Hungover and jet-lagged, Aalin wakes to the hum of New York City from her new Central Park apartment on East 72 Street. The bustling city before her is a welcome change from Switzerland’s forlorn, pastoral landscapes that she found oppressive, even with a throbbing head ache.
Life will be new here, she reaffirms, kicking off the designer sheets, desperate for the freedom to be who she truly is with no judgment or repercussion. Intuitively leaving her staff in Cairo, was the right decision, she’ll hire new staff in New York without connections to the family.
She’s actually thrilled the hope of marriage abroad has given her uncles a new approach as custodians. Although she has always been given generous access to her family fortune, tradition mandates they oversee her general well-being until she marries. At thirty being warehoused by her family is becoming tedious. She’s pleased her plan to terminate this caveat is within reach, if all goes well.
A notification from the smart station, inlaid statuario marble, Louis the XIV bed stand, pulls her from the floor to ceiling window.
You have a visitor Ms. Adom. Ms. Laure Giovanni to see you.
Hurrying to dress at three in the afternoon, she then pads across the cavernous great room of her mini palace in silk pajamas to greet Laure.
As the elevator opens, Laure exclaims, “Hey, girl. Sorry to pop in on you like this. I thought you might need a snack.” She smiles, handing Aalin a to-go box, as she surveys the apartment. “Wow, this place is . . . not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” Aalin asks, wide-eyed, playfully sniffing the box.
“Anything but Louis.”
They both look at each other and laugh.
“I know it’s ridiculous. What’s in the box?”
“I brought bagels with a shmear from my favorite deli, I didn’t know what you’d liked, so I got you an everything bagel with plain cream cheese, and smoked salmon with capers.”
“That was very thoughtful, Laure. Thank you.”
“No problem, honey.”
“You know, my agent left me a welcome basket somewhere with coffee and tea, and champagne!” Aalin regals, making her way into a completely over the top French Rococo, wood-paneled kitchen. “Let’s say we open a bottle?”
“Oh, my fucking god.”
“What? It’s over the top, right?”
“I feel like I’m in the freaking Louvre!”
“Yeah, but I’m thinking modern.” Aalin pops the top of the champagne.
“In that case, you should come with me today. I’m heading down to Hell’s Kitchen to check out some galleries. Tyler asked me to find a couple of pieces of art for his place while we’re here.”
“That sounds fun. We can take the bottle to go. I’ll call a car.”
Twenty minutes later they step into the elevator, Aalin now donning a reflective black trench coat over custom pants and a white-collared shirt with extremely large bugs woven into the front panels.
Confused, Laure asks, “You packed all of those clothes in your handbag?”
“No, I had them sent over this morning. I love Galliano. Don’t you? This is from the Mason Margiela Spring collection. It turns iridescent under a flash bulb! I had to have it.”
Resigned to be financially usurped by one outfit, Laure responds wholeheartedly, “It’s amazing. You look amazing.” As she contemplates her jeans and imitation fur lined parka.
Heading down Fifth Avenue, Laure is noticeably unaware of the delight luxury is presenting today; normally, million dollar renovations, private cars, Haute Couture, and champagne in the early afternoon would conjure cynicism along with the inevitable blue-collar envy. But today things are different, she is not judgmental or biased; instead, she’s happy and confident. She’s in love.
Turning on 57 Street, passing Carnegie Hall, memories of living with Steph flood her mind: gals out on the town, both of them up to no good, with barely twenty dollars between them. Things sure have changed.
The first stop is a posh little gallery space. Once the car pulls over, Aalin asks the driver to wait. Laure raises her eyebrows as all of the galleries are within walking distance.
“Jet lag, darling.” Aalin responds. “I’ll be useless today.”
Laure laughs, and they’re greeted by a handsome, perfectly manicured metro-millennial behind a desk scantily peering over burgeoning, black framed glasses, appraising the likelihood of a purchase.
No stranger to the gallery game, Laure feels the immediate need to protect Aalin from his absurd consumer bias. Feeling confident and informed but most importantly, knowing she could purchase anything in the gallery on Tyler’s Amex, gives her an unfamiliar, but welcome, sense of power.
As the gallerist endeavors to extricate his absurdly long legs from under the bent, core-tin steel desk, the women move expertly into the viewing area. Neither of them, are impressed with the glitter painted tennis shoes appliqued’ d with fried eggs or the expressionless attempt at graffiti art before them.
“There’s no juice,” Laure states disappointed.
Having finally caught up with them, the hipster decides to engage, “This is a group show of the top seven artists under thirty-five to watch in New York City.”
Laure nods her ringlet head in response, moving into the larger of the two gallery rooms where a cluster of small Picasso-esque paintings of playing cards hangs next to an installation of giant hand crocheted, images of playfully tawdry, ‘70s brown creatures. “This is depressing. Let’s get out of here.”
Aalin stands by the black Jaguar door texting as Laure joins her on the pavement, “We’re literally going across the street.” Laure directs her jet lagged companion with a grin.
“Oh, OK.”
