One Fifth Avenue

18

That evening, Schiffer Diamond ran into Paul and Annalisa Rice on the sidewalk in front of One Fifth. Schiffer was coming back from a long day of shooting, while Paul and Annalisa were dressed for dinner. Schiffer nodded at them on her way into the building, then she paused. “Excuse me,” she said to Annalisa. “Aren’t you a friend of Billy Litchfield’s?”

Paul and Annalisa exchanged glances. “Yes,” Annalisa said.

“Have you seen him?” Schiffer asked. “I’ve been trying to call him for two days.”

“He doesn’t seem to be answering his phone. I went by his apartment, but he wasn’t home.”

“Maybe he’s gone away,” Schiffer said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“If you talk to him, will you let me know?” Annalisa asked. “I’m worried.”

Upstairs, Schiffer searched through a drawer in her kitchen, wondering if she still had the keys to Billy’s apartment. Years ago — years and years now — when she and Billy had first become friends, they’d exchanged keys to each other’s apartments in case of an emergency. She’d never cleaned out the drawer, so the keys should still be there, although there was a slim possibility that Billy had changed his lock. In the back of the drawer, she did find the keys. There was a blue plastic tag attached to the ring on which Billy had written LITCHFIELD ABODE, followed by an exclamation point, as if proclaiming their friendship.

Schiffer walked the three blocks to Billy’s building, pausing under the scaffolding before trying the key in the front door. It still worked, and she passed a row of metal mailboxes. The door to Billy’s mailbox was ajar, held open by several days’ worth of envelopes. Perhaps Billy was away. Renovations had apparently begun in the building — the stairway leading to the fourth floor was covered with brown paper and secured with blue tape. Hearing music coming from inside Billy’s apartment, she knocked loudly. At the other end of the hall, a door opened and a middle-aged woman, neatly groomed, stuck her head out. “Are you looking for Billy Litchfield?” she asked. “He’s gone away. And he’s left his music on. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to call the super, but he doesn’t answer. It’s all because of the conversion. Billy and I were the last hold-outs. They’re trying to force us to move. The next thing you know, they’ll probably turn off the electricity.”

The thought of Billy being in this situation was depressing. “I hope not,” Schiffer said.

“Are you going in?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Schiffer said. “Billy gave me his keys.”

“Will you turn off the music? I’m just about going crazy here.”

Schiffer nodded and went in. Billy’s living room had always been overcrowded with stuff, but he’d kept it neat. Now it was a mess. His photographs were strewn on the floor, empty CD cases were scattered around the room, and on the sofa and two armchairs, several coffee-table books lay open to photographs of Jackie O. She found the stereo in an antique wooden cupboard and turned off the music. This wasn’t like Billy at all.

“Billy?” she called out.

She went down the short hallway to the bedroom, passing empty hooks on the walls where the photographs had been removed. The bedroom door was closed. Schiffer knocked and turned the handle.

Billy lay sprawled across his bed with his head hanging over the side.

His eyes were closed, but the muscles under his pale, freckled face had stiffened, giving him a grim, foreign expression. The body on the bed was no longer Billy, Schiffer thought. The Billy Litchfield she’d known was gone.

“Oh, Billy,” she said. Looped around Billy’s neck was a long noose constructed of Hermès ties that trailed on the floor, as if Billy had been thinking of hanging himself but died before he could complete the act.

“Oh, Billy,” Schiffer said again. She gently untied the loose knot around his neck and, separating the ties one from another, carefully hung them back up in Billy’s closet, where they belonged.

Then she went into the bathroom. Billy was fastidious and had done his best with the space, placing thick white towels folded carefully on a shelf above the toilet. But the fixtures themselves were cheap and probably forty years old. She’d always assumed that Billy had money, but apparently, he had not, living exactly as he had when he’d first come to New York. The thought of Billy’s secret penury added to her sadness. He was one of those New York types whom everyone knew but didn’t know much about. She opened the medicine cabinet and was shocked by the row of prescription pills. Prozac, Xanax, Ambien, Vicodin — she’d had no idea Billy was so unhappy and stressed. She should have spent more time with him, she thought bitterly, but Billy had been like a New York institution. She’d always thought he’d be around.

Working quickly, she poured the contents of the prescription bottles into the toilet. As in most prewar buildings, there was an incinerator chute in the kitchen, where Schiffer disposed of the empty bottles. Billy wouldn’t want people to think he’d tried to kill himself or that he was addicted to pills. Back in the bedroom, she spotted a crude wooden box on top of his bureau. It wasn’t Billy’s style, and curious, she opened it to find neat rows of what appeared to be costume jewelry folded in bubble wrap. Did Billy have a transvestite bent to his nature? If so, it was another aspect of his life that he wouldn’t have wanted people to know about. Searching through his closet, she found a shoe box and shopping bag from Valentino. She put the wooden box into the shoe box and into the bag. Then she called 911.

Two police officers arrived within minutes, followed by EMS workers, who ripped open Billy’s robe and tried to shock him back to life. Billy’s body jumped several inches off the bed, and unable to bear it, Schiffer went into the living room. Eventually, a detective in a navy blue suit arrived. “Detective Sabatini,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Schiffer Diamond,” she said.

“The actress,” he said, perking up.

“That’s right.”

“You found the body. Why?”

“Billy was a good friend. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days.

I came by to see if he was okay. Obviously, he wasn’t.”

“Did you know he was under investigation?”

“Billy?” she said in disbelief. “For what?”

“Art theft,” the detective said.

“That’s impossible,” Schiffer said, folding her arms.

“It’s not only possible, but true. Did he have any enemies?”

“Everyone loved him.”

“Did he need money?”

“I don’t know anything about his financial affairs. Billy didn’t talk about it. He was very ... discreet.”

“So he knew things about people?”

“He knew a lot of people.”

“Anyone who might want him dead? Like Sandy Brewer?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I thought you were good friends.”

“We were,” Schiffer said. “But I hadn’t seen Billy in years. Not until I moved back to New York nine months ago.”

“I’m going to need you to come to the station for questioning.”

“I need to call my publicist first,” she said firmly. The reality of Billy’s death hadn’t hit her yet, but this was going to be a mess. She and Billy would likely end up on the front page of The New York Post tomorrow.

Early the next morning, Paul Rice was trawling through the Internet when he came across the first item about Billy Litchfield’s death. He didn’t connect Billy to the Brewer scandal, so the news didn’t have a big impact.

But then he saw several small pieces from The New York Times to The Boston Globe, stating that Billy Litchfield, fifty-four, a sometime journalist, art dealer, and society walker, had been discovered dead in his apartment the evening before. The coverage in the Daily News and the Post was much more extensive. On the covers of both newspapers were glamour shots of Schiffer Diamond, who had discovered the body, and a photograph of Billy in a tux. There were other photographs as well, mostly of Billy with various socialites and one of him arm in arm with Mrs. Louise Houghton. The police were investigating, suspecting foul play.

Paul turned off his computer. He considered waking his wife and giving her the news, but realized she might start crying. Then he would be stuck in an emotional scene not of his own making and therefore of an unpredictable length. He decided to tell her later instead.

Hurrying through the lobby, he spotted several photographers just outside the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Roberto.

“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body.”

Billy Litchfield, Paul thought. “But why are they here? Outside One Fifth?” Roberto shrugged. “Never mind,” Paul barked, and knocked on Mindy’s door. She opened it a crack, trying to keep Skippy, who was barking and jumping on her leg, inside and away from Paul. For the moment, Paul had gained the upper hand in the building; Mindy had to agree to keep Skippy out of the lobby in the morning and evening when Paul would be passing through. “What is it now?” she said, glaring at him with hatred.

“That,” Paul said, motioning to the paparazzi outside.

Mindy came out without the dog, closing the door behind her. She was still in her cotton pajamas but had thrown on a chenille robe and flip-flops. “Roberto,” she said. “What is this?”

“You know I can’t keep them away. The sidewalk is public property, and they’re entitled to be there.”

“Call the police,” Paul said. “Have them arrested.”

“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body,” Roberto repeated.

“Billy Litchfield,” Paul said.

Mindy gasped. “Billy?”

“I want something done about this,” Paul said, continuing his rant.

“Those photographers are blocking my point of egress, and I can’t get to my office. I don’t care how famous someone is, they have no right to disturb the regular workings of a building. I want Schiffer Diamond out.

And while we’re at it, we should remove Enid Merle. And Philip Oakland. And your husband. And you, too,” he said to Mindy.

