One Fifth Avenue

  “No,” Mindy said a little too eagerly. “He’s from my building. Send him up.”

  She put her feet back in her shoes and stood, smoothing her skirt and rearranging her blouse, over which she was wearing a woolly vest. The vest was not sexy, and she debated taking it off but wondered if it would be obvious that she had made an effort. Then she realized she was being ridiculous: Paul Rice wouldn’t know she’d been wearing the vest all day. She took it off. She sat down behind her desk and fluffed her hair. She rummaged in the top drawer of her desk, found an old lip gloss, and rubbed a dab on her mouth.

  Paul Rice appeared in her doorway. He was dressed in a beautifully tailored suit with a crisp white shirt. He looked, Mindy noted, expensive. More like a sophisticated European as opposed to an ink-stained mathematician. But mathematicians wouldn’t be ink-stained anymore. They did their work on computers, like everyone else.

  Mindy stood up and leaned over the desk to shake his hand. “Hello, Paul,” she said. “This is a surprise. Have a seat.” She gestured to the small armchair in front of her desk.

  “I don’t have long,” Paul said. He pointedly held out his wrist and looked at his watch, a large vintage gold Rolex. “Exactly seven minutes, to be precise. Which should be the amount of time it takes my driver to circle the block.”

  “Not at four-thirty in the afternoon,” Mindy disagreed. “It will take him at least fifteen minutes in rush-hour traffic.”

  Paul Rice stared at her, saying nothing.

  Mindy began to feel slightly excited. “What can I do for you?” she asked. Since she’d met Paul at the board meeting, it had crept up on her that she was secretly affected by him. She found him sexy. Mindy had always been a sucker for a man of genius, and Paul Rice was rumored to be one. Plus, there was all his money. Money didn’t matter, but men who made a lot of it were always interesting.

  “I need those air conditioners,” he said.

  “Now, Paul,” Mindy said, sounding slightly schoolmarmish to her own ears. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs and began picturing herself as a Mrs. Robinson type. She smiled. “I thought I explained this in my letter. One Fifth is a landmark building. We’re not allowed to alter the face or the structure of the building in any way.”

  “What does that have to do with me?” Paul said, narrowing his eyes.

  “It means you can’t have in-the-wall air-conditioning units. No one can,” Mindy said.

  “An exception will have to be made.”

  “I can’t do that,” Mindy said. “It’s illegal.”

  “I have a lot of expensive computer equipment. I need to keep my apartment at a precise temperature.”

  “And what would that be?” Mindy said.

  “Sixty-four point two degrees.”

  “I’d like to help you, Paul, but I can’t.”

  “How much money will it take?” Paul asked.

  “Are you suggesting a bribe?”

  “Call it whatever you like,” Paul said. “I need my air conditioners. And the parking spot in the Mews. Let’s make this as easy as possible for both of us. Name your price.”

  “Paul,” Mindy said slowly. “This is not about money.”

  “Everything is about money. It’s all about numbers.”

  “In your world, maybe. But not in One Fifth,” Mindy said in her most patronizing tone. “It’s about preserving a historical landmark. That’s something money can’t buy.”

  Paul remained impassive. “I paid twenty million dollars for that apartment,” he said. “So you will approve my air conditioners.” He looked at his watch again and stood up.

  “No,” Mindy said. “I will not.” She stood up as well.

  “In that case,” Paul said, taking a step closer, “it’s war.”

  Mindy gasped involuntarily. She knew she should have sent the Rices the official letter denying the air conditioners weeks ago, when they’d first presented their plans for the renovation, but she’d liked having an excuse to talk about something with Paul when she ran into him in the lobby. But this was not how the game was supposed to play out. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Are you threatening me?”

  “I never threaten anyone, Mrs. Gooch,” Paul said, emotionless. “I merely state the facts. If you don’t approve my air conditioners, it’s war. And I will win.”

  10

  “Look,” Enid Merle said the next afternoon. “Schiffer Diamond’s new TV series premiered with a two point oh share. And four million viewers.”

  “Is that good?” Philip asked.

  “It’s the highest cable opening in history.”

