“Sure,” Lola said. She followed Enid to the French door and watched her go through the gate to her own terrace.
Lola went inside and sat down on the couch. So Philip had a relative who lived right next door. She hadn’t expected that—somehow she’d assumed that people like Philip Oakland didn’t have relatives. Idly opening a magazine, she recalled the cold look on Enid’s face but told herself it didn’t matter. The aunt was ancient. How much trouble could an old lady be?
7
“James, what is wrong with you?” Mindy asked the next morning.
“I don’t think I’m suited for fame,” James said. “I can’t even figure out what to wear.”
Mindy rolled over in the bed and looked at the clock. It was just after six A. M. I am depressed, she thought. “Could you be a little quieter?” she said. “I’m tired.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Do you have to rattle the hangers so loudly? Can’t you try on clothes silently?”
“Why don’t you get up and help me?”
“You’re a grown man, James. You ought to be able to figure out what to wear.”
“Fine. I’ll wear what I always wear. Jeans and a T-shirt.”
“You could try a suit,” Mindy said.
“Haven’t seen that suit in three months. The dry cleaners probably lost it,” James said in a slightly accusatory tone, as if this might be her fault.
“Please, James. Stop. It’s only a stupid picture.”
“It’s my publicity photograph.”
“Why are they doing it so early?”
“I told you. Some famous fashion photographer is taking the picture. He’s only available from nine to eleven.”
“Jesus. I could have taken your picture. With my cell phone. Oh, please,” Mindy said. “Can’t you be quiet? If I don’t sleep, I’m going to go insane.”
If you haven’t already, James thought, gathering up a pile of clothes and leaving the room in a huff. It was his big day. Why did Mindy have to make everything about her?
He took the pile into his office and dropped the clothes on a chair. Viewed from this angle, his clothing looked like something you’d find in the cart of a homeless person. The publicist in Redmon’s office, who possessed the improbable moniker of Cherry, had instructed him to bring three choices. Three shirts, three pairs of pants, a jacket or two, and a couple pairs of shoes. “But I mostly wear sneakers. Converse,” James had said. “Do your best,” Cherry had replied. “The photograph should be a reflection of you.”
Great, James thought. It’ll be a photograph of a balding, middl
e-aged man. He went into the bathroom and studied his appearance. Perhaps he should have shaved his head. But then he’d look like every other middle-aged guy who was balding and trying to cover it up. Besides, he didn’t believe he had the face for the no-hair look. His features were irregular; his nose appeared as if it might have been broken once and healed badly, but it was only the Gooch nose, passed down through generations of ordinary hardship. He wished he looked like someone specific, though; he would have been happy with the brooding, hooded look of an artist. He narrowed his eyes and turned down his mouth, but this only made him appear to be making a face. Resigned to his visage, James shoved as many clothes as he could into one of Mindy’s carefully folded shopping bags from Barneys and went out into the lobby.
It was raining. Hard. From the little windows in the back of his apartment, it was difficult to gauge the weather, so that one might arrive outside and find it was much better, although usually much worse, than one expected. It was not yet seven A. M., and already James felt defeated by the day. He went back into his apartment to get an umbrella, but all he could find in the jumbled hall closet was a flimsy fold-up affair, which, when opened, revealed four sharp spokes. Back in the lobby, James peered out anxiously at the pouring rain. A black SUV was idling at the curb. Behind him, the doorman Fritz was rolling out a plastic runner. Fritz stopped for a moment and joined James. “It’s really pouring out there,” he said, looking concerned. “You need a cab?”
“I’m okay,” James said. He did need a taxi, but he never allowed the doormen to get him one. He knew how the doormen felt about Mindy’s tipping, and he felt guilty asking them to perform the normal duties they did for other, better-tipping residents. If he made money from his book, he thought, he’d be sure to give them extra this year.
The elevator door opened, and Schiffer Diamond came out. James suddenly felt excited and diminished. She had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing a shiny green trench coat and jeans and low-heeled black boots. She didn’t necessarily look like a movie star, James thought, but she somehow looked better than a regular person, so that no matter where she went, people would think, This woman is someone, and they would look at her curiously. James didn’t know how a person could stand that, always being looked at. But they must get used to it. Wasn’t that the reason, after all, that people became actors in the first place—to be gaped at?
“Bad weather, eh, Fritz?” Schiffer said.
“It’s only going to get worse.”
James stepped outside and stood under the awning. He looked up the street. Nothing. No taxis at all.
Schiffer Diamond came out behind him. “Where are you going?” she asked.
James jumped. “Chelsea?” he asked.