One Fifth Avenue (43 page)

Candace Bushnell

such a piece might also convey everlasting life to its owner. And so, David Porshie knew, he was looking for a specific personality type along with the cross. The question was only how to make such a discovery.

David was prepared to be patient in his pursuit—after all, the cross had been missing for nearly sixty years—and what he needed was a mole. Immediately, he thought of Billy Litchfield. They’d been at Harvard together.

Billy Litchfield knew quite a bit about art and even more about people.

He found Billy’s cell number on a guest list from the events office and called him up the next morning. Billy was in a taxi, coincidentally on his way to Connie Brewer’s to discuss the Basel art fair. When Billy heard David’s voice on the phone, he felt his whole body redden in fear, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “How are you, David?” he asked.

“I’m well,” David replied. “I was thinking about what you said at the ballet. About potential new patrons. We’re looking for some fresh blood to donate money to a new wing. The names Sandy and Connie Brewer came up. I thought you might know them.”

“I do indeed,” Billy said evenly.

“That’s wonderful,” David said. “Could you arrange a small dinner?

Nothing too fancy, maybe at Twenty-One. And Billy?” he added. “If you don’t mind, could you keep the purpose of the dinner quiet? You know how people get if they suspect you’re going to ask them for money.”

“Of course,” Billy said. “It’s just between us.” He hung up the phone in a panic. The taxi felt like a prison cell. He began hyperventilating.

“Could you stop the cab, please?” he asked, tapping on the partition.

He stumbled out onto the sidewalk, looking for the nearest coffee shop. Finding one on the corner, he sat down at the counter, trying to catch his breath while ordering a ginger ale. How much did David Porshie know, and how had he found out? Billy swallowed a Xanax, and while he waited for the pill to take effect, tried to think logically. Was it possible David only wanted to meet the Brewers for the reason he’d stated? Billy thought not. The Metropolitan Museum was the last bas-tion of old money, although recently, they’d had to redefine “old” as meaning twenty years instead of a hundred.

“Connie, what have you done?” Billy asked when he got to the Brewers’ apartment. “Where’s the cross?”

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Following her to the inner chamber, he regarded the framed cross with horror. “How many people have seen this?” he asked.

“Oh, Billy, don’t worry,” she said. “Only Sandy. And the maids. And Annalisa Rice.”

“And the framer,” Billy pointed out. “Whom did you take it to?” Connie named the man. “My God,” Billy said, sitting on the edge of the chaise.

“He’ll tell everyone.”

“But how does he even know what it is?” Connie asked. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Did you tell him how you came to have it?” Billy asked.

“Of course not,” Connie assured him. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Listen, Connie. You have to put it away. Take it off your wall and put it in a safe. I told you, if anyone finds out about this, we could all go to jail.”

“People like us don’t go to jail,” Connie countered.

“Yes, we do. It happens all the time these days.” Billy sighed.

Connie took the cross off the wall. “Look,” she said, taking it to her closet, “I’m putting it away.”

“Promise me you’ll put it in a vault. It’s too valuable to be left in a closet.”

“It’s too valuable to be hidden,” Connie objected. “If I can’t look at it, what’s the point?”

“We’ll discuss that later,” Billy said. “After you put it away.” It was possible, Billy thought with a glimmer of hope, that David Porshie didn’t know about the cross—if he did, Billy reasoned, he’d be sending detectives, not arranging dinner parties. Nevertheless, Billy would have to make sure the dinner took place. If he didn’t, it would further raise David’s suspicions.

“We’re going to have dinner with David Porshie from the Met,” Billy said.

“And you’re not to say a word about the cross—neither you nor Sandy.

Even if he asks you point-blank.”

“We’ve never heard of it,” Connie said.

Billy passed his hand over the top of his bald head. Despite all his efforts to stay in New York, he saw his future. As soon as the three million dollars were available, he would have to leave the country. He’d be forced to settle in a place like Buenos Aires, where there were no 298

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extradition laws. Billy shuddered. Involuntarily, he said aloud, “I hate palm trees.”

“What?” Connie said, thinking she’d missed a part of the conversation.

“Nothing, my dear,” Billy said quickly. “I have a lot on my mind.”

