He went upstairs to his own apartment and, turning the key in the lock, was startled to hear Lola call out, “Philip?”
Inside the door was a small pink patent-leather overnight case. Lola was in the living room on the couch. She peeked over the back.
“You’re still here,” Philip said. He was surprised but not, he realized, unhappy to see her.
“Something really, really terrible has happened,” she said. “I hope you won’t be angry.”
“What?” he asked in alarm, thinking it must have something to do with his screenplay. Had he gotten another call from the head of the studio?
“There’s no hot water in my building.”
“Oh,” he said. Guessing at the meaning of the overnight case, he said, “Do you need to take a shower here?”
“It’s not just that. Someone told me they’re going to be working on the pipes all night. When I went home, there was all this banging.”
“But surely they’ll stop. After six, I would think.”
She shook her head. “My building isn’t like your building. It’s a rental, so they can do whatever they want. Whenever they want,” she added for emphasis.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. Was she angling to spend the night at his apartment? Which could be a very bad—or a very good—idea.
“I was thinking maybe I could sleep on your couch. It’s only one night. They’ll have to have the pipes fixed by tomorrow.”
He hesitated, wondering if the pipes were an excuse. If so, he’d be a fool to resist. “Sure,” he said.
“Oh, goody,” she exclaimed, jumping up from the couch and grabbing her bag. “You won’t even know I’m here, I promise. I’ll sit on the couch and watch TV. And you can work, if you want to. Or whatever.”
“You don’t have to act like a little orphan girl,” he said. “I’ll take you to dinner.”
While she was in the shower, he went into his office and scrolled through his e-mails. There were several he knew he ought to return, but hearing the shower running and imagining Lola’s naked body, he couldn’t concentrate and tried to read Variety instead. Then she appeared in the doorway, damp but clothed in a short tank-top dress, rubbing her hair in a towel. “Where do you want to go for dinner?” she asked.
He closed his computer. “I thought I’d take you to Knickerbocker. It’s right around the corner, and it’s one of my favorite restaurants. It’s not fancy, but the food’s good.”
A little later, seated in a booth, Lola studied the extensive menu while Philip ordered a bottle of wine. “I always get the oysters and steak,” he said. “Do you like oysters?”
“I love them,” she said, putting down the menu and smiling at him eagerly. “Have you ever had an oyster shot? They take an oyster and put it in a shot glass with vodka and cocktail sauce. We had them all the time when I was in Miami.”
Philip wasn’t sure how to respond, having never had an oyster shot, which sounded disgusting but probably made sense to a twenty-two-year-old. “And then what happened?” he asked. It was a random question, but it prompted a response.
“Well,” she said, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands, “you get really wasted. And one girl—she wasn’t one of my friends, but she was in our posse—got so drunk, she took off her shirt for Girls Gone Wild. And her father saw it. And he flipped out. Isn’t that disgusting, knowing your father watches Girls Gone Wild?”
“Maybe he’d heard she’d done it. And he wanted to know for sure.”
She frowned. “No one tells their father they did Girls Gone Wild. But some girls definitely do it to get guys interested. They think it makes them look hot.”
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s stupid. Yeah, a guy will sleep with you, but then what?”
Then what, indeed, Philip thought, wondering how many men she’d slept with. “Have you ever done it?” he asked.
“Girls Gone Wild? No way. I would maybe take my clothes off for Playboy. Or Vanity Fair, because those are classy. And you have photo approval.”
Philip took a gulp of wine and smiled. She definitely wanted to sleep with him. Why else would she be talking about sex and taking her clothes off? She was going to drive him insane if she didn’t stop.
A little angel on his shoulder, however, reminded him that he shouldn’t have sex with her, while the devil on his other said, “Why not? She’s obviously done it before, and probably quite often.” As a compromise, he made the dinner last as long as possible, ordering another bottle of wine, dessert, and after-dinner drinks. When the inevitable moment arrived and it was time to go home, Lola stood up and fumbled for her snakeskin bag, obviously tipsy. Leaving the restaurant, he put his arm around her to steady her, and when they got outside, she slipped her arm around his waist and leaned in to his body, giggling. In response, his cock swelled against his thigh.
