“That makes me sad,” Schiffer said.
“My dear,” Billy said, “don’t waste your time worrying about Philip. In five years, he’ll be fifty, and he’ll be one of those old men who are always with young women, and the young women get worse and worse and more and more silly. While you, on the other hand, will probably have three Emmys. You won’t be giving Philip Oakland a second thought.”
“But I love Philip.”
Billy shrugged. “We all love Philip. But what can you do? You can’t change human nature.”
Later, on her way home from Da Silvano, Schiffer thought about ringing Philip’s bell again. But remembering what Billy had said about Philip, she decided it probably was pointless. Who was she kidding? Billy was right. Philip would never change. Coming into her apartment, she congratulated herself on for once doing the sensible thing.
6
“Why are you going to a funeral for a woman you don’t even know?” Paul Rice asked.
That same evening, he and Annalisa were dining at La Grenouille. Paul adored the famous French restaurant, not for the food but simply because it was ridiculously expensive (sixty-six dollars for Dover sole) and close to the hotel, prompting him to refer to it as “the canteen.”
“She’s not just any woman,” Annalisa said. “Mrs. Houghton was the city’s most important socialite. Billy Litchfield asked me, and apparently, it’s a very exclusive invitation.”
Paul studied the wine menu. “Who’s Billy Litchfield again?”
“Connie’s friend,” Annalisa said. She felt weary. “Remember? We spent the weekend with him.”
“Right,” Paul said. “The bald fruit.”
Annalisa smiled. The comment was Paul’s attempt at a joke. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
“What’s wrong with it? He is gay, isn’t he?”
“Someone might hear you. And get the wrong impression.”
Paul looked around the restaurant. “Who?” he asked. “There’s no one here.”
“Billy says he can probably get us Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. It’s supposed to be spectacular—three floors with wraparound terraces—and the building is one of the best in the city.”
The sommelier came to the table. “We’ll have the Bordeaux,” Paul said. He handed over the wine menu and continued to Annalisa, “I still don’t get it. Why do you have to go to a funeral to get this apartment? Isn’t cold hard cash enough?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Annalisa said, tearing off a small piece of bread. “Apparently, it’s all about who you know. That’s why I’m going. To meet some of the other residents. Eventually, you’ll have to meet them, too. And when you do, please don’t call anyone a fruit.”
“How much does he charge?” Paul asked.
“Who?”
“This Billy Litchfield character.”
“I don’t know.”
“You hired him and didn’t ask how much he cost?”
“He’s not an object, Paul. He’s a person. I didn’t want to be rude.”
“He’s the help,” Paul said.
“You’re the one with the money. You talk to him,” Annalisa said.
“The help is your area,” Paul said.
“Do we have areas now?”
“We will. When we have children.”
“Don’t tease, Paul.”
“I’m not,” he said. The sommelier returned to the table and made a great show of opening the wine and pouring it into Paul’s glass. Paul tasted it and approved. “By the way, I’ve been thinking about it. Now would be a good time to get started.”
Annalisa took a sip of her wine. “Wow,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“I thought you wanted to have children.”
“I do. I just wasn’t thinking about having one so soon.”
“Why not?” Paul said. “We’ve got plenty of money. And you’re not working.”
“I might go back to work.”
“None of the other wives work,” Paul said. “It’s inconvenient.”
“Says who?” Annalisa asked.
“Sandy Brewer.”
“Sandy Brewer is an ass.” Annalisa took another sip of wine. “It’s not that I don’t want to have a child. But we don’t even have an apartment yet.”
“That won’t be a problem,” Paul said. “You know you’ll get this Mrs. Houghton’s apartment if you put your mind to it.” He picked up the menu and studied it, absentmindedly patting her hand.
“You’re not going to work today?” James Gooch asked his wife the next morning.
“I told you. I’m going to Mrs. Houghton’s memorial service.”
“I thought you weren’t invited,” James said.
“I wasn’t,” Mindy said. “But when did that ever stop me?”
