One Fifth Avenue (59 page)

quietly closing the heavy double doors behind her.

ı

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The next morning, Lola Fabrikant woke at noon, groggy and slightly hungover. She wrenched herself out of bed, took a painkiller, then went into the tiny bathroom to examine her face. Despite the amount of alcohol she’d consumed the night before at a birthday party for a famous rapper, her skin looked as fresh as if she’d just returned from a spa. In the last couple of months, she’d learned that no matter what she put in her body, or what she subjected it to, the effects never showed on her face.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of her apartment. The tiny bathroom was grimy, scattered with makeup and various creams and po-tions; a bra and panty set from La Perla was crumpled on the floor next to the toilet, where she’d tossed them as a reminder to hand-wash. But she never seemed to get around to domestic chores these days, and so her apartment was becoming, as James Gooch said, a pigsty. “Find me a cleaning woman, then,” she’d retorted, adding that the condition of her apartment didn’t seem to prevent him from wanting to be there.

She stepped into the plastic-molded shower, which was so small she banged her elbow reaching up to shampoo her hair, reminding her again of how much she hated the place. Even Thayer Core had managed to get a bigger apartment in a better location, which he never ceased to point out. Ever since he’d taken the job with Mindy Gooch, Thayer had become a bore and was obsessed with getting ahead, even though he was only, as Lola pointed out, a glorified assistant, despite the fact that he had a business card claiming he was an associate. She still saw him but only late at night. After a long evening of clubbing, she’d realize she was going home to an empty apartment and, feeling unbearably lonely, would call him, insisting that he let her spend the night. He usually did but made her leave with him at eight-thirty in the morning, claiming he no longer trusted her alone in his apartment, and now that he had a decent place, he wanted to keep it that way.

Running conditioner through her hair, she bolstered herself with the thought that soon she, too, would have a larger apartment. That afternoon, she had an audition for a reality show. The
Sex and the City
movie had been a huge success, and now some producers wanted to do a reality-show version. They’d read her sex column and, contacting her through her Facebook page, asked her to audition, saying she’d be a 406

Candace Bushnell

perfect real-life Samantha. Lola agreed and couldn’t imagine how she wouldn’t get the part. For the past week, she’d been envisioning herself on the cover of
Star
magazine, like one of those girls from
The Hills.

She’d be more famous than Schiffer Diamond—and wouldn’t that show Philip and Enid Merle? The first thing she’d do with her money would be to buy an apartment in One Fifth. Even if it was a tiny one-bedroom, it wouldn’t matter. She’d haunt Philip and Enid and Schiffer Diamond for the rest of their lives.

The audition was at two, giving her plenty of time to buy a new outfit and get ready. Wrapping herself in a towel, she extracted a shoe box from under the bed and counted up her cash. It had taken her a couple of days to recover from Enid’s attack on her in the newspaper, but she
had
recovered, and when she did, she’d pointed out to Marquee that she was now genuinely famous and he needed to pay her more money.

She asked for five thousand dollars, which sent him into hysterics, but he agreed to up her payment to two thousand. So far, that had added up to eight thousand dollars; then there was the ten thousand Philip Oakland had given her and the two thousand dollars she got regularly from James Gooch. With James paying her rent and utilities, she’d been able to save twelve thousand dollars. Now she extracted three thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, which she planned to spend on something outrageous at Alexander McQueen.

Going into the boutique on Fourteenth Street, she immediately spotted a pair of suede over-the-thigh boots with buckles up the sides.

As she tried them on, the saleswoman cooed about how only she could wear them, which was all Lola needed to make up her mind. She purchased the boots, which were two thousand dollars, and carried them home in an enormous box. She zipped up the boots and pulled on the Hervé Léger bandage dress she had, in fact, bought a few weeks ago. The effect was startling. “Gorgeous,” Lola said aloud.

Full of brio, she cabbed it to the audition, although it was only seven blocks away in the offices of a well-known casting director. Going into the building, Lola found herself riding up in the elevator with a pack of eight other girls, who were obviously also going to audition. Lola assessed them and decided she was prettier and had nothing to worry about.

