“As if,” Megan said. “You wouldn’t push Ari off you if the roof caved in.”
Dana took a sniff of her blanket, where his scent lingered. “With Ari, the roof always caves in.”
“Lucky you.”
Dana fluffed the pillow behind her back and sat up. She couldn’t argue. “What’s going on?”
“I found you an apartment.”
Dana was not in the market for a new place. Not yet, anyway. But Megan—who doubled as best friend and manager—was always looking out for her.
And sure, Dana and Ari had talked about moving in together. And they would need a new place to make that happen, as his was in south Brooklyn—a difficult commute—and hers was so small she once told a date, I can invite you in or I can invite your ego. One of you has to stay outside. And it wasn’t just cramped, but dark, with just two tiny windows, one with a partial view of First Avenue, and the other a full panorama of a sooty airshaft.
Unfortunately, Ari didn’t want them to look for a new apartment until he got a promotion and could afford steeper rent. Dana insisted she was making enough money to handle it on her own, but he refused. It had to be fifty-fifty or he wouldn’t do it.
“Bad timing,” Dana said to Megan. “We’re not ready.”
“At least look at it,” Megan said. “Two bedrooms, West Side. I got an inside scoop because my friend Carrie’s aunt died last week and it’s going to be snatched up in a matter of hours.”
“They all get snatched up in a matter of hours,” Dana said, but at the same time, the words second bedroom made her pulse quicken. That was the kind of luxury New Yorkers dreamed about. All that space! It could be a library or a gym or they could plant a small meadow and tend sheep.
“I just sent you some pictures.”
Dana pulled her phone from her ear to look at the text Megan had sent. It showed a living room flooded with light from a wall of massive windows. She put the phone on speaker.
“Is this for real?” she asked.
“Would I lie?”
Dana kept staring at the picture, aching with envy. “I wish I could,” she said. “Ari would kill me.”
Then Megan told her the rental price.
It was a steal. More than double her current rent, of course, but well below market value. And she had enough in her bank account to cover the deposit. She thought about all those years she struggled to make rent on this tiny place. And now here was a glorious apartment on the other side of town, and she could actually afford it. Her skin tingled.
“When is it going on the market?”
“Today.”
“What time today?” She had plans to meet her father and sister for brunch, and a part of her hoped the place would be listed and snatched up before she had a chance to look at it.
“First showing is at two p.m.”
Damn. That left her just enough time and a decision to make. Dana let out a long breath. If she looked at the apartment, she probably wouldn’t be able to resist it. And then she would have to find a way to convince Ari it was the right thing to do. It was a risky proposition.
“I don’t know,” Dana said. “I shouldn’t. Ari’s not on board.”
“Bring him with you. Maybe if he sees it...”
“He’s working. And he wouldn’t come anyway.”
After a pause, Megan asked what she wanted to do.
Dana looked back down at the photo. High ceilings. Tall windows. Sunlight pouring in like it was spilled from a bucket of joy. She knew this was the trap of real estate—this feeling that an opportunity like this would never present itself again. And yet.
“Give me the phone number,” she said quickly. “I’ll make an appointment.” Suddenly, it felt right. Like destiny.
“Too late,” Megan said.
“Too late?”
“I already scheduled you for the first showing.”
* * *
Dana wanted to arrive at the restaurant to meet her family on time so she wouldn’t look like such a shit for ducking out early to get to the real estate appointment. Of course, her father would judge her no matter what, but she couldn’t help herself. Despite learning the same lesson again and again, a part of her always thought that this time might be different.
So she scrambled through her morning routine. Unfortunately, one wardrobe malfunction after another cut into her prep time, followed by a frantic search for her cell phone, which she finally found buried under a pile of discarded outfits.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said to her father and sister when she arrived. She gave them each a quick kiss on the cheek. “Crazy morning.”
Kenneth Barry wore a wool blazer and crisp Oxford shirt along with his usual scowl. Since remarrying that summer, the retired neurosurgeon had put on a little weight, softening his sharp cheekbones. Dana thought she even noticed a little more hair on the top of his head, and wondered if he’d started using Rogaine to please his new wife, a cardiologist more than twenty years his junior. When he was married to her mother, who was now remarried and living in Boca Raton, he never would have considered improving himself for her.
Chelsea, Dana’s sister, was suburban chic, as always, in a Stella McCartney off-the-shoulder silk blouse and statement necklace. Despite being the mother of a four-year-old, she always looked entirely put together, with impeccably highlighted blond hair. The only time Dana saw her slip was some months ago, after she suffered a miscarriage. She had sunk so low Dana worried she wouldn’t recover. And then, just like that, she was back—cheerful and functioning. It was some kind of miracle. People often joked about “retail therapy,” but in Chelsea’s case there really did seem to be something to it. For her, the only thing better than shopping was more shopping. Which was why Kenneth had asked Chelsea, and not Dana, to help him pick out a birthday gift for his wife today. That was the reason for the brunch. Afterward, Kenneth and Chelsea would be heading to Tiffany’s, leaving Dana free to shop for an apartment she had no business considering.