Mindy’s face turned red. Her head felt like a rotten tomato that was about to explode. “Why don’t you move?” she screamed. “Ever since you moved into this building, there’s been nothing but trouble. I’ve had it with you. If I get one more complaint from you or your wife about this building, I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if our maintenance goes up five thousand dollars a month, we will sue you and we will win. No one wants you here. I should have listened to Enid and broken up the apartment. It wouldn’t have made any difference — you’ve ruined the apartment with your stupid fish and your stupid computer equipment, and the only reason you’ve gotten away with it is because there aren’t any bylaws about goddamn fish.”

Paul turned to Roberto. “Did you hear that?” he said. “She’s threatening me.” He snapped his fingers. “I want you to write down what happened. I want her on notice.”

“I’m not involved,” Roberto said, backing away while gleefully noting that it wasn’t yet seven A.M., and already he had a bonanza of gossip. It was going to be a very interesting day.

“Fuck you,” Mindy said, jutting her head forward in rage. Instead of reacting to this insult, Paul Rice merely stood there, shaking his head at her as if she were utterly pathetic. This further fueled her anger. “Get out!” she screamed. “You and your wife. Pack your bags and leave this building.” Taking a breath, she added, “Immediately!”

“Mrs. Gooch,” Roberto said soothingly. “Maybe you should go back inside.”

“I will,” Mindy said, pointing her finger at Paul. “And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. You won’t be allowed to come within fifty feet of me. Try going in and out of the building when you can’t go through the lobby.”

“Go ahead,” Paul said with a taunting smile.“There’s nothing I’d like better. Then I can sue you personally. By the way, lawyers’ fees add up quickly, so you’d better plan on selling your apartment to cover them.” He would have continued, but Mindy went inside and slammed the door.

“Nice,” Roberto said.

Paul couldn’t tell if the doorman was kidding or genuinely on his side.

Either way, it was irrelevant. If need be, he could have Roberto fired.

Indeed, he could have all the doormen fired — and the super as well.

Putting his hands over his face, he ran through the paparazzi and got into his car.

Safely seated in the backseat of the Bentley, Paul took a deep breath and began texting instructions to his secretary. The confrontation with Mindy Gooch hadn’t disturbed him; having brilliantly arranged for Sandy’s arrest without implicating himself, Paul was feeling confident and in control. Sandy was back in the office, having been released on bail, but his concentration was shot. Eventually, Paul figured, there would be a trial, and Sandy might go to jail. When he did, the business would be all Paul’s, and this was only the beginning. The China deal was working brilliantly, and eventually, other countries might be forced to buy the algorithm as well. He could make a trillion dollars. It wasn’t so much these days. Most countries had deficits that size.

As the car headed up Park Avenue to his midtown office, Paul checked the numbers of various stock markets around the world and received a Google alert. Both he and his wife had been mentioned in an item about Billy Litchfield on some society website. Paul wondered again if he should have woken his wife to tell her — given all the fuss about Billy’s death, he may have miscalculated the importance of the information. But it was too late to go back to the building and too early for a phone call. He decided to send her a text.

He wrote: “Check the papers. Your friend Billy Litchfield is dead.” Out of habit, he quickly scanned the message, and then, deciding that it might be interpreted as too cold, he added, “Love, Paul.”

In a fury, Mindy went to her computer and wrote, “I HATE THAT MAN. I HATE HIM. I WILL KILL HIM.” Then she remembered about Billy and, Googling his name, saw that his death was all over the papers. Billy was only fifty-four. She was overcome with shock, followed by grief, and despite reminding herself that for years, she hadn’t liked Billy so much, considering him a snob, she began sobbing. Mindy was one of those women who took pride in the fact that she almost never cried, partly because when she did, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Her nose and eyes swelled up, and then her mouth opened and hung askew as clear snot dripped out of her nostrils.

Mindy’s horrendous, high-pitched wailing woke Sam. His chest squeezed with fear, as he assumed his mother had somehow found out that he’d cut the cables outside the Rices’ apartment and was about to be arrested. The caper hadn’t yielded the hoped-for response, although Paul Rice had certainly been angry. For the past two weeks, Sam had been living in fear that he might get caught, but the police hadn’t really bothered to investigate, only questioning the doormen and Enid and a few other residents the next morning. But then they’d gone away and hadn’t returned. His mother insisted the culprit was the blogger Thayer Core, who was always writing terrible stories about One Fifth. But Sam guessed Enid suspected him. “Retribution is tricky, Sam,” she’d said one afternoon when he’d run into her on the sidewalk near the park. “The insult isn’t usually worth the risk of punishment. And eventually one learns that karma has a surprising way of taking care of these situations.

All you have to do is sit back and watch.”

Now, bracing himself for the inevitable, Sam entered his mother’s office. “What’s the matter?”

She shook her head and opened her arms, pulling him awkwardly onto her lap. “A friend of ours died.”

“Oh,” Sam said, relieved. “Who?”

“Billy Litchfield. He knew Mrs. Houghton.”

“The bald guy,” Sam said. “The one who was always around Annalisa Rice.”

“That’s right,” Mindy said. Recalling the scene she’d just had with Paul in the lobby, she was furious again. I’m going to tell Annalisa Rice the news about Billy myself, Mindy thought. Kissing Sam and shooing him away, she went into the lobby filled with cruel determination.

As she rode up in the elevator, she realized that since Paul knew about Billy’s death, Annalisa likely did as well. Nevertheless, Mindy wanted to see how she was taking the news — she hoped Annalisa felt horrible — and now, with Billy gone, maybe the Rices would leave New York and return to Washington, where they belonged. Or perhaps they would move farther away, to another country. If they left, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice with the apartment. This time, she and Enid and Philip would split it up, and with James making money at last, they might even be able to afford it.

Maria opened the door. Mindy glared at her. These rich people, Mindy thought, shaking her head. They couldn’t even be bothered to open their own doors. “Is Mrs. Rice here?” she asked.

Maria held her finger up to her lips. “She’s sleeping.”

“Wake her up. I have something important to tell her.”

“I don’t like to do that, ma’am.”

“Do it!” Mindy snapped. “I’m the head of the board.”

Maria backed away in fright, and while she scurried up the stairs, Mindy strolled into the apartment. It had changed drastically since she’d snooped around at Christmas, and no longer bore any resemblance to a hotel. Although Mindy knew nothing about decorating, being one of those people who became unaware of an environment after five minutes, even she could appreciate the beauty of what Annalisa had done. The floor in the second foyer was now lapis lazuli, and in the center was a round table inlaid with marble on which sat a huge spray of pink apple blossoms. For a moment, Mindy waited in the second foyer, but when she didn’t hear any noise from upstairs, she went into the living room.

Here was a series of inviting couches and divans done in soft blue and yellow velvets, and an enormous silk rug with a swirly design in delicious oranges, pinks, creams, and blues.

Annalisa Rice was certainly taking her time getting up, Mindy thought in annoyance, and sat down on a plush couch. It was stuffed with down, and Mindy sank into the cushions. Striped silk curtains hanging from the French windows pooled elegantly on the floor, and scattered around the room were little tables and more flower arrangements. Mindy sighed. If only she’d known James’s book would be a success, she scolded herself.

Then she might have had this room for herself.

Upstairs, Maria was knocking on Annalisa’s bedroom door. Annalisa rubbed her forehead, wishing Maria would go away, but the knocks were growing more insistent. Resigned, she got out of the four-poster bed.

She’d been hoping to finally get some rest — since Sandy Brewer’s arrest, she’d hardly slept at all. Billy was sure to be arrested as well, but after her conversation with him, he hadn’t taken her calls. Annalisa had gone by his apartment at least five times, but he wouldn’t answer his buzzer. Even Connie wasn’t talking to her — or to anyone, for that matter. “I don’t know who my friends are anymore,” Connie had said. “Someone ratted us out.

For all I know, it might have been you. Or Paul.”

“Connie, don’t be ridiculous. Neither Paul nor I have any interest in hurting you or Sandy. Of course you’re scared. But I’m not your enemy.”

Her entreaties made no difference, and Connie hung up, telling her not to bother to call again, as their lawyer had forbidden them to talk to anyone. Paul was the only one who seemed mysteriously unaffected — or rather, Annalisa corrected, positively affected. He’d become less brooding and secretive and had finally agreed to allow the apartment to be photographed for the cover of Architectural Digest. The only snag was that she’d need to get permission from the building for the photography equipment to be brought up in the service elevator.

Putting on a pair of velvet slippers and a heavy silk robe, she opened her bedroom door. “There’s a lady downstairs,” Maria said, looking over her shoulder nervously.

“Who?” Annalisa said.

“That lady. From the building.”

“Enid Merle?”

“The other one. The mean one.”

