One Fifth Avenue

  “Mankind is going backward,” James said. The elevator came, and he got on.

  “Say hi to your family for me,” Redmon called out with genuine urgency as the doors were closing.

  Redmon’s admonishment struck James as extraordinary. Family concerns were something Redmon never would have considered ten years ago, when he was out bedding a different woman in publishing every night and drinking and doing cocaine until dawn. For years, people had postulated that something terrible would happen to Redmon—he appeared to deserve it, although what the terrible thing was, no one could say—rehab, maybe? Or some kind of death? But nothing terrible ever did happen to him. Instead, he slid into his new life as a married father and corporate man with the agility of a skier. James had never understood it, but he thought perhaps Redmon, instead of being a source of consternation, ought to be considered an inspiration. If Redmon could change, why not he?

  I have money now, James thought, the reality hitting him at the same time as the crisp September air. At least New York appeared to be having a real fall this year. Ordinary occurrences were now a pleasure and a relief to him, a reminder that in some ways, life could go on as before.

  But would it now that he had money? Passing the chain stores that lined lower Fifth Avenue with their wares displayed in great glass cases like a middle-class shopper’s dream, he reminded himself that it wasn’t so much money. Not enough even to buy a tiny studio apartment in this great and expensive metropolis. But he had a bit of money. He was no longer—for this moment, anyway—a loser.

  At Sixteenth Street, he passed Paul Smith and, out of habit, stopped for a second and gazed into the windows. Paul Smith’s clothing was a status symbol, the choice for the sophisticated, urbane downtown male. Mindy had bought him a Paul Smith shirt years ago, for Christmas, when she was feeling proud of him and, apparently, had decided he was worth a splurge. Staring into the window at a pair of velvet pants, it occurred to James that for the first time in his life, he could afford anything in this store. This new feeling empowered him, and he went in.

  Almost immediately, his phone rang. It was Mindy.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  “Shopping.”

  “You? Shopping?” Mindy said with faux astonishment that was edged ever so slightly with disdain. “What are you buying?”

  “I’m in Paul Smith.”

  “You’re not going to actually buy anything, are you?” Mindy said.

  “I might,” he said.

  “You’d better not. That store is too expensive,” she said. James had thought he’d call Mindy first thing about his advance, but he surprised himself by wanting to keep it to himself.

  “When are you coming home?” she asked.

  “Soon.”

  “How did it go? With Redmon?”

  “Great,” he said, and hung up. He shook his head. Both he and Mindy had a quaint, puritan approach to money. Like it was always about to run out. Like it shouldn’t be squandered. One’s feelings about money were a gene one inherited. If your parents were afraid about money, then you’d be afraid. Mindy came from New England stock, where it was considered tacky to spend a lot of money. He came from immigrant stock, where money was needed for food and education. They’d survived in New York because they saved and didn’t get their self-esteem from their outward appearances. But maybe that wasn’t the solution. Because, James thought, neither he nor Mindy seemed to have much self-esteem at all.

  James looked around the store and, walking to a rack of jackets, fingered a fine cashmere overcoat. He did not know what it was like to have money. Not having money had kept him tied to Mindy’s apron strings. He knew it, had known it for years, had denied it, had rationalized it, had been ashamed of it, but what was most shameful was that he’d never been willing to do anything about it. Because, he’d told himself, he believed in the purity of his pursuit of literature. He’d been willing to sacrifice his manhood for this higher ideal. He’d taken succor in the fact that he was an honorable struggler.

  But he had money now! He looked around the store, inhaling the manly scent of leather and cologne. The shop was like a stage set, with its wood-paneled walls—a cornucopia of anything a man with taste, sophistication, and style might want. And, he thought, looking at the three-thousand-dollar price tag on a cashmere jacket, a sense of irony at how much money it cost to keep warm.

