One Fifth Avenue

by Кэндес Бушнелл

  Now, while Mindy was packing Sam’s things, James was wondering if he dared take a quick peek at Lola’s column. In her last installment, she had written about the time James had alternated between penetrating her with a vibrator and his own penis. Unlike Mindy, Lola had the good sense to change his name — calling him “The Terminator,” because he caused orgasms that were so strong, they could be terminal — and James was so chuffed, he couldn’t be angry. He had even bought her an enameled Hermés bracelet, which she’d been desperate for, saying all the women on the Upper East Side had one, cleverly paying cash so Mindy couldn’t trace the purchase. He looked longingly at his computer, anxious to know if Lola had written about him again, and if so, what she’d said. But with Mindy in the apartment, he decided it was too risky. What if she caught him? Valiantly resisting temptation, he got up and went into Sam’s room.

  “Four weeks of tennis,” James said to his son. “Do you think you’ll get bored?”

  Mindy was placing packages of white cotton athletic socks into Sam’s bag. “No, he will not,” she said.

  “I hate this business of taking on the customs of the upper classes,”

  James said. “What’s wrong with basketball? It was good enough for me.”

  Mindy snorted. “Your son is not you, James. As a fairly intelligent adult male, you should have figured that out by now.”

  “Hmph,” James said. Mindy had been a bit curt with him lately, and since he feared her shortness might be due to a suspicion about his affair with Lola, he didn’t push it.

  “Besides,” Mindy said. “I want Sam to feel comfortable in the area. We’ll have a house there soon, and I want him to have lots of new friends.”

  “We will?” James said.

  Mindy gave him a terse smile. “Yes, James, we will.”

  James was suddenly nervous and went into the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee. A few minutes later, Mindy and Sam kissed him goodbye and went off to the bus station; Mindy would go on from there to her office. The second the door closed, James rushed to his computer, typed in the requisite address, and read, “The Terminator strikes again.

  Wrapping my hot, wet pussy around his cock, he did another one of his dastardly deeds and tickled my asshole while I pumped him for juice.”

  “Lola,” James had said after reading the first installment about his sexual exploits. “How can you do this? Don’t you worry about your reputation? What if you want to get a real job someday and your employer reads this?”

  Lola only looked at him like he was once again hopelessly out of touch.

  “It’s no different from all those other celebrities with sex tapes. It hasn’t hurt them. Just the opposite — it’s made their careers.”

  Now, continuing to read Lola’s blog, James felt himself getting a hard-on that pushed against his leg, demanding immediate attention. He went into the bathroom and jerked off, hiding the evidence in a tissue that he flushed down the toilet. He looked into the mirror and nodded. The next time he saw Lola, he decided, he would definitely try for anal sex.

  Mindy watched Sam get on the bus for Southbury, Connecticut, waving at his window until the bus pulled out of the underground garage.

  Hurrying through Port Authority, she was relieved to have gotten Sam safely away, where Paul Rice couldn’t hurt him. She flagged a taxi, slid onto the backseat, and fished the folded piece of notepaper out of her bag. “Sam did it” was written in pencil, in Paul Rice’s tiny block lettering. The paper bore the logo of the Four Seasons Hotel in Bangkok. Apparently, Paul Rice had quite a few of these pads.

  She refolded the note and put it back in her purse. She’d found the tightly folded paper in her mailbox just the other day, and while James was convinced she wanted a country house for her own self-aggrandizement, she’d begun pursuing it as a way to get herself and Sam out of Paul’s way, without raising suspicion. A man who could take over an entire country’s stock market was probably capable of anything, including persecuting a little boy. While everyone else in One Fifth had been diverted by Billy’s death, Paul hadn’t attended either his memorial service or Annalisa’s party. For all Mindy knew, Paul might still be investigating who cut his Internet wires, and eventually, he might be able to prove it was Sam.

  Like Paul Rice, Mindy knew Sam had done it. She would never tell anyone, of course, including James. But it wasn’t the only secret she was keeping. Striding into her office, she passed Thayer Core, sitting in his cubicle like a caged animal, scrolling through a long list of e-mails. Mindy stopped and stuck her head over the edge of the cubicle, looking down at Thayer as a reminder of her authority over him.

  “Have you printed out the notes from yesterday’s meeting?” she asked.

  Thayer pushed back his chair and, as if to thwart her authority, put his feet up on his desk and crossed his arms. “Which meeting?” he said.

  “All of them.” She moved away, then stopped, as if remembering something. “And I also need a hard copy of Lola Fabrikant’s sex column.”

  When Mindy was safely in her office, Thayer muttered, “Can’t you read it on your computer? Like everyone else?” He got up and strolled through the maze of cubicles to the printer, where he retrieved Lola’s column. He read it briefly and shook his head. Lola was fucking James Gooch again. Could Mindy really be so dense that she didn’t know Lola was writing about her own husband? Ugh. It meant he and James Gooch now had one degree of separation. But James gave Lola money, and since Thayer enjoyed the same privileges as James for free, he couldn’t really object.