“Ah, Mindy Gooch.” What did Mindy want now? She probably had some fresh complaint about Paul. Which was nervy of her, considering Paul believed Sam had cut the wires. Annalisa herself was skeptical. “A thirteen-year-old boy getting the better of you, Paul?” she’d scoffed. “I don’t think so.” Now she said to Maria, “Make some coffee, please. And put out a few of those nice croissants.”

“Yes, missus,” Maria said.

Annalisa took her time brushing her teeth and carefully cleansing her face. She put on a flowing white blouse and a pair of navy blue slacks and slipped the yellow diamond ring from Paul onto her middle right finger.

She went downstairs and was irritated to find Mindy sitting comfortably in the living room, examining a Victorian silver card case. “Hello,” Annalisa said formally. “Maria is serving coffee in the breakfast room. Come with me, please.”

Mindy stood up, replacing the object on the side table. Well!, she thought, following Annalisa through the apartment. Annalisa had certainly become grand, but that was typical of people with money — eventually, they always believed they were better than everyone else. Motioning for Mindy to sit, Annalisa poured coffee into two china cups with enameled rims. “Sugar?” she asked. “Or are you a sugar-substitute girl?”

“Sugar,” Mindy muttered, frowning. She picked up the tiny silver spoon and shoveled several spoonfuls into her coffee. “You’ve done a lot of work in here. The apartment is beautiful,” she said reluctantly.

“Thank you,” Annalisa said. “It’s going to be photographed for the cover of Architectural Digest. They’ll need to use the service elevator. I’ll let the super know the date beforehand.” She looked Mindy in the eye.

“I’m assuming I can count on you not to make any trouble.”

“I guess it’s fine,” Mindy said, unable to come up with a reasonable objection.

Annalisa nodded and took a sip of her coffee. “Now, what can I do for you?” she asked.

“So you haven’t heard,” Mindy said. She narrowed her eyes in anticipation of delivering her blow. “Billy Litchfield is dead.”

Annalisa’s hand froze, but then she calmly took another sip of coffee.

She dabbed her lips with a small linen napkin. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “What happened?”

“No one knows. Schiffer Diamond found him dead in his apartment last night.” Mindy glanced at Annalisa, surprised by her lack of reaction.

There were bluish shadows under her eyes, but the slate-gray irises were staring back coldly, almost challengingly, Mindy thought. “There are photographers outside,” she said. “It’s common knowledge that you and Billy were good friends. And you’re always in the society columns. So you might want to lie low for a few days.”

“Thank you,” Annalisa said. She put her cup back onto the saucer.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“I guess not,” Mindy said, suddenly not having the nerve to bring up Paul’s attack on her that morning, or the fact that Mindy wanted them out of the building.

“Well, then,” Annalisa said, standing up. The interview was clearly over, and Mindy was forced to stand as well. At the door, she turned back, once again wanting to bring up Paul and his behavior, but Annalisa’s face was impassive.

“About Paul,” Mindy began.

“Not today,” Annalisa said. “Nor any other day as well. Thank you for coming by.” And she firmly closed the door. Outside in the small hallway, Mindy heard her turn the lock.

When Mindy had gone, Annalisa rushed upstairs and grabbed her BlackBerry. She was about to call Paul when she saw his text. So he knew already. Going back downstairs, she went into the living room and sank into an armchair. She had an urgent desire to call someone — anyone — to lament Billy’s death, but she realized there was no one to whom she might speak. All the people she knew in this world were Billy and Connie’s friends and were relative strangers. Billy had been more than a best friend, though. He’d been her guide and adviser; he’d made this world entertaining and fun. Without him, she didn’t know what she was going to do. What was the point of all this now? She slumped forward, putting her head in her hands.

Maria came into the room. “Mrs. Rice?” she asked.

Annalisa immediately sat up and smoothed the skin under her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just need a moment to myself.”

One floor below, Enid Merle pushed through the little gate that separated her terrace from Philip’s, and knocked on his French door. Philip opened it looking, as he had ever since he’d returned from Los Angeles, miserable. Enid wasn’t sure if his relationship with Lola was making him depressed, or the fact that Schiffer Diamond had been seen all over town with Derek Brumminger.

“Have you heard?” Enid asked.

“What now?” Philip said.

“Billy Litchfield is dead.”

Philip put his hands in his hair.

Lola came out of the bedroom wearing a T-shirt and a pair of Philip’s boxer shorts. “Who’s dead?” she asked with interest.

“Billy Litchfield,” Philip muttered.

“Do I know him?” Lola asked.

“No,” Philip said sharply.

“Okay,” Lola grumbled. “You don’t need to yell.”

“Schiffer found the body,” Enid said, addressing Philip. “One can only imagine. You must give her a call.”

“Schiffer Diamond found the body?” Lola exclaimed with enthusiasm.

Rushing past Enid and Philip, she went out to the terrace and looked over the edge. There was a throng of photographers and reporters outside the entrance, and she recognized the top of Thayer Core’s head. Damn, she thought. Thayer would probably be calling her any minute requesting information, and she would have to give it to him. If she didn’t, he would once again threaten to post Philip’s unfinished script, and Philip would be furious.

She went back inside. “Are you calling her?” she asked Philip.

“Yes,” Philip said. He went into his office and closed the door.

Enid looked at Lola and shook her head. “What’s wrong now?” Lola demanded. Enid only shook her head again and went back to her own apartment. Lola sat down on the couch in a huff. Philip had just gotten over having his things rearranged and no longer banged the cabinet doors every time he was in the kitchen. But now this Billy Litchfield person had died, and Philip would go back to being in a bad mood again. It was all somehow Schiffer Diamond’s fault. Philip would have to pay attention to her, and Lola would have to fight her off again. Lola lay back on the couch, absentmindedly rubbing her stomach. Aha, she thought. There was the answer: She would get pregnant.

Philip came out of his office, went into the bedroom, and began getting dressed. Lola followed him. “Did you talk to her?” she asked.

“Yes,” Philip said, taking a shirt out of the closet.

“And? How is she?”

“How do you think?” Philip said.

“Where are you going now?” Lola said.

“To see her.”

“Can I come?” Lola asked.

“No,” Philip said.

“Why not?”

“She’s working. On location. It’s not appropriate.”

“But what about me?” Lola said. “I’m upset, too. Look.” She held out her hands. “I’m shaking.”

“Not now, Lola, please.” He pushed past her and went out the door.

Sure enough, her phone began bleeping moments later, announcing a text from Thayer Core. “Just saw Oakland leave the building. What’s up?”

Lola thought for a moment and, realizing she had an opportunity to cause trouble for Schiffer, wrote, “Going to see Schiffer Diamond. She’s on location somewhere in the city.”

Next door, Enid was also getting ready to go out. Her sources told her that Billy was suspected of selling Sandy Brewer the cross, although Billy Litchfield’s involvement wasn’t the only thing that perplexed her.

She went down to the lobby, passing by the Gooches’ apartment. Inside, Mindy was on the phone with her office. “I’m not coming in today,”

she said. “A very good friend of mine passed away unexpectedly, and I’m too upset to leave my house.” She hung up and opened a new file for her blog, already having decided to use Billy’s death as a topic. “Today, I officially became middle-aged,” she wrote. “I’m not going to hide from the truth. Instead, I’m going to scream it from the rooftops: I am a middle-aged woman. The recent and untimely death of one of my most beloved friends has pointed up the inevitable. I have finally reached the age when friends start dying. Not parents — we all expect that. But friends. Our peers. My generation. And it’s made me wonder how much time I have left myself, and what I’m going to do with that time.”

Crossing the street, Enid knocked on Flossie Davis’s door, then let herself in with the key. She was surprised to find Flossie out of bed and sitting in the living room, looking out the window at the commotion in front of One Fifth. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” Flossie said. “You see? I was right all along. The cross was in Louise Houghton’s apartment. And no one believed me. You don’t know what it’s been like all these years, knowing the truth, and no one listened. You don’t know...”

“Stop,” Enid said, cutting her off. “We both know you took the cross.

And Louise found out and made you give it to her. Why didn’t she turn you in? What did you have on her?”

“And you call yourself a gossip columnist,” Flossie said, clicking her tongue. “It sure took you long enough to figure it out.”

“Why did you take it?”

Flossie snorted. “Because I wanted it. It was so pretty. And it was right there. And it was only going to be locked up in that stupid museum along with every other dead thing. And Louise saw me take it. I didn’t know she saw me until I went to the Pauline Trigère fashion show. Louise sat next to me, and she’d never done that before. ‘I know what you have in your bag,’ she whispered. Louise was scary even then. She had those strange blue eyes — almost gray. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said.

The next morning, Louise came down to my apartment. I was living in Philip’s apartment then. Philip wasn’t born yet. And you were working at the newspaper and not paying attention to anyone except yourself.”

