One Fifth Avenue

  3

  “It is I, the prodigal nephew,” Philip said the next morning, knocking on Enid’s door.

  “You’re just in time,” Enid said, jangling a set of keys. “Guess what I’ve got? Keys to Mrs. Houghton’s apartment.”

  “How’d you get them?” Philip asked.

  “As the board president emeritus, I still enjoy certain perks.”

  “The children are definitely selling?” Philip said.

  “They want out fast. They think real estate prices can only go down.” They went upstairs, and opening the door to Mrs. Houghton’s apartment, were immediately assaulted by a riot of flowered chintz. “Society lady circa 1983,” Enid remarked.

  “You haven’t been in here since?” Philip asked.

  “Only a couple of times. Louise didn’t want visitors toward the end.”

  There was a scratching at the door, and Mindy Gooch and the real estate agent Brenda Lish came in. “Well,” Mindy said, staring at Philip and Enid. “It’s like Grand Central Station in here.”

  “Hello, Mindy, dear,” Enid said.

  “Hello,” Mindy said coldly. “So you do have the keys.”

  “Didn’t Roberto tell you?” Enid asked innocently. “I picked them up yesterday afternoon.”

  Philip glanced at Mindy but didn’t acknowledge her. He knew vaguely who Mindy was, knew vaguely that her husband was some kind of writer, but as he didn’t know them, he never said hello. And so, as sometimes happened in these buildings, Mindy and James had decided that Philip Oakland, who was successful, was also smug and arrogant, too arrogant to even greet them politely, making him their sworn enemy.

  “You’re Philip Oakland,” Mindy said, wanting to put herself in his face but not wanting to sink to his level of disregard.

  “Yes,” Philip said.

  “I’m Mindy Gooch. You know who I am, Philip. I live here. With my husband, James Gooch. For God’s sake, the two of you have the same publisher. Redmon Richardly?”

  “Ah, yes,” Philip said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “You do now,” Mindy said. “So the next time we see you, perhaps you’ll say hello.”

  “Don’t I say hello?” Philip said.

  “No, you don’t,” Mindy said.

  “The bones of this apartment are amazing,” Brenda Lish interjected, wanting to defuse a spat between warring residents. With an apartment like this, there would undoubtedly be many skirmishes ahead.

  The group trooped up the stairs, eventually reaching the top floor, which contained the ballroom. The ceiling was a dome, sixteen feet high; at one end was an enormous marble fireplace. Mindy’s heart beat faster. She’d always dreamed of living in an apartment like this, with a room like this, an aerie with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of all of Manhattan. The light was astounding. Every New Yorker wanted light, and few had it. If she lived here, in this apartment, instead of in the half-basement warren of rooms her family now occupied, maybe for once in her life, she could be happy.

  “I was thinking,” Enid said, “we might want to split up the apartment. Sell off each floor.”

  Yes, Mindy thought. And maybe she and James could buy the top floor. “We’d need to have a special quorum of the board,” she said.

  “How long would that take?” Brenda asked.

  Mindy looked at Enid. “It depends.”

  “Well, it would be a shame,” Brenda said. “Apartments like this never come up in Manhattan. And especially not in this location. It’s one of a kind. It should probably be on the National Register of Historic Places.”

  “The exterior of the building is on the register. The apartments are not. Residents are entitled to do anything they want with them,” Enid said.

  “That’s too bad,” Brenda said. “If the apartment were part of the national register, you’d attract the right kind of buyer, someone you’d probably want in the building. Someone who appreciates beauty and history. They wouldn’t be able to destroy these deco moldings, for instance.”

  “We’re not going to turn it into a museum,” Mindy said.

  “How much is it worth?” Enid asked.

  “My guess? Intact, around twenty million. If you split it up, you’ll hurt the value. Each floor will probably be worth three point five.”

