“Why are we here, then?” Zoe wanted to know, and then noticed Eros wiggling nervously on his chair.
“Because Gossip Girl was filmed here,” Mimi said, bursting into laughter, obviously relishing the opportunity to air an embarrassing secret. “It’s Eros’s favorite TV show. High-society New York brats shop, smoke, drink, and do whatever else you can do with a black Amex card. He’s fervently hoping he’ll run into Chace Crawford here.”
Zoe laughed. “Art imitates life.”
“Or life imitates art,” Mimi responded.
“That’s enough!” Eros said. He obviously did not appreciate the two of them having a laugh at his expense. “Cheers, you cruel gossips. I never make fun of your crushes!”
That seemed to give Mimi another idea. “And?” she asked meaningfully, raising her glass in Zoe’s direction.
“And what?”
“Is anything going on between you and Fiorino?”
“Of course not! Why would you think that?” Zoe answered indignantly.
“I think you like him—otherwise you wouldn’t be so delightfully agitated right now.”
“I am not agitated!” Zoe said, louder than she meant to.
“Exactly,” Mimi said, grinning.
Zoe sighed. “I just don’t understand why men always have to be so complicated.”
“But, sweetheart,” Eros chimed in, “with men it’s very simple.”
“Oh, yes? Then explain it to me, you expert.”
“Men don’t think with their brains.”
“Then it should be forbidden for them to be presidents or secretaries of defense, or bosses of international banks. After all, they have to make life-or-death decisions all day. With their brains.”
“Yeah, yeah. Blah, blah,” Eros said. “If Lehman Brothers had been Lehman Brothers and Sisters, there wouldn’t have been a worldwide financial crisis.”
“Exactly! Women are just better men!”
“That’s what you think. But you got off to a bad start,” Eros continued. “Men are hunters. They want to bring down their prey. Here in the US you have to follow The Rules, my dear. There are specific rules when it comes to dating.”
“The Rules?”
“First date: coffee, lunch, or a casual drink. Second date: drinks after work. This is the latest possible exit point, if the woman isn’t into in the man. The third date is dinner, and the guy already has a toothbrush stuck into his jacket pocket, because after that they go to bed together, guaranteed.”
“So?”
“So you, my dear friend, led McSlimy to an all-you-can-eat buffet in the first thirty minutes. There’s no way this can go anywhere.”
“Thank you, my dear friend, for making me feel like a slut. With friends like you, who needs enemies?”
Eros and Zoe stared at each other stubbornly, and Mimi looked on with amusement. Zoe hated arguments that made her feel like the person she was arguing with might be right.
“Children, don’t squabble,” Mimi said, trying to smooth things over.
Eros looked away, offended.
“Be that as it may,” Zoe finally added, “we’ve decided just to be friends.”
“Friends, or friends with benefits?” Eros probed.
“Friends,” Zoe answered. She hadn’t given up hope that maybe something more would come of it, but she preferred not to tell them that.
“Friends?” Mimi almost choked on her drink. “Men and women can’t be friends!”
“Why not?”
“We’ve known that since When Harry Met Sally. Because in the end, men only think about sex.”
“But Harry and Sally got together at the end!”
“From a biological point of view, friendship between men and women is simply not necessary, my dear Zoe,” Eros lectured.
“Fine, so you paid attention in biology class. Who cares.” Offense, Zoe thought, was still the best defense. Eros only grinned at her. “But sex is just the right spice for a platonic friendship,” Zoe tried to explain. “Sex is the undertone that always harmonizes. It just shouldn’t become too loud.”
“The louder, the better,” Mimi argued. “Why should women behave any differently than men?”
“And anyway,” Eros added, “Have you ever looked someone in the face and said, ‘Let’s be friends?’ What that really means is ‘You leave me so cold that I could swim naked with you on Bora Bora under a full moon with the sound of lapping waves in the background, and nothing would happen.’”