Enid nodded, remembering. How different life had been in those days.

Entire families often lived in a two-bedroom apartment, sharing one bathroom, but they’d been lucky. Her father had bought the two apartments side by side and was going to turn them into one large apartment when he’d suddenly died of a heart attack, leaving Enid with one apartment and Flossie and her little daughter with the other. “Louise accused me of taking the cross,” Flossie said, continuing her story. “She threatened to turn me in to the authorities. She said I would go to jail. She knew I was a widow, trying to take care of my child. She said she would take pity on me if I gave her the cross. Then she was going to slip it back into the museum and no one would be the wiser.”

“But she didn’t give it back,” Enid said.

“That’s right,” Flossie said. “Because she wanted it for herself. She wanted it all along. She was greedy. And besides, if she’d given it back to the museum, she wouldn’t have been able to hold it over my head.”

“You had something on her,” Enid said. “But what?”

Flossie looked around the room as if to make sure no one could overhear them. She shrugged, then leaned forward in her chair. “Now that she’s dead, she can’t do anything to me. So why not? Why not let the world know? Louise was a murderer.”

“Oh, Flossie.” Enid shook her head mournfully.

“You don’t believe me?” Flossie said. “Well, it’s true. She killed her husband.”

“Everyone knows he died from a staph infection.”

“That’s what Louise made people think. And no one ever questioned her. Because she was Louise Houghton.” Flossie began to wheeze with excitement. “And everyone forgot — all that time she spent in China before she came to New York? She knew all about diseases. How to cure them and how to make them worse. Did anyone ever think about what she was growing on that terrace? About what was in her greenhouse? I did. And one day, I found out. ‘Belladonna,’ I said. ‘If you turn me in, I’ll turn you in,’ I said. She didn’t dare return the cross then. Without it, she would have had nothing on me.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Enid said.

“Who said it had to make sense?” Flossie said. “You know perfectly well what it was about. Louise didn’t want to leave that apartment. It was her pride and joy. And then, after she’d spent a million dollars to do it all up the way she liked, and everyone was calling her the queen of society, her husband wanted to sell it. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. He had all the money, and the apartment was in his name.

He was always smart that way. He probably guessed what Louise was really like. And sure enough, she sent him on that trip, and two weeks later, he was dead.”

“You know you’re still not safe,” Enid said. “Now that the cross has been discovered, they’ll reopen the case. Someone may have seen you take it. A guard, perhaps, who’s still alive. You could go to jail.”

“You never had any common sense!” Flossie snapped. “Louise paid off the guards. So who’s going to tell them — you? You would turn in your own stepmother? If you do, you’ll have to tell the whole story. About how Louise was a murderer. You’ll never do it. You wouldn’t dare. You’ll do anything to preserve the reputation of that building. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d commit murder yourself.” Flossie took a deep breath, gearing up for another attack. “I’ve never understood you or people like you. It’s only a stupid building. There are millions of them in New York City. Now get out.” Flossie started wheezing. After Enid fetched a glass of water and made sure the attack had passed, she left.

Outside, Enid stood on the sidewalk across the street from One Fifth, gazing at the building. She tried to see the building the way Flossie saw it — as just another building — but couldn’t. One Fifth was like a piece of living art, unique and beautifully executed, perfectly positioned at the end of Fifth Avenue, in close — but not too close — proximity to Washington Square Park. And there was the address itself. “One Fifth.” Clean and au-thoritative and implying so many things — class and money and prestige and even, Enid thought, a bit of magic, the kind of real-life magic that made life so endlessly interesting. Flossie was wrong, Enid decided. Everyone wanted to live in One Fifth, and if they didn’t, it was only because they lacked imagination. She raised her hand to hail a cab and, getting into the backseat, gave the driver the address of the New York Public Library.

Alan, the PA, rapped on the door of Schiffer Diamond’s location trailer.

The door was opened a crack by the publicist, Karen. “Philip Oakland’s here,” Alan said, standing aside to let Philip pass. Behind him was a band of paparazzi and two news crews, having discovered the location of the day’s shooting at the Ukrainian Institute on Fifth Avenue and then finding Schiffer’s trailer on a side street. Billy Litchfield wasn’t of particular interest to them, but Schiffer Diamond was. She had found the body. It was possible she’d had something to do with his death or knew something about it or had given him drugs or taken drugs herself. In the trailer was a leather couch, a small table, a makeup area, a bathroom with a shower, and a tiny bedroom with a single bed and chair. The lawyer, Johnnie Toochin, who had been called in to help with damage control, now sat on the leather couch, talking on his phone. “Hey, Philip,” Johnnie said, greet-ing him with a raised hand. “What a mess.”

“Where is she?” Philip asked Karen, who motioned to the bedroom.

Philip opened the narrow door. Schiffer was sitting on the bed wearing a terry-cloth robe, her legs crossed beneath her. She was staring blankly at a script but looked up when Philip came in.

“I don’t know if I can do this today,” she said.

“Of course you can. You’re a great actress,” Philip said. He sat down in the chair across from her.

“That was one of the last things Billy said to me.” She pulled the robe across her body as if she were cold. “You know, if it weren’t for Billy, we might never have met.”

“Yes, we would have. Somehow.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have become an actress, and I wouldn’t have done Summer Morning. I keep thinking about how a chance meeting with one person can change your life. Is it fate or coincidence?”

“But you had the opportunity. And you made it work.”

“That’s right, Philip,” she said. She looked at him, her expression vulnerable. She had yet to have her makeup done. Her face was clean, and there were little lines around her eyes. “I keep wondering why we can’t do that. Make it work.”

“I fucked up again, didn’t I?” Philip said.

“Yeah.” She nodded. “And I guess I did, too. All those years, I kept thinking, What if ? What if I hadn’t gone to Europe. Or what if I’d seen you that time when you came to L.A.”

“Or what if I’d managed to break up with Lola?” Philip asked. “Would you still being seeing Brumminger?”

“You have to ask?” Schiffer said.

“Yeah,” Philip said. “I guess I’ve never managed to ask the right question.”

“Will you ever manage it, Philip? If not, we should end this right now.

I need to know. I want to move on one way or another. I want it to be clean.”

Philip leaned back in the chair and put his hands in his hair. Then he started laughing.

“What’s so damn funny?” she asked.

“This,” he said. “This situation. Look,” he said, sitting next to her on the bed and taking her hand. “This is probably the worst time to ask you this, but do you really want to marry me?”

She looked down at his hand and shook her head. “What do you think, schoolboy?”

19

Acouple of hours later, Schiffer Diamond, made up and wearing a long gown for the scene at the Ukrainian Institute, came out of her trailer. Philip was still holding her hand, as if he didn’t dare let go of her, and after he helped her down the steps, the photographers closed in with their cameras. Philip and Schiffer exchanged a look and began running down the sidewalk to a waiting van. The paparazzi were taken by surprise, and there was a jostling in the crowd, and two photographers were knocked down. Nevertheless, Thayer Core managed to hold up his iPhone and snap a picture of the happy couple, which he then e-mailed to Lola. “I think your BF is cheating on you,” he wrote.

Lola got the e-mail immediately and tried to call Philip. She’d suspected something like this would happen, but now that it had, she couldn’t believe it. Philip didn’t answer his phone, of course, so she texted Thayer Core to find out where he was. Then she opened the closet to get dressed, her hands trembling so violently with frustration and anger that she knocked several tops off their hangers. This gave her a wicked idea, and she went into the kitchen, found the scissors, and pulling several pairs of jeans from the shelf on Philip’s side of the closet, cut the legs off. She refolded the tops of the mangled jeans and replaced them on the shelf.

Then she kicked the cutoff legs under the bed, put on her makeup, and went out.

She found Thayer standing behind a police barricade on Seventy-ninth Street. There was a carnival atmosphere, with the presence of the paparazzi drawing the attention of passersby who kept stopping to find out what was going on. “I’m going in,” Lola announced grimly, stepping around the barricade. Four beefy Teamsters were blocking the entrance.

“I’m Philip Oakland’s girlfriend,” she said, attempting to explain why she must be allowed to pass.

“Sorry,” one of the Teamsters said, impassive.

“I know he’s in there. And I have to see him,” she wailed.

A young woman sidled up next to her. “Did you say you were Philip Oakland’s girlfriend?” she asked.

“That’s right,” Lola said.

“He just went in with Schiffer Diamond. We thought they were together.”

“I’m his girlfriend,” Lola said. “I live with him.”

“You’re kidding,” the girl said, and put her cell phone in Lola’s face to record her remarks. “What’s your name?”

“Lola Fabrikant. Philip and I have been together for months.”