  In a fluster, Mindy went down to her apartment. The still air was stifling; in the afternoon on a bright day, when the sun was angled just right, a strip of light illuminated the back of the rooms, which looked out onto a small cement patio. The patio was eight feet wide, and she and James were always thinking about fixing it up, but never got around to it. Any kind of construction had to be approved by the board, which wouldn’t have been a problem, but it also required materials and workers to do the job, and the logistics of organizing such an event were too much on top of everything else she had to do. So, for the ten years she and James had lived there, the patio had remained the same—a cracked cement patch through which stubborn tufts of grass grew. A small Weber barbecue grill and three folding chairs completed the picture.

  Mindy went into her office. Finding her latest bank statement, she added up their assets. They had two hundred and fifty-seven thousand in savings, four hundred thousand in a retirement account, thirty thousand dollars in checking, and maybe ten thousand dollars in stocks. A long time ago, James had wanted to invest in the stock market, and Mindy had said, “Do I look like someone who wants to throw away her money? The stock market is nothing more than legalized gambling, and you know how I feel about gambling. And the lotto, for that matter.” Adding up all their cash, they had barely seven hundred thousand dollars. Mindy knew this sum was more than what most Americans had, but in their world, it wasn’t much. It cost thirty-five thousand a year to send Sam to private school, and it would take at least a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to send him to college. On the plus side, their apartment—which they had bought slowly in pieces and put together during the real estate downturn in the mid-nineties—was worth at least a million dollars. And they’d paid only two hundred and fifty thousand. Altogether, their assets were close-ish to two million dollars. If they wanted to buy just one floor of the penthouse, they were still one and a half million short.

  Maybe they should sell everything and move to the Caribbean, Mindy thought.

  How much could a house in the Caribbean cost? A hundred, two hundred thousand dollars? She could swim and make salads and read. James could write pathetic novels about the local goings-on. They’d be giving up, but so what? The only glitch was Sam. He’d love it, but would it be good for him? He was a genius and such a nice boy. Not the least bit arrogant about his intelligence, unlike some of his friends. But if they left New York, it could throw Sam’s whole educational career off track, meaning he might not get into an Ivy League school. No, Mindy thought, shaking her head. We will not give up. We will persevere. We will stay in New York with our fingernails digging into the cement, if only for Sam’s sake.

  The buzzer rang, and she jumped up, wondering who it might be. Probably James, who was out buying overpriced food at Citarella and who’d probably forgotten his keys.

  Instead, it was Enid Merle.

  “Is Sam home?” Enid asked. “I need to install some new software, and I was wondering if he could help.” Sam was the building’s resident computer expert; whenever anyone had a problem, they called on Sam, who was a computer genius and had built up a cottage industry in the building.

  “Sam isn’t here,” Mindy said. “He’s away for a few days.”

  “How nice for him. Where?”

  Mindy stood in her doorway, blocking Enid’s entry. She didn’t want Enid to see her apartment. She was private about her space, but also embarrassed. Plus, her hostility toward Philip often extended to Enid, as she was his aunt. “He’s gone upstate with friends. I’ll tell him to ring your buzzer when he gets back.”

  Enid didn’t move away. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “About what?” Mindy said.

  “It might
not be a bad idea to break up the apartment.”

  “I don’t know why you’re interested,” Mindy said.

  “I’ve lived in the building for over sixty years. Naturally, I’m interested in everything that goes on here.”

  “I appreciate that, Enid. But you’re no longer on the board.”

  “Not technically,” Enid said. “But I have a lot of friends.”

  “We all do,” Mindy said, although in her case, she wasn’t sure this was entirely true.

  “If we split up the apartment, we could probably sell to people who already live in the building. It could save you a lot of headaches,” Enid pointed out.

  Ah, Mindy thought. Enid wanted the bottom floor for Philip. It made sense. Philip could break through from his own apartment. And he probably had the money. Not enough for the whole apartment but enough for one floor.

  “I’ll think about it,” Mindy said. She closed the door firmly and went back to her accounts. No matter how she added them up, they were still short. That was that, then. There was no way she would allow Philip Oakland to get the bottom floor of that apartment. If she and James couldn’t have a floor, why should he?

  “Check out Sanderson vs. English,” Annalisa Rice said into the phone. “It’s all very clear. And of course there’s the moral element, which always sways juries. It’s like an Aesop’s fable.”

