She launched into the prelude to her guided tour. “The apartment was built by Mr. Andrews fifteen years ago as a gift to his wife. It occupies the top two floors and half the roof of the building. Mr. Andrews bought it while the building was under construction, so the initial design was to his specifications. Mrs. Andrews redecorated it each year. It has nine thousand square feet, with twenty-six rooms, eleven baths, and a pool and cabana on the roof. It is served by two of the building elevators and has its own internal elevator.”
“It sounds more like a cruise ship,” Jane joked.
The penthouse had its own emergency generator in case the building or the city lost power, an independent water supply, and a security system linked directly to the nearest police station. Jane nodded politely as she took in all the information. But she could taste the fear at the back of her throat. What in God’s name was she getting herself into?
Eileen waited until Jane had finished her coffee and then led her off on the tour. They had taken one archway out of the elevator foyer. The other led to what Mrs. McCarty referred to as “the service area.” This included a stainless-steel-and-tile kitchen that would have been the envy of most four-star restaurants, with doors leading to the dining room, breakfast room, and the service corridor. Also off the corridor were three suites, each a bedroom, sitting room, and bath, intended for a housekeeper, chef, and butler. None had been in regular use since Mr. Andrews reopened the penthouse. She used the housekeeper’s room if he needed her to stay very late. A cook or a caterer might stay over when Mr. Andrews was giving a dinner party, but that didn’t happen very often.
“How often is that?” Jane asked.
“Oh, maybe half a dozen times,” Eileen told her.
“That’s all? Half a dozen times a year?”
“Oh, heavens no,” Eileen answered. “I mean since I’ve been here.”
They went up the stairs that led from the living room to the second level, open steps without a handrail, which matched the minimalism of the Danish furniture grouping. On the second floor, Jane toured four guest bedrooms, each with its own bath; a billiard room with a bar and card table; Andrews’s home office, which had an enormous desk, computer center with two PCs, and a communications console with six screens that could be switched to any broadcast on any of the Andrews networks; and the library, which in addition to three thousand volumes had its own computer for Internet access to any library in the world. She walked from room to room with her head swinging in wide-eyed awe. When he had told her to make any changes she wanted, Jane had imagined that she would be changing a few sets of drapes. In this apartment, changes in decor would be like changing the look of the lobby at the Metropolitan Opera. The scale was beyond her experience.
They entered the master suite, a feminine room with floral wallpaper, satin recliners, and an enormous canopied bed. The furnishings were white, tooled in colors that picked up the floral tones. The white carpeting was ankle-deep. Eileen pushed open the door to the walk-in closet and Jane saw row upon row of dresses, evening gowns, and smartly tailored suits. There were stacks of thin drawers designed to hold lingerie, hosiery, and other silks and satins. A floor-to-ceiling rack displayed at least a hundred pairs of shoes.
“Mrs. Andrews’s things,” Eileen commented. “This is the only room that wasn’t redecorated.”
“Where are his things?” Jane asked.
“He generally uses the first guest bedroom. The few things he keeps here in the penthouse are in the guest closet.”
“What about the children?”
“Oh, they’re hardly ever here. At school most of the year, and out at the farmhouse during the summer. Except, of course, when they’re traveling abroad.”
“But where are their things?”
“In New Jersey, I suppose.” Then she added, “I’m not at all involved in the farmhouse.”
They went up another flight of stairs and Jane found herself in the rooftop cabana. There were several small changing rooms, a kitchen, still another bar, and two baths. Outside the sliding glass doors was a wooden deck with a built-in swimming pool. Jane asked about the tall wooden cabinets, like folded grandstands, that stood at one end of the pool.
“A dance floor,” Eileen McCarty answered. “I’m told it folds out over the pool and leaves a band shell behind, but I’ve never seen it down. I heard that Mrs. Andrews gave many rooftop parties. Mr. Andrews likes to swim, but he has never used the dance floor. I’m not sure it still works.”
