In the obscene world of Manhattan real estate, semilivable apartments were rarer—and more desirable—than seminormal straight guys. When you added semiaffordable into the mix, they became harder to rent than your private island somewhere off the southern coast of Africa. Or probably harder. No matter that most boasted fewer than three hundred square feet of dirt and rotted wood, pockmarked walls, and prehistoric appliances. No roaches? No mice? This one was a keeper!
“Lily, I trust you, just do it. Can you e-mail me a description?” I was trying to get off the phone as quickly as possible since Miranda was due back from the art department any second. If she saw me on a personal call, I was finished.
“Well, I have copies of your paychecks—which, by the way, really suck . . . and I’ve got both our bank statements and printouts of our credit histories and your employment letter. The only problem is our guarantor. It has to be a tristate resident who makes more than forty times our monthly rent, and my grandmother sure as hell doesn’t make a hundred grand. Can your parents sign for us?”
“Jesus, Lil, I don’t know. I haven’t asked them, and I can’t very well call them right now. You call.”
“Fine. They do make enough, don’t they?”
I wasn’t really sure, but who else could we ask? “Just call them,” I told her. “Explain about Miranda. Tell them I’m sorry for not calling myself.”
“Will do,” she said. “But let me make sure we can get the place. I’ll call you back,” she said and clicked off the phone. The phone rang again twenty seconds later, and I saw her cell phone number on the office phone caller ID. Emily raised her eyes in that special way she did when she heard me once again talking to a friend. I grabbed the phone but spoke to Emily.
“It’s important,” I hissed in her direction. “My best friend is trying to rent me an apartment over the phone because I can’t leave here for a goddamn—”
Three voices attacked me at once. Emily’s was measured and calm and carried with it a warning tone. “Andrea, please,” she’d started, at the exact same time that Lily was shrieking, “They’ll do it, Andy, they’ll do it! Are you listening to me?” But even though both of them were clearly addressing me, I couldn’t really hear either one of them. The only voice that came through loud and clear was Miranda’s.
“Do we have a problem here, Ahn-dre-ah?” Shocker—she got my name right this time. She was hovering over me, appearing ready to strike.
I immediately hung up on Lily, hoping she’d understand, and braced myself for the onslaught. “No, Miranda, no problem at all.”
“Good. Now, I’d like a sundae and I’d like to actually eat it before the entire thing melts. Vanilla ice cream—not yogurt, mind you, not ice milk, and nothing sugar-free or low-fat—with chocolate syrup and real whipped cream. Not canned, you understand? Genuine whipped cream. That’s all.” She walked purposefully back toward the art department, and I was left with the distinct impression that she’d come in just to check on me. Emily smirked. The phone rang. Lily again. Dammit—couldn’t she just e-mail me? I picked it up and pressed it to my ear but said nothing.
“OK, I know you can’t talk, so I will. Your parents will be our guarantors, which is great. The apartment is a big one-bedroom, and once we put the wall up in the living room, there will still be room for a two-person couch and a chair. The bathroom doesn’t have a bath, but the shower looks OK. No dishwasher, natch, and no AC, but we can get window units. Laundry in the basement, part-time doorman, one block from the six train. And get this. A balcony!”
I must’ve breathed audibly, because she got even more excited at my excitement. “I know! Crazy, right? It looks like it might fall right off the side of the building, but it’s there! And we could both fit on it and have a place to smoke, and oh, it’s just perfect!”
“How much?” I croaked, determined that these would be the absolute last words I’d utter.
“All ours for the grand total of twenty-two eighty a month. Do you believe that we’ll get a balcony for eleven hundred forty dollars apiece? This place is the find of the century. So, can I do it?”
I was silent. I wanted to talk, but Miranda was inching her way back to her office as she upbraided the public events coordinator in front of everyone. She was in a wicked mood, and I’d already had enough for one day. The girl she was currently abusing had her head hung in shame, cheeks bright red, and I prayed for her own sake that she wouldn’t cry.
