Banks are closed today, she told me.
Isn’t the tracking # coming from Germany? I asked, wondering why Independence Day would affect European banks.
Yes, she responded, providing no further clarity.
We came in from the beach late in the day, showered off, and ate hamburgers and corn on the cob for dinner. My sister baked a cherry pie. Afterward, we went out to see the fireworks and played charades before bed.
On Wednesday, Anna went silent. I sent texts from the beach in the morning and from Charleston in the evening. They all went unanswered. I woke up on Thursday morning in a panic. I could hear my family in the kitchen. I stayed in my bedroom with the door closed. Anna had texted in the middle of the night: Sorry just got my phone now. Checking tonight.
What was she checking in the middle of the night? How did that make sense? I can’t believe I’m still waiting. It’s shocking. It’s been close to two months. I was stressed about it at the beginning. Now it’s unbearable, I told her.
No response.
Anna?
That’s when I got a text from Kacy asking me to give her a call. Hi Kacy - I’m on vacation with my family, I told her. Anna has not paid me back yet. I’m considering legal action. This situation has ruined our friendship as far as I’m concerned. Insanely stressful and frustrating. Are you ok?
While I waited for Kacy’s response, I resumed my conversation with Anna: This has reached a point. I’m really out of options here.
Im sending it, she said.
Sending what?
The tracking, she replied.
Why don’t you have it by now? Why am I always chasing you for this info? If you were actually embarrassed or sorry about this situation you’d be on it every day until it was paid—much earlier than two months later when your friend is still having to follow up with you for every single piece of information. You’re making this so hard for me.
I asked them for the reference, she replied, they didn’t provide any till now, am I supposed to invent one?
Was she out of her mind? Of course not, I fired back. You’re supposed to keep on them until they give you what you need.
I will get it sorted so you have it this week, she said.
You’ve said that so many times. It hasn’t happened yet. Please see that it does . . . Today is Thursday. This week means today or tomorrow. Was that wire even valid? Did you cancel it or was it voided? Why can’t you provide a ref # and why can’t my bank see it? This has ruined months for me. And you keep failing to give any sort of tangible proof that money has actually been transferred. I’m in serious trouble, Anna!!!! What friend leaves another person in this situation for this long. I don’t care who in your family or bank you need to talk to but YOU MUST FIX THIS IMMEDIATELY. I AM OUT OF OPTIONS AND OUT OF PATIENCE.
When I came out of the bedroom, Nick was waiting in the kitchen with our lunches packed. We rode our bikes to the beach to join my family. I pulled my chair off to the side and covered my phone with a towel to keep texting.
Kacy responded: Not really. She texted me at 1AM and is on my couch! She has not paid me back yet!
What was happening?! Did Anna not have another place to stay? Oh. My. God. This girl is a nightmare. Maybe you can talk her into calling her parents for help. I met with someone who had been in financial trouble with her in the past and knows Anna’s family. He said her dad is in oil and is extremely wealthy but they limit her because she obviously has major spending issues, etc. . . . He encouraged me to file a police report but I know that would have her deported and I’m not sure I’d get paid back if I were to do that . . . The girl needs help.
I’m with clients so slow to text, Kacy wrote. Omg! I think we may need to do an intervention! Can I tell her u told me? She is still in my house and needs to leave! Does she steal or do drugs?
Not that I know of re: drugs. Yes you can say you know about owing me money but do not mention the attorney please.
Kacy headed back to her apartment while Anna kept in touch with me. Please send ref or transaction #, I insisted. Call Deutsche Bank. This shouldn’t take long.
I’m talking to them now, Anna replied.
She just left! Kacy said. I didn’t say anything to her yet because I wanted to get her out first. I will meet her downtown and talk to her. She told me she was hanging out with you recently is that true?
Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. We weren’t hanging, I told Kacy. I was following her around for a day trying to pickup a cashiers check. She made up some story about it being left in someone’s car and I was waiting like a sap for this nonexistent person to come drop it off to us!!!