FWB, or: The Three Golden Rules for Friends with Benefits
Friends with benefits (FWB) is an arrangement that is gaining in popularity. There was even a (disappointingly very mediocre) movie made about it with Justin Timberlake. If you want to be sure your next FWB doesn’t end in such mediocrity, the following rules should be strictly adhered to:
Never fall in love with your FWB.
Never introduce your FWB to your friends or family.
Never stay overnight, and never have breakfast together.
(New York for Beginners, p. 37)
11
The next morning, Zoe was about to get on a plane with Tom “Let’s Be Friends” Fiorino—not to Bora Bora, but to Miami, where they would take part in a conference called Bits & Bites. It would basically be an international meeting of geeks from both old and new media. Skinny-dipping was definitely not on the program—that much was clear. While Tom took part in a panel discussion entitled “The Big Picture: The Future of Media,” Zoe’s job was to take notes on the event and document the newest trends.
Zoe dragged her suitcase down to the street, feeling irritated. The limo that was supposed to bring her to the airport was already fifteen minutes late. She began to check the emails on her iPhone for the reservation confirmation that Madison had promised to send her. Nothing.
“Where’s my limo?” she texted her assistant. No answer. “Damn,” she said out loud. “She’s probably blow-drying the last brain cell out of her head.”
Now seriously annoyed, Zoe waited for a taxi on the corner of President and Clinton. An unbelievably ugly yellow box on wheels stopped in front of Zoe. It was the latest taxi design, approved by Mayor Bloomberg.
“La Guardia. American Airlines Terminal,” she told the driver.
“You’ll have to pay cash,” he answered. “My credit card machine isn’t working.”
It was clear to Zoe that the driver simply didn’t feel like driving to the airport, and was trying to get rid of her. “Then I’ll pay cash,” she replied sassily. After all, a Schuhmacher didn’t let anyone give her the runaround, especially not a New York taxi driver. The end effect was that she stared nervously at the meter the entire time, because she only had $38.73 in her wallet.
While Zoe was finally waiting in line at the check-in counter, which wasn’t even manned by a human being, her phone started ringing. She fished it out of her handbag and looked at the display.
“Al, how are you? It’s not a good time. I’m at the airport. Can I call you back—”
“It’s an even more inconvenient time for me!” Allegra interrupted her. “Why isn’t the ‘Sex & Love’ vertical finished?”
Zoe was surprised by Allegra’s aggressive tone. “But you know the programmer jumped ship, and I’ve been through hell and high water trying to find a new one. Even kids who are straight out of college insist on bonuses like free organic vegan lunches, free laundry and dry cleaning, and being allowed to bring their dogs to the office. They want it to be like Google.”
“Zoe, I don’t care about any of that. The damn channel needs to be finished. And the arts vertical, too. And I need a few ideas for other ones.”
“Why the sudden rush? I’m doing my best. You know that.”
“That’s not enough anymore. At yesterday’s board meeting, there was an uproar about how slowly the digi
tization is going. The men want to see results. Preferably yesterday.”
“Then the men should fly in a programmer from Germany for me. Preferably today. I can’t pull one out of thin air.” Zoe was shouting now. But Al had already hung up. Even though Zoe knew her friend was reacting out of stress, she thought her tone was anything but OK.
Zoe thought business trips were a fantastic invention, especially when the destination was a place with palm trees. But in this particular case, airport security probably shouldn’t have let her board the plane. Zoe was so angry, she could have exploded. Not only had Blonde Poison not bothered to reserve a limo to take Zoe to the airport, but on top of that, she had booked her a middle seat on a completely filled flight. To the left of her sat a woman who’d already fallen asleep before takeoff, and was snoring so loudly that even a hardcore pacifist would have had murderous thoughts. To Zoe’s right, in the aisle seat, sat a huge man who only fit in his seat because he’d raised the armrest, which was also Zoe’s. His muffin top had formed rolls over his seat belt and was threatening to fall into her lap. What’s more, he was sweating, and stains were forming under his arms. She didn’t even want to think about the fact that she couldn’t recline her seat because it came up against the wall of the restroom.