Coming out of Connie’s building on Seventy-eighth Street, he got into a taxi and instructed the driver to take Fifth Avenue downtown. The traffic was backed up at Sixty-sixth Street, but Billy didn’t mind. The taxi was one of the brand-new SUV types and smelled of fresh plastic; from the mouth of the driver came a musical patter as he conversed on his cell phone. If only, Billy thought, he could stay in this taxi forever, inching down Fifth Avenue past all the familiar landmarks: the castle in Central Park, the Sherry-Netherland, where he’d lunched at Cipriani nearly every day for fifteen years, the Plaza, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks, the New York Public Library. His nostalgia engulfed him in a haze of pleasure and sweet, aching bitterness. How could he ever leave his beloved Manhattan?

His phone rang. “You’ll be there tonight, won’t you, Billy boy?” Schiffer Diamond asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” Billy said, although given the circumstances, it had crossed his mind that he should cancel all his events for the next week and lie low.

“Good, because I can’t stand these things,” Schiffer said. “I’m going to have to talk to a bunch of strangers and be nice to all of them. I hate being trotted out like a show pony.”

“Then don’t go,” Billy said simply.

“Billy Bob, what’s wrong with you? I have to go. If I cancel, they’ll write about what a bitch I am. Maybe I should be a bitch from now on.

The lonely diva. Ah, Billy,” she said, sounding slightly bitter, which wasn’t like her. “Where are all the men in this town?” She hung up.

ı

Two hours later, Schiffer Diamond sat on a stool in her bathroom, having her hair and makeup done for the fourth or fifth time that day, while her publicist, Karen, sat out in the living room, reading magazines and talking on her cell phone while she waited for Schiffer to get ready. The hair and makeup people fluttered around the bathroom, wanting to make conO N E F I F T H AV E N U E

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versation, but Schiffer wasn’t in the mood. She was feeling foul. Coming into One Fifth that very afternoon, she’d run into none other than Lola Fabrikant, who was scuttling into the building like a criminal.

Perhaps “scuttling” wasn’t exactly the right word, as Lola hadn’t scuttled but had walked in pulling her Louis Vuitton rollerboard behind her like she owned the place. Schiffer was momentarily shocked. Hadn’t Philip broken up with her? Apparently, he hadn’t had the guts. Damn Oakland, she thought. Why was he so weak?

Lola came in while Schiffer was waiting for the elevator; as a consequence, Schiffer was forced to ride up with her. Lola gushed over Schiffer as if they were best friends, asking how the TV show was going and saying how much she liked Schiffer’s hair—although it was the same as always—and being careful to make no mention of Philip. So Schiffer brought him up. “Philip told me your parents are having some trouble,”

she said.

Lola sighed dramatically. “It’s been awful,” she said. “If it weren’t for Philip, I don’t know what we’d do.”

“Philip’s a peach,” Schiffer remarked, and Lola agreed. Then, rubbing salt into the wound, Lola added, “I’m
so
lucky to have him.”

Now, thinking about the encounter, Schiffer glared at herself in the mirror. “You’re done,” the makeup artist said, flicking Schiffer’s nose with powder.

“Thank you,” Schiffer said. She went into the bedroom, put on the borrowed dress and the borrowed jewelry, and called to her publicist to help zip her up. She put her hands on her waist and exhaled. “I’m thinking about moving out of this building,” she said. “I need a bigger place.”

“Why don’t you get a bigger place here? It’s such a great building,”

Karen said.

“I’m sick of it. All these new people. It’s not like it used to be.”

“Someone’s in a mood,” Karen said.

“Really? Who?” Schiffer asked.

Then Schiffer, the publicist, and the hair and makeup people went downstairs and got into the back of a waiting limousine. Karen opened her bag, took out several sheets of paper, and began consulting her notes. “
Let-terman
’s confirmed for Tuesday, and Michael Kors is sending three dresses for you to try. Meryl Streep’s people are wondering if you’ll do a poetry 300

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reading on April twenty-second. I think it’s a good idea because it’s Meryl and it’s classy. On Wednesday, your call time is one P.M., so I scheduled the
Marie Claire
photo shoot for six in the morning, to get that out of the way—the reporter will come to the set on Thursday to interview you. On Friday evening, the president of Boucheron is in town, and he’s invited you to a private dinner for twenty. I think you should do that, too—it can’t hurt, and they might want to use you in an advertising campaign. And on Saturday afternoon, the network wants to shoot promos. I’m trying to push the call time to the afternoon so you can get some rest in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Schiffer said.