Do you think she’s staying at a hotel? Kacy asked. She said she’s at the greenwich hotel. How can we reach her family?
I’m trying to get contact info for her father, I said.
Great! Kacy replied. Because she needs help! Is she really trying to open something or just trying to piss off her family? She is not close to her family it seems.
Both would be my guess. Not close with her family at all, I confirmed. I don’t know what the full story is but I think she has some major psychological issues . . .
. . . So she stopped communicating with you all together now? Kacy asked.
No. We text daily . . . Every day it’s another excuse or delay.
Same here! Kacy said.
Yep. She’s very good at stalling. Masterfully manipulative.
Masterfully!!!! Kacy replied. That’s why I was thinking . . . con artist?
I sighed. Yeah . . . I don’t know. The fact that she’s back in NYC and still in our lives without having disappeared. I don’t think it’s that simple.
That’s when Kacy noticed that Anna’s laptop was still in her apartment in West Chelsea. Anna was asking if she could come back for it. To avoid letting her in, Kacy left it with her doorman and went out for the day. Six hours later, Kacy’s doorman told her that Anna was still in the lobby. Kacy stayed away from her building until Anna finally left.
* * *
On the morning of July 7, our last full day at Kiawah, Nick sweetly agreed to take some photographs of my dad that he could use for his Congressional campaign. I tagged along. In one of the island’s clubhouses, we found an empty conference room with ample daylight and neutral-toned walls that worked nicely as a backdrop. While doing my part to help—easing conversation and offering feedback—I was also busy texting with Anna.
Me: Can’t you please call and get the tracking information??
Anna: Are you reading my messages? I called them million times.
Anna: I have so much going on right now, I am on two phones they have endless holds.
Me: . . . I don’t care how much you have going on! I can’t keep caring. I just need to be reimbursed! . . . Why do I bother continuously calling chase and checking my account if you know funds aren’t on the way yet. What an immense waste of my time . . .
Anna: How do you come up with this info? I said multiple times that payment has been issued.
Me: Then I don’t understand why I haven’t received it. I’m obviously totally panicked. I’m in such a shitty, stressful situation and I don’t see an end in sight!!!
Me: Can you get help from your parents? It feels like you’re in over your head. Are you ok, Anna?
Anna: Idk.
Anna: Im being promised things that never happen and it makes me look bad
Anna: Ive been working non stop for past weeks and its almost like nothing’s changing.
The following day, she had the nerve to ask whether anyone was staying in my apartment. I forgot I’m supposed to leave my hotel for one night tonight, she said.
I wasn’t going to be using it—Nick and I would be back late that night but were going to be sleeping at his apartment in Brooklyn. For obvious reasons, though, I didn’t want Anna spending the night at my place.
No one is there but I don’t have a spare key that’s in NYC and there isn’t a doorman, I told her. It was true. Fo
r a real friend, I’d have figured something out, but why should I keep bending over backward for Anna? Enough was enough.
Did she really have nowhere to go? At what point would she call her own bluff and admit to her family that she needed help? I figured if she told her parents, they would make her come home. But if they did that, I wondered, would they also reconcile her debts?
On Monday, back in New York, I spent the day at the office putting together a small shoot that would take place on Wednesday—Gasper Tringale was to photograph TV actress Carrie Coon. Time at the beach had been somewhat restorative, but when it came to Anna, I remained completely exhausted. My energy to confront her came in heated bursts, after which I needed a beat to recharge. The length and frequency of my text messages varied accordingly. On this day in particular, I had very few words. Attempting to extend the feeling of my vacation, I bought a peach after work and ate it as I walked north along the West Side Highway. I sat in a grassy spot next to the water and read Anna’s text messages. More of the same.
