One Fifth Avenue

Mindy smiled. “Touché. In that case, I’ll leave your future up to you. But in the meantime, don’t forget about the mini-chunks.”

After she left, James dressed carefully, changing his jeans and shirt several times, finally settling on an old black turtleneck cashmere sweater that had just the right amount of dash and writerly seriousness. Looking in the mirror, he was pleased with the result. Mindy might not be interested in him, but it didn’t mean other women weren’t.

On his way to the gym that morning, Philip ran into Schiffer Diamond in the deli. She’d been on his mind ever since her phone call on New Year’s Eve. He told himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet still felt a need to apologize—to explain. “I’ve been meaning to call,” he began.

“You’re always meaning to call, aren’t you?” she replied. Now that Lola was moving in to his apartment, it should have been the absolute end of Schiffer’s feelings for Philip. Unfortunately, her feelings hadn’t gone away, causing an irrational irritation toward him. “Too bad you never do.”

“You could call me,” Philip said.

“Oakland.” She sighed. “Have you noticed we’re grown-ups now?”

“Yeah. Well,” he said, shifting through a display of PowerBars. This reminded him of the dozens of times he’d been in this deli with her in the past—buying ice cream and bread after sex, coffee and bacon and The New York Times on Sundays. There was a comfort and peace in those moments that he couldn’t recall having had again. He’d assumed then that they’d be together forever doing their Sunday-morning routine when they were eighty. But there were the other times, like after a fight, or when she’d left again for L.A. or a movie location after making no plans for their future, when he’d stood here bitterly, buying cigarettes, and promising himself he’d never see her again.

“Listen,” he said.

“Mmmmm?” she asked. She picked up a magazine with her face on the cover.

He smiled. “Do you still collect those things?” he asked.

“Not the way I used to,” she said. She bought the magazine and headed out of the store.

He followed. “The thing about Lola,” he began.

“Philip,” she said. “I told you. It’s none of my business.” But she only ever called him by his name when she was angry with him.

“I want to explain.”

“Don’t.”

“It wasn’t my choice. Her parents lost all their money. She didn’t have anyplace to live. What was I supposed to do—put her out on the street?”

“Her parents lost all their money? Come on, Philip,” she said. “Even you’re not that gullible.”

“They did,” he insisted, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. He unwrapped his PowerBar and said defensively, “You were with Brumminger. You can’t be mad at me about Lola.”

“Who said I was mad?”

“You’re the one who’s never around,” Philip said, wondering why women were always so difficult.

“I’m here now, Philip,” she said, stopping on the corner of Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. “And I’ve been here for months.”

She’s still interested, Philip thought. “So let’s have dinner.”

“With Lola?” Schiffer said.

“No. Not with Lola. How about next Thursday? Enid’s taking Lola to the ballet.”

“That’s an honorable plan,” she said sarcastically.

“It’s two old friends having dinner together. Why can’t we be friends? Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?”

“Fine, schoolboy,” she said. “We’ll have dinner. I’ll even cook.”

Meanwhile, upstairs in One Fifth, James Gooch was preparing to make love to Lola Fabrikant. Not actual love—not sex, which he knew was most likely beyond the realm of possibility—but verbal love. He wanted her interest and appreciation. At ten-ten, not wanting to appear too eager, he rode the elevator to the thirteenth floor. He was thinking only of Lola, but when she opened the door, some of his attention was diverted by Philip’s apartment and the inevitable comparisons to his own. Oakland’s place was a real apartment. No string of boxlike rooms for him. There was a foyer and a large living room, a fireplace, hallways, and when James followed Lola into the living room, he caught a glimpse of a proper-sized kitchen with granite countertops and a table large enough for four. The place smacked of old money, personal taste, travel, and a decorator, encapsulating that mix of antique and contemporary. James took in the Oriental rug, African sculpture, and leather club chairs in front of the fireplace. How often did Oakland sit there with Lola, drinking Scotch and making love to her atop the zebra rug? “I brought you my book,” he said awkwardly. “As promised.”

Lola was wearing a fancy T-shirt, even though it was winter—but didn’t all young girls bare their almighty flesh in all kinds of weather these days?—and plaid pants that hugged her bottom, and on her feet, pretty little blue velvet slippers embroidered with a skull and crossbones. As she held out her hand for the book, she must have caught him looking at her feet, for she touched the heel of one slipper with the toe of the other and said, “They’re last year’s. I wanted to get the ones with the angels or butterflies—but I couldn’t. They’re six hundred dollars, and I couldn’t afford them.” She sighed and sat down on the couch. “I’m poor,” she explained.

James did not know how to respond to this flood of random information. Her cell phone rang, and she answered it, followed by several “ohmigods” and “fucks,” as if he weren’t in the room. James was slightly hurt. In the run-up to this encounter, he’d imagined she truly was interested and the delivery of the book partly ruse, but now he wasn’t sure. After ten minutes, he gave up and headed toward the door. “Wait,” she said. She pointed to the phone, making a talking motion with her hand as if it were out of her control. She held the phone away from her ear. “Are you leaving?” she asked James.