One Fifth Avenue

She headed for the wall of bookcases. Three entire shelves were taken up with Philip’s first book, Summer Morning, in various editions and languages. Another shelf consisted of hardcover first editions of the classics; Philip had told her that he collected them and had paid as much as five thousand dollars for a first edition of The Great Gatsby, which Lola thought was crazy. On the bottom shelf was a collection of old newspapers and magazines. Lola picked up a copy of The New York Review of Books dated February 1992. She flipped through the pages until she came upon a review of Philip’s book Dark Star. Boring, she thought, and put it back. On the bottom of the pile, she spied an old copy of Vogue magazine. She pulled it out and looked at the cover. September 1989. One of the headlines read: THE NEW POWER COUPLES. What was Philip doing with an old copy of Vogue? she wondered, and opened it up to find

out.

Turning to the middle of the magazine, she found the answer. There was a ten-page spread of a much younger Philip and an even younger-looking Schiffer Diamond, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, feeding each other croissants at a sidewalk café, strolling down a Paris street in a ballgown and a tux. The headline read: LOVE IN THE SPRINGTIME: OSCAR-WINNING ACTRESS SCHIFFER DIAMOND AND PULITZER PRIZE–WINNING AUTHOR PHILIP OAKLAND SHOW OFF THE NEW PARIS COLLECTIONS.

Lola took the magazine to the couch and studied the pictures more carefully. She’d had no idea Philip Oakland and Schiffer Diamond had once been together, and she was filled with jealousy. In the past week, she’d felt moments of attraction to Philip but had always hesitated because of his age. He was twenty years older. And while he looked younger and was in good shape—he went to the gym every morning—and there were tons of young women who married older celebrities—look at Billy Joel’s wife—Lola still worried that if she “went there” with Philip, she might get a nasty surprise. What if he had age spots? Or couldn’t get it up?

But as she flipped through the photo spread in Vogue, her estimation of him rose, and she began calculating how to seduce him.

At five P. M., Philip left the library and walked back to One Fifth. Lola should be gone, he figured, and another day would have passed during which he had managed not to attempt to sleep with the girl. He was attracted to her, which he couldn’t help, being a man. And she seemed to be attracted to him, judging by the way she looked at him through a strand of hair she was always twisting in front of her face, as if she were shy. But she was a little young even for him and, despite her knowledge of everything celebrity and Internet, not very worldly. So far, nothing much had happened to her in life, and she was a bit immature.

Riding the elevator to his floor, he had an inspiration and hit the button for nine. There were six apartments on this floor, and Schiffer’s was at the end. He walked down the hallway, reminded of the many times he’d been here at all hours of the day and night. He rang her bell and then rattled the door handle. Nothing. She wasn’t home, of course. She was never home.

He went upstairs to his own apartment and, turning the key in the lock, was startled to hear Lola call out, “Philip?”

Inside the door was a small pink patent-leather overnight case. Lola was in the living room on the couch. She peeked over the back.

“You’re still here,” Philip said. He was surprised but not, he realized, unhappy to see her.

“Something really, really terrible has happened,” she said. “I hope you won’t be angry.”

“What?” he asked in alarm, thinking it must have something to do with his screenplay. Had he gotten another call from the head of the studio?

“There’s no hot water in my building.”

“Oh,” he said. Guessing at the meaning of the overnight case, he said, “Do you need to take a shower here?”

“It’s not just that. Someone told me they’re going to be working on the pipes all night. When I went home, there was all this banging.”

“But surely they’ll stop. After six, I would think.”

She shook her head. “My building isn’t like your building. It’s a rental, so they can do whatever they want. Whenever they want,” she added for emphasis.

“What do you want to do?” he asked. Was she angling to spend the night at his apartment? Which could be a very bad—or a very good—idea.

“I was thinking maybe I could sleep on your couch. It’s only one night. They’ll have to have the pipes fixed by tomorrow.”

He hesitated, wondering if the pipes were an excuse. If so, he’d be a fool to resist. “Sure,” he said.

“Oh, goody,” she exclaimed, jumping up from the couch and grabbing her bag. “You won’t even know I’m here, I promise. I’ll sit on the couch and watch TV. And you can work, if you want to. Or whatever.”

“You don’t have to act like a little orphan girl,” he said. “I’ll take you to dinner.”

While she was in the shower, he went into his office and scrolled through his e-mails. There were several he knew he ought to return, but hearing the shower running and imagining Lola’s naked body, he couldn’t concentrate and tried to read Variety instead. Then she appeared in the doorway, damp but clothed in a short tank-top dress, rubbing her hair in a towel. “Where do you want to go for dinner?” she asked.

He closed his computer. “I thought I’d take you to Knickerbocker. It’s right around the corner, and it’s one of my favorite restaurants. It’s not fancy, but the food’s good.”

A little later, seated in a booth, Lola studied the extensive menu while Philip ordered a bottle of wine. “I always get the oysters and steak,” he said. “Do you like oysters?”

“I love them,” she said, putting down the menu and smiling at him eagerly. “Have you ever had an oyster shot? They take an oyster and put it in a shot glass with vodka and cocktail sauce. We had them all the time when I was in Miami.”

Philip wasn’t sure how to respond, having never had an oyster shot, which sounded disgusting but probably made sense to a twenty-two-year-old. “And then what happened?” he asked. It was a random question, but it prompted a response.

“Well,” she said, putting her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands, “you get really wasted. And one girl—she wasn’t one of my friends, but she was in our posse—got so drunk, she took off her shirt for Girls Gone Wild. And her father saw it. And he flipped out. Isn’t that disgusting, knowing your father watches Girls Gone Wild?”

“Maybe he’d heard she’d done it. And he wanted to know for sure.”

She frowned. “No one tells their father they did Girls Gone Wild. But some girls definitely do it to get guys interested. They think it makes them look hot.”