After an hour, I went home to my apartment. I’d barely put my things down when Anna called. Her voice was broken and high-pitched. “I can’t be alone right now,” she sobbed. I offered to meet at her hotel. “I had to check out,” she said. “Can I come to you?” I said no and hung up. Then my conscience got the better of me—she was clearly having a hard time. I called her back: “You can come by, but you can’t stay here.”
She was at my door within the hour, haggard, bleary-eyed, and disconsolate. It was the first time she’d ever been over. I didn’t have the energy to engage, so I said very little. My tiny studio apartment was in terrible disarray, the physical manifestation of my mental state: piles of papers, boxes, clothing, and other stuff. I apologized for the mess. “You don’t need to apologize to me,” she said. She was right. Then she sat down on my couch and began to cry. “I’ve messed everything up for myself,” she sniveled. She owed her bankers and attorneys $1.5 million, she told me.
“You need to tell your parents, Anna,” I implored. “You need help.”
She was quieter than normal, and looked profoundly sad. She weighed my appeal as though I’d suggested she tell the tooth fairy, but spotting the sincerity in my eyes, she responded, “They’d make me get a normal job, that’s for sure.”
That sounded perfectly reasonable to me, and I told her so, but she wasn’t done feeling sorry for herself. A fresh round of tears began. I stood up as she blubbered, took four strides into my small kitchen, and came back with two glasses of water. She’d gone uptown looking for the suitcases that she left at her friend’s house, she whimpered, but when she got there, her friend pretended not to remember the suitcases at all. I’d heard Anna mention this luggage before. She had told me that a ring her mother gave her was inside.
“What about your mom’s ring?” I asked.
“Oh,” gasped Anna, taking a sip of water to steady her nerves, “I forgot about that.” More tears. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. We both needed a night off. I made a conscious decision to turn the proverbial cheek for this short time. I ordered two salads from a restaurant down the block and put on Bridget Jones’s Diary to avoid having to talk. I watched as Anna waited until midnight to begin half-heartedly “looking” for a hotel. Even though I’d already told her that she couldn’t stay for the night (before she’d even arrived), I was hardly surprised when she asked to sleep on my couch. Too tired to argue, I relented. Still, my couch was small. It would be hard, even for a kid, to lie on it with legs outstretched. I watched Anna try to get comfortable for a minute before telling her, “You can just sleep in the bed.” I let her borrow some pajamas—black cotton pants and a T-shirt. We went to sleep without any conversation, each hugging an edge of my full-size bed, with our backs to each other.
In the following days, Anna would send texts every now and then like: I feel horrible for getting you involved in the first place, please know I appreciate you helping out, not everyone would do that. I owe you big time and if there is any way i can help you in the future (obv aside from getting this settled), let me know.
It would tug at my heart and slow me down. She was my friend, right? Obviously, she wasn’t okay, but her refusal to give me straight answers or a rational explanation was maddening. What was I supposed to do?
Me: Anna????
Me: Please Amex is calling me every day to schedule a payment.
Me: I have no money.
Me: I can’t keep starting my days with panic attacks and tears.
* * *
It was July 17 when I finally telephoned a lawyer, almost two months to the day after I’d left Morocco. I was still worried that by going this route, I might lose direct communication with Anna, and that she might panic and disappear, leaving me with no way to find her. But at this point, what else could I do? Despite my best attempts, I hadn’t been able to reach her family. Tommy wasn’t able to help, and I didn’t know where else to look. I didn’t want to ask Anna’s other acquaintances, like Hunter, because I wasn’t sure whom to trust. Taking the lawyer approach felt like a necessary gamble.
The lawyer returned my call while I was at my desk in the office. As succinctly as possible, I explained my situation. Before I could even finish, he cut in, “Did you learn your lesson?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“Do you want to pay for my son’s medical school, too?”
