began to undress. I slipped on Henry’s pajama top, and he changed into the bottoms. We were good that way, buying one pair of pajamas that we both got simultaneous use from. And here we thought we’d have financial woes.
“It’s just that part of my news was that I found a renter.”
“You did?”
“Yes, actually. J3 Hopper, as a matter of fact. I bumped into him today at the Met. He’s always traveling—based in L.A., having recently bought a home there—but said how he would love to have a place to stay when he’s in New York that doesn’t come with room service.”
“How curious.”
“I know. Exactly my reaction.”
But I think Henry was interested for a different reason. I loved hotel living for the punch-in-the-extension conveniences, blanketing your body within a plushy white bathrobe. I have told a number of people that I should be buried in a hotel robe, which would expedite my entry through the gates of heaven by already being in dress code. The heaven I envisioned is a sort of eternal stay at the Amandari in Bali. There were also rivers of chocolate and Oompa Loompas.
No Oompa Loompas.
Henry sat on his side of the bed, distressing the sheet he had made such a point to straighten earlier. He gave it a studied look before peeling back the layers. Propping his pillow, he shifted toward me.
“You know Em, Reade Street is bit of a pinch to our budget.”
Our budget? Did not like the sound of that at all.
“And, from the sound of it, J3 does fit the ideal renter composite. The idea of living with a guy who recently mugged for the cover of Wired…”
“Really? He was on the cover of Wired?” I said, sounding quite impressed. Not that I’d ever read Wired.
I then thought of J3 at the museum—his height, presence, and intellect. His looks became more absorbing the more times you see him, like an Ingmar Bergman film (or the one Bergman film I had to see for a film class). At first study, you question the meaning of significant elements and, after seeing it a few times, features become more prominent and interesting. You begin to dwell on images you quickly wrote off at the first, cursory glance.
“I really like this idea. And you know what the best part is?” said Henry, lifting up the blanket for me to slide in next to him.
“Aside from having someone to share all of our bridal registries with?”
“Free video games! But not only that,” Henry said like an excited little kid who just broke his score. He propped his head on his hand to look down on me, while I imagined what he’d look like if I magic-markered a Mike Tyson tattoo on his face.
“Early previews of his video games!”
“So you mean to tell me that you’re basing the person who will live with us, in our new home, on receiving early copies of video games?”
Henry seemed a bit dumbfounded.
“Uh, yeah!”
I thought about living with a designer for Chanel and getting early collection pieces.
“Okay then. So J3 will be our renter? We’re going to put a bid on Reade Street?”
“Absolutely!” said Henry, extending his hand up in the air for a high five, something I haven’t done since I played college sports, but I supposed it was appropriate, considering the momentous occasion, so I high-fived my fiancé in our bed, agreeing to take in a roommate.
9
“What are you wearing?” asked Daphne over the phone as I dressed for my interview with Daniel West.
“My black Michael Kors pants, fitted Chanel sweater, and”—I paused, holding in my breath to accentuate my calf with the same motion as tucking in your tummy for too-tight jeans—“my sexy suede Dior boots.”
“Change.”
“Change?”
“Change!” she ordered.
“Excuse me, Ms. Wintour, but I do recall these being recent runway items.”
“Daniel is expecting a creative personality, someone with a touch of the exotic. You must show your openness to experimentation. Your love of color!”
Was she talking about my meeting or having an affair with a Masai tribesman?
I was waiting in the reception area of Daniel West Gallery, which I knew was the right place with “Daniel West Gallery” painted outside the door in dripping red paint, probably brought to you by the people behind the latest teen slasher movies.
In my head I kept calling him “Daniel West.” Daniel West was a brand, one that I knew on a commercial level. Just as I wouldn’t call Orville Redenbacher “Orville” or Frank Perdue “Frank” from the many times I met with these two men, it would be inappropriate to refer to Daniel West simply as “Daniel.”
Turning the knob to go into the gallery, you went from red and white to black and white. I began to think of the “what’s black, white, and red all over” jokes, supplementing the uninspired interiors with skunks in blenders. The walls were so bare they were blinding, with one black canvas for which I couldn’t identify the painter, and considering it was really just a black canvas, that made it a bit more difficult to attribute.
I was feeling pleased with myself for not taking Daphne’s advice on what I’d wear, as I fit right in with the black and white composite without even doing a scout.
The receptionist pointed to a seat and I sank into a high-backed couch that had an uncomfortable scratchy texture. Overcome by tiredness, I considered nodding off, until the receptionist awakened me, informing me that I would meet with “Mr. Daniel West” in about fifteen minutes. He then offered me a water, which I declined because I wasn’t sure if I was being graded on this and didn’t want to appear as the high-maintenance type.
He smiled, returning his attention to his Smythson planner and wrote something, which I figured to be a mark that passed in my favor. I then took out my Smythson to show that we were indeed of the same tribe. Having my book also gave me security, something that preoccupied me, with no coffee table displaying magazines to read or other attractions for awaiting guests unless you elected to stare at the black canvas that took all of two seconds to commit to memory.
Scribbling nonsensical notes also distinguished me from the yappy cell phone type, which was an important quality I wanted to distinguish myself as. Luckily, the view onto Fifty-seventh Street had some clever animation with its bustle and color of New York street energy. I must have been nervous, going to such efforts to impress a receptionist, whose job was to answer a phone, an easy enough skill that required no prior training.
Suddenly, a bird made a terrifying splat into the window, its wings frayed into every direction before it slid from our view. I turned to the receptionist and he met my gaze, his face contorted to hysterical directions, and then we both burst into laughter at the expense of this bird—this bird now probably squatting somewhere in a halo of stars. My relationship with the receptionist shifted to a new, more intimate
