The Wives. Lauren Weisberger

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       4

       Some of My Best Friends Are Jewish

      EMILY

      When the elevator doors opened directly into an apartment with floor-to-ceiling views of the Freedom Tower and both the East and Hudson Rivers, Emily tried to arrange her expression into one of nonchalance. She’d been in some impressive homes in her time. The Kardashian spread in Hollywood wasn’t too slouchy. George and Amal’s Lake Como spread didn’t suck. And no one could say that Miranda Priestly’s Fifth Avenue townhouse wasn’t spectacular. But there was something about this $12 million fifty-eighth-floor-penthouse glass magnificence that took her breath away. Since there weren’t many skyscrapers in Tribeca, it felt like they were floating alone in the clouds. There was so much natural light she had to squint, and the starkly modern furnishings and complete openness of the enormous space gave it an otherworldly feel.

      ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ Helene said, pushing her hair back. For as long as Emily could remember, Helene had worn her hair in the most spectacular Afro – wild, massive, and fabulous – but today it was tamed into a trillion tight, shiny ringlets that framed her entire face.

      ‘Of course,’ Emily said, setting her overstuffed Goyard tote down on the entryway bench. She’d received six panicked texts from her assistant, Kyle, on the way from the airport. Apparently Helene was having a meltdown. ‘Is he here?’

      Helene nodded, ringlets shaking. ‘His trainer is with him. They should be done in a couple minutes. Can I get you anything? Some coffee? A stiff drink? I could sure use one.’

      ‘How about both together? I won’t say no to that.’

      Emily followed her into the blindingly white lacquered kitchen where a uniformed Hispanic woman stood in front of a Starbucks-level espresso machine. ‘Clara, could we each get a flat white with a shot of Baileys, please?’ If Clara thought it even a tiny bit strange that these two professional women were requesting a spiked coffee at three in the afternoon, she gave no indication. The woman expertly prepared their drinks and led them to a white leather couch that looked directly out at the spectacular view.

      ‘So, I guess we should start with the obvious,’ Emily said, taking a sip. ‘Why did he pick a Nazi outfit to wear to a costume party?’

      Helene looked at her hands as if searching for strength. ‘It wasn’t a costume party.’

      ‘Come again?’

      ‘What can I say, Emily? He’s a kid. A dumb kid with too much money and too much time and too many people exactly like you and me to cover his ass. It’s not a new story.’

      ‘No. But it makes everything that much harder.’ Emily glanced at her watch. Not that she had anywhere else to be, but she had flown cross-country with zero notice to help this boy, and it was high time to meet him.

      Helene noticed. ‘Here, come with me. I’ll introduce you.’

      The women walked down a long white hallway lined with street-art inspired paintings and down a winding staircase. Another hallway, this one covered with graffiti, led to a set of glass French doors. Inside she could see Rizzo in a set of boxing gloves, furiously punching a red bag that hung from the ceiling. A beautiful girl wearing only hot pants and a fuchsia sports bra hopped around yelling at him.

      Helene rapped on the door. Both Rizzo and the girl glanced up but didn’t stop punching or jumping.

      ‘Riz? Can you take a break for a minute? There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.’

      Emily should have been staring at his sweaty, shirtless, six-packed chest, but her eyes were immediately drawn to the trainer, whose sports bra featured a cutout all along its band, resulting in two inches of below-the-nipple bare breasts bulging out, threatening to emerge from their flimsy cover at any moment. It was so interesting, Emily thought, to wear a sports bra – which by definition was supposed to contain and support one’s breasts – and then cut away most of the fabric that would actually do either one of those things. She suddenly felt ancient.

      ‘Hey, great work, Riz,’ the girl said, swatting him on the ass with a towel. Her breasts heaved. Emily noticed she wasn’t alone in staring at them – Rizzo and Helene were captivated too.

      ‘Thanks, baby. See you tomorrow.’ Rizzo yanked the towel out of her hand and draped it around his neck. All three of them watched as the girl grabbed her duffel and her boxing gloves and walked toward the door.

      ‘Damn,’ Rizzo breathed as he stared after her.

      ‘Hey, Rizzo? I’m Emily Charlton. Helene brought me in to help manage the … situation from last night. It’s really nice to meet you.’

      His eyes met hers, and for a split second Emily was torn between feeling like the only woman in the world and feeling like a complete pedophile for finding an eighteen-year-old so damn sexy. No one had eyes like that; could that shade of green even be real?

      ‘Hey, thanks for coming. Very cool of you, but I do think Helene is overreacting a little.’

      Rizzo twisted open a bottle of SmartWater and drank the entire thirty-four ounces without taking a breath. Helene gave Emily a look like that said, Why don’t you take this one.

      ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean anything … nefarious by it, Rizzo, but especially after what happened in Charlottesville last year, the public tends to make a pretty big deal out of anti-Semitism, which is typically how wearing a Nazi costume is interpreted. So we should definitely get out in front of this.’

      He waved his hand and started on another bottle. ‘All just for laughs. People get it. My fans get it.’

      Emily took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice even. ‘Okay, maybe. But some fans might not. The Jewish ones in particular. Or anyone who was not in favor of the Holocaust, which is probably a lot of people. Certainly your sponsors – Uniqlo, Lexus, SmartWater – won’t be thrilled. And I don’t imagine Sony will be either. So I’ve come up with a plan to extricate you from all this ugliness. One hundred percent clean, a do-over. As long as you listen and play your part well, this will all go away, I promise.’

      Rizzo didn’t appear particularly impressed, but he looked at her and waited.

      ‘I’ll call all my contacts at the usuals: the Post, HuffPo, TMZ, Variety, etcetera, and explain how you thought the swastika was an ancient Buddhist symbol СКАЧАТЬ