“And Schiffer Diamond stole him from you?”

“Yes,” Lola said, realizing she had an opportunity to play a significant part in this drama. Rising to the occasion, she summoned her most confused tone of voice and said, “I woke up this morning, and everything was fine. Then two hours ago, someone texted me a photograph of the two of them holding hands.”

The girl gasped in horror. “You just found out?”

“That’s right. And I might even be pregnant with his baby.”

“What a scumbag!” the girl declared in female solidarity.

Hearing this pronouncement on Philip’s character, Lola was momentarily worried that she’d gone too far. She hadn’t meant to say she was pregnant, but she’d gotten caught up in the moment, and it had just slipped out. But she couldn’t take it back now — and besides, Philip had wronged her. And it certainly was possible that she could be pregnant.

“Brandon!” the girl shouted, waving at one of the photographers and pointing at Lola. “She says she’s Philip Oakland’s girlfriend. And she’s having his baby. We need a photograph.” The photographer leaned across the barricade and snapped Lola’s picture. Within seconds, the rest of the pack followed suit, aiming their cameras at her and clicking off shots.

Lola put her hand on her hip and posed prettily, glad that she’d had the foresight to dress in high heels and a trench coat. At last, she thought.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for her entire life. She smiled, knowing it was crucial she look stunning in the photographs that would undoubtedly be all over the Internet in a matter of hours.

Billy’s death was not ruled a suicide but an accidental overdose. He hadn’t taken as many pills as suspected; rather, it was the combination of four different kinds of prescription medication that did him in. Two weeks after his death, a service was held for him at St. Ambrose Church, where Billy had mourned the death of Mrs. Louise Houghton just nine months earlier.

It turned out that Billy had recently made a will, leaving all his worldly belongings to his niece and requesting that a service be held in the church patronized by his idol, Mrs. Louise Houghton. Many of the hundreds of people who knew Billy came, and although the Brewers claimed Billy had sold them the Cross of Bloody Mary, there was, people agreed, no way to prove it, especially when Johnnie Toochin revealed that Mrs. Houghton had left Billy a wooden box filled only with costume jewelry. However, the box was never discovered, and so the provenance of the cross remained a mystery, and Billy’s reputation stayed intact.

During his memorial service, several people gave eulogies about how wonderful Billy was, and how he represented a certain era in New York, and how, with his passing, that era was finished.

“New York isn’t New York anymore without Billy Litchfield,” declared an old-monied banker who was the husband of a famous socialite.

Perhaps it wasn’t, Mindy thought, but it still went on, the same as always. As if in confirmation of this fact, Lola Fabrikant flounced in halfway through the service, causing a stir in the back of the church. She was wearing a short black low-cut dress and, inexplicably, a small black hat with a veil that just covered her eyes. Lola thought the hat made her look mysterious and alluring, in keeping with her new role as the slighted young woman. The day after Schiffer and Philip were photographed together, Lola’s picture had appeared in three newspapers, and there were discussions about her on six blogs, in which the general consensus was that she was a babe and could do better than Philip. But after that, the interest in her had quickly waned. Now, although it would mean seeing Philip and Schiffer and Enid, she and Thayer had decided she ought to attend Billy’s service, if only to remind people of her existence.

Lola had agreed reluctantly. She could face Philip and Schiffer if she had to, but she was terrified of Enid. The day she’d gone to confront Philip on the set at the Ukrainian Institute, she’d returned to One Fifth after being “assaulted” — her words — by the paparazzi, realizing if she hung around any longer, she would lose her mystique. Safely inside Philip’s apartment, she waited for him all afternoon, going over the situation again and again in her mind and wishing she could take it all back. She reminded herself that she didn’t know for a fact that Philip and Schiffer were really together; he might have only been comforting her after all. She would have to figure out a way to exonerate herself. But at about five, Enid appeared in Philip’s apartment, coming up silently behind Lola, who was in the kitchen, pouring herself yet another vodka. Lola was so startled she nearly dropped the bottle.

“Oh, good, dear,” Enid said. “You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” Lola asked nervously, taking a gulp of her drink.

“The question is, where should you be?” Enid said. She smiled broadly and sat down on the couch, patting the place next to her. “Come here, dear,” she said, giving Lola a frightening smile. “I want to talk to you.”

“Where’s Philip?” Lola demanded.

“I imagine he’s still with Schiffer.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you know, dear? He’s in love with her. He always has been, and I’m afraid for your sake, he always will be.”

“Did Philip ask you to tell me this, or are you doing it on your own?”

“I haven’t talked to Philip since this morning. I have, however, talked to quite a few other people who have informed me that you’re going to be in the papers tomorrow. Don’t look so surprised, dear,” Enid said. “I work for a newspaper. I have many, many contacts. That’s one of the advantages of being old. One collects lots of friends. Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”

Lola tried to beg for mercy. “Oh, Enid,” she cried out, and kneeling down, she buried her head in the couch in shame. “It wasn’t my fault.

This girl came up to me, and I didn’t know what to say. She somehow got it out of me.”

“There, there,” Enid said, patting Lola’s head. “It happens to everyone once. You were just like a snake about to be attacked by a mongoose.”

“That’s right,” Lola said, although she had no idea what a mongoose was.

“I can fix everything. I only need to know if you’re pregnant, dear.”

Lola sat up and felt around for her drink. “I could be,” she said, becoming defiant.

Enid crossed one aged leg over the other. “If you are carrying Philip’s child, I suggest you pour that glass of vodka down the sink. Immediately.”

“I told you,” Lola said. “I don’t know if I’m pregnant or not.”

“Why don’t we find out?” Enid said. She reached into a paper bag and took out a pregnancy test.

“You can’t make me do that,” Lola shrieked, jumping back in horror.

Enid held out the kit. When Lola shook her head, Enid placed it on the coffee table between them.

“Where’s Philip?” Lola said. “If Philip knew what you were doing...”

“Philip is a man, my dear. And, unfortunately, slightly weak. Especially in the face of female hysteria. Men just can’t bear it, you know? They tune it out.” Enid crossed her arms and, looking Lola up and down, said soothingly, “I only have your best interests at heart. If you are pregnant, you’ll need looking after. Of course, you will have the baby. It would be so lovely if Philip had a child. And we’ll make sure you’re taken care of for life. I have an extra bedroom, and you can live with me.” She paused.

“On the other hand, if you do take the test and you’re not pregnant, I’ll make sure the story goes away quickly. With very little harm to you.”

Enid gave Lola another terrifying smile. “But as you said, I can’t make you take the test. If you don’t take it, however, I’m going to assume you’re not pregnant. And if you’re not pregnant and you continue to lie about it, I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Don’t threaten me, Enid,” Lola said warningly. “No one threatens me and gets away with it.”

Enid laughed. “Don’t be silly, my dear. Threats are only meaningful if you have the power to execute them. And you, my dear, do not.” She stood up. “I’ve tolerated your antics for quite a while. But today you’ve made me very, very angry.” She nodded at the coffee table. “Take the test.”

Lola grabbed the box. Enid was old, but she was still the meanest mean girl Lola had ever encountered, and Lola was afraid of her. So afraid, in fact, that she actually peed on the plastic indicator and handed it over to Enid, who examined it with grim satisfaction. “Now, that’s lucky, my dear,” she said. “It seems you’re not pregnant after all. If you were, it might have been complicated. We wouldn’t have known who the father was. Not until the baby was born. It could have been Philip’s — or Thayer Core’s. And that’s no way to bring a child into the world, now, is it?”

Lola had come up with a hundred responses — after the fact. In the actual moment, facing Enid, she wasn’t able to think of what to say.

“Consider this an opportunity, dear,” Enid said.“You’re only twenty-two.

You have a chance to start over. I had a long conversation with your mother this afternoon, and she’s on her way to pick you up and take you back to Atlanta. She’s a lovely woman, your mother. She should be here in an hour.

I’ve booked a room for you at the Four Seasons hotel so you can enjoy your last night in New York in style.”

“Oh no,” Lola said, finding her voice. She looked around in a panic, spotted her handbag next to the door, and grabbed it. “I’m not leaving New York.”

“Be sensible, dear,” Enid said.

“You can’t make me,” Lola shouted. She opened the door, knowing only that she had to get away. She frantically pressed the button for the elevator as Enid followed her into the hallway.

“Where are you going? There’s no place to go, Lola.”

Lola turned her back and pressed the button again. Where was the elevator? “You haven’t any money,” Enid said. “You don’t have an apartment. Or a job. You have no choice.”

Lola turned. “I don’t care.” The elevator came at last, and she stepped in.

