Escape From Bridezillia. Jacqueline deMontravel
to move in and Henry did the very boy thing, asking all of these tiresome questions about maintenance, square feet blah blah blah, while I envisioned putting my crystal chandelier in the mirrored bathroom and how I would fill in the awkward triangular corner with my easel and paint things.
“Okay,” Henry directed. “Let’s see the next place.”
After seeing the Grand Street apartment, our choices became progressively worse. Too dark or not enough space—the décor in most of them stifled me. The sole furniture of a Broome Street loft was the desks and chairs where I used to keep my number 2 pencils and box of Crayolas. I wondered if the resident was an elementary school teacher and lifted things from the office.
Henry, registering my Emily smirk, pulled me to the side and away from Barracuda Barb. She seemed annoyed, which pleased me.
“Seen anything you like?”
“Only the Grand Street place. Nothing else seems to have any of the added features. That something distinguishing, special.”
“I knew you’d say that!” he said, eyes laughing at me.
“But didn’t you like the Grand Street place?”
“Sure I liked it, but it’s an imprudent investment. Twelve hundred square feet is hardly worth over three million.” He put his hand around my waist and pulled me into him, looking into my eyes the way he did before we were about to get it on. “Emily, think about it,” he whispered. “The walls had about as much stability as tracing paper. They’re just cashing in on the Boffi stainless kitchen, newly painted walls, and stained floors.”
Henry could be so practical.
Barb interrupted us.
“Listen, I hate to interrupt.”
So then why were you interrupting?
“But I do have one more place I could show you.”
Coming in between us with her cashmere cleavage that a credit card could get stuck getting swiped in, I noticed that her breasts absolutely got the fake check. She then started in with her pushy peddler tone.
“It’s really the most fantastic place of the lot—on Reade Street. Penthouse triplex, Val Cucine kitchen where you choose the finish,” she rambled on like an airline stewardess instructing the multiple uses of your floatable seat cushion.
Having no idea what she was talking about, what even made a Val Cucine kitchen such a perk, and not that I’d ever turn on the stove—aside from lighting one of my two cigarettes I had in a year—I did appreciate the idea of having a Val Cucine kitchen.
She continued describing the brochure copy attractions. How the loft could easily be made into a fourth bedroom. “There’s nothing else like it on the market!”
There’s nothing else like it on the market? They all say that.
And then Henry, dropping his hands from around my waist and utterly absorbed by Barb, asked excitedly, “But why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Referring to the apartment list that I forgot to print out because I had been too busy researching fake breasts. “I don’t see a Reade Street apartment on your listing,” Henry said, squinting his eyes to his FAQ sheet.
“I didn’t include it because it’s a bit higher than your spending price.”
He looked to the crumpled piece of paper that seemed ready to double for a Kleenex.
“Look,” said Barb, a bit firmly for my liking, as I then reminded myself who was working for whom. “Reade Street is just two blocks from here; we might as well go ahead and at least look at the place.”
Henry and I gave why-not shrugs of our shoulders, dutifully following Barb to our impromptu appointment.
Okay, this was better than Christmas morning 1982 when I stumbled onto a floor padded not only with all of the presents I had asked Santa for but also Calvin Klein jeans, a point-and-shoot camera, and a pair of Nikes my mother had had made into roller skates. The ceiling was supported by five columns that appeared to be inspired by the Parthenon after a raw food diet, and Barb rambled something about how the architecture of the loft was based on the principles of Feng Shui, which essentially could be the same as telling me that my moon was in Gemini and how that affected my daily happiness, but the selling point seemed to hook Henry.
Above, there were rows of glass-cased rooms that looked down to the main floor in a similar setup to the boxes at Madison Square Garden that encircled the court. There was a curtain of glass walls, oak floors so slippery you needed ice skates, bathrooms with steam-heated floors, and the closets! I would actually be able to give my clothes some space for the first time in their cramped existence.
After testing out the stairs a few times, I returned to the main room, finding Henry and Barb immersed in a chat at the corner window. But I knew it wasn’t anything illicit because Henry had out his list, making all sorts of scribbles that appeared more active than one of his creative-drawing moments that always seem to come at the convenient time of 2:00 AM.
“Okay then, Henry,” Barb said, right as I arrived. She acted as if she had been trying to conceal something, sneaky Barb, when I very well knew she had been playing it coy and vindictive to make me feel insecure, when really Henry and I had complete trust in one another.
“And Emily, nice meeting you. I’m sure you two have a lot to discuss.”
What the hell did she mean by that? Was she trying to insinuate that she and Henry were making plans to have an affair?
“Right,” said Henry. “We do have a lot to go over, Emily.” His voice boomed in my direction. “About our next home.”
Snapping me from a mental image of myself following a trail of Barb’s black designer-label clothes—bought at a reduced price at the Barney’s warehouse sale—deliberately left about the loft’s leading selling points like clues, finding Henry crawling on top of her on the top staircase, I paid Barb with the sweetest smile I could muster. The smile probably appeared more saccharine than the one I had anticipated.
5
We walked to no particular destination in silence. I had been preoccupied with the decorating of our new apartment—hanging my canvases, pointing to big strong men where to situate the retro furniture that I’d be purchasing from nearby SoHo shops and a basketball hoop with a basketball. (Though there would be no basketball playing allowed, they must be included for the effect—it was all about the effect. I mean no one really uses the pool boy who comes with the Palm Beach estate, unless you’re…er…I started imagining a very young Antonio Banderas. Again, it was all about the fantasy.)
Henry asked if we could stop at the bookstore on Astor, knowing that I’d agree without protest. I loved bookstores the way I loved diners. How hours could slip from the mental travel spurred by pictures and words.
He consulted the floor plan and we went to the Home and Architecture section, where Henry began stacking all of the Idiot and Dummy guides to buying a home on his arms, while I preoccupied myself with a coffee-table book celebrating the works of I.M. Pei, choosing the homes that I could live in.
“Tonight we’ll divide the reading—bone up on how to negotiate, apply for a mortgage, select inspectors, contractors, et cetera,” Henry said, wrenching me from my fantasy state.
Was Henry asking me to intentionally read boring stuff? Perhaps he should just read everything and give me the abridged version from what he learned. Or maybe he could just handle this part of the home-buying process, letting me focus on the decorating and spending needs. But I wasn’t about to share this with him, not wanting to start something. I excused myself to check out the magazine racks and selected every home décor publication without “Country” in its name, as those seemed to mandate a basket, something dried, or quilted on their covers.
Finding Henry dog-earing one of the recyclable books we now had to buy, I moved us toward the checkout before he