“Andy! This is fucking ridiculous. Just say yes or no! It’s bad enough that I have to cut class today and you can’t so much as leave work to come look at this place, but you can’t even bother to say yes or no? What am I—” Lily had reached her breaking point and I totally understood, but there was nothing I could do except hang up on her. She was screaming so loud into the phone that it was reverberating in the quiet office, and Miranda was standing less than five feet away. I was so frustrated, I wanted to grab the PR coordinator and hit the ladies’ room and cry with her. Or maybe if we worked together we could throw Miranda into a toilet stall and tighten that Hermès scarf that hung loosely around her skinny neck. Would I hold her down or pull? Or perhaps it’d be more effective to just shove the damn thing down her throat and watch her gasp for air and—
“Ahn-dre-ah!” Her voice was clipped, steely. “What did I ask you for a mere five minutes ago?” Shit! The sundae. I’d forgotten the sundae. “Is there a particular reason why you’re still sitting there instead of doing your job? Is this your idea of a joke? Did I do or say something to indicate that I wasn’t entirely serious? Did I? Did I?” Her blue eyes were bulging out of her face, and although she hadn’t fully raised her voice yet, of course, she was coming awfully close. I opened my mouth to speak but heard Emily talking instead.
“Miranda, I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. I asked Andrea to answer the phone because I thought it might be Caroline or Cassidy and I was on the other line ordering that shirt from Prada you wanted. Andrea was just on her way out. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”
Miracle of miracles! The Perfect One had spoken, and in my defense, no less.
Miranda looked momentarily mollified. “Well, all right then. Get my sundae now, Andrea.” And with that, she walked in her office and picked up the phone, where she promptly started cooing to B-DAD.
I looked at Emily, but she was pretending to work. I shot her a one-word e-mail. Why? I wrote.
Because I wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t going to fire you, and I don’t really feel like training someone new, she wrote back instantly. I left to go in search of this perfect sundae and called Lily from my cell phone as soon as the elevator hit the lobby.
“I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just that—”
“Look, I don’t really have time for this,” Lily said flatly. “I think you’re overreacting just a little bit, don’t you? I mean, you can’t so much as say yes or no on the phone?”
“It’s hard to explain, Lil, it’s just that—”
“Forget it. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you if we get it. Not that you really care either way.”
I tried to protest, but she’d hung up. Dammit! It wasn’t fair to expect Lily to understand when I would’ve thought I was ridiculous a mere four months earlier. It really wasn’t fair to send her all over Manhattan in search of an apartment we could both share when I wouldn’t even take her phone calls, but what choice did I have?
When she answered one of my calls right after midnight, she told me we got the apartment.
“That’s amazing, Lil. I can’t thank you enough. I swear I’ll make it up to you. I promise!” And then I had a thought. Be spontaneous! Call an Elias car and get up to Harlem and thank your best friend in person. Yes, that was it! “Lil, are you home? I’m coming up to celebrate, OK?”
I thought she’d be thrilled, but she was quiet. “Don’t bother,” she said quietly. “I’ve got a bottle of So-Co and Tongue Ring Boy is here. I’ve got everything I want.”
It stung, but I understood. L
ily rarely got mad, but when she did, no one could talk her out of it until she was good and ready. I heard liquid swishing into a glass and ice clinking, and I heard her take a deep, long swig.
“OK. But call me if you need anything, OK?”
“Why? So you can sit in silence on the other end? No thanks.”
“Lil—”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m just fine.” Another gulp. “I’ll talk to you later. And hey, congratulations to us.”
“Yeah, congratulations to us,” I repeated, but she’d already hung up once again.
I’d called Alex on his cell to ask if I could go over to his place, but he didn’t sound as delighted to hear from me as I’d hoped.
“Andy, you know I’d love to see you, but, well, I’m out with Max and the guys. You’re never really around during the week anymore, so I made plans to see them tonight.”
“Oh, well, are you guys in Brooklyn or around here somewhere? I could come meet you?” I asked, knowing that of course they were somewhere on the Upper East Side, probably very close to me, because that’s where all the other guys lived as well.
