One Fifth Avenue

by Candace Bushnell

  Then he took the elevator down to the ninth floor.

  “Well, there. Look at you,” Schiffer Diamond said, opening her door.

  “Look at you,” Philip replied.

  She was dressed casually in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped French sailor’s shirt, and she was barefoot. She still had that ability of making simple pieces of clothing look elegant, Philip noted, and unconsciously comparing her to Lola, found Lola lacking.

  Schiffer put her hands on either side of his head and kissed him. “It’s been too long, Oakland,” she said.

  “I know,” he said, stepping in and looking around. “Wow,” he remarked. “The apartment is exactly the same.”

  “I haven’t done a thing to it. Haven’t had time.”

  Philip went into the living room and sat down. He felt wonderfully at home, and strangely young, as if time hadn’t passed at all. He picked up a photograph taken of the two of them in Aspen in the winter of 1991. “I can’t believe you still have this,” he said.

  “The place is a time capsule. God, we were kids,” she said, coming over to examine the photograph. “But we looked good together.”

  Philip agreed, struck by how happy they seemed. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time. “Jesus,” he said, replacing the photograph. “What happened?”

  “We got old, schoolboy,” she said, going into the kitchen. She was, as promised, making him dinner.

  “Speak for yourself,” he called back. “I’m not old.”

  She popped her head out the door. “Yes, you are. And it’s about time you realized it.”

  “What about you?” he said. He joined her in the kitchen, where she was placing cut-up pieces of lemon and onion into the cavity of a chicken. He perched on the top of the stepstool where he’d sat many times before, drinking red wine and watching her prepare her famous roast chicken. She made other things as well, like chili and potato salad and, in the summer, steamed clams and lobsters, but her roast chicken was, to his mind, legendary. The very first Sunday they’d spent together, years and years ago, she’d insisted on cooking a chicken in the tiny oven in the kitchenette of her hotel room. When he teased her about it, pointing out that knowing how to cook wasn’t very women’s lib–ish, she’d replied, “Even a fool ought to know how to feed himself.”

  Now, putting the chicken in the oven, she said, “I’ve never lied about my age. The difference between us is that I’m not afraid of getting older.”

  “I’m not afraid, either,” he said.

  “Of course you are.”

  “Why? Because I’m with Lola?”

  “It’s not just that,” she said. She went into the living room and put a log in the fireplace. She lit a long match and let it burn for a moment. “It’s everything, Philip. Your whole demeanor.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be like this if I had a hit TV show,” he replied teasingly.

  “Then why don’t you do something about it? Why don’t you go back to writing books? You haven’t had a book out in six years.”

  He sighed. “Writer’s block.”

  “Bullshit,” she said, lighting the fire. “You’re scared, schoolboy. You used to be different. Now you’re reduced to writing these silly movies. Bridesmaids Revisited? What is that?”

  “I’ve got the screenplay about Bloody Mary. It’s going well,” he said defensively.

  “It’s a soap, Philip. Another escape for you. It doesn’t have anything to do with real life.”

  “What’s wrong with escapism?”

  She shook her head. “You’ve lived in the same apartment your entire life. You haven’t moved an inch. And yet somehow you’ve managed to keep running away.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, echoing her line to him from the other day.

  “You’re here because you need a release from Lola. You need to pretend you have someplace else to go in case it doesn’t work out. Which it won’t. And then where will you be?”

  “Is that what you really think?” he asked. “That I’m here to get away from Lola?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not,” he said.

  She walked past him and hit him playfully on the head. “Then why are you here?”

  He grabbed her wrist, but she pulled away. “Don’t bore me with that speech about how you can be in love with someone but can’t be with them,” she said.

  “Well, it’s true.”

  “It’s utter crap,” she replied. “It’s for the weak and uninspired. What’s happened to your passion, Oakland?”

  He rolled his eyes. She always had that way of stirring him up, of making him feel potent and inadequate at the same time. But wasn’t that what one wanted from a relationship? “It’s not going to work,” he said.

  “Your penis?” she asked jokingly, going into the kitchen to check on the chicken.

  “Us,” he said, standing in the door. “We’ll try it again, and it won’t work. Again.”

  “So?” she said, opening the oven. She was as hesitant about it as he was, he thought.

  “Do you really want to go there—again?” he asked.

  “Christ, schoolboy,” she said, holding up an oven mitt. “I’ve had it with convincing you. Can’t you ever make an honest, decent decision on your own?”

  “There it is,” he said, coming up behind her. “You’re always acting. Did you ever think about what it would be like if you weren’t pretending to be in a scene?”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “You do. All the time.”

  She tossed the oven mitt on the counter and, closing the oven door, turned to face him. “You’re right.” She paused, holding his eyes with her stare. “I’m always acting. It’s my defense. Most people have one. I, however, have changed.”

  “You’re saying you’ve changed?” Philip said, with playful disbelief.

  “Are you saying I haven’t?”

  “I don’t know,” Philip said. “Why don’t we find out?” He lifted her hair and began kissing the back of her neck.

  “Cut it out,” she said, swatting at him.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Okay, don’t cut it out,” she said. “Let’s have sex and get it over with. Then we can go back to being as we were.”

