One Fifth Avenue

  Lola shrugged. “They’re super-rich. She rides around in a Bentley and has designers send her clothes. I hate her.”

  “I hate them both,” Thayer said, and smiled.

  Heeding the call to action, Mindy and Enid had scheduled an emergency meeting of the board. On her way down to Mindy’s, Enid paused outside Philip’s door. Sure enough, she heard voices—Lola’s and that of an unidentified man who, she assumed, was Thayer Core. Had Lola willfully misunderstood what she’d said? Or was she simply dumb? Enid knocked on the door.

  Immediately, there was silence. Enid knocked again. “Lola?” she called out. “It’s me. I need to talk to you.” She heard hurried whispers, and then Lola opened the door. “Hi, Enid,” she said with false cheer.

  Enid pushed past her and found Thayer Core sitting on Philip’s couch with a script in his hand. “Hello,” Enid said. “And who might you be?”

  Thayer suddenly became the proper prep-school boy whose image he’d been trying to shed for the past five years. He stood up and held out his hand. “Thayer Core, ma’am.”

  “Enid Merle. I’m Philip’s aunt,” Enid said dryly.

  “Wow,” Thayer said. “Lola didn’t tell me you were Philip’s aunt.”

  “Are you a friend of Philip’s?”

  “Yes, I am. And of Lola’s. Lola and I were discussing my script. I was hoping Philip might be able to give me some pointers. But I can see you two have things to talk about,” Thayer said, looking from Enid to Lola. “I need to get going.” He jumped up and grabbed his coat.

  “Don’t forget your script,” Enid said to him.

  “Right,” Thayer said. He exchanged a look with Lola, who smiled stiffly. Thayer picked up the script, and Enid followed him into the hall.

  They rode down to the lobby without speaking, which was fine by Thayer. His head was full of ideas, and he didn’t want to lose them by talking. In the past thirty minutes, he’d gleaned enough interesting material for several blog items. One Fifth was a hotbed of intrigue; perhaps he might create an entire series dedicated to the goings-on in the building. He could call it “The Co-op.” Or perhaps “The Lives of the Rich and Privileged.”

  “Goodbye,” Enid said firmly when the elevator doors opened into the lobby. Thayer nodded at her and hurried out. All he needed to continue his attack on the residents of One Fifth was a steady supply of information. He turned over the script in his hand and smiled. It was the first draft of a screenplay by Philip Oakland with a working title of “Bloody Mary.” Philip Oakland would be furious if he discovered Lola had allowed an unfinished script to get out. And it wouldn’t get out as long as Lola was a good girl and played along. From now on, Thayer decided, Lola could come to his apartment. She would keep him up to date on the goings-on in One Fifth, and when she was finished talking, she could give him a blow job.

  Enid rang Mindy’s bell. The door was opened by Sam, who had changed his mind about going to school, claiming he was sick. He led Enid into the tiny living room, where the three members of the board were engaged in a fierce discussion about Paul Rice.

  “Can’t we force him to allow Time Warner into his apartment?”

  “Of course. It’s the same as a handyman. And it’s affecting the other residents. But if he refuses, we have to get a letter from the building’s attorney.”

  “Has anyone tried to talk to him?”

  “We all have,” Enid said. “He’s impossible.”

  “What about the wife? Maybe someone should talk to his wife.”

  “I’ll try again,” Enid said.

  On the other side of the wall, Sam Gooch lay on his bed, pretending to read his mother’s New Yorker. He’d left his door open so he could overhear the conversation. He looked up at the ceiling, feeling extremely pleased with himself. True, his actions had caused a great deal of trouble for everyone in the building, and he was scared to death of being found out, but it was worth it to get even with Paul. Sam guessed Paul would not be harassing anyone anymore, especially his mother. He would never say anything to Paul, but when they passed in the lobby, he would give Paul a certain look, and Paul would know Sam had been responsible. Hopefully, he’d never be able to prove it.

  A few minutes later, Enid knocked on the Rices’ door. Maria, the housekeeper, opened it a crack and said through the tiny slit, “No visitors.”

  Enid stuck her fingers in the crack. “Don’t be silly. I need to see Mrs. Rice.”