“You’ll be sorry,” Enid said. As the doors were closing, Enid made one last attempt to dissuade her. “You’ll see,” she called out, adding fiercely,

“You don’t belong in New York.”

Now, in the church, Lola remembered with glee how Enid’s plan had backfired. Her admonishment that Lola didn’t belong in New York had only made her more determined. In the past two weeks, she’d put up with quite a bit of hardship, returning home with her mother — who had begged Lola to stay in Windsor Pines and even tried to fix her up with the son of one of her friends who was getting a business degree — but Lola wouldn’t hear of it. She sold several pairs of shoes and two handbags on eBay, scraping together enough money to return to New York.

She forced Thayer to take her in, and for the time being, she was living with Thayer and Josh in their little hellhole, sharing Thayer’s tiny bed.

On the third day there, she’d broken down and actually cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen sink. And then that disgusting Josh, thinking she was free bait, had tried to kiss her, and she’d had to fight him off.

She couldn’t bunk with Thayer much longer. She had to find her own place — but how?

She tried to peer around the many heads in front of her, looking for Philip and Enid. She spotted the back of Enid’s coiffed head first. What would Enid do when she found out she was back in New York? Sitting next to Enid was Philip. Seeing the back of his head, with that too familiar longish dark hair, brought back all the fresh hurts and indignities she’d suffered at his hands as well.

After rushing out of his apartment on what would turn out to be her final evening in One Fifth, she’d wandered around the West Village, weighing her options. But after two hours, her feet began to throb, and she’d realized Enid was right — she had no money and no place to go.

She’d returned to One Fifth to find her mother and Philip and Enid waiting. They were calm, treating her with kid gloves as if she were a mental patient who’d had a breakdown, and Lola realized she had no choice but to comply with their plan. Then she’d had to endure the disgrace of allowing her mother to help her pack up her things. Philip was disturbingly distant throughout the process, as if he had become a completely different person. He’d behaved as if he hardly knew her and they hadn’t had sex a hundred times — and this, to Lola, was the most unfathomable of all. How could a man who had put his head between your legs and his penis inside your vagina and mouth, and kissed you and held you and tickled your stomach, suddenly act as if none of it had happened? Riding uptown in the taxi with her mother, she had burst into tears and cried and cried and cried. “Philip Oakland is a fool,” Beetelle declared fiercely. “And his aunt is even worse. I’ve never met such an awful woman.” She put her arms around Lola’s head and stroked her hair.

“It’s a good thing you got away from those terrible people,” she said, but this only made Lola cry harder.

Beetelle’s heart broke for her daughter, reminding her of her own heartbreaking incident in New York with the doctor. She would have been about Lola’s age then. Pulling her daughter closer, Beetelle felt helpless in the face of Lola’s distress. It was the first time, she realized, that Lola was discovering the terrible truth about life: It wasn’t what it seemed, and fairy tales did not necessarily come true. Nor could men be relied upon to love you.

The next morning, Philip came to the hotel to see Lola. For a moment, she’d held out hope that he would tell her it was all a mistake, and he loved her after all. But when she opened the door, his expression revealed that he hadn’t changed his mind; indeed, as if to make a point, under his arm were the Post and the Daily News. They went downstairs to the restaurant, and Philip put the papers on the table. “Do you want to see them?” he asked. She did, of course, but didn’t want to give him more ammuni-tion. “No,” she replied haughtily, as if she were above such things.

“Listen, Lola,” he began.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I owe you an apology.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I made a mistake with you. And I’m sorry. You’re young, and I should have known better. I never should have allowed our relationship to continue. I should have ended it before Christmas.”

Lola’s stomach dropped. The waiter brought her food — eggs Bene-dict — and Lola looked at her plate, wondering if she’d ever be able to eat again. Had her whole relationship with Philip been a lie? Then she understood. “You used me,” she accused him.

“Oh, Lola.” Philip sighed. “We used each other.”

“I loved you,” Lola said fiercely.

“No, you didn’t,” Philip said. “You loved the idea of me. There’s a big difference.”

Lola threw her napkin onto her plate of eggs. “Let me tell you one thing, Philip Oakland. I hate you. And I will always hate you. For the rest of my life. Don’t you come near me, ever again.”

Holding her head high, she got up and walked out of the restaurant, leaving Philip sitting there, embarrassed.

A little later, leaving the hotel with her mother, Lola wondered how she would ever recover. When they got to the airport, however, she bought the papers; and seeing her photograph on the third page of the Post, and reading the brief story about how Philip had dumped her for Schiffer Diamond, she began to feel better. She wasn’t some little nobody. She was Lola Fabrikant, and someday she would show Philip and Enid what a mistake they’d made in underestimating her.

Now, scanning the pew containing Philip and Enid, she saw Schiffer Diamond sitting next to Philip, followed by auburn-haired Annalisa Rice.

A few pews behind them was that awful Mindy Gooch, with her rigid blond bob, and next to her was James Gooch, with that familiar sweet bald spot on the top of his head. Ah, James Gooch, Lola thought. She’d forgotten about James, who was apparently back from his book tour.

Now he sat before her, like Providence. She took out her iPhone. “I’m behind you in the church,” she texted.

It took a minute for her text to reach him. Hearing the bleat, he turned his head slightly and felt in his pocket for his phone. Mindy glared at him. James gave a guilty shrug, took out his phone, and surreptitiously checked the message. The skin on the back of his neck reddened, and he turned the phone off.

“I miss you,” Lola had texted. “Meet me in the Mews at three o’clock.”

An hour later, James Gooch stood in a corner of the overcrowded living room in the Rices’ apartment and, looking around to make sure Mindy wasn’t somewhere in the room watching him, reread Lola’s text, his stomach thumping with excitement and curiosity. Leaving the church, he’d looked for her, but she was already outside, posing for the photographers. He considered speaking to her, but Mindy quickly pulled him away. Now, checking his watch, he saw that it was nearly three. Weaving through the crowd, he scanned the room for Mindy. A waiter passed by with a tray of caviar piled on top of tiny blintzes, and James popped two into his mouth. Another waiter freshened his glass of champagne with a bottle of Dom Perignon. Annalisa Rice had gone all out in Billy’s honor, inviting at least two hundred people back to her apartment to further mourn his loss. Billy’s sudden death had shocked James, and coming back on the plane from Houston, he had even read Mindy’s blog about it; for once, he had to agree that she was right. The death of a friend did make you realize that life was finite, and there was only so much time left in which to be young — or youngish, anyway.

But Billy’s death was only one in a bizarre series of events that had plagued One Fifth while he’d been away. There was the Internet Debacle, and the discovery of the Cross of Bloody Mary, which people postulated had been hidden in Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. Then Billy’s overdose. And Lola’s assertion that she was pregnant by Philip Oakland, who had dumped her for Schiffer Diamond. This was to be followed — according to Mindy — by an impending announcement that Philip Oakland and Schiffer Diamond were to be married after an appropriate period of mourning. It was all slightly outrageous, James thought — and what about poor Lola Fabrikant? Did anyone care what had happened to her? He wondered but he didn’t dare ask.

Now he would find out. Discovering Mindy in the dining room talking to Enid — they were friends again, it seemed, and appeared to be in a deep discussion about their favorite topic, One Fifth — he nodded at her, trying to catch her attention. “Yes?” she said curtly.

“I’m going to walk Skippy,” he said over the noise of the chattering crowd.

“Why?” she said.

“Because he needs to go out.”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and went back to her conversation.

James tried to slip out the door but was waylaid by Redmon Richardly, who was talking to Diane Sawyer. Redmon grasped him by the shoulder. “Do you know James Gooch?” he said. “His book’s been number one on The New York Times best-seller list for five weeks now.” James nodded and moved away but was stopped by the editor in chief of Vanity Fair, who wanted to talk to him about writing a piece about Billy’s death.

When James was finally able to get down to his apartment, it was three-ten. He grabbed Skippy and hurried around the corner to the Mews.

Walking slowly on the tiny cobblestoned street, he didn’t see her at first. Then he heard his name called, and she stepped out from the shadows of a doorway covered with vines. For a second, James was startled by her appearance. After the funeral, she must have gone home and changed, for she now had on dirty jeans and an old red ski parka. But she wore the same sweet, fawning expression that always made him feel admired and protective of her. Skippy jumped on her leg and she laughed, leaning over to pet the little dog. “I’ve been wondering what happened to you,” James said. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, James,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Everyone’s taken Philip’s side, and I’ve lost all my friends.

I don’t even have a place to live.”

“You’re not sleeping on the street?” James asked, horrified, once again taking in her appearance.

“I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s couch,” she said. “But you know how it is. I can’t stay there forever. And I can’t go home to Atlanta. I don’t have a home to go back to even if I wanted to. My parents went bankrupt.”