  “Here you go,” Thayer said with a flourish, placing the printout on Mindy’s desk.

  “Thank you,” she said, continuing to stare at her computer.

  Thayer stood for a moment, watching her. “Can I have a raise?” he asked.

  This got her attention. Putting on her reading glasses, she picked up the printout and glanced at it, and then him. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

  “A month.”

  “I’m already paying you a hundred thousand dollars a year.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Check back with me in five months, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  Fucking old bag, Thayer thought, returning to his cubicle. But surprisingly, Mindy wasn’t that bad, not as bad as he’d thought she’d be. She had even taken him out for a beer and asked him all kinds of uncomfortable questions about where he lived and how he was surviving. When he told her he lived on Avenue C, she grimaced. “That’s not good enough for you,” she said. “I see you in a better place — like a walk-up in the West Village.” She’d given him advice about getting ahead, suggesting he attempt to appear “more corporate” by wearing a tie.

  For some reason, he had taken her advice. The woman was right, he’d thought, upon returning to his disgusting apartment. It wasn’t good enough for him. He was twenty-five years old. There were men his age who were billionaires, but he was making a hundred thousand a year, an enormous sum compared to that of his friends. After scouring Craigslist, he’d found an apartment on Christopher Street, a walk-up with a bedroom that was barely large enough to contain a queen-size bed. It was twenty-eight hundred a month, which ate up three quarters of his monthly salary, but it was worth it. He was moving up in the world.

  Seated behind her desk with her reading glasses perched on her nose, Mindy carefully read the latest installment of Lola’s sex column. Lola had quite a way with the description of the sex act and, not content to limit it to plumbing, also provided a detailed account of her partner’s physical characteristics. The first four columns had featured Philip Oakland as her lover, but this column and the previous one were most definitely about James. Although Lola called the man the Terminator, which made Mindy laugh out loud, the description of his penis, with its “constellation of tiny moles on the shaft, forming, perhaps, Osiris,” was James. Nor was it only the comments about his penis that gave him away. “I want to know every part of you. Including the dirty place,”
the Terminator had said. It was exactly the same argument James had used on Mindy in the early years of their marriage when he’d wanted to try anal sex.

  Putting the column aside, Mindy went back to her computer and, typ-ing in the address of the Litchfield County real estate agency, scrolled down and found the photographs and description of a house. The past weekend, looking at real estate, the agent had explained that there was very little in their price range — there was hardly anything on the market for under a million three. She did have the perfect house for them, but it was a little more expensive. Did they want to look at it anyway?

  Yes, they did, Mindy said.

  The house was a bit of a wreck, having only been recently vacated by an aged farmer. But these kinds of houses almost never came up. It still had twelve original acres, and the house, built in the late seventeen hundreds, had three fireplaces. There was an old apple orchard and a red barn (falling down, but barns were very inexpensive to restore), and it was located on what was considered one of the best streets in one of Litchfield County’s most exclusive towns — Roxbury, Connecticut. Population twenty-three hundred. But what a population. Arthur Miller and Alexander Calder had lived nearby, as well as Walter Matthau. Philip Roth was only miles away. And the house was a steal — only one point nine million.

  “It’s too much,” James protested in the rental car on the way back to the city.

  “It’s perfect,” Mindy said. “And you heard what the real estate agent said. Houses like this one never come up.”

  “It makes me nervous, spending all that money. On a house. And it needs lots of restoration. Do you know how much that costs? Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yes, we have the money today. But who knows what will happen in the future?”

  Indeed, Mindy thought now, pressing the intercom button on her phone. Who knew? “Thayer,” she said, “could you come into my office, please?”

  “What now?” Thayer asked.

  Mindy smiled. She’d been pleasantly surprised by Mr. Thayer Core, having discovered that he was not only a crackerjack assistant but a fellow trafficker in evil, paranoia, and bad thoughts. He reminded her of her very own self at twenty-five, and found his candor refreshing.

  “I need another hard copy,” she said. “In color.”

  In a few minutes, Thayer returned with a printout of the brochure for the house. Mindy clipped the brochure to Lola’s two sex columns about James and placed a Post-it note on top on which she’d written, “FYI.”

  She handed the stapled pages to Thayer. “Could you messenger this to my husband, please?”

  Thayer flipped through the pages and, nodding in admiration, said,

  “That ought to do it.”

  “Thank you,” Mindy said, shooing him away.

  Thayer called the messenger service to pick up the package. He slipped the papers into a manila envelope and, as he did so, emitted a little laugh. He’d ridiculed Mindy Gooch for months, and while he still found her slightly ridiculous, he had to give the woman credit. She had balls.

  A couple of hours later, Mindy called James. “Did you get my package?” she asked.

  James murmured a terrified assent. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it,”

  she continued. “And I want to buy that house. Immediately. I don’t want to wait another day. I’m going to call the real estate agent now and make an offer.”

  “Great,” James said, too scared to sound enthusiastic.