  “I may not want to,” he said warningly.

  “You will. You always do.”

  She ran into the bedroom ahead of him and took off her shirt. She still had those small rounded breasts that always made him crazy. He stripped down to his boxer shorts and joined her. “Remember when we used to do that thing?” she asked.

  “Which thing?”

  “You know—that crazy thing where you lie on your back and put your feet up and I go on my stomach and pretend I’m flying.”

  “You want to do that thing?”

  “Come on,” she said, coaxing him onto his back.

  For a moment, she balanced above him, putting her arms out to the sides, and then his legs began to buckle, and she collapsed on top of him, laughing. He was laughing, too, at the sheer silliness of it, realizing he hadn’t laughed like this in a long time. It was so simple. He recalled how they would spend hours and hours together, doing nothing but playing on the bed, making up silly words and games. That was all they’d needed.

  She sat up, brushing the hair out of her face. There it was, he thought. He was falling in love with her again. He pulled her down and rolled on top of her. “I may still love you.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to say that after we have sex?” she murmured.

  “I’m saying it before.” In unison, they slipped off their underpants, and she held his penis as if weighing his hard-on.

  “I want to feel you inside me,” she said.

  He slipped in, and for the first few seconds, they didn’t move. She sighed, and her head fell back. “Just do it,” she said.

  He began moving, going in deeper and deeper, and it was one of those times when they were immediately in sync. She began to orgasm, screaming out freely, a
nd he started to come himself, and when they were finished, fifteen minutes later, they looked at each other in awe. “That was amazing,” he said.

  She wriggled out from under him and sat on the edge of the bed, looking back at him. Then she lay back, resting her head on his chest. “Now what?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Why?” he asked. “Are you going to run away again?”

  He got up and went into the bathroom. “No,” she said, sitting up. She followed him and watched while he peed, crossing her arms. “But what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want to eat?”

  “Yes,” he said gratefully.

  “Good. I’ve been dying to tell you about our new director. He doesn’t speak. Only uses hand motions. So I’ve named him Béla Lugosi.”

  Philip opened a bottle of Shiraz, and seated himself on the stepstool, watching her while he sipped the wine. Once again, he was overwhelmed by a deep sense of contentment that seemed to make time stand still. There was only him and her in this kitchen at this moment. He’d always been here, he thought, and he always would be. He made a decision. “I’m going to tell Lola it’s over,” he said.

  The ballet didn’t end until after eleven, so Lola and Enid got back to One Fifth close to midnight. Lola was exhausted, but Enid’s energy hadn’t flagged, despite her insistence on leaning on Lola for physical support. Halfway through the ballet, she’d asked Lola to take charge of her handbag, claiming it was too heavy—the ancient crocodile bag did weigh at least five pounds—and Lola was forced to spend the rest of the evening fishing out Enid’s reading glasses, lipstick, and powder. The third time Enid asked for her compact, Lola had realized Enid was doing it on purpose to try to irritate her. Why else would the old woman be so insistent on continually touching up her makeup?

  But then riding down Fifth Avenue in the taxi, they’d come upon the mighty glory of One Fifth, and Lola decided the evening had been worth all the trouble. Reaching the thirteenth floor, Lola found Enid’s keys, opened her door, and handed Enid back her handbag. Enid rewarded her with a kiss on the cheek, something she’d never done. “Good night, dear,” she said. “I had such a good time. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Do we have plans?” Lola asked.

  “No. But now that you’re living with Philip, we don’t need plans. I’ll knock on your door. Maybe we can go for a walk.”

  Great, Lola thought, going into Philip’s apartment. Tomorrow was going to be about twenty degrees. “Philip?” she called.

  When she didn’t get an answer, she went through the apartment, looking for him. Philip wasn’t home. This was perplexing. She called his cell phone and heard it ringing in his office. He’d probably gone to the deli and would be back in a minute. She sat down on the couch, took off her shoes, and kicked them under the coffee table. Then she noticed that her bridal magazines were missing.

  She stood up, frowning, and began searching for them. There had been a dress in one of the magazines that was particularly fetching—it was beaded and strapless, with a long train that flowed out when you walked, and pooled elegantly around the feet when you stood still. If she couldn’t find the magazine, she might never find that particular dress, because the bridal magazines didn’t put all their pages on a website, so prospective brides actually had to buy the publication. She looked in the kitchen and then Philip’s office, coming to the conclusion that he had accidentally thrown them out. She would have to scold him for it—he had to learn to respect her things. Going back into the kitchen, she poured the last of a bottle of white wine into a glass, then opened the garbage chute to dispose of the bottle. Philip had repeatedly told her not to put glass down the chute, but she refused to follow his orders. Recycling was such a pain, and besides, it was completely useless. The planet had already been ruined by previous generations.

  And lo, stuck in the top of the narrow chute was one of her magazines. She pulled it out and, smacking it on the counter, glared. So Philip had thrown out her magazines on purpose. What did that mean?

