One Fifth Avenue

by Candace Bushnell

  “Apparently, all the other wives have them. So you’ll fit in,” he said. And noting her expression, added, “If you want to.”

  “We don’t fit in,” she said. “That’s why people love us.”

  Now she began to pack, placing a bathing suit and khaki shorts and three button-down shirts into a navy blue canvas roller bag. At the last minute, she tossed in a plain black sleeveless shift and a pair of black pumps with a sensible two-inch heel in case there was a fancy dinner. The dress wasn’t summery but would have to do. She put on a white T-shirt, jeans, and yellow Converse sneakers; then she went downstairs again and waited in line for a taxi, arriving at the Twenty-third Street heliport at four-thirty, half an hour early. She was early to nearly everything these days and seemed to spend a lot of her time waiting. The heliport was located under the FDR Drive. The air was dense with the heat of July and the exhaust from the cars stalled on the highway and the stench of the East River. Annalisa walked to the edge of the dock and peered into the murky brown water, watching a plastic bottle lapping at the wood as a condom floated by.

  She checked her watch again. Paul would be neither early nor late but exactly on time, arriving at 4:55, as he’d said he would. Indeed, at 4:55, a Town Car pulled in through the chain-link fencing, and Paul got out, leaning into the backseat of the car to take out his briefcase and a small hard-sided Louis Vuitton case covered in black goatskin. Until recently, Annalisa had no idea Paul cared for such things. He bought something pricey nearly every week now. Last week it had been a cigar box from Asprey, although Paul did not smoke.

  He loped toward her, talking on his cell phone. Paul was tall and had the slight stoop of those accustomed to minding their heads. He managed to stay on his phone while waving to the pilot of the seaplane and overseeing the stowage of their luggage while a steward helped Annalisa from the dock into the plane. The interior held eight seats done up in plush pale yellow suede, and while Paul and Annalisa were the only passengers, Paul elected to sit in the row in front of her. He finally got off his call, and she said, hesitantly and a little bit hurt, “Paul?”

  Paul wore glasses, and his soft, dark curling hair was always a bit unkempt. He was nearly handsome but for his hooded eyes and the slight gaps between his teeth. He was a mathematical genius, one of the youngest Ph.D.s at Georgetown ever, and there was always talk of him winning the Nobel Prize someday. But six months ago, he had taken a job with Sandy Brewer and, in two days, relocated to New York City at a small hotel on East Fifty-sixth Street. When they decided the move was permanent, Annalisa had joined him, but they’d lived long-distance for five months, and the residual effects were still there.

  “Wouldn’t you like to sit together?” Annalisa asked. She hated having to beg.

  “These cabins are so small,” he said. “Why be crowded? We’re together the whole weekend anyway.”

  “You’re right,” she said. It was pointless pushing Paul on the small issues. Annalisa looked out the window. A middle-aged man was hurrying breathlessly toward the seaplane. Annalisa’s first impression was of a man freckled and nearly hairless, like an exotic species of cat. The man was wearing spectator shoes and a white linen suit with a navy silk pocket square; in one hand was a woven hat. He gave his bag to the pilot and came up into the cabin, taking a seat in the row behind Annalisa. “Hello,” he said, extending his hand over the top of the seats. “I’m Billy Litchfield.”

  “Annalisa Rice.”

  “I assume you’re going to the Brewers’ for the weekend. Are you a friend of Connie’s?”

  “My husband works for Sandy Brewer.”

  “Ah,” Billy Litchfield said. “So you’re an unknown element.”

  Annalisa smiled. “Yes.”

  “And that gentleman is your husband?”

  Paul was reading something on his iPhone. “Paul,” she said. He looked up briefly. “This is Billy Litchfield.”

  Paul gave Billy a curt smile and went back to his iPhone. He was never interested in strangers, and as usual, Annalisa tried to cover it up by being excessively friendly.

  “Are you a friend of Connie’s?” she asked.

