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Authors: Emma McLaughlin
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“Until one day it just wasn’t. I woke up and said, ‘I want to go home.’”
“Home—that’s what I’m grappling with!” Her face animated, she sets her glass down on the floor and passes me a bowl of Marcona almonds from a wooden crate serving as a side table. “I’ve been here since I graduated from RISD. Even after the wedding last June I still come here to work every day.”
“It’s a fabulous space and no one has studios like this in Manhattan anymore.”
“Thank you. Clark doesn’t get it. When I graduated this was all I could afford. And over the years my work started to sell, but the neighborhood’s gotten trendy and the rents have risen and it’s still all I can afford.”
“I know. Ryan and I were just gobsmacked by what’s happened to New York City real estate since we left.”
“Clark said you bought a house. A real house? With a basement and a roof and everything?”
I lean forward to scoop up some almonds and the hard pillows slips out, dropping me to the floor. “Yes, such as it is. We’re on day three of an arbitrary work stoppage, but I’ll bore you about that at dinner. You guys really bought a great apartment. It’s a layout I have decorated and redecorated many times in my mind.”
“The second bedroom’s going to be my on-premise studio and I’m giving up my lease. Happy ending, right? It’s so weird. Many fights.” She peers into her wineglass. “Many, many fights.”
“Why?” I ask softly.
“I mean, I moved in with him on the Upper East Side in his high-rise apartment with the forty-nine-inch TV and the black leather sofa, the whole standard-issue bachelor blech. But I come here every day and”—she catches herself—“I love him. I love him. Me prenup is insane . Nobody has a prenup like mine. He said, ‘Babe, I want you to be protected.’ Isn’t that amazing? So I put up with the couch and the neighborhood and the people—who wouldn’t know provocative art from dogs playing poker. I mean, when you think of our childhoods, don’t you want to run to the ends of the earth?”
“Well, not so much my childhood as other people’s.”
“Oh, right, you were a West Sider.”
“Yes, we had perfect parenting on the West Side. Nope.” I shake my head. “I just meant I was a nanny in college. That literally put me on the first plane out of here.”
“You were a nanny?” she asks, eyes widening.
“It beat waitressing.” I shrug.
“Oh, gosh, sorry, no.” She puts her hand to her sternum. “I know I’m crazy lucky that I had an annuity in college. Truly. I’ve just never met a nanny. I mean since we were kids.”
“At Brown I cleaned houses.”
“You are hard-core.” She makes a bowing gesture with her forearms. “It’s a shame we didn’t hang out more in Providence.”
“I pretty much hid in a slice of chocolate cheesecake and then I transferred,” I admit wryly.
“Funny. Anyway, we’re agreed the Upper East Side is a little inbred. Clark’s from Trenton, but you’d never know it.” She pokes the air with her rainbow hand, two fingers pressed to her thumb as if holding a cigarette. “He put himself through college, got a job at Morgan Stanley, and worked his fucking ass off. Now he runs his own hedge fund. He amazes me.”
“That’s awesome. How’d you guys meet?” I ask, taking another sip.
“I was having a solo show on Bond Street—I was dating this bass guitar player at the time—and Clark walks in, he’s a serious collector, buys two of my paintings off the bat, tells me I’m a great investment, and asks me out.” She stretches up, her long fingers intertwining. “So, he wants to live on Park Avenue. I get it. I noodle around with paint all day—this is his dream? I’m happy to give it to him. More wine?”
“Please.” I hold out my unbelievably light glass. Probably made by elves.
“So what were you doing while Ryan was working?” she asks.
“Business consulting—organizational development.
“Home—that’s what I’m grappling with!” Her face animated, she sets her glass down on the floor and passes me a bowl of Marcona almonds from a wooden crate serving as a side table. “I’ve been here since I graduated from RISD. Even after the wedding last June I still come here to work every day.”
“It’s a fabulous space and no one has studios like this in Manhattan anymore.”
“Thank you. Clark doesn’t get it. When I graduated this was all I could afford. And over the years my work started to sell, but the neighborhood’s gotten trendy and the rents have risen and it’s still all I can afford.”
“I know. Ryan and I were just gobsmacked by what’s happened to New York City real estate since we left.”
“Clark said you bought a house. A real house? With a basement and a roof and everything?”
I lean forward to scoop up some almonds and the hard pillows slips out, dropping me to the floor. “Yes, such as it is. We’re on day three of an arbitrary work stoppage, but I’ll bore you about that at dinner. You guys really bought a great apartment. It’s a layout I have decorated and redecorated many times in my mind.”
“The second bedroom’s going to be my on-premise studio and I’m giving up my lease. Happy ending, right? It’s so weird. Many fights.” She peers into her wineglass. “Many, many fights.”
“Why?” I ask softly.
“I mean, I moved in with him on the Upper East Side in his high-rise apartment with the forty-nine-inch TV and the black leather sofa, the whole standard-issue bachelor blech. But I come here every day and”—she catches herself—“I love him. I love him. Me prenup is insane . Nobody has a prenup like mine. He said, ‘Babe, I want you to be protected.’ Isn’t that amazing? So I put up with the couch and the neighborhood and the people—who wouldn’t know provocative art from dogs playing poker. I mean, when you think of our childhoods, don’t you want to run to the ends of the earth?”
“Well, not so much my childhood as other people’s.”
“Oh, right, you were a West Sider.”
“Yes, we had perfect parenting on the West Side. Nope.” I shake my head. “I just meant I was a nanny in college. That literally put me on the first plane out of here.”
“You were a nanny?” she asks, eyes widening.
“It beat waitressing.” I shrug.
“Oh, gosh, sorry, no.” She puts her hand to her sternum. “I know I’m crazy lucky that I had an annuity in college. Truly. I’ve just never met a nanny. I mean since we were kids.”
“At Brown I cleaned houses.”
“You are hard-core.” She makes a bowing gesture with her forearms. “It’s a shame we didn’t hang out more in Providence.”
“I pretty much hid in a slice of chocolate cheesecake and then I transferred,” I admit wryly.
“Funny. Anyway, we’re agreed the Upper East Side is a little inbred. Clark’s from Trenton, but you’d never know it.” She pokes the air with her rainbow hand, two fingers pressed to her thumb as if holding a cigarette. “He put himself through college, got a job at Morgan Stanley, and worked his fucking ass off. Now he runs his own hedge fund. He amazes me.”
“That’s awesome. How’d you guys meet?” I ask, taking another sip.
“I was having a solo show on Bond Street—I was dating this bass guitar player at the time—and Clark walks in, he’s a serious collector, buys two of my paintings off the bat, tells me I’m a great investment, and asks me out.” She stretches up, her long fingers intertwining. “So, he wants to live on Park Avenue. I get it. I noodle around with paint all day—this is his dream? I’m happy to give it to him. More wine?”
“Please.” I hold out my unbelievably light glass. Probably made by elves.
“So what were you doing while Ryan was working?” she asks.
“Business consulting—organizational development.
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