  “Oh, Nini,” Philip said. “Why do you pay attention to these things?”

  “Why don’t you?” Enid asked. “Anyway, it’s a hit.”

  “I’ve read the reviews,” Philip said. SCHIFFER DIAMOND SHINES, declared one. DIAMOND IS FOREVER, gushed another.

  “Schiffer is a star,” Enid said. “She always was, and she always will be.” She put down Variety. “I do wish…”

  “No, Nini,” Philip said firmly, knowing what she was getting at. “It’s not going to happen.”

  “But Schiffer is so…”

  “Wonderful?” Philip said with an edge of sarcasm. Enid looked hurt. “I know you adore her,” Philip said. “But it’s impossible to be with an actress. You know that.”

  “But you’ve both grown up,” Enid countered. “And I’d hate to see you—”

  “End up with Lola?” Philip said. It could happen. Lola was crazy about him. “I wish you’d try to get to know her a little better. It would mean a lot to me.”

  “We’ll see,” Enid said.

  Philip went back to his apartment. Lola was curled up on the couch, watching TV. “Where were you?” she asked.

  “Visiting my aunt.”

  “But you just saw her yesterday.”

  Philip felt snappish. “You call your mother every day.”

  “But she’s my mother.”

  Philip went into his office and closed the door. After a couple of minutes, he got up from his desk, opened the door, and stuck his head out. “Lola,” he said. “Can you please turn down that damn TV?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to work,” he said.

  “So?” She yawned.

  “I’ve got a rewrite due in four days. If I don’t get it finished, we don’t start shooting on time.”

  “What’s the problem?” she asked. “They’ll wait. You’re Philip Oakland. They have to wait.”

  “No, they do not,” Philip said. “It’s called a contract, Lola. It’s called being an adult and honoring your commitments. It’s called people are counting on you to produce.”

  “Then write,” she said. “What’s stopping you?”

  “You are,” he said.

  “All I’m doing is sitting here. Watching TV.”

  “That’s the point. I can’t concentrate with the TV on.”

  “Why should I have to stop doing what I want to do so you can do what you want to do?”

  “What I have to do.”

  “If you don’t want to do it, if it doesn’t make you happy, then don’t do it,” Lola said.

  “I need you to turn off the TV. Or at least turn it down.”

  “Why are you criticizing me?”

  Philip gave up. He closed the door. Opened it again. “You need to do some work, too,” he said. “Why don’t you go to the library?”

  “Because I just got a manicure. And a pedicure.” She held up a foot and wiggled her toes for his inspection. “Isn’t it pretty?” she asked in her baby-girl voice.

  Philip went back to his desk. The noise from the TV continued unabated. He put his hands in his hair. How the fuck had this happened? She’d taken over his apartment, his life, his concentration. His bathroom was littered with makeup. She never put the cap back on the toothpaste. Or bought toilet paper. When the toilet paper ran out, she used paper towels. And stared at him accusingly, as if he had fallen down on the job of making h
er life easy. Every one of her days was a never-ending orgy of pampering. There were hairstyling appointments and massages and exercise classes in obscure Asian martial arts. It was, she explained, all in preparation for some great, future, unnamed, and undefined event that would inevitably happen to her and would change her life, for which she needed to be ready. Camera-ready. And he couldn’t get her to go home.

  “You could go back to your apartment,” he’d suggest.

  “But your apartment is so much nicer than mine.”

  “Your apartment is so much nicer than most twentysomethings’,” he’d point out. “Some of them live in the outer reaches of Brooklyn. Or New Jersey. They have to cross the river by ferry.”

  “What are you saying, Philip? That it’s my fault? Am I supposed to feel guilty about other people’s lives? I don’t have anything to do with their lives. It doesn’t make sense.”

  He tried to explain that one ought to feel guilty about other people’s hardships and struggles because that was how decent people felt about the world, it was called a conscience, but when pressed by her, he had to admit that feeling guilty was a legacy of his generation, not hers. She was, she explained, a child of choice—her parents chose to have her. Unlike previous generations in which parents, like his mother, didn’t have a choice about having kids, and therefore made their children feel guilty about coming into the world. As if it were the kid’s fault!