“It’s Saturday,” Kenneth said to Dana as he tapped his watch.
The implication was that she couldn’t possibly have anything important on her schedule on a weekend morning.
“And tomorrow is Sunday,” she said, “so it looks like we both passed the neurological assessment.”
One day, her snarky remarks might get a rise out of her father. But not today. As she took a seat, Chelsea scrutinized her outfit, which included a red sweater and indigo skinny jeans.
“So cute,” her sister said, indicating the entirety of it.
“Even the boots?” Dana asked, surprised her fashionista sister approved of her appearance.
Chelsea shook her head. “No, not the boots. The boots are revolting. But you know that.”
She did, in fact, know the boots were revolting. That was pretty much the point. They were a last-minute addition to the outfit, which had been carefully selected to make a good impression on the Realtor. But Dana couldn’t bring herself to arrive at a brunch with her father looking the part of the perfect daughter—that was the push-pull of her relationship with him. She wanted his approval and wanted to piss him off, all at the same time. So she dug through her closet for the beat-to-hell combat boots that had seen her through the leanest times. She bypassed the smart-looking saddle-brown pair she had just bought, as well as the black ankle booties with a stacked heel that needed repair. Dana was well aware of how bad the combat boots looked, as she had spent years covering up the scuff marks with a Sharpie so she could wear them to auditions. Dana resurrected them today so her father would know she was still the same person he had judged so harshly for her money problems.
Dana smiled at her sister and shrugged—a gesture that said, Guilty as charged.
“You’re an idiot,” Chelsea said affectionately, as she leaned forward to rearrange a lock of her sister’s hair. Dana still wore it short and ba
rk brown, but now, thanks to the Shopping Channel’s stylist, the edges were tipped in ashy blond. It was, he had assured her, the perfect complement to her gray-green eyes.
“Fuck you very much,” Dana said.
Their father, who never understood the camaraderie of their banter, told them not to be childish. Dana fought the urge to burp a response.
Kenneth looked at her over his menu. “How are you doing at the Shopping Station?” he asked.
“Shopping Channel,” she corrected, “and I’m doing fine.” She considered adding that she had been the top-selling host for four weeks in a row, but managed to keep her mouth shut. There was no way it would get the reaction she desired.
“I hope you’re behaving yourself,” he said. “That’s not a job you want to lose.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.”
“You don’t have to get sarcastic.”
The waitress came to take their drink orders, and Dana noted that Chelsea requested a Virgin Mary. She didn’t want to read too much into it, but it was hard not to wonder if her sister was pregnant again. She wouldn’t say anything, of course. If Chelsea wanted to tell her, she would. Dana imagined that following a miscarriage, one might want to keep a pregnancy quiet until it was further along.
Later in the meal, Dana’s suspicions were tweaked when Chelsea put her hand to her abdomen and furrowed her brow.
“You alright?” Dana asked.
“Yeah, fine. Why?”
Dana shrugged and went back to her meal, but several minutes later Chelsea seemed to sink, and then excused herself to the bathroom.
Dana looked at her father, the medical doctor, to see if he picked up on any of this, but he was fully concentrated on his egg-white omelet.
When Chelsea returned, her face was pale and worried.
“What’s the matter?” Dana asked.
“Nothing, I... I just have an upset stomach. I think I’m going to head home.”
“Home?” Dana said.
“Might be food poisoning,” Kenneth said, signaling for the waitress. “I’ll tell the management.”
“No, Daddy, please,” Chelsea said. “Don’t make a fuss. It doesn’t feel like food poisoning. I’m probably just tired.”
“Let me take you to Penn Station,” Dana said, concerned about her sister’s trip back to the suburbs of Long Island.
Chelsea shook her off. “It’s fine—I’ll take a cab. But will you do me a favor and go shopping with Dad?”
Dana swallowed. “Me?”
“Please.”
“I... I have an appointment,” she stammered. She pictured the wood floors. The tall windows. The second bedroom.
“Can’t you reschedule?” Chelsea said.
Dana opened her mouth to argue, because she couldn’t reschedule. She had to be at the apartment in an hour or it would be gone. But her sister looked so forlorn, her voice so plaintive, that all she could say was, “Of course. Feel better.”
3
Dana wanted the errand to be quick, so as they walked toward Tiffany’s, she tried to get her father to focus on the kind of gift he wanted to buy. If they hurried, there was still a chance she could make the appointment.
“I hadn’t thought about it,” he said. “I counted on your sister for some ideas.”
“How about a bracelet?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps a tennis bracelet.”
Tennis bracelet? Was he kidding? It had been the last gift he bought her mom before the divorce, and she wanted to smash him in the shins with a racket just for suggesting it.
“No, Dad,” she said through her teeth. “Anything but a tennis bracelet.”
“I thought women liked tennis bracelets.”
He sounded genuinely confused, and Dana realized he probably hadn’t meant to be insensitive. He was simply that unimaginative. It was easy to forget how robotic his thinking could be, because on the outside he looked almost like a real human. She regrouped.
“I noticed Jennifer wears a lot of silver,” she said. “Maybe a big chunky cuff.”