  “I’m a friend of both Brewers now. But yes, in answer to your question, Connie and I go way back.”

  There was a pause. Annalisa suddenly didn’t know what to say, but Billy Litchfield smiled at her. “Have you been to the house before?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “You’re in for a treat. It’s magnificent, designed by Peter Cook. Peter can be over the top, but the Brewers’ house is one of the best examples of his work.”

  “I see.”

  “You know who Peter Cook is, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Actually, I don’t. I’m a lawyer, and—”

  “Ah,” Billy said, as if this explained everything. “Peter Cook is an architect. Some people say he ruined the East End with his McMansions, but eventually, they’ve all come round to him. Everyone uses him—he won’t do a house for under ten million these days.” The pilot started up the engines. “I love this moment of the week, don’t you?” Billy said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Taking off for greener pastures. Even if it is just for the weekend.” He looked her over. “Do you live in New York?”

  “We just moved.”

  “Upper East Side?” Billy asked.

  “Nowhere, really.”

  “My dear,” Billy said. “You and that magnificent husband of yours who is sporting a two-thousand-dollar Paul Smith shirt cannot be living in a cardboard box on the street.”

  “We’re in the Waldorf. Until we find an apartment. Or a town house.”

  “Why the Waldorf?” Billy asked.

  “I always used to stay there on business.”

  “Aha,” Billy said.

  Annalisa felt self-conscious, pinned under Billy’s gaze. She was used to attention, having stood out all her life, with her auburn hair and her wide cheekbones and her light gray eyes. Men had a propensity to fall in love with her—foolishly—and she’d learned to ignore the undercurrents of male attraction. But with Billy, it was different. He seemed to be studying her as if she were a piece of fine china. Embarrassed, she turned away, leaving Billy to examine her profile. She’s not a classic beauty, Billy thought, but a unique one. Having once seen her face, you wouldn’t forget her. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Confident girl, he thought, to be so unadorned, save for the platinum-and-diamond Chopard watch on her wrist. That was a nice touch. He turned his attention to the husband, who was less interesting physically. Billy had already heard from Connie Brewer that Paul Rice was a mathematical genius. If he worked with Sandy Brewer, he was rich, and that was all that was required of a man in New York society—that he have money. It was the wives who mattered. As the seaplane taxied across the choppy waters of the East River, Billy sat back in his seat, satisfied. Annalisa and Paul Rice intrigued him. It would be an interesting weekend after all.

  Picking up speed, the seaplane lifted off the water. They flew over Queens, over endless rows of tiny houses, and then straight up the middle of Long Island Sound, which sparkled as brightly as the diamonds on Annalisa’s watch. They turned south over the rocky white lip of the North Fork, past the green pastures and cornfields. Then they were over water again, and the plane was descending into an inlet.

  Billy Litchfield tapped Annalisa on the shoulder. “This is a patch of paradise,” he said. “I’ve been everywhere, and it’s as beautiful here as it is in Saint-Tropez or Capri or any other place you can think of. It’s why the Hamptons will never be over, no matter what anyone says.”

  The plane taxied to a pristine white dock. A lawn as perfectly manicured as a golf course sloped up a long hill, at the top of which sat an enormous shingled house with turrets that appeared to be made of pink stone. On the lawn next to the dock sat two golf carts.

  Sandy Brewer met them on the dock. His most distinct feature was his name; without his name, he was dist
urbingly indistinct, with hair of no particular color and nondescript features. “Connie said to have you go straight up to the house,” Sandy said to Billy. “She’s having some problem with the dessert. I thought I’d take Paul and Annalisa on a tour of the property.” Billy was driven away in one of the golf carts with the luggage.

  Annalisa got into the back of the second golf cart. Paul sat in the front with Sandy. Sandy drove casually, turning back to talk to her. “Have you ever been to the Hamptons before?” he asked.

  “I haven’t, actually,” Annalisa said.

