and although I still found her engaging, I was ready to give the relationship some space. I wasn’t in the mood to make plans.

  I joined a group of friends for a late dinner: Kathryn, Mark, Annie’s studio manager, the executive VP of an image licensing company, and her husband. Annie stopped by briefly, too, to say hello before going to bed, in preparation for tomorrow’s big day. Seven of us huddled around a small table in the courtyard of Hôtel du Cloître.


  At midnight, I heard from Jesse. He was stuck in Casablanca. He had insisted that Anna confirm his return ticket before he got into the car at Kasbah Tamadot. Despite her assurances, he arrived to the airport four hours later without a reservation.

  He was incredulous. Jesse was accustomed to traveling for photo shoots, which meant that it was usually a producer’s responsibility to make sure that his travel went smoothly (to make reservations in advance and to troubleshoot issues, should they arise). He had little tolerance for poorly made plans, and it was not usually his job to be involved with fixing them. He expected days to be filled, flights to be ticketed, and hotels to be booked—reasonable expectations, and ones that I shared, but clearly with Anna there were no guarantees.

  When confronted with the mishap, Anna told Jesse that her assistant had mistakenly canceled his booking when she adjusted her plans to stay. Stranded at the airport and determined to leave, Jesse managed to book his own flight home, but by the time he bought the ticket, it was too late to board. He spiraled, venting to me as he sparred with Anna. Reading his texts, I felt sorry for him. He spent the night in a hotel.

  That night, unable to sleep, I checked my bank account for any sign of an incoming wire. Then I logged in to American Express. The La Mamounia charges were still on my account, now totalling $36,010.09. And there were new charges, this time to my Condé Nast corporate card—two lines from La Mamounia, which totaled $16,770.45. It was the balance of our bill, an amount the hotel had been unable to put on my now-frozen personal card. Evidently, they’d kept my corporate card on file.

  My stomach did a somersault.

  If I received Anna’s wire promptly, I could put the money toward payment of my corporate statement before anyone noticed. And yet, Anna was becoming increasingly unreliable. Her tone with me was unchanged, but her empty promises were cause for concern and her treatment of Jesse was cause for dismay. In New York, Anna’s flakiness and lack of attention to detail had few consequences, but in Marrakech it was dangerously problematic. Still, she made us feel as though we were under her umbrella. Even when I’d had to front the money, she had been physically there beside me to assure me that it would all be okay. She was our generous host, after all. But letting Jesse get in a car for a four-hour drive and stranding him at the airport without a flight or a plan was something different.

  I started to see Anna’s behavior as negligent, and it worried me.

  Chapter 9

  Re-entry

  * * *

  It was Saturday, May 27, when I flew from Marseille to New York by way of Paris.

  Text messaging with Anna about repayment had become part of a new routine. We took turns starting the conversation each morning.

  Sometimes I’d go first: Hi A, the wire still hasn’t come through. Do you have that ref so I can call chase to check on the status?

  On other days, she’d beat me to it: Do you see the incoming wire in your account? Still waiting in remittance letters that I’ll forward you once i get it. If the wire still hasn’t arrived, your banker can use it to track it.

  The delay weighed on my nerves, but since I had faith the funds would arrive any minute, I didn’t tell anyone about it. It didn’t seem necessary, and I’d always been taught that financial matters were private. If I were Anna, I’d have been embarrassed to put such a strain on a friend. By not blabbing about it to others, I was being respectful. Besides, I thought I understood Anna better than anyone else, so there wasn’t much point in asking for outside input. I rationalized her delay by considering the way she often put the cart before the horse—like booking a riad before deciding who to invite, or making a dinner reservation for four people and then scrambling to fill the seats. Where logistics were concerned, Anna was simply ill-equipped, but somehow, it always worked out. The same principle applied to sending a wire transfer. She set the plan in motion, and even if it took a while—and she couldn’t find the reference number—I was sure the rest would fall into place. Though the situation was stressful, I was happy to be home, reunited with my little rascal of a cat, Boo, and spending time with Nick. I also got to see my brother, Noah, who had moved to New York and was living in Grandma Marilyn’s spare bedroom—a rite of passage. The first weekend after my trip, Noah’s girlfriend came to town, visiting from Knoxville. We joined Nick in Brooklyn and romped around the borough together. I carried my camera and took pictures like I’d done in the South of France, pretending I was still in tourist mode. Monday was Memorial Day, so we embraced the long weekend. I continued to remain silent about my financial situation. I’d always been very private—not only about finances but also about my feelings—so it wasn’t unusual for me to keep this sort of information to myself. Although this time around, it felt like I was entering a sort of denial as I tried to shrug off the stress and keep moving forward.