  Taking the glass of wine into the bathroom, she began running a bath. She assumed Philip wanted to marry her—why wouldn’t he?—but that it would take some urging to pull it off. What she’d been telling James Gooch about Philip wasn’t true at all. She was perfectly happy to force Philip down the aisle if she had to. Everyone knew that men needed to be marched to the church, but once they were, they were grateful. If necessary, she was even willing to get pregnant. Celebrities were always getting pregnant first and married later, and if she had a baby, it could be dressed up like a little bridesmaid and carried down the aisle in a basket by her mother.

  She was stripped down to her bra and panties when she heard the key turn in the lock. Without covering up, she hurried into the foyer. Philip came in, unencumbered, she noted, by a deli bag, and wouldn’t look her in the eye. Something was wrong.

  “Where were you?” she asked, then adjusted her attitude to make it seem like she didn’t care. “I had the best time with Enid at the ballet. It was so beautiful. I didn’t know it would be like that. And ‘Diamonds’ was so cute. And Enid said you danced in The Nutcracker when you were a kid. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He turned around and closed the door. When he turned back, he appeared to register the fact that she wasn’t dressed. Usually, this excited him, and he’d put his hand on her breast. But now he shook his head. “Lola.” He sighed.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Put on your clothes and let’s talk.”

  “I can’t,” she said gaily, as if everything were fine. “I was just getting into a bath. You’ll have to talk to me while I’m under bubbles.” Before he could say more, she darted away.

  Philip went into the kitchen and put his hands in his hair. Riding up in the elevator from Schiffer Diamond’s apartment, he’d somehow imagined this would be easy, or at least straightforward. He would tell Lola the truth—that he didn’t think it was a good idea if they lived together after all—and he would offer her money. She still had two weeks left on the lease of her old apartment, and he would take over the rent for six months until she found a regular job. He would even pay her cell phone bills and take her shopping on Madison Avenue if necessary. He considered telling her the whole truth—that he was in love with someone else—but decided that might be too cruel. Nevertheless, she was going to make this as difficult as possible. He was slightly drunk from having consumed nearly two bottles of wine with Schiffer, but feeling in need of an extra dose of Dutch courage, he poured himself a glass of vodka over ice. He took a swig and went into the bathroom.

  Lola was soaping her breasts. He tried not to be distracted by her pink nipples, pert from their immersion in hot water. He flipped down the toilet seat and sat. “So where were you, anyway?” Lola asked playfully, flicking soap bubbles at his leg.

  He took another sip of vodka. “I was with Schiffer Diamond. I had dinner with her in her apartment.” This should have triggered the impending discussion about their own relationship, but instead, Lola barely reacted.

  “That’s nice,” she said, drawing out the I in “nice.” “Did you have a good time?”

  He nodded, wondering why she wasn’t more upset.

  “You’re old friends,” she said and smiled. “Why shouldn’t you have dinner? Even though you said you were going to work. I guess you got hungry.”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that,” Philip said ominously.

  Lola suddenly understood that Philip was about to break up with her—probably over Schiffer Diamond. The thought made her insides twist in alarm, but she couldn’t let Philip know. She ducked under the water for a second to get her bearings. If she could somehow prevent Philip from breaking up with her now, at this moment, his desire to be rid of her might pass, and they could go on as before. When she popped out of the water, she had a plan.

  “I’m so glad
you’re home,” she said, grabbing a pumice stone and briskly sanding her heels. “I’ve had some bad news. My mother just called, and she needs me to go to Atlanta for a few days. Or longer. Maybe a week. She’s not doing very well. You know the bank took the house?”

  “I know,” Philip said. The financial woes of Lola’s family terrified him, constantly pulling him back into this relationship and her dependency on him.

  “So anyway,” Lola continued, examining her feet as if trying to be brave about the situation, “I know you’re leaving for L.A. in three days. I don’t want to upset you, but I won’t be able to come after all. It’s too far away, and my mother might need me. But I’ll be here when you get back,” she promised, as if this were a consolation prize.

  “About that—” Philip began.

  She shook her head. “I know. It’s kind of a bummer. But let’s not talk about it, because it makes me sad. And I have to go to Atlanta first thing in the morning. And I need a really, really big favor. Do you mind if I borrow a thousand dollars for my plane ticket?”

  “No.” Philip sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he couldn’t have the discussion now, but also somewhat relieved. She was leaving tomorrow anyway. Maybe she wouldn’t come back, and there would be no need to break up with her after all. “It’s no problem,” he said. “I don’t want you to worry. You help your mother—that’s what’s most important.”

  She stood up, and with water and soap sliding off her in a slurry mess, she embraced him. “Oh, Philip,” she said. “I love you so much.”

  She moved her hands down his chest and started trying to unbutton his jeans. He put his hands on hers and pulled them away. “Not now, Kitty,” he said. “You’re upset. It wouldn’t be fun for either of us.”

  “Okay, baby,” she said, drying herself off. Playing to the moment, she went into the bedroom and began packing wearily, as if someone had died and she was going to a funeral. Then she went into Philip’s office and wrote a note. “Could you give this to Enid?” she asked, handing it to him. “It’s a thank-you for the ballet. I told Enid I would see her tomorrow, and I don’t want her to think I forgot about her.”