  “Enid?” Annalisa called out. She stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her. “This is not our fault.”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Enid said.

  “It’s because everyone hates Paul.”

  “A co-op is like a private club,” Enid said. “Especially in a building like One Fifth. You may not necessarily like all the other members, but you do have to get along with them. Otherwise, it tears the whole building apart. Word gets out that it’s not such a great building, and then everyone’s real estate goes down. And no one likes that, my dear.”

  Annalisa looked down at her hands.

  “There is an unspoken code of behavior. For instance, residents must strive to avoid unpleasant encounters. We can’t have neighbors insulting each other. Yes, One Fifth is a fancy apartment building. But it’s also people’s homes. It’s their sanctuary. And without the security of that sanctuary, people become angry. I’m afraid for you and Paul. Afraid of what will happen if you don’t allow the repairman from Time Warner into your apartment.”

  “He’s already here,” Annalisa said.

  “Ah,” Enid replied, taken aback.

  “He’s by the service entrance. Perhaps you’d like to talk to him.”

  “Yes, I would,” Enid said.

  She followed Annalisa through the door that led to the stairwell. The repairman held several cables in his hand. “They’ve been cut,” he said grimly.

  “Hey, Roberto,” Philip Oakland said, coming into One Fifth with his suitcase. “How’s it going?”

  “Been crazy around here,” Roberto said, and laughed. “You missed a lot.”

  “Really?” Philip said. “Like what?”

  “Big scandal. With the billionaire. Paul Rice. But your aunt took care of it.”

  “Ah, yes,” Philip said, waiting for the elevator. “She always does.”

  “And then it turned out that someone cut the cables outside the billionaire’s apartment. No one knows who did it. Then the billionaire called the police. Big scene between Mindy Gooch and Paul Rice. Those two really hate each other. So Paul Rice is making the co-op pay for cameras in the stairwells. And there was nothing Mrs. Gooch could do about it. Man, that lady was mad. And Mrs. Rice won’t talk to anyone. The housekeeper calls ahead when she’s coming down, and we have to motion to the driver to bring the car around. No one’s mad at them, though, because someone did cut their wires, and Paul Rice gave the doormen a thousand bucks each to protect his wife. But now everyone who comes into the building, even the dry cleaner, has to register at the front desk and show ID. And if they don’t have ID, the residents have to come down and get them. It’s like a prison in here. Thing is, some people think it was your girlfriend’s friend that did it.”

  “What?” Philip said. He jabbed the button for the elevator.

  “That won’t make it come any faster.” Roberto laughed again.

  Philip got into the elevator and punched the button for the thirteenth floor three times. What the hell was going on?

  In Los Angeles, he’d gone right to work on the revisions for Bridesmaids Revisited. For the first couple of days, he’d put Lola out of his mind. She’d called him ten times, but he hadn’t returned the calls. On his third evening in L.A., he’d phoned her back, thinking she would still be at her mother’s house. She wasn’t. She was in New York in his apartment. “Lola, we have to discuss this,” he said.

  “But I’ve already moved in. I thought that was the plan. I unpacked all my stuff. I only took a small corner of the closet in the bedroom, and I put some o
f your things in your storage locker in the basement. I hope you don’t mind,” she’d said, as if suddenly realizing he might.

  “Lola, it’s just not a good idea.”

  “What isn’t? You asked me to move in with you, Philip. In Mustique. If you’re saying you don’t love me anymore…” She’d started crying.

  Philip had buckled under her tears. “I didn’t mean that. I do care for you, Lola. It’s just that—”

  “How can you say you care about me when you’re trying to tell me you don’t want me around? Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll go live on the street.”

  “Lola, you don’t have to live on the street.”

  “I’m twenty-two years old,” she’d said, sobbing. “You seduced me and made me fall in love with you. And now you’re ruining my life.”

  “Lola, stop. Everything is going to be okay.”

  “So do you love me?”

  “We’ll discuss it when I get back,” he’d said resignedly.

  “I know you’re not ready to say it yet. But you will,” she chirped. “It’s just an adjustment period. Oh, I almost forgot—your friend Schiffer Diamond is dating some guy named Derek Brumminger. It was in the Post. And then I saw them together, leaving the building in the morning. He’s not very attractive. He’s old and he’s got bad skin. You’d think a movie star could do better, but maybe she can’t. She’s not so young anymore, either.”