They wandered back to the living room, where Eileen gestured Jane onto the central sofa. “That’s about it,” she said. “Do you have any questions?”
“Not yet. I’m still a bit breathless. It must be quite a responsibility staying on top of all this….” She gestured expansively to indicate the incredible scope of William Andrews’s in-town apartment.
“It would be if people were living here,” the woman answered. “But really all I have to do is cook a few meals and make a bed or two. Mr. Andrews and his business friends aren’t really here that much. Oh, I do some shopping, mostly by telephone, and I keep an eye out for anything that needs fixing or painting. The cleaning service does the rest.”
“Well, I won’t add much to your workload,” Jane said. “I may even be able to pitch in and help. I think we’ll get along very nicely.”
“And I do, too,” Mrs. McCarty said. “I don’t mind telling you that when I heard the future Mrs. Andrews was coming for a visit, I thought I might be done for. I was afraid that you’d be one of those ladies who want the help to sound British and to speak French for the children. But you seem like the real thing.”
Jane didn’t mention that she too had been dreading their meeting. Housekeepers, she knew, often took their social position from the people they served. A woman used to waiting on economic royalty might have been insulted at the thought of serving a commoner.
She retraced the tour, now taking her time to work through the first level of detail. She immediately decided that there would be no changes in the kitchen, because she wouldn’t be doing much cooking. There were machines in there that she had never seen before and some that actually frightened her. Her haunt would be the breakfast room. In fact, she would probably use a laptop to work there. The table was as big as any desk and there was already a phone line. The unobstructed view of the park made it a perfect place for writing. She could use any small space to set up her computer and files.
The living room was beyond her. Any project would be massive and time-consuming. She wouldn’t even change the artwork, even though the modernists had never been her favorites. The dining room was also intimidating, but she thought she could brighten it up a bit with some silk flowers.
On the second floor she peeked into Kay Parker’s bedroom and decided to leave it for last. The other rooms would be much easier. There would be no changes to his office. She wouldn’t dare. Nor to the billiard room. She didn’t play the game, so she had to assume that the dark furniture, forest green accents, and needlessly elaborate table lighting were things that pool players treasured. The workout room had weights that she couldn’t lift, but there was a treadmill she thought she could learn to love. The guest rooms were okay but darker than she liked. Maybe new window treatments to let in sunlight, and brighter bedspreads. The two front rooms would be for Bill’s children, and she decided that she would let them design their own spaces. Paint, paper, whatever they wanted, and stereos with enormous speakers. This would be her best opportunity to get off to a good start with Cassie and Craig.
The library was going to be a problem. It was stocked with books that everyone would like to think they had read. She wanted more contemporary writers, art books, and travel guides. She also thought she should have a few shelves that would appeal to teenagers. But that she could do over time. There was no need to make the library a priority.
And then there was the grand boudoir, the monument to Kay Parker. The room described Andrews’s first wife better than any news clippings coul
d. Feminine, in the floral prints and colors. Tasteful, in the grand design of the space. Aristocratic, with the formality of the environment. Willful, with a floor-to-ceiling closet of shoes. Sexy, with drawer upon drawer of lingerie. Social, as demonstrated by the variety of suits, dresses, and ensembles. Wealthy, in the obvious disregard of cost. It would be hard to imagine a room that screamed out any louder the long list of Jane Warren’s inadequacies.
Her own apartment was painted in an off-white, furnished with pieces from her first apartment, from Art’s apartment, and from the annual sale at a national furniture chain. The decor was as unoriginal as the standard floor plan. Her shoes were scattered on the closet floor, two pairs of heels, two pairs of comfortable flats, and two pairs of sneakers. Her lingerie was basically a collection of oversize T-shirts, three pairs of pajamas, and one truly sexy black garter belt outfit that Art liked her to wear when he had had too much to drink. The final insult was that everything had been bought on sale.