  “Damn, Rice,” said the male voice at the other end. “Why’d you have to go and move to New York on me?”

  “Change, Riley,” Annalisa replied. “It’s good, remember?”

  “I know you,” Riley said. “You’re probably already on to the next big thing. Are you running someone’s campaign? Or running for office yourself?”

  “Neither.” Annalisa laughed. “I’ve made a U-turn, to put it mildly. You won’t believe what I’m doing right now.”

  “Helping the homeless?”

  “Consorting with the rich. I’m going to the Hamptons for the weekend.”

  Riley laughed, too. “I always said you were too glamorous for Washington.”

  “Damn you, Riley,” Annalisa said. “I miss you guys.”

  “You can always come back,” Riley said.

  “Too late,” Annalisa said. She said goodbye and hung up the phone, twisting her auburn hair into her trademark ponytail. She went to the window and, pushing back the heavy gold drapes, looked out at the street. It was a long way down. She pushed at the window, longing for some fresh air in the overly air-conditioned suite, and remembered that the windows were bolted shut. She looked at her watch; it was three o’clock. She had two hours to pack and get to the heliport. It should have been plenty of time. But she didn’t know what to pack. What did one wear to a weekend in the Hamptons?

  “Paul, what should I bring?” she’d asked that morning.

  “Oh, hell. I don’t know,” Paul had said. Paul was her husband. He was engaged in getting out the door by seven A.M. on the dot, sitting on the edge of a hassock, pulling on thin silk socks and Italian loafers. Paul had never worn proper shoes before. He’d never had to, before New York. Back in Washington, he’d always worn leather Adidas tennis shoes.

  “Are those new?” Annalisa asked, referring to the shoes.

  “I can’t say. What does new mean, exactly?” Paul asked. “Six months old? A day? These kinds of questions are only answerable if you know the context of the person asking.”

  Annalisa laughed. “Paul, you have to help me. They’re your friends.”

  “Partners,” Paul corrected. “Anyway, what difference does it make? You’ll be the best-looking woman there.”

  “It’s the Hamptons. They probably have a dress code.”

  “Why don’t you call Sandy’s wife, Connie?”

  “I don’t know her,” Annalisa said.

  “Sure you do. She’s Sandy’s wife.”

  “Oh, Paul,” she said. It just doesn’t work that way, she thought, but refrained from explaining. Paul wouldn’t understand.

  Paul leaned across the bed to kiss her goodbye. “Are you looking at apartments today?” he asked.

  “I’m always looking at apartments. You’d think that with fifteen million dollars to spend, it would be easy.”

  “If it’s not enough, spend more,” Paul said.

  “I love you,” she called after him.

  That morning, Annalisa had considered asking Emme, the real estate agent, what one wore in the Hamptons, but judging from Emme’s appearance, Annalisa didn’t think she’d like the answer. Emme was at least sixty years old but had a face that sported the latest in plastic surgery techniques. All morning, Emme’s overarched eyebrows, plastic lips, and large white teeth kept distracting Annalisa, as did Emme’s hair, which was coarse and dark at the roots and frayed blond on the ends. Emme was considered the best real estate agent on the Upper East Side. “I know you’ve got plenty of money,” Emme said, “but money isn’t the issue. Everyone’s got plenty of money these days. It’s who you know that counts.” Then she’d asked, “Who do you know?”

  “How about the president of the United States?” Annalisa said, twisting her ponytail.

  “Will he write you a letter?” Emme asked, not catching the sarcasm.

  “Probably not,” Annalisa said. “Considering I called his administration an embarrassment.”

  “Everybody says that,” Emme said.

  “Yes, but I said it on TV. I used to be a regular on Washington Morning.”

  “That’s not a good answer,” Emme said.

  “How about Sandy Brewer?” Annalisa finally ventured.

  “Who’s he?” Emme asked.

  “My husband works with him.”

  “But who is he?” Emme said.

  “He runs a fund,” Annalisa said cautiously, as Paul had told her repeatedly that she wasn’t to talk about what he did or how he made his money. It was a secret community, he said, like Skull and Bones at Yale.

