could occasionally be accused of being a tad too conscious of who was where on the social ladder. For the past ten years, Beetelle, Cem, and Lola had lived in a million-dollar McMansion in the Atlanta suburb of Windsor Pines; in an uncensored moment, Beetelle had let slip that one had to have at least six thousand square feet and five bathrooms to be anyone these days.
Naturally, Beetelle’s desire for the best in life extended to her daughter; for this parental ambition, Beetelle forgave herself. “Life is the ques-40
Candace Bushnell
tion and children are the answer” was one of her favorite mottoes, a hom-ily she had picked up from a novel. It meant, she’d decided, that doing everything for your child was the most acceptable and unassailable position one could take.
To this end, Beetelle had now established her little family in two large adjoining rooms at the trendy Soho House hotel. Their first three days in New York had been spent in an intense search for an appropriate abode for Lola. Lola and Beetelle wanted a place in the West Village, both for its charms, which couldn’t help but inspire a young person, and for the neighbors, who included, according to the celebrity magazines, several movie and television stars as well as fashion designers and musical artists. Although the ideal abode had yet to be found, Beetelle, always efficient, had already begun furnishing it. She’d ordered a bed and various other items, such as sheets and towels, from the vast warehouse of a store called ABC Carpet. The loot was piled up in the entryway of the hotel room, and in the middle of this, Beetelle lay exhausted on a narrow couch, thinking about her swollen feet and wondering if anything could be done about them.
The Fabrikants, after endless discussion, had decided the most they could pay in rent was three thousand dollars a month, which was, as Cem pointed out, more than most people’s monthly mortgage payment. For this price, the Fabrikants imagined they’d find a spacious apartment with a terrace; instead, they’d been shown dirty little rooms that were reached by several flights of stairs. Beetelle imagined Lola living in such a space and being attacked at knifepoint in the stairwell. It wouldn’t do. Lola had to be safe. Her apartment must be clean and at least a reasonable facsimile of what she had at home.
Across the room, Cem lay facedown on the bed. Beetelle put her hands over her face. “Cem,” she asked, “did you get the reservations for Il Posto?”
There was a muffled groan into the pillow.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Beetelle said.
“I was just about to call.”
“It’s probably too late. The concierge said it can take a month to get a reservation at a Mario Batali restaurant.”
O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
41
“We could eat at the restaurant here,” Cem said hopefully, despite the fact that he knew another dinner at the hotel would result in a very chilly evening with his wife and daughter.
“We’ve already eaten here twice,” Beetelle scolded. “Lola so wanted to go to Il Posto. It’s important. If she’s going to succeed here, she needs to be exposed to the best. That’s the whole point of New York. Exposure. I’m sure most of the people she meets will have gone to a Mario Batali restaurant. Or at least a Bobby Flay one.”
Cem Fabrikant couldn’t imagine that this was true—that recent college graduates regularly frequented two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-person restaurants—but knew better than to argue. “I’ll call the concierge,” he said.
And keep my fingers crossed, he added to himself.
Beetelle closed her eyes and folded her lips as if trapping in a sigh of frustration. This was the typical construct of their marriage: Cem would agree to do something and would then take so long to do it that Beetelle would have to take over.
An impatient ringing of the buzzer, which sounded like an angry wasp trying to get into the suite, broke the tension. “Lola’s
Naturally, Beetelle’s desire for the best in life extended to her daughter; for this parental ambition, Beetelle forgave herself. “Life is the ques-40
Candace Bushnell
tion and children are the answer” was one of her favorite mottoes, a hom-ily she had picked up from a novel. It meant, she’d decided, that doing everything for your child was the most acceptable and unassailable position one could take.
To this end, Beetelle had now established her little family in two large adjoining rooms at the trendy Soho House hotel. Their first three days in New York had been spent in an intense search for an appropriate abode for Lola. Lola and Beetelle wanted a place in the West Village, both for its charms, which couldn’t help but inspire a young person, and for the neighbors, who included, according to the celebrity magazines, several movie and television stars as well as fashion designers and musical artists. Although the ideal abode had yet to be found, Beetelle, always efficient, had already begun furnishing it. She’d ordered a bed and various other items, such as sheets and towels, from the vast warehouse of a store called ABC Carpet. The loot was piled up in the entryway of the hotel room, and in the middle of this, Beetelle lay exhausted on a narrow couch, thinking about her swollen feet and wondering if anything could be done about them.
The Fabrikants, after endless discussion, had decided the most they could pay in rent was three thousand dollars a month, which was, as Cem pointed out, more than most people’s monthly mortgage payment. For this price, the Fabrikants imagined they’d find a spacious apartment with a terrace; instead, they’d been shown dirty little rooms that were reached by several flights of stairs. Beetelle imagined Lola living in such a space and being attacked at knifepoint in the stairwell. It wouldn’t do. Lola had to be safe. Her apartment must be clean and at least a reasonable facsimile of what she had at home.
Across the room, Cem lay facedown on the bed. Beetelle put her hands over her face. “Cem,” she asked, “did you get the reservations for Il Posto?”
There was a muffled groan into the pillow.
“You forgot, didn’t you?” Beetelle said.
“I was just about to call.”
“It’s probably too late. The concierge said it can take a month to get a reservation at a Mario Batali restaurant.”
O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
41
“We could eat at the restaurant here,” Cem said hopefully, despite the fact that he knew another dinner at the hotel would result in a very chilly evening with his wife and daughter.
“We’ve already eaten here twice,” Beetelle scolded. “Lola so wanted to go to Il Posto. It’s important. If she’s going to succeed here, she needs to be exposed to the best. That’s the whole point of New York. Exposure. I’m sure most of the people she meets will have gone to a Mario Batali restaurant. Or at least a Bobby Flay one.”
Cem Fabrikant couldn’t imagine that this was true—that recent college graduates regularly frequented two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-person restaurants—but knew better than to argue. “I’ll call the concierge,” he said.
And keep my fingers crossed, he added to himself.
Beetelle closed her eyes and folded her lips as if trapping in a sigh of frustration. This was the typical construct of their marriage: Cem would agree to do something and would then take so long to do it that Beetelle would have to take over.
An impatient ringing of the buzzer, which sounded like an angry wasp trying to get into the suite, broke the tension. “Lola’s
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