Okay, Jane thought, I’m not in this lady’s league. But you know what"? I don’t want to be. I wouldn’t want to live with all this fanfare. This is pretentious, and for exactly that reason, the most unromantic room I’ve ever seen.
This is where she had to begin. If she were to make a home for Bill, herself, and the children, the shrine had to be shut down. She would pack Kay’s clothes and move them out. Kay wouldn’t be wearing them again, so maybe she would donate them anonymously to one of those outfits that provided clothes for poor women entering the workforce. Wouldn’t that be a gas! Kay Parker’s designer suit out on a job interview. Then she would split the closet, half for Bill’s clothes and half for hers. She’d have to go on a shopping spree just to fill her half. The floral wallpaper had to come down, maybe in favor of a layer-painted wall that would be gender-neutral. And the delicate furniture would have to be replaced with something heavier and more masculine.
The bed was going to require a bit of thinking. Kay’s bed was a woman’s place of rest, a soft refuge from the cares of the day. It was a sanctuary that a man would beg to enter. Jane wanted something earthier, a bed that cried out for bouncing, tumbling lovemaking. She wanted Bill to know that it was his and that the woman in it wanted very much to be his. But what? Not something with hearts and cupids, and certainly not with mirrored headboard and ceiling. She had no idea what was needed, but maybe that’s what interior decorators were for.
She found her overnight bag at the foot of the stairs. “It was down at the concierge’s desk,” Mrs. McCarty explained. “I had it brought up.”
Jane had forgotten completely about it and hadn’t even thought about where she would sleep. The housekeeper suggested the master bedroom, but Jane had no desire to sleep in Kay Parker’s shrine. Nor did she want to move into the guest room that Bill was using. That, she thought, would be presumptuous. She decided on one of the other guest rooms, which Eileen assured her was ready and would be “no trouble at all.” Then she decided to eat out so that Mrs. McCarty wouldn’t have to worry about her dinner.
She ate quickly and inexpensively and got back to the apartment at nine. She sat for a while in the living room, looking across the park at the glorious skyline, wondering how she was supposed to make a home in a place that baffled all her life’s experience. She was completely aware that the train from Connecticut and the private elevator had carried her into another world.
Jane was lying awake in one of the guest rooms when she heard a telephone ring. She tried to answer it and realized that the apartment was equipped with a key system in which each room had a direct-dial extension. She reached for the blinking button.
“Where are you?” Bill’s voice asked.
“In your apartment, of course.”
He laughed. “I know that, but which room?”
“I don’t know, but the bed is like a rock.”
“Well, try another bed. There are lots of them.”
“Sure! I’ll be like Goldilocks. I’ll keep changing beds until one is just right.”
“What about the master bedroom?” he asked.
She drew a deep breath. “Not until I make some changes.”
“Oh!” He was surprised. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s beautiful, but it’s not me, and it’s certainly not you. Besides, there’s no room in the closet. Did you know that it’s still filled with your first wife’s things?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I suppose I did. That’s the one room I haven’t changed….”
Another deep breath. “Bill, I don’t want to take anyone’s place.”
“Of course, of course. You’re absolutely right. I want you to redo the rooms exactly the way you want them.”
“The way we want them,” Jane corrected.
Andrews laughed. “I guess I’m going to have to learn a new language.” Then he added, in a more serious tone, “You’re just going to have to bear with me for a while. I’ve been on my own too long!”
She was gaining ground, Jane thought, so she might just as well keep pushing. “And, Bill, I think I’d like to open up the pool and dance floor on the roof. It would be a perfect place for that reception you mentioned.”
“Great idea,” he answered. “It sounds as if you’re already putting your heart into the place.”
They spoke affectionately for a few minutes until Andrews announced that he had to rush off to a meeting.
“I love you,” Jane managed to get in before he hung up.
