One Fifth Avenue (25 page)

“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.”

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“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.’ ”

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“ 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, Sci-entology, and even born-agains, yes. But a real God? No. That would be inconvenient.”

ı

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 O N E F I F T H AV E N U E

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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.”

“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, expen-174

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sive. 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.

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“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

“L ook,” 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.”

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“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.”

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“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 her 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.