  Anna said she was stopping by London and then going straight to Los Angeles: No one is in ny and everything is closed for memorial, i dont want to go to mercer for 2 nights and be gone for the rest of the week.

  Coincidentally, I would also be in Los Angeles that week, on Thursday. I was to attend a site visit at the Wallis Annenberg Center in Beverly Hills to prepare for a group portrait which Annie Leibovitz would photograph in October, during Vanity Fair’s annual New Establishment Summit, a conference Anna once again hoped to attend. Though my scouting trip would be brief, its timing seemed convenient. If the wire hadn’t arrived by then, Anna and I could meet in person to settle our accounts.

  And then what? Would I continue being friends with Anna? Would I fault her for relying on me when her cards weren’t working? She’d been generous enough to invite me on a trip like that, I reasoned, and even though the way she’d required my help had been frustrating, there would be no lasting damage once the debt was repaid. It had always been my impulse to aid a friend in need.

  But the situation had pushed me to my limits. Did Anna expect me to overlook the inexplicable delay in repayment and ignore what had happened with Jesse? My feelings toward her had irreversibly changed, and I was trying to understand how. Traveling with Anna had revealed a previously undetected riskiness beneath her idiosyncratic behavior. In New York, when she tested the limits the stakes seemed low, but not in Marrakech. Her recklessness was hard to fully excuse.

  When this was finally over, I would want space. Perhaps Anna and I could resume a more casual friendship after a time. I didn’t want her as a close friend, but I didn’t want her as an enemy, either. Burning bridges was not something I ever did—and I hated the thought of having someone mad at me. It takes a lot of nerve to completely cut off a relationship. So I thought perhaps I could keep Anna as a friend, but at a distance. She could be a person I saw once in a blue moon. And this time around, I would do a better job of defining and fortifying my boundaries. I would better know what to expect and to limit the degree of my involvement. A friendship less close, but a friendship just the same.

  Still, for now, it seemed wiser to lean into my relationship with Anna than to pull away, at least until the reimbursement arrived. We continued communicating, mostly through text messaging and, occasionally, by phone. When we weren’t discussing the wire transfer, we spoke as though nothing had changed. The normalcy of our dialogue was reassuring to me.

  As usual, Anna was propelled by grand notions. She swung from one plan to the next using her fantastical dreams as fuel. We looked ahead to California, and she eyed her next move.

  Right now im planning on being in la Tuesday afternoon. The conference is over on Thursday lunchtime, Anna said, referencing Recode’s annual technology conference, which she wanted to attend.

  I would arrive on Wednesday night, I told her, and be done with work by five p.m. the next day.

  K sounds good, Anna texted, maybe we can meet up on thursday night then.

  Yes exactly, would be fun, I responded.

  Anna wrote back, Maybe we can go to doug aitken’s mirage thing in palm springs on [Thursday] Its a 2h drive. Last thing
that’s still open from desert x

  Anna had mentioned this art piece before: Doug Aitken’s Mirage, part of “Desert X,” a site-specific exhibition in the Coachella Valley that opened in 2017. Mirage was a life-size replica of a suburban American house, nondescript in shape but covered in mirrors so that each of its exterior surfaces reflected the landscape it faced. You could read about the project on a corresponding website:

  MIRAGE is reconfigured as an architectural idea: the seemingly generic suburban home now devoid of a narrative, its inhabitants, their possessions. This minimal structure now functions entirely in response to the landscape around it . . . Its familiar architectural form becomes a framing device, a visual echo-chamber endlessly reflecting both the dream of nature as a pure uninhabited state and the pursuit of its conquest . . . Like a human-scale lens, MIRAGE works to frame and distort the evolving world outside of it . . . There is no fixed perspective or correct interpretation. Each experience of this living artwork will be unique.

  I understood Anna’s interest; the installation ticked all of her boxes. It was popular with the right crowd, its impermanence made it timely, and its location made it exclusive—it was the ideal destination for a stylish excursion. We would drive to Palm Springs on Thursday and see the installation on Friday. There were rooms available at the Parker Palm Springs.

  Anna: There isn’t much going on there usually if not a wedding or Coachella.

  Me: Could do two nights and fly back Saturday before redeye around 4.

  Anna: K me too im running out of contact lenses after next week so gotta return to ny.

  Did she want me to pick them up for her? I offered.

  No, but I should bring my Polaroid camera.

  We went through familiar motions as we planned our journey, only this time I was more skeptical of Anna’s schemes.