One Fifth Avenue

“Me, too. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, I—”

“Don’t be silly. The car’s free. And it’s pouring.” Fritz came out and opened the door. Schiffer Diamond slid across the backseat.

James looked at Fritz. What the hell, he thought, and got in.

“Two stops,” she said to the driver. “Where are you going?” She turned to James.

“I, uh, don’t know exactly.” He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the slip of paper on which he’d written the address. “Industria Super Studios?”

“I’m going to the same place,” she said. “One stop, then,” she informed the driver. She reached into her bag and pulled out an iPhone. James sat stiffly beside her; luckily, there was a console between them so it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it might have been. Outside, the rain was coming down in buckets, and there was a rumble of thunder. This is nice, James thought. Imagine never having to worry about getting a taxi. Or taking the subway.

“Horrible weather, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s so wet for August. I don’t remember it being this rainy in the summer. I remember ninety-degree heat. And snow at Christmas.”

“Really?” James said. “It doesn’t usually snow until January now.”

“I guess I have a romantic memory of New York.”

“We haven’t had snow in years,” James said. “Global warming.” I sound like a putz, he thought.

She smiled at him, and James wondered if she was one of those actresses who seduced every man. He remembered a story about a journalist friend, a real regular guy, who had been seduced by a famous movie star during an interview.

“You’re Mindy Gooch’s husband, right?” she asked.

“James,” he said. She clearly wasn’t going to introduce herself, knowing, obviously, there was no need.

She nodded. “Your wife is…”

“The head of the board. For the building.”

“She writes that blog,” Schiffer said.

“Do you read it?”

“It’s very touching,” Schiffer said.

“Really?” James rubbed his chin in annoyance. Even here, in an SUV with a movie star going to a photo shoot, it was still about his wife. “I try not to read it,” he said primly.

“Ah.” Schiffer nodded. James had no idea what the nod meant, and for a few blocks, they rode in stiff silence. Then Schiffer brought the topic back to his wife. “She wasn’t the head of the board when I moved in. It was Enid Merle then. The building was different. It wasn’t so…quiet.”

James winced at Enid’s name. “Enid,” he said.

“She’s a wonderful character, isn’t she? I adore her.”

“I don’t really know her,” James said carefully, caught in the middle of betraying his wife and alienating a movie star.

“But you must know her nephew Philip Oakland,” Schiffer insisted. There she went again, she thought, bringing up Philip’s name, digging for information. “Aren’t you a novelist as well?” she asked.

“We’re different. He’s much more…commercial. He writes screenplays. And I’m more…literary,” James said.

“Meaning you sell five thousand copies,” Schiffer said. James was crushed but tried not to show it. “Please,” she said, touching his arm. “I was kidding. It’s my bad sense of humor. I’m sure you’re a wonderful writer.”

James didn’t know whether to agree or disagree.

“Don’t take anything I say seriously. I never do,” she said.

The car stopped at a red light. It was his turn to come up with a conversational gambit, but James couldn’t think of one.