Upstairs, Philip Oakland knocked on his aunt’s door. Enid greeted him dressed in black slacks and beaded black top. “I saw Sam Gooch yesterday,” she said as they were riding down in the elevator. “He said you had a young lady in your apartment.”
Philip laughed. “What if I did?”
“Who was she?” Enid asked.
“A young lady,” Philip said teasingly. “I was interviewing her.”
“Oh, Philip,” Enid said. “I wish you wouldn’t. You’re getting to an age when you need to be sensible about women.”
The elevator doors opened, and finding Mindy Gooch in the lobby, Enid put aside her concerns about Philip’s love life. Mindy was also dressed in black, causing Enid to suspect that Mindy was going to try to crash Mrs. Houghton’s memorial service. Enid decided to let this pass unnoticed as well. “Hello, Mindy dear,” she said. “Sad day, isn’t it?”
“If you want to look at it that way,” Mindy said.
“Any outside interest in the apartment?” Enid asked casually.
“Not yet. But I’m sure there will be soon,” Mindy replied.
“Don’t forget about our interest,” Enid said pleasantly.
“How can I?” Mindy said. She strode out of the building ahead of Enid and Philip, fuming.
The memorial service was at St. Ambrose Church on Broadway and Eleventh Street. There was a snarl of traffic in front of the entrance; a cacophony of honking horns was followed by the wail of a siren as a police car tried to disperse the traffic.
Mindy put her hands over her ears. “Shut up!” she screamed. After this outburst, she felt a little better. She joined the crowd in front of the church, slowly shuffling their way in. She passed a line of police barricades, behind which stood the usual pack of paparazzi. When she reached the steps, she was stopped by a massive security guard. “Invitation?” he asked.
“I left it at home,” Mindy said.
“Step to the side, please,” the guard said.
“Mrs. Houghton was a very good friend. We lived in the same building,” Mindy said.
The security guard waved more people through, and Mindy took the opportunity to try to sneak in with the group ahead of her. The guard spotted her and stepped in front of her. “Move to the side, ma’am.”
Chastised, Mindy moved a little to her right, where she had the pleasure of seeing Enid and Philip Oakland about to pass her by. At the last second, Enid spotted Mindy and, wiggling through the crowd, touched Mindy on the arm. “By the way, dear, I meant to tell you. Sam was such a help yesterday with my computer. Thank God for young people. We old people couldn’t survive in this technological world without them.”
Before Mindy could respond, Enid moved on, and Mindy’s irritation nearly reached the boiling point. Not only had Enid insulted her by implying that she and Mindy were in the same age category (“old,” Enid had said), but she had cruelly and deliberately left Mindy outside. Enid could have easily brought Mindy into the church, as no one said no to Enid Merle. Enid was what little girls called a fair-weather friend, Mindy thought, and planned to return the favor someday.
Strolling up Eleventh Street, Billy Litchfield spotted Mindy Gooch loitering on the edge of
the crowd. Providence, he thought happily. This could be nothing less than a sign from Mrs. Houghton herself that Annalisa Rice was meant to get the apartment. Billy had been hoping to introduce Annalisa to Enid Merle and, through Enid, to make her introduction into One Fifth. But Mindy Gooch, the head of the board, was a much bigger—though less glamorous—fish. Approaching her, Billy couldn’t help thinking, Poor Mindy. She’d been relatively pretty once, but over the years, her features had sharpened and her cheeks had sunk, as if literally eaten away by bitterness. Arranging his face into an appropriately mournful demeanor, he took her hands and kissed her on both cheeks. “Hello, Mindy dear,” he said.
“Billy.”
“Are you going in?” Billy asked.
Mindy looked away. “I thought I might pay my respects.”
“Ah.” Billy nodded, immediately guessing at the truth. There was, he knew, no possibility that Mrs. Houghton would have invited Mindy to her memorial service; although Mindy was the head of the board, Mrs. Houghton had never mentioned her and most likely had not known, or cared to know, of Mindy’s existence. But Mindy, who was always full of misplaced and determined pride, would have found it necessary to attend in order to cement her status. “I’m waiting for a friend,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to go in with us.”