  For a moment, Philip had been silent.

  “Hello? Hello?” Lola had said. “Are you there?”

  So she’s gone back to Brumminger, he’d thought. After telling him to get rid of Lola. Why had he thought she’d changed?

  “Lola,” he said now, going into his apartment. “What’s this business about your friend?”

  He looked around. Lola wasn’t home. He put his suitcase on the bed and knocked on his aunt’s door.

  Lola was with Enid. “Philip! You’re home,” Lola said, throwing her arms around him. He patted her on the back and looked at his aunt, who smiled and rolled her eyes. Lola went on, “Enid was showing me her gardening books. I’m going to fix up your terrace this spring. Enid says I can make tulip boxes. And then we can have cut flowers.”

  “Hello, Philip, dear,” Enid said, slowly getting up from the couch. Not having seen her for two weeks, Philip realized she was getting old. Someday he would lose her, and then he’d truly be alone. The thought changed his mood: He was happy he still had his aunt, and that Lola was still living in his apartment, and that Enid and Lola were getting along. Perhaps it would work out after all.

  “I want to show you what I did in the kitchen,” Lola said eagerly.

  “You were in the kitchen?” he asked in mock surprise. He followed her back to his apartment, where she showed off her handiwork. She had rearranged the contents of his kitchen cabinets so he no longer knew where anything was.

  “Why did you do this?” he asked, opening the cabinet that had once held coffee and condiments but now contained a stack of plates.

  She looked crushed. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “I do. It’s better,” he lied, looking carefully around the apartment and wondering what else she’d disturbed. In the bedroom, he cautiously opened the closet. Half his clothes—the jackets and shirts that had hung in an orderly fashion for years—were missing; in their place, Lola’s clothing hung haphazardly, dangling from his hangers like Christmas ornaments.

  “Have you forgotten about me?” she said, coming up behind him and slipping her hands into the front of his jeans. She scooted back onto the bed. With a hard-on that reminded him he hadn’t had sex in two weeks, Philip put her ankles over his shoulders. For a second, he looked down at her bare, waxed pussy, remembering that this was not what he wanted. But it was there before him, and he dove in.

  Afterward, searching through his kitchen for his misplaced wineglasses, he said, “What’s this story about your friend cutting the Internet cables to the Rices’ apartment?”

  “Oh. That.” She sighed. “It was that horrible Mindy Gooch. She’s jealous of me because her husband, James, is always trying to come on to me behind her back. She said Thayer Core did it. You remember, we went to his Halloween party. Thayer was only here like two times—he wants to write screenplays, and I was trying to help him—and Thayer keeps writing about Mindy and her husband on Snarker, so Mindy was trying to get even with him. And Thayer wasn’t even in the building when it happened.”

  “How often has he been here?” Philip asked, his annoyance rising.

  “I told you,” she said. “Once or twice. Maybe three times. I can’t remember.”

  In the apartment next door, Enid picked up her gardening books and shook her head in frustration. She’d tried everything she could think of to get rid of Lola—forcing her to go along to three upscale supermarkets on Sixth Avenue in search of canned flageolet beans, taking her to a Damien Hirst retrospective of dead cows and sharks, and even introducing her to Flossie—all to no avail. Lola claimed that she, too, had a love for flageolets, was grateful to Enid for introducing her to art, and was not even put off by Flossie. Begging Flossie to tell her about her old days as a showgirl, Lola sat rapt at the foot of the bed. Enid realized she’d underestimated Lola’s tenacity. After the Internet Debacle, when Enid confronted Lola once again about her relationship with Thayer Core, all Lola did was look at her innocently and say, “Enid, you were right. He is a scumbag. And I’m never going to talk to him again.”

  Unlike Mindy Gooch, Enid did not believe Thayer Core had cut Paul Rice’s cables. Thayer Core was a bully, and like most bullies, he lacked courage. He was far too fearful to take physical action, instead striking out at the world from behind the safety of his computer. Mindy’s accusation was an attempt to divert attention from the real culprit, whom Enid suspected was Sam.