  “We’ve got fifty acres here,” Sandy said. “It’s an enormous amount of land. Connie and I just bought a ranch in Montana with a thousand acres, but Montana’s different. If you don’t have a thousand acres in Montana, you’re a loser. In the Hamptons, you can have five acres and it’s perfectly acceptable—you might even be a member of the Bath and Tennis in Southampton. But Connie and I don’t like those kinds of places. We like to be private. When we’re here, nobody knows it.”

  An hour later, after they were shown the two pools (one Olympic, one shaped like a pond with a waterfall), the guesthouse, the private zoo and aviary, the greenhouse where Sandy oversaw the cultivation of rare species of tulips, the miniature horse and goat barn, the three tennis courts complete with bleachers, the baseball diamond and basketball court, the children’s Victorian summerhouse, the indoor squash court, the winery with state-of-the-art concrete casks, the five-acre vineyard, the orchard and vegetable garden and koi pond, Sandy ushered them into the house. Two grand staircases flanked the foyer. Paul went off with Sandy to talk business. A Guatemalan woman motioned for Annalisa to follow her up the stairs. They passed an upstairs sitting room and several closed doors. Annalisa was led into a room with an enormous four-poster bed and two bathrooms. French windows opened onto a balcony overlooking the lawn and the ocean. Her suitcase had been unpacked; her paltry supply of clothing for the weekend looked incongruous in the enormous cedar closet. Annalisa stepped inside, inhaling the odor of the wood. I’ve got to tell Paul about this, she thought, and went downstairs to find him.

  Instead, she discovered Connie, Sandy’s wife, and Billy Litchfield in a sunroom done up with pink silk chaises. “I’m sure you feel horrible,” Connie was saying to Billy.

  “Excuse me,” Annalisa said, realizing she’d interrupted a tête-à-tête.

  Connie sprang up. She was once a famous ballerina and wore her blond hair long and straight, hanging nearly to her tailbone. She had enormous blue eyes and a tiny nose and was as slim as a fairy. “I was about to check on you,” she said. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Our room is wonderful, thank you. I was just looking for Paul.”

  “He’s gone off with Sandy. They might be up to anything, but they’re probably plotting how to take over the world. Come sit with us,” Connie said. “We’ve heard you were a lawyer. Sandy said you had a very important job. Working for the attorney general.”

  “I clerked for him when I finished law school.”

  “You’ll probably find us very boring then,” Connie responded. “All the men ever talk about is business. And all we women talk about is children.”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Billy said to Annalisa. “Connie’s an expert on contemporary art.”

  “Only because you taught me everything I know, Billy,” Connie said. “My real love is jewelry. I love glittery things. I can’t help myself. Do you have any passions you’re ashamed of, Annalisa?”

  Annalisa smiled. “My problem is that I’m probably too serious.”

  Connie rearranged herself on the chaise and said dramatically, “And mine is that I’m frivolous. I’m rich and silly. But I have a good time.”

  Billy stood up. “Shall we dress for dinner?” he asked. Annalisa walked with him to the stairs. “Connie is frivolous,” Billy went on, “but they’ve only had their money for seven years. On the other hand, she doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. If you become friends with her, you’ll find her a useful ally.”

  “Am I going to need allies?”

  “One always does,” Billy said, and smiled.

  He left Annalisa at the top of the landing. “I’ll see you at cocktails. They start at eight on the veranda.”

  What a funny man, Annalisa thought, returning to her room. He was like someone out of the nineteenth century.

  Paul came back while she was in a shower stall the size of a small room. She opened the glass door. “It’s a steam shower,” she called out to him. “Do you want to come in?” He got in, and she soaped his chest. “Did you see the cedar closet? And the towel warmers? And what about that bed?”

  “Should we get a place like this?” Paul asked, tilting his head back to get the lather out of his hair.

  “You mean our own ten-million-dollar Peter Cook house with pink stone and a little man like Billy Litchfield to teach us manners and art?” She jumped out of the shower and dried herself. Paul came out and stood dripping on the mat. She handed him a thick towel.