  In an act of defiance, he took the jacket off the hanger and carried it into the dressing room. He took off his own jacket, which was a sensible navy wool bought during a sale at Barneys five years ago, and looked at his body. He had the advantage of height, but he was a gangle of limbs with a soft belly. His legs were still firm, but his butt was flat, and his chest was flabby (“man boobs” was the current term, he believed), but all this could be hidden with the right clothing. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and buttoned the jacket across his chest. He was transformed into a man who had something big going on in his life.

  He stepped out of the dressing room and ran into Philip Oakland. James’s confidence dispersed like a mist. He did not belong in this store, he thought in panic. Even a store was about a tribe, and he was not part of this tribe; Philip Oakland was sure to sense this. James often saw Philip in the lobby or on the streets around One Fifth. Philip never acknowledged him, but perhaps he’d have to in this store, wearing this jacket, the kind of jacket Philip himself might own. Indeed, Philip Oakland looked up from a pile of sweaters and, as if they were casual friends, said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” James said.

  That might have been the end of it if it weren’t for the girl, the beautiful girl who was with Philip and whom James had seen around the building, coming in and out at odd hours during the day. He’d always wondered who she was and what she was doing in One Fifth, but now it made sense: She was Philip’s girlfriend.

  She spoke, startling James. “That looks good,” she said to him.

  “Really?” James said, staring at the girl. She had the unassailable confidence that comes from having been pretty her whole life.

  “I know everything about clothes,” she said boldly. “My friends are always saying I should have been a stylist.”

  “Lola, please,” Philip said.

  “It’s true,” Lola said, turning to Philip. “You look so much better since I started helping you with your clothes.”

  Philip shrugged and rolled his eyes at James, as if to say, “Women.”

  James took the opportunity to introduce himself. “I’ve seen you before,” Lola said. “Yes,” James said. “I live in One Fifth, too. I’m a writer.”

  “Everyone’s a writer in One Fifth,” she said with a dismissive arrogance that made James laugh.

  “We should be going,” Philip said.

  “But we didn’t buy anything,” she protested.

  “‘We,’” Philip said to James. “Notice that? Why is shopping with women always a group sport?”

  “I don’t know,” James said. He glanced over at Lola, wondering how one managed to get a girl like that. She was saucy. He liked the way she stood up to the great Philip Oakland and wondered how Philip felt about it.

  “Men never know what to buy on their own,” she replied. “My mother let my father go shopping once, and he came back with an acrylic striped sweater. She said, ‘Never again.’ What do you write?” she asked James, not missing a beat.

  “Novels,” James said. “I have a book coming out in February.” He was pleased to be able to deliver this information in front of Philip. Take that, he thought.

  “We have the same publisher,” Philip said, perhaps, James thought, finally figuring out who he was. “What’s your print run?”

  “Don’t know,” James said. “But we’ve got two hundred thousand copies going out to iStores in the first week.”

  Philip looked suitably bothered. “Interesting,” he said.

  “It is,” James said. “I’m told it’s the future of publishing.”

  Lola was suddenly
bored. “If we’re not buying anything here, can we please go to Prada?”

  “Sure,” Philip said. “See you around,” he said to James.

  “Right,” James said.

  As they walked away, Lola turned back to James. “You should buy that jacket. It looks great.”

  “I will,” James said.

  James paid for the jacket. As the salesman was putting it into a garment bag, James had an inspiration. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m going to wear it home.”

  That afternoon, Norine Norton, the stylist, came to Annalisa’s apartment for their third appointment. Norine, with her hair extensions and her subtle facial work and seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the latest bag, shoe, designer, fortune-teller, trainer, and cosmetic procedure, made Annalisa uncomfortable. Her nickname, she informed Annalisa during their first meeting, was “the Energizer Bunny”—an energy that, Annalisa suspected, might be drug-induced. Norine never stopped talking; no matter how often Annalisa tried to remind herself that Norine was a woman, an actual human being, Norine always managed to convince her otherwise.