“Good God,” James said. “How could Oakland do this to you?”

“He doesn’t care about me. He never did. He used me for sex, and when he’d had his fill, he went back to Schiffer Diamond. I’m really alone, James,” she said, grabbing on to his sleeve as if she were afraid he might try to get away. “I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

“The first thing you need to do is to get an apartment. Or a job. Or both,” James stated with authority, as if such things were easily accomplished. He shook his head in disbelief. “I still can’t believe Oakland kicked you out and didn’t at least give you some money.”

“He didn’t,” Lola said. She was lying; Philip had sent a check for ten thousand dollars to her parents’ condo, and Beetelle had FedExed it to her at Thayer’s address. But James didn’t need to know this. “Philip Oakland is not what people think he is,” she said.

“He’s exactly what I always thought he was,” James said.

Lola looked up at him and took a step closer, then glanced away, as if she were ashamed. “I know we hardly know each other,” she said in a small voice, “but I was hoping you might be able to help me. There’s no one else I can ask.”

“You poor thing,” James said, adding boldly, “tell me what I can do and I’ll do it.”

“Can I borrow twenty thousand dollars?”

James blanched at the sum. “That’s a lot of money,” he said carefully.

“I’m sorry.” She took a step backward. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.

I’ll figure something out. It was nice knowing you, James. You were the only person who was nice to me in One Fifth. Congratulations on all your success. I always knew you were a star.” And she began to walk away.

“Lola, stop,” James called.

She turned and, giving him a brave smile, shook her head. “I’ll be okay.

I’ll survive somehow.”

He caught up with her. “I do want to help you,” he said. “I’ll figure something out.” They arranged to meet up under the arch in Washington Park the next afternoon.

James then returned to the party, where he immediately bumped into the devil himself — Philip Oakland. “Excuse me,” James said.

“Heard your book is number one on the list,” Philip said. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” James said curtly. For once, he noted, Philip Oakland didn’t seem to be in a rush to move away. James decided to make Philip uncomfortable. Considering Lola’s situation it was the least he could do.

“I just saw your girlfriend,” he said accusingly.

“Really?” Philip looked confused. “Who?”

“Lola Fabrikant.”

Now Philip looked embarrassed. “We’re not together anymore,” he said. He took a sip of champagne. “I’m sorry — did I hear you correctly?

Did you say you’d just seen her?”

“That’s right. In the Mews,” James said. “She has no place to live.”

“She was supposed to be back in Atlanta. With her parents.”

“Well, she’s not,” James said. “She’s in New York.” He would have said more, but Schiffer Diamond came over and took Philip’s hand. “Hello, James,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek as if they were old friends. Death, James supposed, made everyone old friends. “Did you know Billy, too?” he asked. He suddenly remembered that she had found the body, and immediately felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” Schiffer said.

Philip jiggled her hand. “James said he just saw Lola Fabrikant. In the Mews.”

“She was at the funeral,” James said, trying to explain.

“I’m afraid we missed her.” Schiffer and Philip exchanged a glance.

“Excuse me,” Schiffer said, and moved away.

“Nice to see you,” Philip said to James, and followed her.

James took a fresh glass of champagne from a tray and stepped into the crowd. Schiffer and Philip were standing a few feet away, holding hands, nodding as they spoke to another couple. Apparently, Philip Oakland didn’t even feel guilty about what he’d done to Lola, James thought with disgust. He moved into the living room and sat down on a plushy love seat and scanned the room. It was filled with bold-faced names — the art folk and media types and socialites and fashionistas who comprised the chattering classes and had defined his and Mindy’s world in New York City for the last twenty years. Now, having been away for a month, he had a different perspective. How silly they all seemed. Half the people in the room had had some kind of “work” done, including the men. Billy’s death was just another excuse for a party, where they could drink champagne and eat caviar and talk about their latest projects.

Meanwhile, out on the street, homeless and probably hungry, was an innocent young woman — Lola Fabrikant — who’d been taken up by this crowd and summarily spit out when she didn’t meet the exact requirements.

A man and a woman passed behind him, whispering, “I heard the Rices have a Renoir.”

“It’s in the dining room. And it’s tiny.” There was a pause followed by high-pitched laughter. “And it cost ten million dollars. But it’s a Renoir.

So who cares?”

Perhaps he should ask Annalisa Rice for the twenty thousand dollars for Lola, James thought. She apparently had so much money, she didn’t know what to do with it.

But hold on, James thought. He had money now, too, and more than he’d expected. Two weeks ago, his agent had informed him that if the sales of his book continued at the same rate — and there was no reason to think they wouldn’t — he would earn at least two million dollars in royalties. Despite this astonishing news, when James returned to New York and his daily routine, he saw that his circumstances hadn’t changed at all. He still awoke every morning as James Gooch, married to Mindy Gooch, living his odd little life in his odd little apartment. The only difference being that right now, during this two-week break from his book tour, he had nothing to do.

James stood up and crossed the living room, stepping out onto the lowest of the Rices’ three terraces. He leaned over the edge, looking up and down Fifth Avenue. It, too, was exactly the same. He finished his champagne and, looking into the bottom of the glass, felt empty.

For once in his life, there was no sword of doom hanging over his head; he had nothing to complain about and nothing about which to hang his head. And yet he didn’t feel content. Stepping back through the French doors, he looked at the crowd and wished he were still in the Mews with Lola.

The next afternoon, James met Lola under the arch in Washington Park.

Determined to be a hero, James had spent the morning trying to find Lola an apartment. Mindy would have been shocked at his industrious-ness, he thought wryly, but Mindy never needed his help, and Lola did.

After making several calls, Redmon Richardly’s assistant told him about an apartment that might be available in her building on Eighteenth Street and Tenth Avenue. The rent was fourteen hundred dollars a month for a studio, and after tracking down the owner, who had not only heard of his book but had read it and loved it, James made an arrangement to see the apartment at three. Then he’d gone to the bank and, feeling like a criminal, withdrew five thousand dollars in cash. Strolling toward the park, he found Lola already waiting. She had mascara under her eyes as if she’d been crying and hadn’t bothered to wash it away. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“What do you think?” she said bitterly. “I feel like a homeless person.

Everything I own is in storage — and it’s costing me a hundred and fifty a month. I have no place to sleep. And the bathroom in that place I’m staying is disgusting. I’m afraid to take a shower. Were you able to ... figure something out?”

“I brought you some money,” James said. “And something else — something that should really make you happy.” He paused for effect, then said proudly, “I think I may have found you an apartment.”

“Oh, James,” she exclaimed.

“It’s only fourteen hundred a month. If you like it, we can use the cash to pay your first month’s rent and a deposit.”

“Where is it?” she asked cautiously. When he told her, she looked disappointed. “It’s so far west,” she said. “It’s practically on the river.”

“It’s within walking distance of One Fifth,” James assured her. “So we can visit each other all the time.”

Nevertheless, Lola insisted on taking a taxi. The cab pulled up to a small redbrick building that James suspected, given the location, had probably once been a flophouse. On the street level was an Irish bar. He and Lola walked up a narrow staircase to a short hallway with a linoleum floor. The apartment was 3C, and after trying the handle, James found the door open and he and Lola went in. It was a tiny space, no bigger than three hundred square feet — a room, really, in a normal person’s house — with a tiny closet, a tiny bathroom with a shower, and two cupboard doors that opened to reveal a minuscule kitchen. But it was clean and bright and located on a corner, so it had two windows.

“Not bad,” James said.

Lola’s heart sank. Had she really fallen so low in the short nine months she’d been in New York?

The landlady was a salt-of-the-earth type with a pile of bleached hair and a New York accent. Her family had owned the building for a hundred years; her biggest requirement, after an ability to pay, was “nice” people. Was Lola perhaps James’s daughter? No, James explained, she was a friend who’d had a rough time with an ex-boyfriend who’d dumped her.

The perfidy of men was one of the landlady’s favorite topics; she was always happy to help out a fellow female sufferer. James proclaimed the arrangement a done deal. The apartment, he declared, reminded him of his first apartment in Manhattan and how thrilled he’d been to have his own space and to be making his way in New York. “The good old days,” he said to the landlady, peeling off three thousand dollars in hundreds.

The extra two hundred would be used to cover Lola’s utilities.

“Now all you need is a bed,” James said when the deal was completed.

“Why don’t we get you a foldout couch? There’s a Door Store on Sixth Avenue.” Walking east, James noticed her glum expression. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t look happy. Aren’t you relieved to have your own apartment?”

Lola was in a panic. She hadn’t planned on getting an apartment at all, and especially such a shabby, depressing little place. She’d meant to take the money from Philip and James — thirty thousand in total — and install herself in Soho House, from where she would relaunch herself into New York society in style. How had her plan gone awry so quickly?

