One Fifth Avenue

  “You’re always meaning to call, aren’t you?” she replied. Now that Lola was moving in to his apartment, it should have been the absolute end of Schiffer’s feelings for Philip. Unfortunately, her feelings hadn’t gone away, causing an irrational irritation toward him. “Too bad you never do.”

  “You could call me,” Philip said.

  “Oakland.” She sighed. “Have you noticed we’re grown-ups now?”

  “Yeah. Well,” he said, shifting through a display of PowerBars. This reminded him of the dozens of times he’d been in this deli with her in the past—buying ice cream and bread after sex, coffee and bacon and The New York Times on Sundays. There was a comfort and peace in those moments that he couldn’t recall having had again. He’d assumed then that they’d be together forever doing their Sunday-morning routine when they were eighty. But there were the other times, like after a fight, or when she’d left again for L.A. or a movie location after making no plans for their future, when he’d stood here bitterly, buying cigarettes, and promising himself he’d never see her again.

  “Listen,” he said.

  “Mmmmm?” she asked. She picked up a magazine with her face on the cover.

  He smiled. “Do you still collect those things?” he asked.

  “Not the way I used to,” she said. She bought the magazine and headed out of the store.

  He followed. “The thing about Lola,” he began.

  “Philip,” she said. “I told you. It’s none of my business.” But she only ever called him by his name when she was angry with him.

  “I want to explain.”

  “Don’t.”

  “It wasn’t my choice. Her parents lost all their money. She didn’t have anyplace to live. What was I supposed to do—put her out on the street?”

  “Her parents lost all their money? Come on, Philip,” she said. “Even you’re not that gullible.”

  “They did,” he insisted, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. He unwrapped his PowerBar and said defensively, “You were with Brumminger. You can’t be mad at me about Lola.”

  “Who said I was mad?”

  “You’re the one who’s never around,” Philip said, wondering why women were always so difficult.

  “I’m here now, Philip,” she said, stopping on the corner of Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. “And I’ve been here for months.”

  She’s still interested, Philip thought. “So let’s have dinner.”

  “With Lola?” Schiffer said.

  “No. Not with Lola. How about next Thursday? Enid’s taking Lola to the ballet.”

  “That’s an honorable plan,” she said sarcastically.

  “It’s two old friends having dinner together. Why can’t we be friends? Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

  “Fine, schoolboy,” she said. “We’ll have dinner. I’ll even cook.”

  Meanwhile, upstairs in One Fifth, James Gooch was preparing to make love to Lola Fabrikant. Not actual love—not sex, which he knew was most likely beyond the realm of possibility—but verbal love. He wanted her interest and appreciation. At ten-ten, not wanting to appear too eager, he rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. He was thinking only of Lola, but when she opened the door, some of his attention was diverted by Philip’s apartment and the inevitable comparisons to his own. Oakland’s place was a real apartment. No string of boxlike rooms for him. There was a foyer and a large living room, a fireplace, hallways, and when James followed Lola into the living room, he caught a glimpse of a proper-sized kitchen with granite countertops and a table large enough for four. The place smacked of old money, personal taste, travel, and a decorator, encapsulating that mix of antique and contemporary. James took in the Oriental rug, African sculpture, and leather club chairs in front of the fireplace. How often did Oakland sit there with Lola, drinking Scotch and making love to her atop the zebra rug? “I brought you my book,” he said awkwardly. “As promised.”

  Lola was wearing a fancy T-shirt, even though it was winter—but didn’t all young girls bare their almighty flesh in all kinds of weather these days?—and plaid pants that hugged her bottom, and on her feet, pretty little blue velvet slippers embroidered with a skull and crossbones. As she held out her hand for the book, she must have caught him looking at her feet, for she touched the heel of one slipper with the toe of the other and said, “They’re last year’s. I wanted to get the ones with the angels or butterflies—but I couldn’t. They’re six hundred dollars, and I couldn’t afford them.” She sighed and sat down on the couch. “I’m poor,” she explained.