“Sure,” Mindy said. Say what you would about Billy Litchfield, she thought, at least he was always a gentleman.
Billy took Mindy’s arm. “Were you very close to Mrs. Houghton?”
Mindy stared at him unflinchingly. “Not really,” she said. “I mostly saw her in the lobby. But you were close, weren’t you?”
“Very,” Billy said. “I visited her at least twice a month.”
“You must miss her,” Mindy said.
“I do.” Billy sighed. “She was an amazing woman, but we all know that.” He paused, gauging Mindy’s mood, and went in for the kill. “And that apartment,” he said. “I wonder what will happen to it.”
His gamble paid off. Mindy was much more interested in talking about Mrs. Houghton’s apartment than about Mrs. Houghton herself. “Now, that’s a good question,” she said. Leaning forward intently, she whispered loudly, “There are some people in the building who want to split it up.”
Billy took a step back in shock. “That would be a travesty,” he said. “You can’t split up an apartment like that. It’s a landmark, really.”
“That’s what I think,” Mindy said emphatically, pleased to discover that she and Billy were of one mind in the matter.
Billy lowered his voice. “I may be able to help you. I know someone who would be perfect for the apartment.”
“Really?” Mindy said.
Billy nodded. “A lovely young woman from Washington, D.C. I would only say this to you, my dear, because you’ll understand exactly what I mean. But she’s definitely one of us.”
Mindy was flattered but did her best not to show it. “Can she afford a twenty-million-dollar apartment?”
“Naturally, she comes with a husband. He’s in finance. My dear,” Billy said quickly, “we both know One Fifth has a great tradition of being home to creative types. But we also know what’s happened to the real estate market. No one in the arts can afford an apartment like that anymore. Unless, as you said, you agree to split it up.”
“I’ll never let that happen,” Mindy said, folding her arms.
“Good girl,” Billy said approvingly. “In any case, you can meet my friend.” Looking over Mindy’s shoulder, he saw Annalisa getting out of a cab. “Here she comes now.”
Mindy turned around. A tall young woman with auburn hair pulled back into a messy ponytail was approaching. She had a serious yet interesting face, the kind of face that other women appreciate as beautiful, possibly because it was the kind of beauty that appeared to be attached to a personality.
“This is Mindy Gooch,” Billy said to Annalisa. “Mindy lives in One Fifth. She was also a friend of Mrs. Houghton’s.”
“Nice to meet you,” Annalisa said. Her handshake was firm, and Mindy appreciated the fact that Annalisa didn’t try to kiss her on the cheek in the faux European manner, and that Billy had referred to her as a friend of Mrs. Houghton’s. Billy, Mindy thought, was a perfect example of how civilized Fifth Avenue residents ought to behave toward each other.
Inside the church, they took seats in a middle pew. Two rows ahead, Mindy recognized the back of Enid’s coiffed and bleached blond hair (she had once been a brunette, but gray hair had eventually gotten the better of her) next to Philip’s shiny brown bob. What kind of middle-aged man insisted on wearing his hair so long? They were a ridiculous pair, Mindy decided—the aging spinster and her silly nephew—with their attitudes and arrogance. It was too much. Enid Merle needed to be taught a lesson.
The church bell chimed mournfully ten times. Then the organ music began, and two priests in white robes, swinging balls of incense, came down the aisle, followed by the bishop in a blue gown and mitered hat. The congregation stood. Mindy bowed her head. Billy leaned toward her. “Who wants to break up the apartment?” he whispered.
“Enid Merle. And her nephew Philip.”