  Luckily for Sam, the police made only a cursory investigation. The incident was a prank, they said, due to animosity between residents. These pranks were becoming more and more common even in high-class apartment buildings. They received all kinds of complaints about neighbors now—from residents banging on ceilings with broomsticks, or ripping down each other’s Christmas decorations, or insisting that a neighbor’s cigarette smoke was drifting into their apartment and putting their children at risk for cancer. “I say live and let live,” one of the officers said to Enid. “But you know what people are like these days. There’s too much money and not enough space. And no manners. Makes people hate each other.”

  There had always been petty issues between residents at One Fifth, but until now, they had been countered by the collegial air of pride the residents took in living in the building. Perhaps the balance had been tipped by the Rices, who were so much wealthier than anyone else. Paul had threatened to sue, and Enid had to give Mindy a severe talking-to, reminding her that if Paul Rice went through with a lawsuit, the building would be forced to pay legal fees, which would be passed on to the residents in the form of an increase in monthly maintenance payments. After she saw the matter in financial terms that could directly affect her, Mindy agreed to back down and even wrote Paul and Annalisa Rice a note of apology. A tense truce was established, but then detailed items about these skirmishes began appearing in Snarker. Enid was sure the information was coming from Lola, but how could she prove it? As if Enid herself had something to do with it, Mindy took every opportunity to harass Enid about it, stopping her in the lobby to see if she’d read it and forwarding the blog to Enid’s e-mail address.

  “This can’t go on. Something has to be done,” Mindy exclaimed that morning.

  Enid sighed. “If it bothers you so much, then hire the young man.”

  “What?” Mindy said, outraged.

  “Hire him,” Enid repeated. “He must be a hard worker if he puts so much effort into writing about One Fifth. He’s at least halfway intelligent—I’m assuming he knows how to form a sentence, otherwise you wouldn’t be so angry. Pay him a decent salary and work him hard. That way he won’t have enough time
to write anything on the side. But don’t pay him so much that he can save up money to quit. Give him insurance and benefits. Turn him into a corporate drone, and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”

  If only, Enid thought, all problems could be solved so easily. She went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea, sipping it carefully to avoid burning her mouth. She hesitated, then took her tea into the bedroom. She turned off the phones, pulled back the covers, and for the first time in years, got into bed during the day. She closed her eyes. She was finally getting too old for all this drama.

  The recent events in One Fifth had made Paul Rice more paranoid and secretive than normal, and he was continually losing his temper over things he might once have ignored. He screamed at Maria for folding his jeans the wrong way, and then one of his precious fish died and he accused Annalisa of killing it on purpose. Fed up, Annalisa went to a spa in Massachusetts with Connie Brewer for six days, and Paul was left facing a lonely weekend. He spent most weekends pursuing his own interests anyway, but he liked the comfort of having Annalisa around, and the fact that she’d left him, even temporarily, made him fear she might someday leave him permanently.

  Apparently, Sandy Brewer didn’t have the same concerns about his own wife. “Dude,” he said, going into Paul’s office, “the girls are away this weekend. Thought you might want to come to my house for dinner. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who?” Paul asked. Ever since Sandy had flipped out about the two-minute delay in launching the algorithm, Paul had been watching Sandy closely, looking for evidence that Sandy was trying to replace him. Instead, Paul had found payments to an escort company that revealed Sandy had been paying prostitutes to service him during business trips. With Annalisa away, Paul wondered if Sandy would try to introduce him to a hooker.

  “You’ll see,” Sandy said mysteriously. Paul agreed to go, thinking if Sandy had invited one of his prostitutes, Paul could leverage the information to his advantage.

  Sandy loved to show off what his success and hard work had brought him, arranging for a formal dinner for three in his wood-paneled dining room, where two enormous David Salle paintings hung. The third dinner companion wasn’t a prostitute after all, but a man named Craig Akio. Paul shook Craig’s hand, noting only that Craig was younger than he and possessed sharp black eyes. They sat down to a glass of a rare white wine and a bowl of seafood bisque. “I’m a big admirer of your work, Paul,” Craig Akio said from across the polished mahogany table. “Your work on the Samsun scale was genius.”