“That was so much fun,” she said. And then becoming serious, added, “I had no idea the movie business was so hard.”
“But it’s worth it,” he said. After the sex talk, and feeling loose from the wine, he’d told her all about his troubles with the studio, while she’d listened, rapt. He moved his hand up from her shoulder to the back of her neck. “It’s time to get you to bed,” he said. “I don’t want you to be hungover tomorrow.”
“I already will be.” She giggled.
Back in his apartment, she made a great show of going into the bathroom to get changed, while he put a pillow and blanket on the couch. They both knew she wasn’t going to sleep there, but it was probably a good idea to pretend, Philip thought. She came out of the bathroom barefoot in a short baby-doll nightgown with silk ribbon stitched around the neckline, unbuttoned just enough to expose her cleavage. Philip sighed. And, summoning all his resistance, he stopped in front of her, kissed her on the forehead, and went into his room. “Good night,” he said. And somehow forced himself to close the door.
He took off his clothes save for his boxer shorts and got into bed, leaving the light on and picking up a copy of Buddenbrooks. Once again, he couldn’t concentrate, not with Lola on the other side of the door in that tiny baby-doll nightgown. Frowning at the page, he reminded himself that she was only twenty-two. He could sleep with her—and then what? She couldn’t work for him if they were having sex. Or could she? He could always fire her and find another researcher. After all, it was probably easier to find another researcher than it was to find a gorgeous twenty-two-year-old who wanted to have sex.
But what now? Should he get up and go to her? For a moment, he had a disquieting thought: What if he was wrong? What if she didn’t want to sleep with him at all, and the excuse about the broken pipes in her apartment building was real? What if he went out there and she rejected him? It would be doubly awkward to have her around, and then he really would have to fire her. Another minute or two passed. And there it was—his answer—a knock on the door.
“Philip?” she said.
“Come in,” he called.
She opened the door as he took off his reading glasses. Acting as if she didn’t want to disturb him, she leaned against the door frame with her hands crossed in front of her like a child. “Can I have a glass of water?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Can you get it for me? I don’t know where the glasses are.”
“Follow me.” He got out of bed, realizing he was wearing only his boxer shorts, and realizing he didn’t care.
She stared at his chest, at the patch of dark curling hairs that made a neat pattern above his pectoral muscles. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You’re not disturbing me,” he said, going to the kitchen. She followed him, and he took out a glass and filled it with tap water. When he turned, she was standing right next to him. He was about to hand her the glass but suddenly put it down and put his arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Lola,” he said. “Let’s stop pretending.”
“What do you mean?” she asked coyly, putting her hand in
the hair on his chest.
“Do you want to sleep with me?” he whispered. “Because I want to sleep with you.”
“Of course.” She pressed her body against his as they kissed. He could feel her firm, full breasts through the thin fabric of her nightgown; he could even, he thought, feel the poke of her erect nipples. He put his hands under the nightgown, sliding them along the sides of her panties and up her stomach to her breasts, where his fingers played with her nipples. She groaned and leaned back, and he pulled the nightgown over her head. God, she was beautiful, he thought. He lifted her onto the counter and, parting her legs, stood between them, kissing her. He moved his hand down to her crotch and pulled aside her panties, which were also silk and lacy, and then, surprised by what he felt, stopped and took a step back.
“No hair?” he said.
“Of course not,” she said proudly. Like all the girls she knew, she had a Brazilian wax once a month.
“But why?” he said, touching the exposed skin.
“Because men like it,” she said. “It’s supposed to be hot.” She took a breath. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one before?” She laughed.