  James did not know how to respond to this flood of random information. Her cell phone rang, and she answered it, followed by several “ohmigods” and “fucks,” as if he weren’t in the room. James was slightly hurt. In the run-up to this encounter, he’d imagined she truly was interested and the delivery of the book partly ruse, but now he wasn’t sure. After ten minutes, he gave up and headed toward the door. “Wait,” she said. She pointed to the phone, making a talking motion with her hand as if it were out of her control. She held the phone away from her ear. “Are you leaving?” she asked James.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to go. I’ll be off in a minute.” James doubted this but sat down anyway, as hopeful as an eighteen-year-old boy who still thinks he has a chance to get laid. He watched her pacing the room, fascinated and frightened by her energy, her youth, her anger, and mostly by what she might think about him.

  She got off the phone and threw it onto the couch. “So,” she said, turning to him, “two socialite girls got into a fight at a club, and a bunch of people videotaped it and put it on Snarker.”

  “Oh,” James said. “Do girls still do those things?”

  She looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you kidding? Girls are vicious.”

  “I see,” James said. A painful pause ensued. “I brought you my book,” he said again, to fill up the silence.

  “I know,” she said. She put her hands over her eyes. “I’m just so confused.”

  “You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to,” James said. The book was sitting on the coffee table between them. On the cover was a color rendering of New York harbor circa 1775. The title of the book, Diary of an American Terrorist, was written across the top in raised red type.

  She took away her hands and stared at him intently, then, remembering the book, picked it up. “I want to read it. I really do. But I’m upset about Philip.”

  “Oh,” James said. For a moment, he’d forgotten all about Philip.

  “He’s just so mean.”

  “He is?”

  She nodded. “Ever since he asked me to move in with him. He keeps criticizing everything I do.” She readjusted herself on the couch. “Like the other day. I was doing a salt scrub in the bathroom, and some of the salt got on the floor. And then I had to do something right away—like go to the drugstore—and Philip came home and slipped on the salt. So when I came back, he started yelling at me about being messy.”

  James moved closer to her on the couch. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “Men are like that. It’s an adjustment period.”

  “Really?” she asked, looking at him curiously.

  “Sure,” he said, bobbing his head. “It always takes men awhile to get used to things.”

  “And that’s especially true of Philip,” she said. “My mother warned me. When men get older, they get set in their ways, and you just have to work around them.”

  “There you go,” James said, wondering how old she thought he was.

  “But it’s hard for me,” she continued. “Because I’m the one taking all the risks. I had to give up my apartment. And if things don’t work out, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “I’m sure Philip loves you,” James said, wishing that Oakland did not and that he could take his place. But that wasn’t possible unless Mindy decided
to get rid of him as well.

  “Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly. “Did he tell you that?”

  “No…” James said. “But why wouldn’t he?” he added quickly. “You’re so”—he hesitated—“beautiful.”

  “Do you really think so?” she asked, as if she were insecure about her looks.

  She’s sweet, James thought. She really doesn’t know how gorgeous she is.

  “I wish Philip would tell me that,” she said.

  “He doesn’t?”

  She shook her head sadly. “He never tells me I’m beautiful. And he never says ‘I love you.’ Unless I force him.”

  “All men are like that,” James said wisely. “I never tell my wife I love her, either.”

  “But you’re married,” Lola protested. “She knows you love her.”

  “It’s complicated,” James said, sitting back on the couch and crossing one leg over the other. “It’s always complicated between men and women.”

  “But the other night,” Lola began. “You and your wife—you seem so happy together.”

  “We have our moments,” James said, although at that moment, he couldn’t remember any. He recrossed his legs, hoping she couldn’t see his hard-on.

  “Well,” she said, jumping up, “I’ve got to meet Philip.”