“And I love you. I already told you that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did,” she answered, even though she knew he hadn’t. As he said, she was going to have to bear with him for a while.
Her hand stayed on the phone long after she had hung up. All their conversations seemed ambivalent—moments of tenderness interrupted by the urgency of business. Was that the way her life was going to be?
Another of the telephone station lights went on, and Jane stared at it curiously for a moment. Someone was making a call. There was someone else in the apartment. But there couldn’t be. Mrs. McCarty was gone for the night. The elevator was down in the lobby, locked to anyone who didn’t have a key. She lifted the handset and pushed the lit key. There was a beeping sound. She was locked out of the other line. It didn’t seem possible, but she knew there was someone else inside the penthouse.
18
Jane slowly lifted herself out of the bed, slipped into her jeans, and tucked in the T-shirt she was wearing as a nightgown. She left her shoes behind as she eased open the bedroom door. The apartment was well lit by the skyline glare coming in through the glass living-room wall. Jane could see the furniture settings in the living room below, the piano bar on one side, and even the breakfast room near the kitchen. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place. Nothing was moving. She listened and heard the silence of the apartment over the soft street noises from outside. Not a sound other than a motor hum from below, probably the heating system or maybe a kitchen freezer.
Yet she had seen the light go on. Someone had to have lifted a telephone somewhere in the apartment. Jane looked back through the open door of her room at the phone on the desk. The light had gone out.
Was it a problem with the phone? A light that went on and off accidentally, or a handset that was off the hook? She was certain that the light came on long after she had hung up her own phone. The fact that she couldn’t access the extension seemed to confirm that the line was in use.
She slid along the outside of the balcony, panning her eyes down over the railing into the corners of the space below. But she stopped when she reached the top of the stairs. Why should she go down? If there was a burglar in the rooms below, the last thing she should do was confront him. God, but it was eerily like Kay Parker, going down the stairs of the mountain chalet and confronting an intruder.
But what if he was up there on the bedroom floor, lurking in one of the other guest rooms? Maybe in the room that Bill used. Or maybe in Kay’s room. Then she should go down and get out of the apartme
nt as fast as she could. But that was dangerous, too. She would have to go back to her room to get her elevator key. And then the elevator would take time coming up from the ground floor, time during which she would be trapped helplessly in the foyer.
She remembered the building staff down in the lobby. A night doorman. A concierge. Call down and tell them that someone had broken in. They could call the police and then come up in the elevator. She turned back to her bedroom, now more desperate to get to the door and close it behind her than she was to keep an eye on the living room. She went straight to her desk without turning on the light and found the telephone. But before she could pick up the handset, another light flashed on. She tried a different line. More rapid beeping! All the phone lines were tied up. She was trapped in the huge apartment with no communications and no elevator, a prisoner of whoever had broken in. The wonderful new world atop the New York skyline had turned into a death trap.
Something crashed downstairs—a dish, a lamp, maybe even a bottle from the liquor cabinet. Jane froze and listened to the silence that followed. There was nothing, not even the motor hum she had heard before. Then there was a creak, soft, muffled, and distant. It was a footstep at the bottom of the stairs. Whoever was down there was coming up. She went to the door and pressed her ear against it. Another sound, like the first. Another step, she thought. She found the doorknob and turned the lock. But that wouldn’t help much. It was only a flimsy privacy lock. One good kick and the door would fly open.
Should she scream? Would that startle the intruder and make him aware that someone was home? Or would it drive him into action and send him rushing to silence the screamer? It might not matter at all. No one would hear her. She was two levels away from the closest building resident, and twenty-five floors above the street.
Her cell phone chirped somewhere behind her. The cell phone! She ran back around the bed and dug into the pockets of the clothes she had carelessly discarded. Another chirp. Her hand followed the sound until she found the glowing data screen. “Yes,” she said in a horse whisper, and heard Bill’s voice. “Hi, I tried to call you back—”
The First Wife Page 15