The most demeaning part of the whole thing was that on the way to her own personal economy-class hell, she’d had to walk through first class—right past Thomas Prescott Fiorino. A smiling flight attendant had just taken Tom’s jacket and was carefully putting it on a hanger. When she coughed out a strangled “Good morning,” he had beamed at her good-naturedly. “Good morning, my dear,” he said, before busying himself with his Wall Street Journal.
When they arrived in Miami, Tom waited patiently at the gate until Zoe had finally made her way through the entire plane, traversing an obstacle course of rumpled blankets, tattered copies of the New York Post, and fast-food bags half-full of lukewarm leftovers.
“However did you manage to be the last one off the plane?” he asked.
“Very funny. Blonde Poison booked this damn flight for me.”
Tom laughed. “Yes, Madison can be truly horrible. But so amazingly effective.”
“Ha-ha.” Zoe didn’t think a joke at her expense was particularly appropriate at the moment.
In a gesture of reconciliation, Tom reached out to take her carry-on luggage. “May I, madam?”
“You may,” Zoe said. She was feeling merciful.
The chauffeur drove them past Coconut Grove, through downtown Miami, and then took the McArthur Causeway over Star Palm Island and Hibiscus Island, toward the beach. Biscayne Bay glittered turquoise as they crossed the bridge. A gigantic cruise ship signaled its departure from the harbor with a loud blast of its whistle. As she had many times before, Zoe asked herself why she had voluntarily chosen to live at a latitude where it was regularly 5 degrees below freezing in the winter, and rained nonstop in April. But when she thought about it more carefully, she decided that business events that took place in tropical regions were a little strange. It was strange to sit by a pool with a client or a superior while wearing nothing but a bikini. And in the evenings, the men always ended up drinking at the stupid tiki bars like there was no tomorrow.
The Perry South Beach Hotel on Collins Avenue was an elegant box as white as a Hollywood smile. A doorman guarded it during the day. The entire length of one wall of the lobby was taken up by an aquarium, in which sharks nervously circled. So far, so trendy. Tom checked in first.
“Welcome!” He was greeted warmly by a jaw-droppingly gorgeous receptionist. The hotel management must have chosen her from a modeling agency. “We’ve reserved a penthouse suite for you and your companion, Mr. Fiorino. Or would you prefer a Cabana Suite in the garden?”
“The penthouse is perfect,” Tom answered. “But Miss Schuhmacher here has a reservation for a room of her own.”
“Oh,” said the model, obviously rethinking her assumptions about her two guests’ relationship. But then Tom changed his mind. “Actually, couldn’t we upgrade Miss Schuhmacher to a penthouse suite as well?”
The model nodded. “That should be no problem, sir.”
Zoe tried to hide her amazement while staring smugly at the sharks.
Her new junior suite was slightly more minimalistic than she had expected, both in size and in the choice of colors, which were limited to white with a few splashes of turquoise. But she had a beautiful balcony with a fantastic view of palm trees, the pool and its yellow-and-white striped umbrellas, and the Atlantic Ocean glittering in the midday sun. Tonight she would fall asleep to the sound of the waves.
“Hey, neighbor!” Zoe called out when she spotted Tom on the balcony next to hers. He’d already changed into a simple white T-shirt and casual linen trousers that hung softly on his hips. “Shall we go for a walk on the beach?”
The fine, white sand felt comfortably warm under Zoe’s toes. Tom had rolled up his trouser legs and was walking in the shallow water. Every now and then, a wave reached Zoe. She’d needed a while to choose the right bikini and matching beach dress for this trip. It took her at least as long as it had taken her to choose her outfit for her first day at the office.
“So, Miss Schuhmacher, tell me what brought you to America.”
“But you know that very well, Mr. Fiorino. I’m here to advance my career. Nothing but my career.”
“As the new Digital Queen.”
“Yeah, who would have thought I’d become a nerd?” Zoe responded, laughing.
“Why? What else would you have done?”
“You mean before I decided to go into journalism?”
“Yes.”
Zoe thought about it for a moment. “Save the world?”
