One Fifth Avenue

“You didn’t need him,” Billy said. “A man like Philip wants to be needed. And you were a great actress…”

She shook her head. “I was never a great actress. I watch Summer Morning now, and I cringe.”

“You were wonderful,” Billy said.

“I sucked,” Schiffer said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Do you know what Philip Oakland said to me once?” she asked. “He said I’d never be a great actress because I wasn’t vulnerable.”

“There’s your answer,” Billy said. “Philip was jealous.”

“Can a man who’s won a Pulitzer Prize and an Oscar be jealous?”

“Of course,” Billy said. “Jealousy, envy, ego—those are the things success is made of. I see it all the time in these new people who come to New York. I suppose in that way, New York hasn’t changed.” Billy took a sip of his wine. “It’s too bad about Philip Oakland, though, because he really was talented.”

“That makes me sad,” Schiffer said.

“My dear,” Billy said, “don’t waste your time worrying about Philip. In five years, he’ll be fifty, and he’ll be one of those old men who are always with young women, and the young women get worse and worse and more and more silly. While you, on the other hand, will probably have three Emmys. You won’t be giving Philip Oakland a second thought.”

“But I love Philip.”

Billy shrugged. “We all love Philip. But what can you do? You can’t change human nature.”

Later, on her way home from Da Silvano, Schiffer thought about ringing Philip’s bell again. But remembering what Billy had said about Philip, she decided it probably was pointless. Who was she kidding? Billy was right. Philip would never change. Coming into her apartment, she congratulated herself on for once doing the sensible thing.

6

“Why are you going to a funeral for a woman you don’t even know?” Paul Rice asked.

That same evening, he and Annalisa were dining at La Grenouille. Paul adored the famous French restaurant, not for the food but simply because it was ridiculously expensive (sixty-six dollars for Dover sole) and close to the hotel, prompting him to refer to it as “the canteen.”

“She’s not just any woman,” Annalisa said. “Mrs. Houghton was the city’s most important socialite. Billy Litchfield asked me, and apparently, it’s a very exclusive invitation.”

Paul studied the wine menu. “Who’s Billy Litchfield again?”

“Connie’s friend,” Annalisa said. She felt weary. “Remember? We spent the weekend with him.”

“Right,” Paul said. “The bald fruit.”

Annalisa smiled. The comment was Paul’s attempt at a joke. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

“What’s wrong with it? He is gay, isn’t he?”

“Someone might hear you. And get the wrong impression.”

Paul looked around the restaurant. “Who?” he asked. “There’s no one here.”

“Billy says he can probably get us Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. It’s supposed to be spectacular—three floors with wraparound terraces—and the building is one of the best in the city.”

The sommelier came to the table. “We’ll have the Bordeaux,” Paul said. He handed over the wine menu and continued to Annalisa, “I still don’t get it. Why do you have to go to a funeral to get this apartment? Isn’t cold hard cash enough?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Annalisa said, tearing off a small piece of bread. “Apparently, it’s all about who you know. That’s why I’m going. To meet some of the other residents. Eventually, you’ll have to meet them, too. And when you do, please don’t call anyone a fruit.”

“How much does he charge?” Paul asked.

“Who?”

“This Billy Litchfield character.”

“I don’t know.”