“Listen, any other night that’d be great, but tonight is definitely just a guys’ night.”
“Oh, sure, OK. I was going to meet Lily to celebrate the new apartment, but we, uh, sort of got in a fight. She doesn’t understand why I can’t really talk from work.”
“Well, Andy, I have to say, sometimes I don’t totally understand, either. I mean, I know she’s a tough lady—trust me, I do—it just seems that you take everything pretty seriously when it comes to her, you know?” He sounded like he was trying very hard to keep his tone accommodating and nonconfrontational.
“Maybe that’s because I do!” I shot back at him, pissed off at him for not wanting to see me and not begging me to go out with his friends and for taking Lily’s side even though she had a point and so did he. “It is my life, you know? My career. My future. What the hell am I supposed to do? Treat it like a joke?”
“Andy, you’re twisting my words. You know that’s not what I meant.”
But I was already screaming back—I couldn’t help myself. First Lily and now Alex? Both on top of Miranda, all day, every day? It was too much, and I wanted to cry but all I could do was yell.
“A big fucking joke, huh? That’s what my job is to both of you! Oh, Andy, you work in fashion, how hard can it be?” I mimicked, hating myself more with every passing second. “Well, excuse me if we can’t all be do-gooders or Ph.D. candidates! Excuse me if—”
“Call me when you calm down,” he stated. “I’m not going to listen to this anymore.” And he hung up. Hung up! I waited for him to call back, but he never did, and by the time I’d finally fallen asleep, close to three, I hadn’t heard from either Alex or Lily.
Now it was moving day—a full week later—and while neither was still visibly mad, neither seemed exactly the same either. There hadn’t been time to make amends in person with either one since we were in the middle of closing an issue, but I figured things would fall into place when Lily and I moved into our new apartment. Our shared apartment, where everything would go back to the way it was when we were in college and life was much more palatable.
The movers finally came at eleven, and it took them all of nine minutes to disassemble my beloved bed and throw the pieces in back of their van. Mom and I hitched a ride with them over to my new building, where my dad and Alex were schmoozing with the doorman—who, bizarrely enough, was a dead ringer for John Galliano—with my boxes piled against a wall in the lobby.
“Andy, glad you’re here. Mr. Fisher here won’t open the apartment unless there’s a tenant present,” my dad said with a huge smile on his face. “Which is very smart of him,” he added, winking at the doorman.
“Oh, is Lily not here yet? She said she’d get here by ten, ten-thirty.”
“Nope, haven’t seen her. Should I call her?” Alex asked.
“Yeah, I guess so. Why don’t I go up with, er, Mr. Fisher so we can start bringing stuff up. Ask her if she needs any help.”
Mr. Fisher smiled a way that could only be described as lecherous. “Please, we’re like family now,” he said, looking at my chest. “Call me John.”
I almost choked on the now cold coffee I was holding and wondered if the man revered the world over for reviving the Dior brand had died without my knowing and been reincarnated as my doorman.
Alex nodded and wiped his glasses on his T-shirt. I loved it when he did that. “You go with your parents. I’ll call.”
I wondered if it was a good or bad thing that my father was now best friends with my (designer) doorman, the man who would inevitably know every detail of my life. The lobby looked nice, if a little retro. It was done in a light-colored stone of some sort, and there were a few uncomfortable-looking benches in front of the elevators and behind the mailroom. Our apartment was number 8C, and it faced southwest, which, from what I’d heard, was a good thing. John opened the door with his master key and stood back like a proud papa.
“Here she is,” he announced grandly.
I walked in first, expecting to be hit with an overpowering smell of sulfur or perhaps see a few bats winging their way around our ceiling, but it was surprisingly clean and bright. The kitchen was on the right, a narrow, one-person-wide strip with white tile floors and reasonably white Formica cabinets. The countertops were some sort of flecked granite imitation, and there was a microwave built in above the stove.
“This is great,” my mom said, pulling open the refrigerator. “It’s already got ice trays.” The movers pushed past us, grunting while they lugged my bed.