  “So he’s a hedge-fund manager,” Emme guessed correctly. “Nobody knows who they are or wants to know them. Nobody wants them as a member of their club.” She looked Annalisa up and down. “And it isn’t just about your husband. It’s about you, too. You have to be approved by the board.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Annalisa said. “I can’t see anyone objecting to that.”

  “What kind of lawyer?” Emme asked.

  “Class-action lawsuits. Among other things.”

  “I could see a lot of people objecting to you,” Emme said. “Isn’t that really a glorified kind of ambulance chasing?” She shook her head. “We’d better concentrate on brownstones. If you buy a brownstone, you won’t have to worry about getting approved by a board.”

  The morning of the day Annalisa and Paul were going to the Hamptons, Emme had shown her three town houses. One was a mess, smelling of milk and dirty diapers, with toys strewn everywhere. In the second town house, a woman of about thirty followed them around, holding a slippery two-year-old boy in her arms. “It’s a fantastic house,” the woman had said.

  “Why are you moving?” Annalisa had asked.

  “We’re moving to the country. We’ve got a house there. We’re putting on a big addition. It’s better for kids in the country, don’t you think?”

  The third town house was larger and less expensive. The hitch was that it was broken up into apartments, most of which were occupied. “You’d have to get the tenants to leave. It usually isn’t a problem. You pay them fifty thousand cash, and they’re happy to have the money,” Emme had explained.

  “But where will they go?” Annalisa asked.

  “They’ll find a nice, clean studio apartment somewhere,” Emme said. “Or they’ll move to Florida.”

  “That doesn’t seem right,” Annalisa said. “Kicking people out of their apartments. It’s against my moral code.”

  “You can’t stop progress,” Emme replied. “It’s unhealthy.”

  And so another day passed during which she and Paul still didn’t have a place to live and were stuck in the
suite at the Waldorf.

  Annalisa called Paul. “I can’t find anything to buy. Maybe we should rent in the meantime.”

  “And move twice? It’s ergonomically wasteful.”

  “Paul,” she said, “I’m going to go out of my mind if we have to stay in this suite for one more day. Actually, I’ll go out of my mind if I have to spend more time with Emme. Her face scares me.”

  “So let’s change to a bigger suite. The staff can move our things.”

  “The cost,” Annalisa said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Love you,” he said.

  She went downstairs into the bustle of the lobby. She had always stayed at the Waldorf when the law firm sent her to New York on business, and back then she’d thought the hotel lobby glamorous, with its grand staircases and brass and expensive wares displayed behind sparkling glass windows. The Waldorf was perfect for tourists and out-of-town businesspeople, but it was like a showgirl: One must enjoy the feathers and glitz without looking too closely. Otherwise, one saw the faded carpets and the dirty crystal in the chandeliers and the cheap polyester in the uniforms of the employees. One had time to observe these things, Annalisa noted, when one didn’t have enough to do.

  She was informed that a bigger suite was indeed available, and the manager was summoned. He had a soft face and jowls that pulled down the skin below his eyes; the available suite, he said, had two bedrooms and a living room and a bar and four bathrooms. It was twenty-five hundred a night, but if they were staying for a month, he’d give it to them for forty thousand. An odd feeling came over Annalisa, a rush of adrenaline, and she said she’d take it without seeing it first. It was the most exciting thing in weeks.

  Back in the original suite, Annalisa opened the safe and put on the diamond-encrusted watch Paul had given her for her birthday. She couldn’t imagine what it had cost, probably twenty thousand dollars, but it put some perspective on the cost of the suite, she supposed. The watch was a little flashy for her taste, but Paul would notice if she didn’t wear it for the weekend. Under an attempt at a casual demeanor he had looked so eager and frightened and proud while she untied the ribbon on the blue handmade box with the beige suede lining. When she’d opened the box and removed the watch, Paul did the honors of closing the band around her wrist. “Do you like it?” he’d asked. “I love it,” she’d said, lying. “I truly love it.”