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When the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor, there were even more young women, in every shape and size, lined up along the wall in the hallway.

This had to be a mistake. The line snaked through a doorway and into a small waiting room. A girl walked by with a clipboard. Lola stopped her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Lola Fabrikant. I have an appointment for an audition at two.”

“Sorry,” the young woman said. “It’s an open call. You have to wait in line.”

“I don’t wait in lines,” Lola said. “I write a sex column. The producers contacted me personally.”

“If you don’t wait in line, you won’t get to audition.”

Lola huffed and puffed but went to the end of the line.

She was stuck on the line for two hours. Finally, after she inched through the hallway and into the waiting room, it was her turn. She went into a rehearsal room, where four people sat behind a long table.

“Name?” one of them asked.

“Lola Fabrikant,” she said, tossing her head.

“Do you have a photo and résumé?”

“I don’t need one,” Lola scoffed, surprised that they didn’t seem to know who she was. “I have my own column online. My picture is on it every week.”

She was asked to sit in a small chair. A man aimed a video camera at her while the producers began asking questions.

“Why did you come to New York?”

“I . . .” Lola opened her mouth and froze.

“Let’s start again. Why did you come to New York?”

“Because . . .” Lola tried to continue but was stifled by all the possible explanations. Should she tell them about Windsor Pines and how she’d always thought she was destined for bigger things? Or was that too arrogant? Maybe she should start with Philip. Or how she had always seen herself as a character in
Sex and the City
. But that wasn’t exactly true. Those women were old and she was young.

“Er . . . Lola?” someone asked.

“Yes?” she said.

408

Candace Bushnell

“Can you answer the question?”

Lola reddened. “I came to New York,” she began again stiffly, and then her mind went blank.

“Thank you,” one of the producers said.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“You can go.”

“Am I done?”

“Yes.”

Lola stood up. “Is that it?”

“Yes, Lola. You’re not what we’re looking for, but thank you for coming in.”

“But . . .”

“
Thank you
.”

Opening the door, she heard one of them call out, “Next.”

In a state of confusion, Lola stepped into the elevator. What had just happened? Had she blown it? Wandering down Ninth Avenue toward her apartment, she felt numb, then angry, then full of grief, as if someone had just died. Climbing the worn steps to her apartment, she wondered if the person who had just died was her.

She flopped onto the unmade bed, staring at a large brown-rimmed water stain on the ceiling. She’d pinned her whole future on that audition—on getting the part. And now, two hours later, it was over. What was she supposed to do with her life now? Rolling over, she checked her e-mails. There was one from her mother, wishing her luck on the audition, and a text from James. James, she thought. At least she still had James. “Call me,” he’d written.

She punched in his number. It was nearly five o’clock, meaning it was a little late to be calling, as his wife sometimes came home early, but Lola didn’t care. “Hello?” James asked in a stage whisper.

“It’s me. Lola.”

“Can I call you right back?”

“Sure,” Lola said. She hung up, rolled her eyes, and tossed the phone onto the bed. Then she began pacing, walking back and forth before the cheap full-length mirror she’d placed against one of the bare walls. She looked damn good—so what was wrong with those producers? Why hadn’t they seen what she saw? She closed her eyes and shook her head, O N E F I F T H AV E N U E

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trying not to cry. New York wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. She’d been in New York an entire year, and not one thing had worked out properly.

Not Philip, or her “career,” or even Thayer Core. Her phone rang—James.

“What?” she said in annoyance. And then, remembering that James was one of her last meal tickets left at the moment, she lightened her tone.

“Do you want to come over?” she asked.

James was outside in the Mews with Skippy, not daring to make this call in his own apartment. “I need to talk to you about that,” he said tensely.

“So come over,” Lola replied.

“I can’t,” he hissed, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “My wife found out. About us.”

“What?” Lola shrieked.

“Take it easy,” James said. “She found your sex column. And apparently, she read it.”