The kitchen opened to the living room, which had already been divided in two by a temporary wall to create a second bedroom. Of course, that meant that all the windows had been cut out of the living room entirely, but that was OK. The bedroom was a decent size—definitely bigger than the one I’d just left—and the sliding glass door leading to the balcony made up one whole wall. The bathroom was between the living room and the real bedroom and was done in Pepto pink tiling and pink paint. Oh well. Could be kitschy. I walked into the real bedroom, which was significantly bigger than the living room one and looked around. A tiny closet, a ceiling fan, and a small, dirty window that looked directly into an apartment in the building next door. Lily had wanted this one and I’d happily agreed. She preferred having the extra space since she spent so much time in her bedroom studying, but I’d rather have the light and the balcony entrance.
“Thanks, Lil,” I whispered to myself, knowing that Lily couldn’t possibly hear me.
“What’d you say, honey?” my mom asked, coming up behind me.
“Oh, nothing. Just that Lily did really, really well. I had no idea what to expect, but this is great, don’t you think?”
She looked like she was trying to find the most tactful way of saying something. “Yes, for New York, it’s a great apartment. It’s just hard to imagine paying so much and getting so little. You know your sister and Kyle only pay fourteen hundred a month total for their condo, and they have central air, marble bathrooms, brand-new dishwasher and washer-dryer, and three bedrooms and two bathrooms?” she pointed out, as if she were the first to make this realization. For $2,280 you could get a beachfront townhouse in LA, a three-story condo on a tree-lined street in Chicago, a four-bedroom split-level in Miami, or a goddamn castle with a moat in Cleveland. Yes, we knew this.
“And two parking spots, access to the golf course, gym, and pool,” I added helpfully. “Yeah, I know. But believe it or not, this is a great deal. I think we’ll be very happy here.”
She hugged me. “I think you will be, too. As long as you don’t work too hard to enjoy it,” she said lightly.
My dad walked in and opened the duffel bag that he’d been dragging around all day, one I’d assumed held racquetball clothes for his game later. But he pulled out a maroon box emblazoned with “Limited Edition!” across the front. Scrabble. The collector’s edition, where th
e board came mounted on its own lazy Susan and the squares had little raised borders so the letters didn’t slide around. We’d been admiring them together in specialty game stores for the past ten years, but no occasion had ever warranted purchasing one.
“Oh, Dad. You shouldn’t have!” I knew the board cost well over two hundred dollars. “Oh! I just love it!”
“Use it in good health,” he said, hugging me back. “Or better yet, to kick your old man’s ass, as I know you will. I remember when I used to let you win. I had to, or you’d stomp around the house, sulking all night. And now! Well, now my old brain cells are fried and I couldn’t beat you if I tried. Not that I won’t,” he added.
I was about to tell him that I’d learned from the best, but Alex had walked in. And he didn’t look happy.
“What’s wrong?” I immediately asked as he fidgeted with his sneakers.
“Oh, nothing at all,” he lied while glancing in the direction of my parents. He shot me a “just hold on a sec” look and said, “Here, I brought a box.”
“Let’s go get a few more,” my dad said to my mom, moving toward the door. “Maybe Mr. Fisher has some sort of cart. We could bring a bunch up at once. Be right back.”
I looked at Alex, and we both waited until we’d heard the elevator open and close.
“So, I just talked to Lily,” he said slowly.
“She’s not still mad at me, is she? She’s been so weird all week.”
“No, I don’t think it’s that.”
“So what is it?”
“Well, she wasn’t at home . . .”
“So where is she? Some guy’s apartment? I can’t believe she’s late for her own moving day.” I yanked open one of the windows in the converted bedroom to let some of the cold air dissipate the smell of new paint.
“No, she was actually at a police precinct in midtown.” He looked at his shoes.
“She was where? Is she OK? Ohmigod! Was she mugged or raped? I have to go to her right away.”
“Andy, she’s fine. She was arrested.” He said it quietly, as if he were breaking the news to a parent that their child wasn’t going to pass fourth grade.
The Devil Wears Prada Page 22