“What do you think about Meryl?”

“It’s so far away. I don’t even know if I’ll be alive on April twenty-second.”

“I’ll say yes,” Karen said.

The makeup artist held up a tube of lip gloss, and Schiffer leaned forward so the woman could touch up her lips. She turned her head, and the stylist fluffed her hair and sprayed it. “What’s the exact name of the organization again?” Schiffer said.

“The International Council of Shoe Designers. ICSD. The money is going to a retirement fund for shoe workers. You’re giving the award to Christian Louboutin, and you’ll be sitting at his table. Your remarks are on the teleprompter. Do you want to go over them beforehand?”

“No,” Schiffer said.

The car turned onto Forty-second Street. “Schiffer Diamond is arriving,” Karen said into her phone. “We’re a minute away.” She put down the phone and looked at the line of Town Cars and the photographers and the crowd of bystanders roped off from the entrance by police barricades. “Everyone loves shoes,” she said, shaking her head.

“Is Billy Litchfield here?” Schiffer asked.

“I’ll find out,” Karen said. She talked into her cell phone like it was a walkie-talkie. “Has Billy Litchfield arrived? Well, can you find out?” She nodded and snapped the phone shut. “He’s inside.”

The car was waved forward by two security men, one of whom opened the door. Karen got out first and, after consulting briefly with two women dressed in black and wearing headsets, motioned for Schiffer to come out O N E F I F T H AV E N U E

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of the car. A ripple of excitement went through the crowd, and the blaz-ing flashes began.

Schiffer found Billy Litchfield waiting just inside the door. “Another night in Manhattan, eh, Billy?” she said, taking his arm. Immediately, she was accosted by a young woman from
Women’s Wear Daily
who asked if she could interview her, and then a young man from
New York
magazine, and it was another half hour before she and Billy were able to escape to their table. Making their way through the crowd, Schiffer said, “Philip is still seeing that Lola Fabrikant.”

“Do you care?” Billy said.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t. Brumminger is at our table.”

“He keeps turning up like a bad penny, doesn’t he?”

“More like a million-dollar bill,” Billy said. “You can have any man you want. You know that.”

“Actually, I can’t. There’s only a certain kind of man who will deal with this,” Schiffer said, indicating the event. “And he’s not necessarily the kind of man one wants.” At the table, she greeted Brumminger, who was seated opposite her on the other side of the centerpiece. “We missed you in Saint Barths,” he said, taking her hands.

“I should have come,” she said.

“We had a great group on the yacht. I’m determined to get you on it.

I don’t give up easily.”

“Please don’t,” she said, and went to her seat. A plate of salad with a couple of pieces of lobster was already set at her place. She opened her napkin and picked up her fork, realizing she hadn’t eaten all day, but the head of the ICSD came over, insisting on introducing her to a man whose name she didn’t catch, and then a woman came over who claimed to have known her from twenty years ago, and then two young women rushed over and said they were fans and asked her to sign their programs. Then Karen arrived and informed her it was time to go backstage to get ready for her speech, and she got up and went behind the platform to wait with the other celebrities, who were being lined up by handlers and mostly ignoring each other. “Do you need anything?” Karen asked, fussing. “Water?

I could bring you your wine from the table.”

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“I’m fine,” Schiffer said. The program began, and she stood by herself, waiting to go on. She could see the crowd through a crack in the plasterboard, their eager and politely bored faces lifted in the semi-darkness.

She felt a creeping loneliness.

Years and years ago, she and Philip would go to these kinds of events and have fun. But perhaps it was only because they were young and so wrapped up in each other that every moment had the vibrancy of a scene in a movie. She could see Philip in his tux, with the white silk scarf he always wore slung over his shoulders, and she remembered the feel of his hand around hers, muscular and firm, leading her out of the crowd and across the sidewalk to the waiting car. Somehow they would have gathered an entourage of half a dozen people, and they’d pile into the car, laughing and screaming, and go on to the next place, and the next place after that, finally heading home in the gray light of dawn with the birds singing. She would lie halfway across the seat with her head on Philip’s shoulder, sleepily closing her eyes. “I’d like to shoot those birds,” he’d say.