  “I have something you’ll die for,” Norine said. She snapped her fingers and pointed to her assistant, Julee. “The gold lamé, please.”

  “The golf outfit?” Julee asked. She was a frail girl with spindly blond hair and the fearful eyes of a rabbit.

  “Yes,” Norine said with faux patience. With her assistant, Norine appeared to be on the edge of snapping at any moment. But when she turned back to Annalisa, it was with all the solicitude of a merchant presenting his wares to a grand lady.

  Julee held up a clear plastic hanger from which hung a tiny gold top and matching miniskirt.

  Annalisa regarded the garment with dismay. “I don’t think Paul will like that.”

  “Listen, sweetie,” Norine said. She sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed with the pleated silk canopy that had recently arrived from France, and patted the place next to her. “We need to talk.”

  “Do we?” Annalisa asked. She didn’t want to sit next to Norine; nor did she want one of Norine’s lectures. So far, she had forced herself to tolerate them, but she wasn’t in the mood today.

  Annalisa looked from Norine to Julee, who was still standing there, holding up the hanger like one of those girls on a game show. Her arm had to be tired. Annalisa felt bad for her. “Fine,” she said, and went into the bathroom to try it on.

  “You’re so shy,” Norine called after her.

  “Huh?” Annalisa said, poking her head out the door.

  “You’re so shy. Changing in the bathroom. You should change in here so I can help you,” Norine said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

  “Right,” Annalisa said and shut the door. She turned to look at herself in the mirror and grimaced. How the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? It had sounded like such a good idea at first, hiring a stylist. Billy said everybody did it these days, meaning everyone with money or status who had to go out and be photographed. It was the only way, Billy said, to get the best clothes. But this was out of control. Norine was always calling or sending e-mail attachments of the clothes, accessories, and jewelry she photographed while shopping or visiting designer showrooms. Annalisa had had no idea there were so many lines. Not just spring and fall but resort, cruise, summer, and Christmas. Each season required its own look, and getting the look required as much planning as a military coup. Clothing had to be chosen and ordered months in advance, otherwise it would be gone.

  Annalisa held the gold lamé up to her chin. No, she thought. This has gone too far.

  But perhaps everything had gone too far. Despite the progress she’d made on the apartment, Paul was unhappy. The lottery had been held for the parking space in the Mews, and Paul hadn’t won. Coupled with this disappointing news was a letter from Mindy Gooch, officially informing them that their request for through-the-wall air-conditioning units had been denied.

  “We’ll make it work without them,” Annalisa had said, trying to soothe him.

  “I can’t.”

  “We have to.”

  Paul glared at her. “It’s a conspiracy,” he insisted. “It’s because we have money and they don’t.”

  “Mrs. Houghton had money,” Annalisa said, trying to reason with him. “And she lived here without any trouble for years.”

  “She was one of them,” Paul countered. “And we’re not.”

  “Paul,” she said patiently. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m making real money now,” he said. “And I expect to be treated with a certain amount of respect.”

  “I thought you were making real money six months ago,” she said, attempting to lighten the situation.

  “Forty million isn’t real money. A hundred million is getting there.”

  Annalisa felt queasy. She knew Paul was making a lot of money and planned to make more. But somehow it had never hit her that it was going to become a reality. “That’s insane, Paul,” she protested. But it also excited her, the way looking at dirty pictures excited you even though you didn’t want to feel turned on and felt guilty about the excitement. Perhaps too much money was like too much sex. It crossed the line and became pornographic.

  “Come on, Annalisa. Open the door. Let me see you,” Norine said.

  There was something pornographic in this, too. In this being seen, this unrelenting demand to be constantly seen everywhere. Annalisa felt worse than naked, as if her private parts were on display, open to all for examination.