What a jerk—could he not pause for three seconds to imagine how completely broken and lost I felt? I felt as though I’d been knocked out by a cheap shot in the first round, and I wanted to sit down for a while before getting back in the ring. When I did try again with another lawyer, I learned that my first course of legal action would be to send Anna a “demand letter,” formally acknowledging the debt owed and establishing a deadline. That seemed simple enough, except that if Anna missed the deadline, my next course of action would be to sue. My Condé Nast legal coverage applied to a consultation and demand letter only, not to litigation. And even then, if I were to pay out of pocket to sue, there was a collections issue—could Anna even access the money? Even worse, I learned that under federal law Anna would have thirty days from receipt of the demand letter to dispute the debt. I feared that within those thirty days, her visa would expire again and she’d need to leave the country. If that happened, I’d have to travel abroad to file suit and my expenses would likely exceed the balance of the debt. Was there no lawyer who could help me think through this conundrum? None that I could find—or afford.
Me: You come off like a fraud!!!!! I’m extremely panicked. I’m in trouble anna!!!!
Anna: How so?
Me: How am I in trouble???? I can’t pay for any of my credit cards, for my rent, for my bills, for living expenses!!! Nothing you say contains clear information and every timeline you give turns out to be false. And it’s been over TWO MONTHS . . .
Anna: What makes me a fraud here?
Me: I didn’t say you were - I said all of the shifting and vagueness comes off [as] fraudulent . . . I’m surprised you even have to ask! I’m trying to keep the faith up, anna, I really am, but I’m unable to work I’m so freaked out. I’m a total mess.
Anna: Im trying to be transparent and responsive. Im sorry i brought you into this situation- was never my intent- and im doing everything i can to settle the payment.
Anna: I have the money. Its just the administrative issues . . .
Me: I believe you every time you say I’ll receive funds and every time I don’t I’m crushed. Im crying from stress I’m not sleeping and I’m getting constant phone calls. I did not agree to this.
Me: Please anna, tell me what is going on.
Me: Do you have money in a checking account? Or is it just a trust and you don’t have access to the amount you need?
Anna: Yes.
Me: Yes to what?
There was no response.
Chapter 12
Operation Clarity
* * *
On the last Sund
ay in July, I took the subway to Brooklyn and walked along the broken pavement to Nick’s building. He met me at the foot of the stairs, and together we walked the four or so blocks to my friend Dave’s apartment. He was expecting us.
Dave was one of the first people I met in college. During our freshman year, he lived on the floor above me. We had been introduced during soccer pre-season, before the rest of our classmates arrived. He had bright-blue eyes and an LA tan, and made endearingly goofy jokes. After Kenyon, he attended NYU School of Law. He was a close friend, someone I trusted, who happened to have an excellent knowledge of the law. I had debriefed him via text message before we arrived. It was time to form a strategy.
Sitting on his couch, I managed to tell the story in full with only a few tears. Anna had gone silent a few days prior, but she’d gotten back in touch with me through Facebook Messenger, claiming to have lost all three of her phones. Next, she had called me from a strange number—her lawyer’s office, she said. After she hung up, I looked at my call history and googled the phone number: Varghese & Associates, a law firm focusing exclusively on criminal defense. Red fucking flag.
“First things first,” Dave insisted. “You’ve got to stop the bleeding. If there was ever a time to accept help from loved ones, this is it.” American Express had been calling me about the past-due balances on both my personal and corporate cards. If I didn’t issue payment in less than two weeks, I’d be reported to the credit bureaus. On the night of July 17—the day I first called a lawyer—I had received an email from Janine. She had been keeping tabs on me since our post-Marrakech dinner, back in early June. Like Kathryn, she generously offered to extend a loan. Dave encouraged me to take it. Navigating this situation would be hard enough without the burden of worsening financial strain, hefty late fees, and damage to my credit, he argued. I needed to plug the hole.
Next, I would send Anna a “friendly note” detailing the repayment terms. I hoped that since it was coming from me, and not from a lawyer, she’d sign it without objection. Regardless of whether or not she signed it, however, I would proceed with one of two options.
My Friend Anna Page 17