The next gallery they step into is a temple to Modernism. Not one color-tone to be found. Gray dominates all three rooms with tortured metal sculpture, and mono-chromed canvases of varied sizes. A stout, perky woman approaches quietly, appraising, “Have you been in before?”
“No,” Laure responds.
“Well, David Schloss studied with Alexander Calder’s grandson. Notice the play of shadow that is an integral component of his work. He is in high demand. Several celebrities have already purchased a suite of his smaller reproductions.” She adds with a slight tilt to her bobbed head.
Staring at the wall, Laure notices the reflection of multiple shadows interplaying with the sculpture itself, creating a distinctly different, abstract object. On second look, the steel pieces are interesting, compact, and oddly feminine.
“He is mid-career and has just been awarded honorable mention at Art Basel in Miami this year.”
While listening to the pitch, Laure strategically reviews the ten pieces. The largest of them approximately three feet long and ten inches wide is a small I beam that has been twisted into a knot at the center and warped towards the viewer. She realizes it has the most intriguing shadow. “What’s the price of this one?”
“Wonderful choice. This sculpture has been featured in Dwell and Architectural Digest. It’s presently ninety-thousand dollars but that price won’t last long after the Basel show ends.”
Pulling out her phone to take a photo, Laure is excited.
“I’ll take all ten,” Aalin announces.
Freezing, Laure looks at Aalin with incomprehensible surprise but says nothing once she realizes she’s serious.
The gallerist’s eyes pop out of her head as Aalin hands over her Black card. The transaction is completed quickly. Aalin, completely unaware of her transgression is impervious to Laure’s abrupt severance, but even the gallerist knows something’s going on.
They climb back into the Jag awaiting them on the sidewalk and Laure sits back, stiffly exhaling, “I need a drink.”
“Great idea. Let’s celebrate.”
The Library Bar on 58 Street is hopping. with a live band playing raucously near the front door. They manage to wrangle a cosmopolitan, and much to Laure’s surprise a champagne cocktail for Aalin from a gorgeous bartender before nabbing two oversized, club chairs in front of the fireplace.
An uncomfortable silence between them is propitiously interrupted by a chaotic, hillbilly rhythm seizing the moment, before Aalin breaks the ice. “You know your way around the city,” She yells over a brittle harmonica.
“I do. I grew up in New Jersey and lived here eons ago with a good friend,” Laure talks over the band, moving to the edge of her chair. “I actually, lived here.” She points her finger to the table with deliberate inflection, “in Hell’s Kitchen,” she states with pride. “You couldn’t get anyone to come here, except for drugs. You had to be tough. It was appropriately named.” The twanging banjo overruns the space, shoving her back into her seat.
“How old were you when you lived here?”
“What?” Unable to hear, Laure leans forward again.
“How old were you when you lived here?” Aalin repeats, but even her brusque, booming, baritone is swallowed by the bumpkin trill. “One moment.” She takes a sip of her cocktail, and rises out of her club chair, making her way to the band. A moment or two later the music stops abruptly, and after a short discussion with the singer, Aalin walks back and sits down. “How old were you when you lived here?”
“Nineteen, I was in college.”
“I envy your independence.”
“You seem pretty independent to me.” The bar’s newfound silence has drawn everyone’s attention.
“Ah, seems is the operative word.”
Curiosity piqued, Laure nods over to the band, who are now packing up. “What happened over there? Did you ask them to stop playing?”
“No,” Aalin replies, shaking her head, “of course not. I paid them to stop playing.” Her cell phone rings, “Excuse me, I have to take this.”
Momentarily stunned, Laure deliberates, but not without a tinge of amusement, as she downs her cosmo. Pulling out her phone, she texts Steph;
Hey Girlie, ask Remy what type of art he would hang in a black, white, and chrome Art Deco apartment for a guy. How’s everything going?
Aalin still rapidly speaking Arabic, Laure takes a moment to text Tyler;
Having drinks with Aalin at the Library Bar. Join us?
His reply is immediate;
Be there in 10
Reclining in the comfort of the armchair, Laure appraises the clientele; a mixture of newly minted workforce and hip social networkers glowing in calculated ambience. Suddenly saddened, she is reminded of the jarring realization– The world goes on without you. What once seemed familiar and formidably her own, she now sees as simply a fleeting moment in a large machine that never stops churning out gorgeous bartenders and snooty gallerists. That’s depressing. But Steph’s response is even more worrisome;
Remy says mount a vintage motorcycle to the wall. And that’s a loaded question, it’s been surreal.
Tyler walks in, spotting them immediately. “A,” he states, taking the seat next to Laure, looking for a waiter.
“Tyler, I was just talking about you.” Aalin throws her phone in her bag, flirtatiously.
Looking from one woman to the other, Tyler adjusts his suit coat.
“Naguib will be here the day after tomorrow to discuss all of the details,” she states over the room full of people chatting, while a new apprehension encompasses the threesome.
“The details of what?” Laure finally asks Aalin, her eyes flashing between the cousins.
“Our engagement, of course.”