  James stood reluctantly. Was the visit over so soon? And just when he thought he was making progress.

  “Thank you for bringing me your book,” she said. “I’ll start reading it this afternoon. And I’ll let you know what I think.”

  “Great,” James said, thrilled that she wanted to see him again.

  At the door, he attempted to kiss her on the cheek. It was an awkward moment, and she turned her head away, so his kiss landed somewhere in her hair. Overcome by the sensation of her hair on his face, he took a step backward, tripping on the corner of the rug.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, grabbing his arm.

  He adjusted his glasses. “I’m fine.” He smiled.

  “See you soon.” She waved and closed the door, then turned back into the apartment. It was cute the way James Gooch was so obviously interested in her. Naturally, she didn’t return his feelings, but James was the kind of man who might do anything she wanted. And he was a bestselling author. He might come in very handy in the future.

  Meanwhile, James stood waiting for the elevator, feeling his descending hard-on poke against his pants. Philip Oakland was a fool, he thought fiercely, thinking of Lola’s breasts. Poor kid, she probably had no idea what she was getting into.

  On the floor above, Annalisa Rice placed a large red stamp on the corner of an envelope and passed it to her neighbor. Six women, including Connie Brewer, sat around her dining room table, stuffing envelopes for the King David charity ball. The King David Foundation was the Brewers’ personal charity, and had grown from a dinner party at a Wall Street restaurant into a multimedia extravaganza held in the Armory. All the new Wall Streeters wanted to know Sandy Brewer, wanted to rub shoulders with him and do business, and were willing to pay the price by supporting his cause. Connie had asked Annalisa to be a cochair. The requirements were simple: She had to buy two tables at fifty thousand dollars each—for which Paul had happily written a check—and be involved in the planning.

  Annalisa had thrown herself into the work with the same passion she’d brought to being a lawyer. She’d studied the financials—last year, the event had raised thirty million dollars, an extraordinary amount, and this year they hoped to raise five million dollars more. She went to tastings and examined floral arrangements, went over lists of invitees, and sat through hours of committee meetings. The work wasn’t exciting, but it gave her a purpose beyond the apartment and kept her mind off Paul. Ever since the trip to China, where Paul and Sandy had done business during the day while Connie and Annalisa were driven around in a chauffeured Mercedes with a guide who took them on tours of temples and museums, Paul had become increasingly secretive and withdrawn. When he was home, he spent most of his time in his office on lengthy phone calls or making graphs on his computer. He refused to discuss his business, saying only that he and Sandy were on the verge of doing a groundbreaking deal with the Chinese that would change the international stock market and make them billions of dollars.

  “What do you know about this China deal?” Annalisa asked Connie one afternoon when they were first back in New York.

  “I stopped asking those questions a long time ago,” Connie said, flipping open her tiny laptop. “Sandy tried to explain it a few times, and I gave up.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you, not knowing what your husband really does?” Annalisa asked.

  “No,” Connie replied, studying a list of names for the benefit.

  “What if it’s illegal?” Annalisa said. She didn’t know why this thought crossed her mind.

  “Sandy would never do anything illegal. And neither would Paul. He’s your husband, Annalisa. You love him, and he’s wonderful.”

  Spending so much time with Connie had given Annalisa a new perspective on her character. Connie was naively romantic, a simple optimist who admired her husband and believed she could get everything she wanted with sugar as opposed to vinegar. She took Sandy’s money for granted, as if she’d never considered what life would be like if she had less. Her attitude was due, Annalisa discovered, not to arrogance but to a lack of complexity. From the age of six, Connie’s life had been dedicated to one thing—dance—and having become a professional dancer at eighteen, she’d never finished high school. Connie wasn’t dumb, but she knew everything by rote. When it came to analysis, she was lost, like a child who has memorized the names of the states but can’t picture where they are in relation to one another.