Billy nodded. The bishop reached the altar, and the congregation sat down. The traditional Catholic ceremony, which was what Mrs. Houghton had wanted, continued in Latin and English. Billy let the words flow over him. On the surface, he found it hard to believe that Enid Merle would want to break up Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. But there was a good reason Enid had survived as a gossip columnist for nearly fifty years. She wasn’t as kindly as she appeared, and while it was generally understood that Enid and Louise Houghton had been bosom buddies, Billy suspected that wasn’t the whole story. He recalled some trouble between them concerning Enid’s stepmother, which might have been resolved when the stepmother moved out of One Fifth. It was possible Enid Merle didn’t give a damn about preserving Louise Houghton’s legacy.
Still, the situation presented a moral dilemma. Billy didn’t want to thwart Enid, which might be dangerous, as Enid still controlled a segment of popular opinion through her syndicated column. And yet the apartment had been Mrs. Houghton’s pride and joy. She had ruled over all of Manhattan society from her perch in the sky, and even in the seventies and eighties, when downtown lost its luster and the Upper East Side ruled, Mrs. Houghton wouldn’t consider moving. When she relayed this information to Billy, she would tap on the floor with her marble-topped cane. “This is the center of New York Society,” she would insist in her grand low voice. “Not up there in the provinces,” she’d say, referring to the Upper East and West Sides of Manhattan. “Did you know it used to take an entire day to reach the Dakota? And then one was forced to spend the night in that Gothic monstrosity.” She would tap her cane again. “Society began here, and it will end here. Never forget your origins, Billy.”
A significant portion of society would end if Enid Merle had her way with the apartment, Billy thought. His mission was clear: As much as he admired Enid Merle, his loyalty must be to Mrs. Houghton’s wishes.
There was more praying, and the congregation knelt. Mindy folded her hands in front of her face. “I was thinking,” Billy whispered behind his closed palms. “What are you doing after this? Perhaps we could nip over to One Fifth and take a peek at the apartment.”
Mindy looked at Billy in surprise. She’d suspected a motive behind his sudden kindness, but she hadn’t expected him to go so far as to wheel and deal in the house of the Lord. But this was New York, where nothing was sacred. She peeked through her fingers at the back of her neighbors’ heads, and her resentment flared. The bishop led the mourners in the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Mindy said. She sat back in the pew and, staring straight ahead, whispered to Billy, “I think it can be arranged.”
Following the memorial service, Enid had organized a luncheon for twenty at the Village restaurant on Ninth Street, to which Philip Oakland accompanied his aunt. Although not technically open for lunch, the
restaurant, where Enid had been a patron for years—along with almost everyone else who lived in the neighborhood—made an exception for Enid and the sad occasion. Philip was well acquainted with Enid’s crowd, once New York’s best and brightest. These people and their particular rituals—which included speaking to the woman on your right during the appetizer and the woman on your left during the main course; exchanging inside information on politics, business, the media, and the arts; and, lastly, standing and speechifying during coffee—was so much a part of Philip’s life that he barely noticed how ancient these movers and shakers had become.
The conversation was, as usual, impassioned. Although the tragedy of Mrs. Houghton’s unfortunate accident and her untimely death—“she had another five good years in her,” most agreed—was part of the discussion, it eventually turned to the upcoming elections and the impending recession. Seated next to his aunt was an aged man who held himself stiffly upright in his chair. A former senator and speechwriter for Jack Kennedy, he held forth on the differences between the Democratic candidates’ oracular styles. The second course came—veal in a lemon butter sauce—and without missing a beat in the conversation, Enid picked up her knife and fork and began to cut up the senator’s meat. Her act of kindness terrified Philip. As he looked around the table, the scene was all at once garish to him, a picaresque grotesquery of old age.
He put down his fork. This was where his own life was headed; indeed, he was only a short hop away. His perceived reality panicked him, and everything that had recently gone wrong with his life came to the fore. There was trouble with his current screenplay; there would be trouble with the next one, if there was a next one, and if there was another book, he’d have trouble with that as well. Someday he’d be here, an impotent and insignificant windbag, needing someone to cut up his meat. And he didn’t even have a woman to soothe him.