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

  “Paul,” she said. “Is that what we’re doing? Becoming Connie and Sandy Brewer? Are we going to be just like them but with newer money?”

  “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “How old is our money, anyway? Six months? Maybe when it’s a year old, we can have a birthday party to celebrate.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “It was just something odd that Billy Litchfield said. It’s not important.”

  In a nearly identical room down the hall, Billy Litchfield lay on his back, arms folded carefully across his chest in order not to wrinkle his shirt. He closed his eyes, hoping to nap. Lately, he’d been tired all the time and yet found he couldn’t sleep. For months, he’d felt psychically off; perhaps, he thought, he should try seeing an astrologer instead of a psychopharmacologist. After several more minutes of jangly exhaustion, he gave up and took a prescription bottle from his bag. Inside were several small orange pills. Billy broke one in half, swallowed it, and lay back down on the bed.

  Within minutes, he relaxed and fell asleep. He napped longer than he’d planned, waking at ten minutes past eight.

  Hurrying downstairs, he found Annalisa in the middle of a small clump of men. She was wearing a simple black shift that showed off her lanky, boyish figure, and her auburn hair swung free around her shoulders. Once again, she was without makeup, her only adornment the diamond-studded watch. As Billy passed by on his way to greet Connie, he overheard a snippet of the conversation. “Please don’t tell me you’re a Republican,” Annalisa was saying to one of Sandy’s associates. “If you have money and youth, it’s your moral imperative to become a Democrat.”

  Billy paused and turned back to the group. Effortlessly inserting himself, he took Annalisa’s arm. “Do you mind if I borrow you for a second?” he asked. “Have you met Connie’s friends?”

  Connie was sitting with three other women in a grouping of wide brown wicker couches. One of the women was surreptitiously smoking a cigarette; the others were talking about a shop in East Hampton. Connie looked up on their approach and patted the place next to her. “There’s room here,” she said to Annalisa, and indicated the woman who was smoking. “This is Beth. She went to Harvard as well. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Harvard Law,” Beth said, quickly stubbing out her cigarette. “What about you?” she asked Annalisa.

  “Georgetown,” Annalisa said.

  “You still working?” Beth asked.

  “No. I just quit.”

  “Beth quit her job years ago,” Connie jumped in. “And you haven’t looked back.”

  “I don’t have time to work,” Beth said. “When you’re married to one of these guys”—she indicated the men—“it’s a full-time job.”

  “Oh, but it’s the kids, really,” Connie said. “You don’t want to miss a minute.”

  At nine o’clock, they were ushered i
n to dinner. They were served by a young man and woman dressed in black—college students earning extra money on their summer break. Annalisa was seated between Billy Litchfield and Sandy Brewer, occupying the place of honor next to the host. “Have you ever been to the Andes?” Sandy asked her. Beth, seated across from her, jumped in, prompting a lively discussion with Sandy about how the Andes were the “new” New Zealand. The conversation turned to the Bilbao art fair, a charity event to which Sandy had pledged a million dollars, and the best wine auction in the world. After dinner, there was an endless game of pool in a paneled library. Sandy and the other men smoked cigars. They were tipsy on fine wine and champagne, and during a match between Billy and Paul, Billy’s voice carried across the room. “You’ll make a ton of money,” Billy was saying, “bags and bags, more than you could ever imagine—and it won’t make a bit of difference. Because you’ll be working as hard as you were before, maybe harder, and you won’t be able to stop, and one day you’ll look up and realize the only thing that’s changed in your life is your location. And you’ll wonder why the hell you spent your whole life doing it…”

  All conversation went dead. Into the silence, like the bell in a lighthouse, came the voice of Connie Brewer: “Well,” she said breathlessly, “you know what they say. It’s all about location. Location, location, location.”

  The guests breathed a sigh of relief. The time was noted and exclaimed upon: It was two A.M. Everyone went upstairs to bed.

  “What do you think got into that guy?” Paul said, taking off his pants.