One Fifth Avenue

You must not do this, he scolded himself. You must not hire that girl. If you do, you’ll sleep with her, and it will be a disaster.

But he finally had a grip on his screenplay. And gathering up his things, he headed out to the small library on Sixth Avenue, which was open late and where he could work uninterrupted.

Schiffer Diamond was finished on the stages at seven P. M., and during the ride back to the city, she found the attachment from Mindy’s blog, sent by the makeup artist on her BlackBerry: “I don’t have it all, and I’m coming to the realization that I probably never will. Perhaps my real fear lies elsewhere—in giving up my pursuit of happiness.”

No, one must never do that, Schiffer thought, and arriving at One Fifth, she went right up to the thirteenth floor and rang Philip’s bell. He wasn’t home. Back in her apartment, her phone rang, and picking it up, she thought it might be Philip after all—he was one of the few people who had the number. Instead, it was Billy Litchfield. “A little bird told me you were in town,” he scolded. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“I’ve been meaning to. But I’ve been working nonstop.”

“If you’re not working right this minute, let’s have a drink at Da Silvano. It’s a gorgeous evening.”

It was a gorgeous night, she realized. Why should she sit alone in her apartment? She would meet Billy and check back with Philip later. Maybe he’d be home.

She arrived first at Da Silvano, ordered a glass of wine, and thought about Billy. She loved Billy—everyone did. She felt proprietary in her friendship with him. Although years could go by during which she barely saw him, this was never a reflection of her feelings, especially as Billy was one of the first people she’d met in New York.

Indeed, if it weren’t for Billy, she wouldn’t be where she was today.

She’d been a student at Columbia, studying French literature with a minor in photography, when she’d wrangled an internship with a famous fashion photographer during the summer of her sophomore year. It was on one of these debauched photo shoots in a loft in SoHo that she’d met Billy, who was then an editor at large at Vogue. Champagne and cocaine were staples in those days, the model was three hours late, and, in the middle of the afternoon, engaged in sex with the photographer in his bedroom while an endless tape of Talk Talk played over and over.

“You know you’re more beautiful than the model,” Billy said to Schiffer while they waited for the photographer to finish his business.

“I know.” Schiffer shrugged.

“Are you always this confident?”

“Why should I have to lie about my looks? I didn’t choose them. They just are.”

“You should be in front of the camera,” Billy said.

“I’m too shy.”

Nevertheless, when Billy insisted she meet his friend who was a casting director, she went along with it. And when the casting director set her up with an audition for a movie, she went along with it, and when she got the part, she didn’t turn it down. She played a spoiled rich suburban girl, and on-screen, her beauty was riveting. Then she was on the cover of Vogue, and had a cosmetics campaign, and broke up with her boyfriend, a nice, good-looking boy from Chicago who was going to Columbia med school. She was signed by the biggest talent agent at ICM and told to move to Los Angeles, which she did, renting a small house off Sunset Boulevard. Right away she got the iconic part of the tragic ingenue in Summer Morning.

And met Philip, she reminded herself.

Now Billy, her dear old Billy, came hurrying down the sidewalk in a seersucker suit. She stood up to embrace him.

“I can’t believe you’re here. And I don’t believe you’ll stay in New York,” Billy said, sitting down and motioning to the waiter. “Hollywood people always say they’re going to stay, and they never do.”

“But I never considered myself a Hollywood person,” Schiffer said. “I always thought

of myself as a New Yorker. It was the only way I managed to live in L.A. for so long.”

“New York has changed,” Billy said, a mournful tone creeping into his voice.

“I’m sorry about Mrs. Houghton,” Schiffer said. “I know you were close.”

“She was very old. And I think I may have found a couple for her apartment.”

“That’s nice,” Schiffer said, but she didn’t want to talk real estate. “Billy,” she said, leaning forward. “Have you seen Philip Oakland?”

“That’s exactly what I mean about New York changing,” Billy said. “I almost never see him anymore. I see Enid, of course, at events. But not Philip. I’ve heard he’s a bit of a mess.”

“He was always a bit of a mess,” Schiffer said.

“But at a certain point, the mess needs to go away. Even Redmon Richardly got married.” Billy brushed a speck of dirt off his seersucker trousers. “That was one thing I’ve never understood. Why didn’t you two end up together?”

“I have no idea.”