One Fifth Avenue

“Why are they taking your picture?” he’d demanded, angrily taking her hand at the end of a short red carpet behind which sat posters with the logos of a fashion magazine and an electronics company.

“I don’t know, Paul,” she’d said. Was it possible Paul was this naive about the world of which he’d insisted they become a part? Billy Litchfield often said these parties were for the women—the dressing up, the showing off of jewelry—so perhaps Paul, being a man, simply didn’t understand. He had always been terrible at anything social, having nearly no ability to read people or make small talk. He became stiff and angry when he was in a situation he didn’t understand, and would thrust his tongue into his cheek, as if to forcibly prevent himself from speaking. That evening, seeing his cheek bulge, Annalisa had wondered how to explain the rules of this particular society. “It’s like a birthday party, Paul. Where people take photographs. So they can remember the moment.”

“I don’t like it,” Paul said. “I don’t want pictures of me floating around on the Internet. I don’t want people to know what I look like or where I am.”

Annalisa laughed. “That’s so paranoid, Paul. Everyone has their picture taken. Even Sandy’s photograph is everywhere.”

“I’m not Sandy.”

“Then you shouldn’t go out,” she said.

“I’m not sure you should, either.”

His remark had infuriated her. “Maybe we should move back to Washington, then,” she’d said sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shook her head, frustrated but knowing it was useless to fight with him, which she’d discovered early on in their marriage. When they disagreed, Paul picked apart the exact words she’d used, managing to divert attention away from the topic so it could never be resolved and they could never agree. Paul wouldn’t give in on principle. “Nothing,” she said.

She did stay home three nights in a row, but Paul wouldn’t make any adjustments to his schedule, so she was alone in the big apartment, wandering from room to room until Paul came home at ten o’clock, ate a peanut-butter sandwich that the housekeeper, Maria, prepared, and went upstairs to work. Billy Litchfield was still at his mother’s house, and Annalisa felt the sharp emptiness of being alone in a big city where everyone else seemed to have something important to do. On the fourth night, she gave up and went out with Connie, and the photographers took more pictures, and Annalisa put the prints in her drawer and didn’t tell Paul.

Now one of the women, obsessed with the story in W, turned to Annalisa and casually said, “How did you get on that list? And only having been in New York for six months.”

“I don’t know,” Annalisa said.

“Because she is going to be the next Mrs. Houghton,” Connie said proudly. “Billy Litchfield says so. Annalisa would make a much better Mrs. Houghton than I would.”

“I certainly would not,” Annalisa said.

“Did Billy put you up for it?” asked one of the women.

“I love Billy, but he can be pushy,” said another.

“I don’t know why anyone cares,” Annalisa said, pressing another stamp onto another envelope. She still had a pile of at least a hundred in front of her. “Mrs. Houghton is dead. Let her rest in peace.”

The other women twittered at the outrageousness of this remark. “No, really,” Annalisa said, getting up to ask Maria to bring in lunch. “I don’t understand why it’s a goal.”

“It’s only because you don’t want it,” one of the women replied. “It’s always the people who don’t want things who get them.”

“That’s right,” Connie agreed. “I wouldn’t give Sandy the time of day when I met him, and we ended up getting married.”

“Maria,” Annalisa said, pushing through the swing door into the kitchen. “Could you serve the Waldorf chicken salad and the cheese biscuits, please?” She returned to the table and began to attack the pile of envelopes again.

“Did you get the parking space yet?” Connie asked idly.

“No,” Annalisa said.

“You have to be adamant with the people in your co-op,” said one of the women. “You can’t let them walk all over you. Did you make it clear you’d pay extra money?”

“It’s not that kind of building.” Annalisa felt the beginnings of a headache. The parking space, like the air conditioners, had been yet another disaster. Paul had gone to the resident who had won the lottery for the parking space, a quiet man who was a heart surgeon at Columbia, and asked if he could buy it from him. The doctor had complained to Mindy, and Mindy had sent Paul a note asking him not to bribe the other residents. When Paul saw the note, he turned white. “Where did she get this?” he demanded, indicating the paper on which the note was written. It was a sheet from a notepad from the Four Seasons hotel in Bangkok. “She was in our apartment,” Paul said, his voice rising. “That’s where she got the paper. From my desk.”

“Paul, don’t be crazy.”

“Then where did she get this?” Paul demanded.

“I don’t know,” Annalisa said, remembering how she’d given Sam the keys over Christmas. So Sam, who had returned the keys, had given them to his mother after all. But she couldn’t tell Paul that, so she insisted the paper had to be a coincidence. It was another thing she’d had to lie to Paul about, and it made her feel horribly guilty, as if she’d committed a crime. Paul had the locks changed, but it only increased his hatred of Mindy Gooch and made him vow to get “that woman” out of the building one way or another.

Maria brought in the lunch and set it out on the table with silver cutlery from Asprey and the Tiffany china, which Billy said was still the best. “Cheese biscuits,” one of the women exclaimed, looking doubtfully at the golden biscuits piled up on the crystal platter. “Annalisa, you shouldn’t have,” she scolded. “I swear to God, you’re trying to make us all fat.”