  Mindy leaned back in her chair, curling the phone cord around her finger. “I can’t wait to get started on the renovations. I’ve got all kinds of ideas. How’s the new book coming, by the way? Are you making progress?”

  In the penthouse apartment in One Fifth, Annalisa Rice studied the seating chart for the King David event, writing the numbers of various tables next to each name on the twenty-page guest list. It was, as usual, a tedious process, but someone had to do it, and now that she had replaced Connie Brewer as the chairman of the event, the duty fell to her. She suspected Connie hadn’t wanted to give up her position, but with Sandy’s trial coming up, the other members of the committee didn’t think Connie’s involvement was a good idea. Connie’s presence would remind people of the scandal involving the Cross of Bloody Mary, and instead of covering the event, reporters would write about the Brewers instead.

  The gala was in four days and was expected to be even more spectacular than the year before. Rod Stewart was performing, and Schiffer Diamond had agreed to host the event. After Billy’s death, Annalisa and Schiffer had become close, at first finding solace in each other’s company and then seeing their mutual sorrow blossom into an actual friendship.

  Being public figures, they found they had some things in common. Schiffer suggested Annalisa hire her publicist, Karen; meanwhile, Annalisa had introduced Schiffer to her crazy stylist, Norine. Lady Superior was on hia-tus, and Schiffer would often pop upstairs in the late morning for coffee, which they’d take on Annalisa’s terrace; sometimes Enid would join as well. Annalisa relished these moments. Enid was right — a co-op was like a family, and the antics of the other residents were always a source of gentle amusement. “Mindy Gooch finally took my advice and hired Thayer Core,” Enid reported one morning. “So we won’t have to worry about him anymore. James, meanwhile, is having an affair with Lola Fabrikant.”

  “That poor girl,” Schiffer said.

  “Mindy or Lola?” Annalisa asked.

  “Both,” Schiffer said.

  “Poor Lola, nothing,” Enid exclaimed. “That girl was a gold digger.

  Worse than Flossie Davis. All she wanted was to live in One Fifth and spend Philip’s money.”

  “Don’t you think you were a little cruel to her, Enid?” Schiffer asked.

  “Absolutely not. One has to be firm with that kind of girl. She was sleeping with Thayer Core behind Philip’s back and in Philip’s bed. I suppose she’s like a virus — she keeps coming back,” Enid said.

  “Why did she come back?” Annalisa asked.

  “Sheer, misguided determination. But she won’t get far. You’ll see,”

  Enid said.

  Now, recalling this conversation, Annalisa found she couldn’t blame Lola for wanting to live in One Fifth. She, like Enid and Schiffer, loved the building. The only problem was Paul. Having heard about Schiffer and Philip’s engagement, he kept insisting she use her influence to get Philip and Enid to sell him their apartments, pointing out that Philip and Schiffer would need a bigger apartment, and wouldn’t Enid want to move as well? No, Annalisa replied. The plan was that Schiffer and Enid were going to trade apartments, then Philip and Schiffer would combine the two thirteenth-floor apartments into one. Then Paul suggested they move to a bigger apartment, to something in the price range of forty million dollars. To this, she’d also objected. “It’s too much, Paul,” she said, wondering where his rabid desire for the bigger and better would end.

  They’d put the discussion aside when Paul briefly became obsessed with buying a plane — the new G6, which wouldn’t be delivered for two years.

  Paul had put down a deposit of twenty million dollars but complained bitterly about the unfairness of life, because he was number fifteen on the list and not number one. His obsessions, Annalisa noted, were getting more and more out of control, and just the other day, he’d thrown a crystal vase at Maria because she’d failed to immediately inform him of the arrival of two fish. Each fish cost over a hundred thousand dollars, and had been specially shipped from Japan. But Maria hadn’t known and had left the fish sitting in their containers for five critical hours, during which time they might have died. Maria quit, and Annalisa paid her two hundred thousand dollars — a year’s salary — not to press charges against Paul. Annalisa hired two new housekeepers instead of one, which seemed to mollify Paul, who insisted the second housekeeper be on fish duty twenty-four hours a day. This was disturbing but paled in comparison to Paul’s attitude toward Sam.

  “He did it,” Paul said one evening at dinner. “Th
at little bastard. Sam Gooch.”

  “Don’t be crazy,” Annalisa said.

  “I know he did it,” Paul said.

  “How?”

  “He gave me a look. In the elevator.”

  “A thirteen-year-old boy gave you a look. And you know he did it,”

  Annalisa said, exasperated.

  “I’m having him followed.”

  Annalisa put down her fork. “Let it go,” she said firmly.

  “He cost me twenty-six million dollars.”

  “You ended up making a hundred million dollars that day anyway.

  What’s twenty-six million compared to that?”

  “Twenty-six percent,” Paul replied.

  Annalisa assumed Paul was exaggerating when he said he was having Sam followed, but a few nights later, as she was preparing for bed, she discovered Paul reading a detailed document that didn’t appear to be the charts and graphs he normally perused before going to sleep. “What’s that?” she demanded.