“I like it,” he said, examining her hairless vagina. It was like one of those soft, hairless cats, he thought. He lifted her again and carried her to the couch. “You’re spectacular,” he said.
Placing her on the edge of the couch, he pushed her legs open and began licking the purplish skin. “Stop,” she said suddenly.
“Why?” he asked.
“I don’t like it.”
“That’s only because no one’s ever done it properly,” he said. The kissing “down there” seemed to go on for hours, and finally, she gave in, with her legs shaking and her vagina pulsating. Then she was overcome and burst into tears.
He kissed her on the mouth, and she could taste herself on his lips and tongue. Reason told her she ought to be repulsed, but it wasn’t so bad; more, she thought, like clean, slightly damp clothes just out of the dryer. She put her hands in his hair, which was softer and finer than her own. She stared into his eyes. Would he tell her he loved her?
“Did you like it?” he whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
Then he went into the kitchen.
“Is that it?” she asked, wiping her cheeks and laughing. “Aren’t you going to…?”
He came back with two shots of vodka. “Sustenance,” he said, handing her the tiny glass. “It doesn’t have an oyster in it, but it’ll do.” He took her hand and led her into the bedroom and removed his boxer shorts. His penis was fat, with a thick vein on the underside, and his balls swung slightly in the sack of prickly pink skin. She lay on her back, and he crunched her knees up to her chest, kneeling between her legs. When he pushed his penis in, she braced herself for some pain, but surprisingly, there was none, only a pulse of pleasure. “Lola, Lola, Lola,” he said, repeating her name. Then his body stiffened, his back arched, and he collapsed on top of her. Lola put her arms around him, kissing his neck.
In the middle of the night, he woke her up, and they made love again. She fell asleep, and the next morning, she awakened to find him staring at her. “Ah, Lola,” he said. “What’s going to happen with you?”
“With me?”
“With me and you.”
Lola wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “Philip?” she said shyly, teasing his penis with the tip of her nail. In the next second, he was on top of her again. Lola opened her legs, and after he’d come and was lying on top of her, exhausted, she whispered, “I think I love you.”
His head jerked up and he looked at her with surprise. Smiling and kissing the tip of her nose, he said, “‘Love’ is a big word, Lola.” He stretched and got out of bed. “I’m going to get us some breakfast. How about bagels? What kind of bagel do you like?”
“What’s the best kind?” Lola asked.
He laughed, shaking his head at her remark. “There is no best. It’s whatever kind you like.”
“What do you like?” she asked.
“Sesame.”
“I’ll have sesame, too.”
He pulled on his jeans and, looking at Lola lying naked on his bed, smiled. This was what was so great about New York, he thought. You never knew what was going to happen. One’s life could literally improve overnight.
While he was gone, Enid Merle, having heard suspicious noises coming from Philip’s apartment the night before, decided to check in on him. She went through the small gate that separated their terraces and knocked on the French door. Her worst fears were confirmed when a young lady, wearing only what appeared to be one of Philip’s T-shirts—with probably nothing underneath—came to the door. She looked at Enid curiously. “Yes?” she said.
Enid pushed past her. “Is Philip here?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Enid said, not unpleasantly.
“I’m Philip’s girlfriend,” the girl said proudly.
“Really?” Enid said, thinking that was quick. “I’m Philip’s aunt.”
“Oh,” the girl said. “I didn’t know Philip had an aunt.”
“And I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” Enid said. “Is he here?”
The girl folded her arms as if realizing she was practically naked. “He went to get bagels.”
“Tell him his aunt stopped by, will you?”
“Sure,” Lola said. She followed Enid to the French door and watched her go through the gate to her own terrace.
Lola went inside and sat down on the couch. So Philip had a relative who lived right next door. She hadn’t expected that—somehow she’d assumed that people like Philip Oakland didn’t have relatives. Idly opening a magazine, she recalled the cold look on Enid’s face but told herself it didn’t matter. The aunt was ancient. How much trouble could an old lady be?
