when he was under a deadline or caught up in an inspiration. He’d work through the night, taking power naps on the futon he kept in there.
Isabelle seemed to be her usual busy self, dealing with the last of the wait-listers, meeting with next year’s crop of demanding parents. She’d been spending a lot of time in her room reading, but Carly hadn’t thought much of it. She figured it was just the usual end-of-the-school-year exhaustion.
“Now I have to figure out the living situation.”
“The living situation?”
Carly turned to look at her mother but she was staring out the other cab window.
“The loft is Nick’s. We’re going to have to leave.”
When Carly and her mother moved in with Nick twelve years earlier, the Meatpacking District was still a place where they processed animals into meat, not the locale of hot clubs and designer boutiques. Nick’s huge loft was nothing but unfinished industrial space that still smelled slightly of the veal factory it once housed. There were no walls, no adequate heat, and not much in the way of plumbing except an old toilet and sink surrounded by plywood and a bathtub in the middle of the “kitchen,” which consisted of a hotplate and a microwave.
It took four years and a lot of sweat to turn it into the huge, light-filled space it now was—with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and a kitchen with all the latest appliances.
Though she’d never want to go back to those conditions, Carly looked back happily on the years of roughing it. Isabelle had her assistant’s job at Bellwin, but she kept a little desk set up in a corner of Nick’s studio, where she wrote at night and on the weekends. They had a circle of artist and writer friends who would come over for big, loud spaghetti dinners where the talking and laughing would last late into the night.
Nick worked nights tending bar and during the day worked on the loft renovations. So that they wouldn’t have to spend money on preschool, Carly stayed home with Nick while her mother worked. When other kids her age were gluing together popsicle-stick houses, she was sanding floors, installing drywall, and laying tile. Of course she mostly watched while Nick and a few hired guys did most of the real work, but Nick had always made her feel like she was a part of things. She’d fetch their tools, hold the measuring tape, vacuum sawdust.
Nick let her pick out the exact spot along the wall of windows where she liked the view the best and then built her room around it. From her bed she could see across the Hudson to Jersey City or watch the cruise ships and tour boats come and go in the harbor. She’d spent many hours of her life looking out at that view, losing herself in daydreams. Girls at school were always impressed with Carly’s address and the size of the loft. While it was nice to have a lot of space and a great view, for Carly it was never about status. It was about having a place where she belonged and that belonged to her.
The loft was home.
“Can’t we get a place here?” As Carly said this to her mother, the cab pulled up in front of their building. Their new neighbors, a German supermodel whose face had been on the cover of Vogue a month earlier and the famous French photographer who took the picture, emerged and signaled for the driver to wait.
Their clothes probably cost more than Carly’s mother could afford for a month’s rent. There wasn’t a unit in the building worth less than two million dollars, and the block was lined with galleries and designer clothing stores.
Isabelle didn’t bother answering the question, and Carly didn’t bother repeating it as they passed Gudrun and Jean-François, who nodded solemnly—or was it smugly?—while holding the cab door.
“The rental market is even worse than I thought,” Isabelle said, turning her key in the wall-mounted locking system.
The door clicked and buzzed. Carly pushed it open.
“I haven’t been able to find anything—anywhere in
Isabelle seemed to be her usual busy self, dealing with the last of the wait-listers, meeting with next year’s crop of demanding parents. She’d been spending a lot of time in her room reading, but Carly hadn’t thought much of it. She figured it was just the usual end-of-the-school-year exhaustion.
“Now I have to figure out the living situation.”
“The living situation?”
Carly turned to look at her mother but she was staring out the other cab window.
“The loft is Nick’s. We’re going to have to leave.”
When Carly and her mother moved in with Nick twelve years earlier, the Meatpacking District was still a place where they processed animals into meat, not the locale of hot clubs and designer boutiques. Nick’s huge loft was nothing but unfinished industrial space that still smelled slightly of the veal factory it once housed. There were no walls, no adequate heat, and not much in the way of plumbing except an old toilet and sink surrounded by plywood and a bathtub in the middle of the “kitchen,” which consisted of a hotplate and a microwave.
It took four years and a lot of sweat to turn it into the huge, light-filled space it now was—with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and a kitchen with all the latest appliances.
Though she’d never want to go back to those conditions, Carly looked back happily on the years of roughing it. Isabelle had her assistant’s job at Bellwin, but she kept a little desk set up in a corner of Nick’s studio, where she wrote at night and on the weekends. They had a circle of artist and writer friends who would come over for big, loud spaghetti dinners where the talking and laughing would last late into the night.
Nick worked nights tending bar and during the day worked on the loft renovations. So that they wouldn’t have to spend money on preschool, Carly stayed home with Nick while her mother worked. When other kids her age were gluing together popsicle-stick houses, she was sanding floors, installing drywall, and laying tile. Of course she mostly watched while Nick and a few hired guys did most of the real work, but Nick had always made her feel like she was a part of things. She’d fetch their tools, hold the measuring tape, vacuum sawdust.
Nick let her pick out the exact spot along the wall of windows where she liked the view the best and then built her room around it. From her bed she could see across the Hudson to Jersey City or watch the cruise ships and tour boats come and go in the harbor. She’d spent many hours of her life looking out at that view, losing herself in daydreams. Girls at school were always impressed with Carly’s address and the size of the loft. While it was nice to have a lot of space and a great view, for Carly it was never about status. It was about having a place where she belonged and that belonged to her.
The loft was home.
“Can’t we get a place here?” As Carly said this to her mother, the cab pulled up in front of their building. Their new neighbors, a German supermodel whose face had been on the cover of Vogue a month earlier and the famous French photographer who took the picture, emerged and signaled for the driver to wait.
Their clothes probably cost more than Carly’s mother could afford for a month’s rent. There wasn’t a unit in the building worth less than two million dollars, and the block was lined with galleries and designer clothing stores.
Isabelle didn’t bother answering the question, and Carly didn’t bother repeating it as they passed Gudrun and Jean-François, who nodded solemnly—or was it smugly?—while holding the cab door.
“The rental market is even worse than I thought,” Isabelle said, turning her key in the wall-mounted locking system.
The door clicked and buzzed. Carly pushed it open.
“I haven’t been able to find anything—anywhere in
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