whispered, but still saw only an empty canvas in front of her. She wondered what a painting like that cost. Half a million? A million? More?
“But that’s not the story you wanted to tell, dear,” Darling reminded him.
“Oh, yes.” Gunn laughed, pointing first to the Freeman, and then to the child’s work. “This here on the left is not the original. We had him make another one—after our nanny unwittingly allowed our three-year-old to scribble on the first one with crayons. Freeman stared at the original from 1992 until 1997, before my son drew over it in 2007. We compensated poor Freeman for having to stare at another canvas for a thousand hours. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“So that’s the mad world of New York’s rich and beautiful,” Zoe said, as she and Mimi rode back to Manhattan in the stretch limo at two in the morning.
“You happened to meet a very amusing example of it,” Mimi said, grinning in the darkness. The chauffeur had put up the privacy panel and kindly turned off the disco light show so the two of them could relax on the trip back home.
Zoe’s thoughts turned to McNeighbor. She wondered if Thomas Prescott Fiorino belonged to this crowd. Was he one of the 1 percent who have wave pools in their yards, stared-at canvases on their walls, and wives whom they call “darling” instead of by their first names? It certainly must make it easier when they traded them in for new, younger models after a few years. Zoe had intended to ban McNeighbor from her thoughts entirely, but somehow none of this seemed to fit with the man she’d met on that damn Sunday morning.
“Is that really Fiorino’s world?” she asked Mimi. She faked a yawn, hoping Mimi would think this subject wasn’t actually of particular interest to her.
“Not really.” Mimi shook her head. “What you saw this evening was new money, sweetie.”
“And . . . ?”
“Tom’s world is old money,” Mimi continued. “Totally different ballgame.”
Zoe thought about it for a moment. It sounded kind of like a threat.
Fashion Week, or: Which Way to the Tents?
Not only does the New York calendar have a totally different time concept of summer, but two entire months every year have special meaning: February and September, the months of New York Fashion Week. In those two months, spring/summer and autumn/winter collections are shown in tents, in the area in front of the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center. Of course the fashion shows are not for mere mortals who want to see a few live mannequins strutting down the catwalk. No, there is a carefully chosen audience: buyers from large department stores, journalists, bloggers, filthy-rich customers, and a few Hollywood stars for decoration.
In the evenings there are exclusive dinners and after-parties with even more exclusive guests, the invitations to which are a hot commodity among designers and their PR agents.
( New York for Beginners , p. 63)
9
Zoe had registered for the fashion shows as the writer for StyleChicks, but in the end she’d been able to use Allegra’s invitation. Al had to be at a board meeting and couldn’t come herself. Getting to use Al’s invitation was a nice perk, because as fashion magazine royalty, Al got a seat in the front row, where all the celebrities sat, and where all the gift bags filled with cosmetics and other goodies lay on the chairs. Mere bloggers, on the other hand, occupied the fifth row or were relegated to standing room. Those areas were so far from what was going on that one could barely see the models’ upper halves. Her colleagues at the office called them the “nosebleed seats.”
Madison, the office assistant whom everyone simply referred to now as Blonde Poison, was wearing a Juicy Couture stretch dress of questionable taste in Miss Piggy pink. Even a twelve-year-old would have looked like a prostitute in it.
“Tom wanted me to ask if you’d like a ride to the show today in his Town Car,” Madison said, placing her
“But that’s not the story you wanted to tell, dear,” Darling reminded him.
“Oh, yes.” Gunn laughed, pointing first to the Freeman, and then to the child’s work. “This here on the left is not the original. We had him make another one—after our nanny unwittingly allowed our three-year-old to scribble on the first one with crayons. Freeman stared at the original from 1992 until 1997, before my son drew over it in 2007. We compensated poor Freeman for having to stare at another canvas for a thousand hours. Crazy, isn’t it?”
“So that’s the mad world of New York’s rich and beautiful,” Zoe said, as she and Mimi rode back to Manhattan in the stretch limo at two in the morning.
“You happened to meet a very amusing example of it,” Mimi said, grinning in the darkness. The chauffeur had put up the privacy panel and kindly turned off the disco light show so the two of them could relax on the trip back home.
Zoe’s thoughts turned to McNeighbor. She wondered if Thomas Prescott Fiorino belonged to this crowd. Was he one of the 1 percent who have wave pools in their yards, stared-at canvases on their walls, and wives whom they call “darling” instead of by their first names? It certainly must make it easier when they traded them in for new, younger models after a few years. Zoe had intended to ban McNeighbor from her thoughts entirely, but somehow none of this seemed to fit with the man she’d met on that damn Sunday morning.
“Is that really Fiorino’s world?” she asked Mimi. She faked a yawn, hoping Mimi would think this subject wasn’t actually of particular interest to her.
“Not really.” Mimi shook her head. “What you saw this evening was new money, sweetie.”
“And . . . ?”
“Tom’s world is old money,” Mimi continued. “Totally different ballgame.”
Zoe thought about it for a moment. It sounded kind of like a threat.
Fashion Week, or: Which Way to the Tents?
Not only does the New York calendar have a totally different time concept of summer, but two entire months every year have special meaning: February and September, the months of New York Fashion Week. In those two months, spring/summer and autumn/winter collections are shown in tents, in the area in front of the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center. Of course the fashion shows are not for mere mortals who want to see a few live mannequins strutting down the catwalk. No, there is a carefully chosen audience: buyers from large department stores, journalists, bloggers, filthy-rich customers, and a few Hollywood stars for decoration.
In the evenings there are exclusive dinners and after-parties with even more exclusive guests, the invitations to which are a hot commodity among designers and their PR agents.
( New York for Beginners , p. 63)
9
Zoe had registered for the fashion shows as the writer for StyleChicks, but in the end she’d been able to use Allegra’s invitation. Al had to be at a board meeting and couldn’t come herself. Getting to use Al’s invitation was a nice perk, because as fashion magazine royalty, Al got a seat in the front row, where all the celebrities sat, and where all the gift bags filled with cosmetics and other goodies lay on the chairs. Mere bloggers, on the other hand, occupied the fifth row or were relegated to standing room. Those areas were so far from what was going on that one could barely see the models’ upper halves. Her colleagues at the office called them the “nosebleed seats.”
Madison, the office assistant whom everyone simply referred to now as Blonde Poison, was wearing a Juicy Couture stretch dress of questionable taste in Miss Piggy pink. Even a twelve-year-old would have looked like a prostitute in it.
“Tom wanted me to ask if you’d like a ride to the show today in his Town Car,” Madison said, placing her
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