  Sometimes it was like trying to argue with someone from another planet.

  He got up and opened the door again. “Lola!” he said.

  “What is wrong with you?” she said. “I haven’t done anything. You’re in a bad mood because your writing isn’t going well. Don’t you dare blame that on me. I won’t tolerate it.” She got up.

  “Where are you going?” he said.

  “Out.”

  “Fine,” he said. He shut the door. But now he did feel guilty. She was right, she hadn’t done anything wrong. And he was in a bad mood. About what, he didn’t know.

  He opened the door. She was carefully sliding her feet into ballet flats. “You don’t have to go.”

  “I’m going,” she said.

  “When are you coming back?”

  “I have no idea.” And she left.

  In the elevator, Lola checked her Facebook page. Sure enough, there was a message from Thayer Core. He left her messages regularly, although she rarely responded. From her Facebook page, he’d found out she was from Atlanta and, from the photos she’d posted, seemed to think she was a party girl. “Hey Southern Girl,” he’d written. “Let’s hook up.” “Why?” she’d texted back. “Because you’re crazy about me,” he wrote. “All girls are.”

  “IDTS,” she responded. Which meant “I don’t think so.”

  Now, however, might be a good time to take Thayer Core up on his offer. The best way to get back at a man was to make him jealous, although she wasn’t sure Thayer Core would make Philip squirm. Still, Thayer was young, he was hot, and he was better than nothing. “What are you doing?” she texted Thayer.

  A reply came back immediately. “Torturing the rich.”

  “Let’s hang,” she wrote. He texted back his address.

  His apartment was on Avenue C and Thirteenth Street, in a low brick building with a dirty Chinese restaurant below. Lola rode a narrow elevator to the third floor. The hallway was tiled with large squares of brown linoleum. A door opened at one end of the short hallway, and a bristled man in a stained wifebeater stared at her briefly and went back inside.

  Another door opened, and a pimply-faced kid stuck his head out. “You here to see Thayer?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Lola said. “What was that about?” She indicated the occupant of the other apartment.

  “Pay no attention. The guy’s a drug addict. Probably jonesing for his dealer to bring him a fix,” the kid said casually, as if thrilled to be in possession of such knowledge. “I’m Josh,” he said. “Thayer’s roommate.” The apartment was all that Lola had been expecting and worse. A board atop two plastic crates made a coffee table; in one corner was a futon with eggplant-colored sheets, barely visible under a pile of clothes. Pizza boxes, Chinese food containers, bags of Doritos, a bong, dirty glasses, and a bottle of vodka littered the counter that separated the tiny living room from the kitchen area. The place smelled of dirty socks, nighttime emissions, and marijuana.

  “Are you Thayer’s new girlfriend?” Josh asked.

  “Hardly.”

  “Thayer’s juggling three or four girls right now. I can’t keep track of them, and neither can he.” Josh knocked at a flimsy wooden door in the middle of a makeshift plywood wall. “Thay?”

  “What the fuck?” came a voice from inside.

  “Thayer’s a serious writer,” Josh said. “He’s probably working.”

  “I’m going to go,” Lola said.

  Suddenly, the door opened and Thayer Core came out. He was taller than Lola remembered, at least six-two, and was wearing madras pants, flip-flops, and a ripped pink Lacoste shirt. Ironic preppy, Lola thought.

  “Hey,” Thayer said.

  “Hey,” Lola replied.

  “I was telling Lola that you’re a writer. He’s a real writer,” Josh said, turning to Lola.

  “Meaning?”

  “I get paid to write shit,” Thayer said, and grinned.

  “He’s published,” Josh said.

  “You wrote a book?” Lola asked.

  “Josh is an idiot.”

  “He’s a writer for Snarker,” Josh said proudly.

  “Give me your stuff, Josh,” Thayer said.

  Josh looked annoyed. “There’s hardly anything left.”

  “So? Give it to me. I’ll get more later.”

  “That’s what you said last night.”

