One Fifth Avenue

“Huh?” Annalisa said, poking her head out the door.

“You’re so shy. Changing in the bathroom. You should change in here so I can help you,” Norine said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Right,” Annalisa said and shut the door. She turned to look at herself in the mirror and grimaced. How the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? It had sounded like such a good idea at first, hiring a stylist. Billy said everybody did it these days, meaning everyone with money or status who had to go out and be photographed. It was the only way, Billy said, to get the best clothes. But this was out of control. Norine was always calling or sending e-mail attachments of the clothes, accessories, and jewelry she photographed while shopping or visiting designer showrooms. Annalisa had had no idea there were so many lines. Not just spring and fall but resort, cruise, summer, and Christmas. Each season required its own look, and getting the look required as much planning as a military coup. Clothing had to be chosen and ordered months in advance, otherwise it would be gone.

Annalisa held the gold lamé up to her chin. No, she thought. This has gone too far.

But perhaps everything had gone too far. Despite the progress she’d made on the apartment, Paul was unhappy. The lottery had been held for the parking space in the Mews, and Paul hadn’t won. Coupled with this disappointing news was a letter from Mindy Gooch, officially informing them that their request for through-the-wall air-conditioning units had been denied.

“We’ll make it work without them,” Annalisa had said, trying to soothe him.

“I can’t.”

“We have to.”

Paul glared at her. “It’s a conspiracy,” he insisted. “It’s because we have money and they don’t.”

“Mrs. Houghton had money,” Annalisa said, trying to reason with him. “And she lived here without any trouble for years.”

“She was one of them,” Paul countered. “And we’re not.”

“Paul,” she said patiently. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m making real money now,” he said. “And I expect to be treated with a certain amount of respect.”

“I thought you were making real money six months ago,” she said, attempting to lighten the situation.

“Forty million isn’t real money. A hundred million is getting there.”

Annalisa felt queasy. She knew Paul was making a lot of money and planned to make more. But somehow it had never hit her that it was going to become a reality. “That’s insane, Paul,” she protested. But it also excited her, the way looking at dirty pictures excited you even though you didn’t want to feel turned on and felt guilty about the excitement. Perhaps too much money was like too much sex. It crossed the line and became pornographic.

“Come on, Annalisa. Open the door. Let me see you,” Norine said.

There was something pornographic in this, too. In this being seen, this unrelenting demand to be constantly seen everywhere. Annalisa felt worse than naked, as if her private parts were on display, open to all for examination.

“I don’t know,” Annalisa said, coming out. The gold lamé golf suit consisted of a skirt cropped mid-thigh and a shirt cut like a polo shirt (they’d been Lacoste shirts when she was a kid; she’d called them “alligator shirts,” a testament to how blissfully unfashionable she’d been growing up), pulled together by a wide belt slung low on the hips. “What am I supposed to wear under this?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Norine said.

“No underpants?”

“Call them panties, please,” Norine said. “If you want, you wear gold lamé panties. Or maybe silver lamé. For contrast.”

“Paul would never allow it,” Annalisa said firmly, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

Norine took Annalisa’s face in her hands, holding it between her manicured fingers, and squeezed Annalisa’s face like a child’s. She shook her head, pursing her lips. “You mustn’t, mustn’t say that again,” she said in a baby voice. “We don’t care what Daddy Paulie likes or dislikes. Repeat after me: ‘I will choose my own clothes.’”

“I will choose my own clothes,” Annalisa said reluctantly. Now she was stuck. Norine never seemed to understand that when Annalisa said Paul wouldn’t like something, it meant she didn’t like it but didn’t want to offend Norine.

“Very good,” Norine said. “I’ve been doing this a long time—too long—but the one thing I know is that men never mind what their wives are wearing as long as the wives are happy. And look great. Better than the other men’s wives.”

“But what if they don’t?” Annalisa said, thinking she’d had enough of this exercise.

“That’s why they have me,” Norine said with unbridled confidence. She snapped her fingers at her assistant. “Photo, please,” she said.

Julee held up her phone and snapped Annalisa’s picture.

“How is it?” Norine asked.