“Save the world,” he repeated, one eyebrow raised.
“I know it sounds naive. But while you were attending a private school at age fourteen, practicing polo twice a week, and playing spin the bottle while snorting cocaine through hundred-dollar notes, I was worrying about the future of our planet.”
“Go on,” Tom said, amused. “It’s interesting to hear your take on my past.”
“When I was a teenager, phosphates in laundry detergent were making rivers foam, the rain was turning to acid, and I was seriously of the opinion that the forests would die before I’d reach my twenty-first birthday. That is, if you imperialistic Americans wouldn’t have reduced the entire world to ashes and rubble by then, with your pointless nuclear arms race.”
“And that’s when the young Miss Schuhmacher sprang into action.”
“You got it. I had a homemade poster hanging over my bed with the wise words of a Cree Indian chief: ‘Only when the last tree has been cut down, the last river has been poisoned, and the last fish has been caught will you realize you cannot eat money.’”
“As far as I know, the German forests are still standing.”
“Yeah,” Zoe said, taking a deep breath. “The thing about acid rain turned out to be a total hoax. One that cost me a lot of sleepless nights. But I personally helped prevent the foaming-rivers thing, because I boycotted my mother’s laundry for an entire year. I washed all of my own clothes with tallow soap.”
“Really?” Meanwhile, Tom had turned around and was walking backward. He looked Zoe in the eye.
“Really!”
“And now you’re walking along the beach with an imperialistic American who sends his shirts to the dry cleaner’s.”
“Zoe Schuhmacher from Herpersdorf bei Ansbach is completely unprincipled.”
“Herpersdorf bei Ansbach? Where in the world is that?”
“What, you didn’t have geography at your posh private school? You mean there wasn’t time for it between courses like How to Create a Secret Tax Shelter in the Cayman Islands? OK, for an obviously geographically challenged American like yourself, Ansbach is the capital of Middle Franconia. Franconia is in Bav
aria. And that’s in Southern Germany.”
“And how did someone from that charming little hamlet make it to Schoenhoff Publishing in Berlin?”
“When I was fifteen, I won a school newspaper contest with an article entitled ‘No Tragedies: A Day in the Life of an Undertaker.’ Christiane Amanpour from CNN, with a helmet on her head and a bulletproof vest, was my role model. I wanted to travel to the world’s most dangerous conflict zones and write Pulitzer Prize–worthy news stories.”
Tom seemed to be suppressing laughter. He stuck out a hand to take Zoe’s, but then corrected himself and parked his hands in neutral territory, deep in his trouser pockets. Zoe thought he was being far too considerate.
“So what in the world are you doing at Schoenhoff Publishing now? Shouldn’t you be spokeswoman for Amnesty International or something?” he asked.
“I applied for a voluntary position at Greenpeace Quarterly, but I didn’t get it. Instead, I was accepted at Schoenhoff’s journalism school.”
Tom furrowed his brow. “So you just gave up your plans to save the world and defected to the commercial enemy?”
“At first I did it because I didn’t have any other job prospects. But then I realized very quickly that it isn’t half bad to write about the nicer things in life—instead of topics like ethnic cleansing or factory farming. It’s a hell of a lot less depressing, anyway.”
“And the perks were probably a lot better. Travel, invitations to press dinners and movie premieres . . .”
“Not to mention the free cosmetics samples that arrive daily. Guaranteed to have been tested on laboratory animals,” Zoe added, finding her own newly discovered sarcasm charming—probably because Tom seemed to like it.
“So you sold your soul,” Tom said, laughing. “You unscrupulous granola eater, you.”
That evening, as Zoe entered the ballroom for the welcome dinner sporting a sunburned nose and a floor-length chiffon dress in tropical-parrot colors, she felt like Alice in Wonderland. The whole room was decorated like a palace from Arabian Nights, including purple Bedouin tents that housed bars and waiters wearing harem pants and saffron colored turbans. The floor was sprinkled with sand, and on the tables were luxurious flower arrangements that smelled captivatingly of lilies.
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