One Fifth Avenue

ed. “Who’re you going with?”

“Brumminger,” Schiffer said, looking down so the makeup artist could apply mascara.

“Derek Brumminger?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“Are you seeing him now?”

“Sort of.”

“Oh,” Philip said. He sat down on the empty chair beside her. “So when did that happen?”

“It’s new,” Schiffer said.

“Who’s Brumminger?” Lola asked, inserting herself into the conversation.

Schiffer smiled. “He’s a man who was once rich and powerful and now isn’t quite as powerful. But definitely richer.”

“Is he old?” Lola asked.

“Positively ancient,” Schiffer said. “He may even be older than Oakland.”

“They’re ready,” Alan said, poking his head in.

“Thanks, darling,” Schiffer said.

Schiffer took Lola and Philip to the set. Walking through the maze of hallways, Lola kept up a pleasant patter about how excited she was to be there, oohing and ahing over a backdrop of the Manhattan skyline, the number of people milling around, the plethora of cables and lights and equipment. Schiffer wasn’t surprised Enid hated the girl—Lola seemed to have Philip wrapped around her black polished fingernail—but she wasn’t so bad. She was perfectly friendly and seemed to have some spunk. She was just so young. Being with her made Philip look slightly desperate. But it wasn’t, Schiffer reminded herself, her problem. Both she and Philip had moved on years ago. There was no going back.

With a glance at Lola, who was sitting blithely in the director’s chair, completely unaware of her faux pas, Schiffer stepped onto the set and tried to put Philip and his girlfriend out of her mind. The scene she was shooting took place in her office at the magazine and involved confronting a young female employee who was having an office affair with the boss. Schiffer sat down behind her desk and put on a pair of black-framed reading glasses from the props department.

“Settle,” the director called out. “And action.”

Schiffer stood up and took off her reading glasses as the young actress approached the desk.

“Ohmigod. It’s Ramblin Payne,” Lola squealed from behind the monitors.

“Cut!” the director shouted. He looked around, spotted the interloper in his chair, and strode over to confront Lola.

Schiffer scooted out from behind the desk and tried to intervene. “It’s okay. She’s a friend.”

The director stopped, looked at her, and shook his head, then saw Philip standing next to Lola. “Oakland?” he said. He went over and shook hands with Philip and patted him on the back. “Why didn’t you tell me Oakland was here?” the director said to Schiffer.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“How’re you doin’, man? I hear you’re getting Bridesmaids Revisited made.”

“That’s right,” Philip said. “We start shooting in January.”

The director looked at Lola in confusion. “Is this your daughter?” he asked.

Schiffer tried to catch Philip’s eye, but he refused to look at her. Poor Philip, she thought.

Later, in the car going back to the city, a black cloud of melancholy descended over Philip of which Lola was seemingly unaware. She chattered away, ignorant of his silence, nattering on and on about how she’d had an epiphany standing on the set. It was, she realized, where she belonged. She could see herself in front of the cameras, doing what Ramblin Payne did, which wasn’t so hard, really. It didn’t look hard. But maybe she’d be better off on a reality show. They could do a reality show about her life—about a young woman taking on the big city. After all, she pointed out, she did have a glamorous life, and she was pretty—as pretty as all the other girls on reality shows. And she was more interesting. She was interesting, she asked Philip, wasn’t she?

“Sure,” Philip said, his response automatic. They were crossing the Williamsburg Bridge into lower Manhattan, which presented a very different view than the famous midtown skyline. Here, the buildings were brown and gray, low-slung, in disrepair; one thought of desperation and resignation as opposed to renewal and the fulfillment of one’s dreams. The sight of these buildings caused Philip to have his own epiphany. Schiffer Diamond had returned to New York and taken up her new life with ease; she was celebrated and had even found a relationship. But what, Philip thought, of his own life? He hadn’t moved on at all; he’d taken no new steps in years. The subject matter of his work changed, his girlfriends changed, but that was it. Thinking ahead to Christmas, he became more aware of his discontent. His Christmas would be spent with his aunt—usually, they went to the Plaza for dinner, but the Plaza was no longer the Plaza, under renovation as an exorbitantly priced condominium—and now he didn’t know where they’d go. Schiffer was going to Saint Barths. Even Lola was going home to her parents’. He felt old and left behind and had to forcibly remind himself that this wasn’t like him. And then he saw a way out of his depression.

“Lola,” he said, taking her hand. “How would you like to go to the Caribbean for New Year’s?”