“A cuff?” he said, as if it were an inconceivable suggestion, and she knew he was picturing the double-stitched fabric at the end of his shirtsleeve.
She tried to describe what she was talking about, and he couldn’t picture it. At last she said, “Did you notice that thick gold bracelet Chelsea was wearing at lunch? That’s a cuff.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, as if seeing the light at the mention of Chelsea’s name. “I think that will work.”
Dana bristled. “From now on I’ll qualify all my ideas by saying they came from Chelsea.”
“Your sister knows quite a bit about fashion.”
I should have seen that coming, Dana thought. But no matter how low her expectations, he always managed to limbo under the bar.
“I sell fashion,” she said through her teeth.
“You haven’t even been there a full year,” Kenneth said.
“So?”
“Dana,” he said with the practiced patience of a doctor who has to explain complicated medical procedures to simple lay folk, “there’s a learning curve with any new job. But you’ve never stayed at one place long enough to know that.”
Her nostrils flared. “I’m a loser. Check. Thanks for the reminder.”
“I didn’t say that. You just have to keep your nose to the grindstone.”
Dana rubbed at a migraine nipping the edge of her forehead. She was quite sure that if the Shopping Channel went down, her father would think she was the one who sank it.
She needed to end this errand asap. If not for the apartment, then for her sanity. Dana directed the conversation back to the bracelet, and by the time they arrived at Tiffany’s he had a budget and a vision of what he wanted. The store was crowded, but Dana was aggressive in getting the attention of a sales associate, and in a short while Kenneth had settled on an extra-wide Elsa Peretti silver cuff.
“Jennifer will love it,” Dana said as she glanced at the time. If her father didn’t ask for it to be wrapped, she still had a chance to make her appointment.
Then the sales associate said something that made Dana wince. “Would you like that engraved?”
Dana said, “Oh, I don’t think that’s—”
“Of course,” Kenneth said. “Of course I want it engraved.”
And just like that, she knew it was over. She wouldn’t be getting out of this store anytime soon. Some other lucky New Yorker would be whipping out their checkbook to snatch the apartment—Dana’s apartment—before she got a chance to look at it.
“Fine, Dad,” she said, sighing. “Let’s talk about what you want inscribed.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said.
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I can take it from here. You can hurry off to whatever pressing appointment you have on a Saturday afternoon.”
He pronounced “pressing appointment” as if it were in quotes. As if she couldn’t possibly have something important to do. But if he meant to make her feel guilty, it didn’t work. Or at least, it didn’t work well enough to keep her there. Dana wished him luck, moved in for a perfunctory hug and flew out the door and onto Fifth Avenue, where she saw a waiting taxicab. Perfect timing. She practically knocked over a heavyset guy in a plaid jacket to get to it.
Then it registered. Plaid jacket. Hybrid sneaker-loafer walking shoes. A subway map sticking out of his pocket. The guy was a tourist. The guilt she had been able to ignore just moments ago now stabbed at her. Don’t do it, said the guilt. Give up the cab and tell him to have a nice day. Then he’ll go back to wherever he came from and explain that New Yorkers aren’t really all that bad.
But the apartment. This taxi might be her last best hope.
They locked eyes, and he seemed so earnestl
y shocked that Dana had no choice. “It’s yours,” she said, backing away as her eyes swept the street for an empty cab.
“Hey,” he said, “I know you. You’re that HSN lady.”
“Shopping Channel,” she corrected, offering a weak smile. It was a common enough mistake. HSN was an industry powerhouse. Her struggling company was third tier at best.
He grinned wildly. “I just knew I’d meet a celebrity!” He opened the cab door. “Please,” he said, gesturing for her to get in.
“Are you sure?”
“You kidding? This is the best thing that happened to me since I got off the plane.”
Dana wasn’t going to argue. She slid into the car and thanked him. “If I didn’t have a pressing appointment...”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Just do me one favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Say hi to Lori Greiner for me. I love her!”
“Will do!” she said, and shut the door, wondering if he would later remember that the famous Shark Tank entrepreneur was actually from QVC.
Of course, traffic was abysmal, and by the time the taxi turned the corner on West Sixty-Ninth Street, she was fifteen minutes late. Her heart thudded as she looked down the block, which struck her as one of the prettiest streets in Manhattan. Immediately, she could envision herself living happily here. Making a life with Ari. It was a dream.
She dashed into the building, where the Realtor stood in the lobby on the checkerboard marble floor, chatting with another couple. Dana didn’t know what to make of the tableau. Had they already seen the apartment? Were they ready to put down a deposit? She took quick stock of the young couple, and pegged them as trust fund kids, blandly good-looking and expensively dressed in muted colors.
“Sorry I’m late!” Dana cried. “My sister got sick and—”
“Are you Dana?” the Realtor asked, her professional smile steady. She wore a plaid shawl smartly draped over her expensive black blouse and gray slacks.
“Yes, I apologize.”
The Realtor shook Dana’s hand and introduced herself. “It’s no problem,” she said. “I was just about to show the Peabody-Lathams upstairs. We can all go together.”
The Rooftop Party Page 2