“What’s she going to do?” Lola asked with interest. If Mindy divorced James, it opened up new possibilities.

“I don’t know,” James whispered. “She hasn’t said anything yet. But she will.”

“What
did
she say?” Lola asked, growing irritated.

“She says we have to buy a house. In the country.”

“So?” Lola shrugged. “You’ll get divorced and she’ll live in the country and you’ll be in the city.” And I will move in with you, she thought.

James hesitated. “It’s not that simple. Mindy and I . . . we’ve been married for fifteen years. We have a son. If we got divorced, I’d have to give her half. Of everything. And I don’t exactly want to do that. I’ve got another book to write, and I don’t want to leave my son.”

Lola cut him off. In a steely voice, she said, “What are you trying to say, James?”

“I don’t think we can see each other anymore,” James said in a rush.

Suddenly, Lola had had enough. “You and Philip Oakland,” she screamed. “You’re all the same. You’re all a bunch of wimps. You
disgust
me, James. You
all
do.”

Act

Five

I n anticipation of the date for Sandy Brewer’s trial,
The New York
Times
did a series of stories about the Cross of Bloody Mary. A famous historian claimed the cross was the cause of not just one crime but, over the last four hundred years, several, including murder. A priest, guarding the treasure in eighteenth-century France, was bludgeoned to death in a routine robbery of the sacristy. The list of stolen items included four francs and a bedpan, as well as the cross. The robbers likely hadn’t known what they had, and it was speculated that they sold it to a junk dealer. Nevertheless, from there the cross appeared to have ended up as part of the property of an ancient dowager duchess named Hermione Belvoir. When she died, the cross once again disappeared.

Now it was back, and Sandy Brewer was to be tried for art theft. If Billy had lived, Annalisa reminded herself, he probably would have taken the fall for the crime. But dead men couldn’t talk, and the defense had never been able to find the mysterious wooden box left to Billy by Mrs.

Houghton—or, for that matter, anything else connecting him to the crime. So the prosecution opened its jaws on Sandy Brewer. He tried to plea-bargain, offering to pay a huge fine of over ten million dollars, but 414

Candace Bushnell

in the months since the discovery of the cross, the stock market had dipped precipitously, the price of oil had surged, and regular people were losing their houses and retirement savings. A recession was just around the corner, if not already in the backyard. The people, claimed the DA’s office, demanded the head of the grotesquely rich hedge-fund manager, who had not only made more than his share of money off the little people but had stolen another country’s national treasure as well.

As a corollary, there was renewed interest in Mrs. Houghton. Her good works, personality, and motivations were examined in another big piece in the
Times
. In the seventies, when the Metropolitan Museum was nearly broke, Mrs. Houghton had single-handedly saved the venerable institution with a donation of ten million dollars. Nevertheless, the rumor that she had taken the Cross of Bloody Mary resurfaced. Several old coots who had known her were interviewed, including Enid, all of whom insisted that Mrs. Houghton was incapable of such an act. Someone remembered that the rumor was started by Flossie Davis, and the reporter tried to interview Flossie, but Enid intervened. Flossie was a very old lady with dementia, she said, and was easily agitated. An interview might literally kill her.

Taking advantage of the moment, Sotheby’s held an auction of Mrs.

Houghton’s jewelry. Now deeply curious about the apartment’s previous owner, Annalisa Rice attended the preview. She wasn’t a great lover of jewelry, but as she stared down into the cases that contained Mrs.

Houghton’s extensive collection, she was overcome with emotion. A sentiment, perhaps, about the connective thread of tradition and how one woman’s life might lead into another’s. It was why mothers passed things on to their daughters, she supposed. There was a transfer of power in the transference of possessions. But mostly, Annalisa decided, it was about belonging, and about things being in their rightful place. Mrs.

Houghton’s jewelry belonged where it always had been, in the penthouse apartment in One Fifth. Bidding fiercely at the auction, she was able to buy twelve pieces. When she brought the jewelry home and placed it in the large velvet jewelry box on her bureau, she experienced an odd sensation, as if the apartment were nearly complete.