  “Give me a break. I had that obscene cocktail party at Cartier, where they wouldn’t let us in. Then some art party at the Whitney, where they wouldn’t let us in, either. Then the Box. Which was groovy. Full of hipsters. But no pot. Only coke. Dammit, Josh, come on. I need your stash.”

  Josh reluctantly reached into his pocket and handed over a small bag of marijuana.

  “You carry it with you? You’re such a skive,” Thayer said.

  “I never know when I might need it.”

  “Like now,” Thayer said.

  “I’m going,” Lola said.

  “Why?” Thayer asked. “I thought you wanted to hang out. You have someplace better to go? This is the best spot in Manhattan. Center of the universe here. Going to destroy Manhattan from this tiny rat-infested three-thousand-dollar-a-month shithole.”

  “That’s nice,” Lola said.

  Thayer handed her the bong, and she took a hit. She hadn’t meant to smoke marijuana, but it was there and she was there and she thought, Why not? Plus, Thayer irritated her in an intriguing sort of way. He didn’t seem to understand she was superior to him.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” Thayer said.

  “I’m pissed at him.”

  “You see, Josh?” Thayer said. “All roads lead to me.”

  Lola’s phone rang. She looked at the number. It was Philip. She hit ignore.

  “Who was that?” Thayer asked.

  “None of your business.”

  Thayer took a hit from the bong. “Bet it was the boyfriend,” he said to Josh. “Bet he’s some boring premed student from the South.”

  “He isn’t,” Lola said proudly. “He’s famous.”

  “Oooooh, Joshie boy. Did you hear that? He’s famous. Nothing but the best for our Southern princess. Would I know him?” Thayer asked Lola.

  “Of course,” she said. “Philip Oakland? The novelist?”

  “That guy?” Thayer said. “Baby, he’s old.”

  “Got to be over forty, at least,” Josh agreed.

  “He’s a man,” Lola said.

  “You hear that, Josh? He’s a man. And we’re not.”

  “You’re certainly not,” Lola said to Thayer.

  “Wha
t am I?”

  “An asshole?” Lola said.

  Thayer laughed. “Didn’t used to be,” he said. “Until I came here. Until I got into this stinking, corrupt business called media.”

  “You still have your book,” Josh said. “Thayer’s going to be a great writer.”

  “I doubt it,” Lola said.

  “I like that you’re sleeping your way to the top,” Thayer said. “I’d do it if I could. But I don’t relish the thought of a dick up my ass.”

  “It’s the metaphorical dick that counts,” Josh said.

  “What do you talk to Oakland about?” Thayer asked. “He’s an old man.”

  “What does any girl talk to you about?” Josh said. “I thought talking wasn’t the point.”

  “As if you’d know,” Thayer said, looking at Josh in disgust.

  It went on like this for a while, and then some other people showed up. One was a girl with very pale skin and dyed black hair and a face that resembled a pug’s. “I hate beauty queens,” she screamed when she saw Lola.

  “Shut up, Emily. Lola’s okay,” Thayer said.

  More time passed. Thayer played seventies music, and they drank the vodka and danced in weird ways, and Josh filmed it on his cell phone. Then two guys and a girl came in. They were tall and pretty, like models, but Thayer said they weren’t models, they were the rich-kid offspring of some famous New Yorkers, and if their kids didn’t look like models, they would disown them. The girl was named Francesca, and she had long, narrow hands that she moved around when she talked. “I’ve seen you before,” she said to Lola. “At that Nicole Kidman screening.”

  “Yes,” Lola said loudly, over the music. “I was with my boyfriend, Philip Oakland.”

  “I love Nicole.” The girl sighed.

  “Do you know her?” Lola asked.

  “I’ve known her my whole life. She came to my third birthday party.” Francesca took Lola into the bathroom, and they put on lipstick. The bathroom smelled of damp towels and vomit. “Philip Oakland is cool,” Francesca said. “How’d you meet him?”

  “I’m his researcher,” Lola said.

  “I dated my teacher when I was sixteen. I love older men.”

  “Me, too,” Lola said, glancing out at Thayer and Josh, who were pretending to box each other. She rolled her eyes and decided she’d tortured Philip long enough. “I have to go,” she said.