  “I don’t know,” Annalisa said, coming out. The gold lamé golf suit consisted of a skirt cropped mid-thigh and a shirt cut like a polo shirt (they’d been Lacoste shirts when she was a kid; she’d called them “alligator shirts,” a testament to how blissfully unfashionable she’d been growing up), pulled together by a wide belt slung low on the hips. “What am I supposed to wear under this?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Norine said.

  “No underpants?”

  “Call them panties, please,” Norine said. “If you want, you wear gold lamé panties. Or maybe silver lamé. For contrast.”

  “Paul would never allow it,” Annalisa said firmly, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

  Norine took Annalisa’s face in her hands, holding it between her manicured fingers, and squeezed Annalisa’s face like a child’s. She shook her head, pursing her lips. “You mustn’t, mustn’t say that again,” she said in a baby voice. “We don’t care what Daddy Paulie likes or dislikes. Repeat after me: ‘I will choose my own clothes.’”

  “I will choose my own clothes,” Annalisa said reluctantly. Now she was stuck. Norine never seemed to understand that when Annalisa said Paul wouldn’t like something, it meant she didn’t like it but didn’t want to offend Norine.

  “Very good,” Norine said. “I’ve been doing this a long time—too long—but the one thing I know is that men never mind what their wives are wearing as long as the wives are happy. And look great. Better than the other men’s wives.”

  “But what if they don’t?” Annalisa said, thinking she’d had enough of this exercise.

  “That’s why they have me,” Norine said with unbridled confidence. She snapped her fingers at her assistant. “Photo, please,” she said.

  Julee held up her phone and snapped Annalisa’s picture.

  “How is it?” Norine asked.

  “Good,” Julee said, clearly terrified. She passed the phone to Norine, who peered at the tiny image.

  “Very good,” Norine said, showing Annalisa the photograph.

  “Ridiculous,” Annalisa said.

  “I think it’s fabulous,” Norine said. She handed Julee the phone and crossed her arms, preparing for another lecture. “Look, Annalisa,” she said. “You’re rich. You can do anything you want. There’s no bogeyman around the corner who’s going to punish you.”

  “I thought God punished us,” Annalisa said under her breath.

  “God?” Norine said. ?
??I’ve never heard of such a thing. Spirituality is only for show. Astrology, yes. Tarot cards, yes. Ouija boards, Kundala, Scientology, and even born-agains, yes. But a real God? No. That would be inconvenient.”

  In her office, Mindy wrote: “Why do we torture our husbands? Is it necessary or the inevitable result of our inherent frustration with the opposite sex?” She sat back in her chair and regarded the sentence with satisfaction. Her blog was a success—over the past two months, she’d received 872 e-mails congratulating her on her courage in addressing topics that were off-limits, such as whether a woman really needed her husband after he had given her children. “It’s all about the existential question,” Mindy wrote. “As women, we’re not allowed to ask existential questions. We’re supposed to be grateful for what we have, and if we’re not, we’re losers. Can’t we take a break from imposed happiness and admit that despite what we have, it’s okay to feel empty? It’s okay to feel that something is missing and life may be meaningless? Instead of feeling bad about it, why can’t we admit it’s normal?”

  This same unsentimental eye was applied to men and relationships. Mindy’s conclusion was that marriage was like democracy—imperfect but still the best system women had. It was certainly better than prostitution.

  Mindy reread her opening sentence for the week’s blog entry and considered what she wanted to say next. Writing a blog was a bit like going to a shrink, she thought—it forced you to examine your real feelings. But it was also better than a shrink, because you got to do your navel-gazing in front of an audience of several thousand as opposed to one. And in her experience, that one—the shrink—was usually half asleep and expected money. “This week, I realized I spend at least thirty minutes a day nagging my husband,” she wrote. “And to what end? There are no consequences.” She looked up and saw that her assistant was standing in front of her desk.

  “Do you have an appointment with a Paul Rice?” the assistant asked, as if Paul Rice were a thing as opposed to a person. Catching the surprise on Mindy’s face, she said, “I didn’t think so. I’ll have security send him away.”