One Fifth Avenue

“There’s an ATM in the deli around the corner. Do you mind? I owe the landlady two hundred dollars. For utilities. And you don’t want me to starve while you’re away.”

“I certainly don’t,” James said. “But you should try to get a job.”

“I will,” she reassured him. “But it’s hard.”

“I can’t support you forever,” he said, thinking about his aborted attempt at sex.

“I’m not asking you to,” she said. On the sidewalk, she took his hand. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He extracted five hundred dollars from the ATM and handed it to h

er. “I’ll miss you,” she said, flinging her arms around him. “Call me the minute you get back. We’ll get together. And next time it will work,” she called over her shoulder.

James stared after her, then set off down Ninth Avenue. Had he just been taken for a ride? No, he assured himself. Lola wasn’t like that. And she’d said she wanted to do it again. He strolled down Fifth Avenue full of confidence. By the time he reached One Fifth, he’d convinced himself it was a good thing he’d ejaculated prematurely. No fluids were exchanged, so it couldn’t really be called cheating.

20

Early that evening, on her way to Thayer Core’s place, Lola paused across the street from One Fifth and stared at the entrance. She often did this, hoping to run into Philip or Schiffer. The week before, they’d announced their engagement, and the news was all over the tabloids and on the entertainment programs, as if the union of two middle-aged people was not only a big deal but an inspiration for all lonely, still-single middle-aged women everywhere. Schiffer had gone on Oprah to promote Lady Superior, but really, Lola thought, to boast about her upcoming nuptials. Their marriage was part of a hot new trend, Oprah said, in which women and men were finding first loves from the past and realizing they were meant for each other all along. “But this time around, one is older and wiser—I hope!” Schiffer remarked, which drew knowing laughter from the audience. They had yet to set a date or a place but wanted to do something small and nontraditional. Schiffer had already picked out a dress—a short white sheath covered in silver bugle beads—which Oprah held up for the cameras. While the audience oohed and ahhed, Lola felt sick. It should have been her wedding Oprah was blathering on about, not Schiffer’s. And she would have chosen a better dress—something traditional, with lace and a train. Lola couldn’t stop thinking about the wedding; filled with envy and anger, she possessed a pernicious fantasy of confronting either Philip or Schiffer. Hence her occasional stakeouts of One Fifth. And yet she didn’t dare linger too long—she might encounter Philip or Schiffer but might as easily run into Enid.

Three days after Billy Litchfield’s memorial service, Enid called her, and Lola, not recognizing the number, took the call. “I hear you’re back in New York, dear,” Enid said.

“That’s right,” Lola said.

“I wish you hadn’t come back,” Enid said with a disappointed sigh. “How do you plan to survive?”

“Frankly, Enid, it’s none of your business,” Lola said, and hung up. But now she was on Enid’s radar, and she had to be careful. She wasn’t sure what Enid might do.

That evening, however, standing across from the building, she saw only Mindy Gooch going in, pulling a little cart filled with groceries behind her.

“I need a job,” Lola said to Thayer a few minutes later, plopping onto the pile of dirty clothes that Josh called his bed.

“Why?” Thayer asked.

“Don’t be an idiot. I need money,” Lola said.

“You and everyone else in New York under the age of thirty. The baby boomers took all the money. There ain’t any left for us young’uns.”

“Don’t joke,” Lola said. “I’m serious. James Gooch has gone away again. And I only got five hundred dollars out of him. He’s so cheap. His book has been on the best-seller list for two months. And he gets five thousand dollars for every week he’s on the list. As a bonus.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I told him he should give me the money.”

“What’d he say?” Thayer asked. “You’ve had sex with him, right? So he owes you. Because there’s really no reason for you to have sex with him other than money.”

“I’m not a whore,” Lola grumbled.

Thayer laughed. “Speaking of which, I might have a job for you. Someone e-mailed us a request today. They’re looking for writers. Female writers. For a new website. It pays a thousand dollars a post. That made me suspicious. But you might check it out.”

Lola took down the information. Doing nothing in New York City was much more expensive than she’d imagined. If she spent too much time in her tiny studio apartment, she began to go crazy. By the time nine P. M. rolled around, she had to get out and took sanctuary at one or two of several nightclubs in the Meatpacking District. The doormen knew her and usually let her in for free—pretty, unattached young women were considered an asset. And she rarely paid for a drink. But she still had to eat, and she had to buy clothes so she would look good to get the free drinks. It was a vicious cycle. To maintain even this lifestyle, she needed cash.

The next day, Lola went to the address on the e-mail. The building wasn’t far from her own: It was one of the grand new structures that had popped up around the High Line, overlooking the Hudson River. She was going to Apartment 16C, and rather than calling up, as they would have done at One Fifth, the doorman merely asked her to sign in on a time sheet, as if she were going to an office. Knocking on the door, she was greeted by a youngish man with an alarming tattoo around his neck; upon closer inspection, she saw that not just his neck was tattooed but his entire right arm. He was also wearing a ring in his left nostril. “You must be Lola,” he said. “I’m Marquee.” He didn’t bother to shake her hand.

“Marquee?” she asked, following him into a sparsely furnished living room with an unobstructed view of the West Side Highway, the brown waters of the Hudson, and the New Jersey skyline. “Your name is Marquee?” she asked again.

“That’s right,” Marquee said coolly. “You got a problem with it? You’re not one of those people who has a problem with names, are you?”

“No,” Lola said with a scoff, letting Marquee know right away that he wasn’t going to intimidate her. “I’ve just never heard of anyone with that particular name.”

“That’s because I made it up,” Marquee said. “There’s only one Marquee, and I want people to remember it. So, what’s your experience?” he asked.

Lola looked around the living room. The furnishings consisted of two small couches, which at first glance appeared to be covered in white fabric. On closer inspection, Lola saw they were covered in bare white muslin, as if they were wearing only their undergarments. “What’s yours?” she said.