One Fifth Avenue

“That is such a typical male remark,” Mindy said. “Neither you nor Philip Oakland can see the truth. Because you’re both thinking with your little heads.”

“I’m not,” James said innocently.

“Is that so?” Mindy said. “In that case, why are you wearing a tie?”

“I always wear ties.”

“You never wear ties.”

“Maybe it’s a new me,” James said. He shrugged, trying to make light of it.

Luckily, Mindy didn’t seem too concerned. “If you wear a tie with that V-neck sweater, you look like a dork,” she said.

James took off the sweater. Then he gave up and removed the tie.

“Why are we having this dinner again?” she asked for the fourth or fifth time that day.

“Oakland invited us. Remember? We’ve been living in the same building for ten years, and we’ve never gotten together. I thought it would be nice.”

“You like Oakland now,” Mindy said skeptically.

“He’s okay.”

“I thought you hated him. Because he never remembered who you were.”

Marriage, James thought. It really was a ball and chain, keeping you forever tethered to the past. “I never said that,” he said.

“You did,” Mindy said. “You said it all the time.”

James went into the bathroom to try to get away from Mindy and her questions. Mindy was right—he had lied to her about the circumstances of the dinner. Philip hadn’t asked them to dinner at all; indeed, for the first two weeks of January, he seemed to be trying to avoid the possibility by rushing past James when they passed in the lobby. But James had been insistent, and finally, Philip had to give in. James couldn’t stand Philip, but he could stand Lola. Ever since he’d met her in Paul Smith with Philip, James had nursed an irrational belief that she might be interested in him.

Reminding himself that in a few minutes, he’d be seeing the lovely Lola Fabrikant in the flesh, James took off his glasses and leaned in to the mirror. His eyes had a naked quality, as if they belonged to one of Plato’s cave dwellers who had yet to see the light. In between his eyes were two deep furrows, where the seeds of his life’s discontent had been planted so often they’d become permanent. He tugged on the skin, erasing the evidence of his unhappiness. He went to the bathroom door. “What’s that stuff?” he asked Mindy.

“What stuff?” Mindy said. She had taken off the slacks and was pulling on a pair of heavy black tights.

“That stuff that socialites use. To get rid of wrinkles.”

“Botox?” Mindy said. “What about it?”

“I was thinking I might get some.” On Mindy’s look of astonishment, he added: “Might be good for the book tour. Couldn’t hurt to look younger. Isn’t that what everyone says?”

Lola hated the Knickerbocker restaurant, which was filled with old people and Village locals—a motley crew, she thought, and not at all glamorous, with their pilled sweaters and reading glasses. If this turned out to be her life with Philip, she would kill herself. She consoled herself with the fact that they were having dinner with James Gooch, who had a book coming out that everyone was supposedly talking about, although Philip claimed he couldn’t understand why. James Gooch was a second-rate writer, he said. Even if he was, Lola still didn’t understand why Philip didn’t like James. James was sweet, she decided, and easily manipulated. He kept glancing over at her, catching her eye, and then looking away.

His wife, Mindy Gooch, was another story. Every time Mindy spoke, Lola felt her hackles rising. Mindy couldn’t be bothered to disguise the fact that she was deliberately behaving as if Lola were not sitting in the same booth right next to her. Mindy wouldn’t even turn her head to look at her, instead focusing all her attention on Philip. Not that Lola wanted to talk to Mindy anyway. Mindy was a little scary, with her eighties bob and her pointy nose and pale skin, and most mysterious of all, she acted as though she were pretty. It crossed Lola’s mind that perhaps a million years ago, when Mindy was eighteen, she was attractive. If so, her looks had faded quickly. Lola believed that any girl could be pretty at eighteen, but the real test of beauty came with age. Were you still pretty at twenty-two? Thirty? Even forty? This reminded her of Schiffer Diamond and how Philip claimed she was still a great beauty at forty-five. Lola had disagreed on principle. Philip claimed she was jealous. She denied this, insisting it was the reverse—other women were jealous of her. Philip didn’t buy it, and eventually, she’d had to concede that Schiffer Diamond was beautiful “for her age.”

With Mindy Gooch, there was no possibility of jealousy. Lola only wanted to stab her with a fork. “I’d like my steak well done,” Mindy was saying to the waiter. “With steamed vegetables. Steamed, not sautéed. If I see butter, I’ll send it back.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter said.

If I ever turn out like Mindy Gooch, I will kill myself, Lola thought.

Apparently, Mindy was like this all the time, because

Philip and James were ignoring this exchange, caught up in their own one-upmanship. “What is the function of the artist in today’s society?” James was asking. “Sometimes I wonder if he really has a point anymore.”

“He?” Mindy interjected. “What about she?”

“He used to reflect man,” James continued. “The artist held up a mirror to society. He could show us the truth or inspire.”