7
“James, what is wrong with you?” Mindy asked the next morning.
“I don’t think I’m suited for fame,” James said. “I can’t even figure out what to wear.”
Mindy rolled over in the bed and looked at the clock. It was just after six A. M. I am depressed, she thought. “Could you be a little quieter?” she said. “I’m tired.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Do you have to rattle the hangers so loudly? Can’t you try on clothes silently?”
“Why don’t you get up and help me?”
“You’re a grown man, James. You ought to be able to figure out what to wear.”
“Fine. I’ll wear what I always wear. Jeans and a T-shirt.”
“You could try a suit,” Mindy said.
“Haven’t seen that suit in three months. The dry cleaners probably lost it,” James said in a slightly accusatory tone, as if this might be her fault.
“Please, James. Stop. It’s only a stupid picture.”
“It’s my publicity photograph.”
“Why are they doing it so early?”
“I told you. Some famous fashion photographer is taking the picture. He’s only available from nine to eleven.”
“Jesus. I could have taken your picture. With my cell phone. Oh, please,” Mindy said. “Can’t you be quiet? If I don’t sleep, I’m going to go insane.”
If you haven’t already, James thought, gathering up a pile of clothes and leaving the room in a huff. It was his big day. Why did Mindy have to make everything about her?
He took the pile into his office and dropped the clothes on a chair. Viewed from this angle, his clothing looked like something you’d find in the cart of a homeless person. The publicist in Redmon’s office, who possessed the improbable moniker of Cherry, had instructed him to bring three choices. Three shirts, three pairs of pants, a jacket or two, and a couple pairs of shoes. “But I mostly wear sneakers. Converse,” James had said. “Do your best,” Cherry had replied. “The photograph should be a reflection of you.”
Great, James thought. It’ll be a photograph of a balding, middl
e-aged man. He went into the bathroom and studied his appearance. Perhaps he should have shaved his head. But then he’d look like every other middle-aged guy who was balding and trying to cover it up. Besides, he didn’t believe he had the face for the no-hair look. His features were irregular; his nose appeared as if it might have been broken once and healed badly, but it was only the Gooch nose, passed down through generations of ordinary hardship. He wished he looked like someone specific, though; he would have been happy with the brooding, hooded look of an artist. He narrowed his eyes and turned down his mouth, but this only made him appear to be making a face. Resigned to his visage, James shoved as many clothes as he could into one of Mindy’s carefully folded shopping bags from Barneys and went out into the lobby.
It was raining. Hard. From the little windows in the back of his apartment, it was difficult to gauge the weather, so that one might arrive outside and find it was much better, although usually much worse, than one expected. It was not yet seven A. M., and already James felt defeated by the day. He went back into his apartment to get an umbrella, but all he could find in the jumbled hall closet was a flimsy fold-up affair, which, when opened, revealed four sharp spokes. Back in the lobby, James peered out anxiously at the pouring rain. A black SUV was idling at the curb. Behind him, the doorman Fritz was rolling out a plastic runner. Fritz stopped for a moment and joined James. “It’s really pouring out there,” he said, looking concerned. “You need a cab?”
“I’m okay,” James said. He did need a taxi, but he never allowed the doormen to get him one. He knew how the doormen felt about Mindy’s tipping, and he felt guilty asking them to perform the normal duties they did for other, better-tipping residents. If he made money from his book, he thought, he’d be sure to give them extra this year.
The elevator door opened, and Schiffer Diamond came out. James suddenly felt excited and diminished. She had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing a shiny green trench coat and jeans and low-heeled black boots. She didn’t necessarily look like a movie star, James thought, but she somehow looked better than a regular person, so that no matter where she went, people would think, This woman is someone, and they would look at her curiously. James didn’t know how a person could stand that, always being looked at. But they must get used to it. Wasn’t that the reason, after all, that people became actors in the first place—to be gaped at?