  Having the stronger personality, Annalisa had quickly come to dominate Connie, who seemed to accept Annalisa’s alpha status as a given. She made sure Annalisa was invited to lunches and the nightly cocktail parties in boutiques; she gave her the names of the people who would come to her house to cut and style her hair and perform waxing, manicures, and pedicures—“so you don’t have to be seen in public with that tissue between your toes,” Connie said—and even highlighting. Connie was obsessed with her own image and assumed Annalisa was as well, printing out photographs of Annalisa from the society websites she checked every morning. “There was a great picture of you in Women’s Wear Daily today,” Connie would crow with childish excitement. Or “I saw the best pictures of us from the perfume launch last night.” Then she would dutifully ask if Annalisa wanted her to messenger the prints to her apartment. “It’s okay, Connie, I can look them up myself,” Annalisa would say. Nevertheless, two hours later, the doorman would buzz and an envelope would be delivered upstairs. Annalisa would look at the photos and put them in a drawer. “Do you really care about these things?” she’d asked Connie one day.

  “Of course,” Connie had said. “Don’t you?”

  “Not really,” Annalisa said. Connie looked hurt, and Annalisa felt bad, having inadvertently dismissed one of Connie’s great pleasures in life. And Connie took such pride in the fact that Annalisa was her friend, boasting to the other women about how Annalisa had written a scholarly book in college and appeared on Charlie Rose, how Annalisa had met the president, and how she had worked in Washington. In turn, Annalisa had become protective of Connie’s feelings. Connie was such a tiny thing, reminding Annalisa of a fairy with her small bones and graceful hands. She loved everything sparkly and pretty and pink and was always nipping into Harry Winston or Lalaounis. Displaying her recent jewelry acquisitions, she would insist that Annalisa try on a yellow diamond ring or a necklace of colored sapphires, pressing Annalisa to borrow the piece.

  “No,” Annalisa always said firmly, handing the jewelry back. “I’m not going to walk around wearing a ring worth half a million dollars. What if something happened?”

  “But it’s insured,” Connie would say, as if insurance mitigated one from all responsibility.

  Now, sitting in he
r dining room in her grand penthouse apartment, stuffing envelopes with Connie and the other women on the committee, Annalisa glanced around and realized they were like children working on a craft project. She placed another stamp on another envelope as the women chitchatted about the things women always talked about—their children and their husbands, their homes, clothes, hair, a piece of gossip from the night before—the only difference being the scale of their lives. One woman was debating sending her daughter to boarding school in Switzerland; another was building a house on a private island in the Caribbean and was urging the other women to do the same “so they could all be together.” Then one of the women brought up the story in the latest W that had dominated the conversation of this clique for the past three weeks. The story had been a roundup of possible socialites who might take the place of the legendary Mrs. Houghton, and Annalisa had been named third in the running. The story was complimentary, describing Annalisa as the “flame-haired beauty from Washington who had taken New York by storm,” but Annalisa found it embarrassing. Every time she went out, someone mentioned it, and the story had increased her visibility so that when she appeared at an event, the photographers shouted her name, insisting that she stop and pose and turn. It was harmless, but it freaked Paul out.

  “Why are they taking your picture?” he’d demanded, angrily taking her hand at the end of a short red carpet behind which sat posters with the logos of a fashion magazine and an electronics company.

  “I don’t know, Paul,” she’d said. Was it possible Paul was this naive about the world of which he’d insisted they become a part? Billy Litchfield often said these parties were for the women—the dressing up, the showing off of jewelry—so perhaps Paul, being a man, simply didn’t understand. He had always been terrible at anything social, having nearly no ability to read people or make small talk. He became stiff and angry when he was in a situation he didn’t understand, and would thrust his tongue into his cheek, as if to forcibly prevent himself from speaking. That evening, seeing his cheek bulge, Annalisa had wondered how to explain the rules of this particular society. “It’s like a birthday party, Paul. Where people take photographs. So they can remember the moment.”