And now three thousand dollars were gone. “I didn’t expect it to happen this suddenly,” she said.

“Ah,” James said, holding up a finger. “That’s New York real estate. If we hadn’t taken the apartment, it would have been gone in an hour.

You’ve got to act fast.” At the Door Store, James purchased a couch with a queen-size foldout bed in a sensible navy blue fabric that wouldn’t show stains, the feel of which made Lola shudder. It was the floor model, James exclaimed, saying it was a great deal. And another fifteen hundred dollars was gone.

James finally escorted her back to the empty apartment, where she was to wait for the bed to be delivered. “I don’t know how you managed to do all this,” Lola said weakly. “Thank you.” She kissed James on the cheek.

“I’ll come by tomorrow and see how you’re settling in,” he said.

“I can’t wait,” Lola said. There was still the remainder of the fifteen thousand dollars James might give her, but she didn’t dare ask for it now.

She would have to talk to him about it tomorrow, though.

When James left, she immediately went to Thayer Core’s apartment.

“I got my own place,” she said.

“How’d you manage that?” Thayer said, looking up from his computer.

“James Gooch found it,” Lola said, taking off her coat. “He paid for it, too.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s in love with me.” Lola was suddenly thrilled to be getting out of Thayer and Josh’s apartment. Thayer was becoming unreasonable, asking her for oral sex and pouting when he didn’t get it, saying he had something on her and would use it if he had to. “What?” she’d scoff. “You’ll see,” he’d say vaguely.

“Shut up, Thayer. You’re a douchebag,” she reminded him now.

“I thought you were trying to get back into One Fifth. I need information.”

“I’ll get it from James.”

“What if he requires sex in exchange?”

“I have sex with you, so what’s the difference?” Lola replied. “At least he doesn’t have diseases.”

“How do you know?”

“I know,” she said. “He’s only been with one woman for the past twenty years. His wife.”

“Maybe he sleeps with hookers on the side.”

Lola rolled her eyes. “Not every man is like you, Thayer. Decent men do exist.”

“Uh-huh,” Thayer said, nodding. “Like James Gooch. A man who’s an inch away from cheating on his wife. Although if I were married to Mindy Gooch, I’d cheat, too.”

The next day, knocking on the door of her new apartment, James found Lola sitting on the bare mattress of the foldout couch, crying.

“What’s wrong now?” James said, edging next to her.

“Look around,” Lola said. “I don’t even have a pillow.”

“I’ll bring you one from home. My wife won’t notice.”

“I don’t want some old pillow from your house,” Lola said, wondering how she’d managed to pick the cheapest man in Manhattan as her savior. “Do you think you could give me some money? Maybe the fifteen thousand dollars?”

“I can’t give it to you all at once,” James said. “My wife will get suspicious.” Having given the matter a great deal of thought, James had settled on a plan to pay Lola’s rent for six months while giving her two thousand dollars a month in spending money. “And when you get a job,” he said,

“you’ll be fine. You’ll have much more money than I did at your age.”

From then on, James went by the apartment every afternoon, often taking Lola to lunch at the Irish pub downstairs — to make sure she had one decent meal a day, he said — and then hung around her apartment afterward. He liked the uncluttered space and the afternoon sunlight that poured through the windows, noting that Lola’s apartment got more light than his own. “James,” she said. “I need a TV.”

“You have your computer,” James said. “Can’t you watch TV shows on that? Isn’t that what everybody does these days?”

“Everybody has a computer. And a TV.”

“You could read a book,” James said. “Have you read Anna Karenina? Or Madame Bovary?”

“I have, and they’re boring. Besides, I don’t have room for books,” she complained, gesturing at the tiny space.

James bought her a TV — a sixteen-inch Panasonic — that they placed on the windowsill.

On the day before James was to go back out on book tour, he turned up at her apartment earlier than usual. It was eleven o’clock, but she was still sleeping, her head resting on the down pillow she’d bought from ABC Carpet, along with a down comforter that James suspected cost over a thousand dollars. When he questioned her about it, however, she said she’d bought it on sale for a hundred. He didn’t expect her to sleep without covers, did he? No, he did not, he agreed, and let it go.

“What time is it?” she asked now, rolling over in her bed.

“It’s almost noon,” he said. He found the fact that she was still in bed slightly annoying, and wondered what she’d been up to the night before that would cause her to sleep till midday. Or perhaps she was depressed.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. First thing,” he explained. “I wanted to say goodbye. And to make sure you were okay.”

“When will I see you again?” She stretched, extending her arms up to the ceiling. She was wearing an orange tank top with nothing underneath.

“Not for a month.”

“Where are you going?” she asked in alarm.

“England, Scotland, Ireland, Paris, Germany, Australia, and New Zealand.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Terrible for us but good for the book,” James said.

She threw back the comforter and patted the mattress. “Snuggle me,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I don’t think ...” James said cautiously, despite his beating heart.

“It’s only a hug, James,” she pointed out. “No one can object to that.”

He got into bed next to her, awkwardly arranging his long body so several inches of space remained between them. She turned to face him, curling up her knees into his groin. Her breath was pungent with the lingering smell of vodka and cigarettes, and he wondered once again where she’d been the night before. Had she had sex with someone?

“You’re funny,” she said.

“Am I?”

“Look at you.” She giggled. “You’re so stiff.”

“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” he said.

“We’re not doing anything,” she countered. “But you want to, don’t you?”

“I’m married,” he whispered.

“Your wife never has to know.” She trailed her hand down his chest and touched his penis. “You’re hard,” she said.

She started kissing him on the mouth, thrusting her fat tongue between his teeth. James was too startled to resist. This was so different from Mindy’s kisses, which were dry little pecks. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d kissed someone like this, marveling that people still did this — that he could still do this — this making-out thing. And Lola’s skin was so soft, like a baby’s, he thought, touching her arms. Her neck was smooth and unwrinkled. He tentatively touched her breasts through the fabric of her shirt, feeling her nipples erect. He rolled on top of her, pushing himself up on his arms to stare down at her face. Should he go further? He hadn’t made love in so long, he wondered if he would remember the moves.

“I want you inside me,” she said, touching the mound of his penis. “I want your fat cock in my wet pussy.”

The mere suggestion of this sex act was too much, and as he was trying to unzip his jeans, the inevitable happened. He came. “Damn,”

he said.

“What’s wrong?” She sat up.

“I just ... you know.” He slid his hand into his jeans and felt the tell-tale wetness. “Fuck!”

She got onto her knees behind him and rubbed his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. It’s only the first time.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You are so sweet,” he said.

“You’re the sweetest girl I’ve ever known.”

“Am I?” she said, jumping off the bed. She pulled on a pair of cashmere sweatpants. “James?” she asked in a syrupy voice. “Since you’re leaving and I won’t see you for a month ...”

“Do you need some money?” he said. He reached into his pants pocket. “I’ve only got sixty dollars.”

“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 her.

“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.

“I’ve made some money. But you can see that,” he said, indicating the apartment. “You know how much a place like this costs?”

“I wouldn’t want to guess,” Lola replied.

“Two million. For a one-bedroom.”

“Wow,” Lola said, pretending to be impressed. She stood up and walked to the window. “So what’s this job?”

“Sex columnist,” Marquee said.

“That’s original.”

“It is,” Marquee said without irony. “See, the problem with most sex columns is — there’s no sex in them. It’s all that relationship bullshit. Nobody wants to read that. My idea is brand-new. No one’s ever done it before. A sex column that’s really about sex.”

“Isn’t that called porn?” Lola asked.

“If you’re going to call yourself a sex columnist, I say, show me the sex.”

“If you’re going to hire me to have sex, I suggest you show me the money,” Lola replied.

“You want cash?” Marquee said. “I’ve got cash, and plenty of it.” He pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and waved it in front of her. “Here’s the deal. A thousand dollars a pop.”

“I’ll need half up front,” Lola said.

“Fine,” Marquee said, peeling off five one-hundred-dollar bills. “And I’m going to need details. Length and width. Distinguishing characteristics. What went where and when.”

That evening, instead of going to a club, Lola stayed home and wrote about sex with Philip. She found it surprisingly easy, cathartic, even, working herself up into a froth about the cruelty he’d exhibited in dumping her for Schiffer Diamond. “He had a fat penis with swinging balls in a sack of prickly skin. And he had wrinkles on the back of his neck. And little hairs beginning to sprout from his earlobes. At first I thought those little hairs were cute.” Finishing the entry and reading it over, she found herself longing to do it again and decided Philip deserved more than one measly post. By changing his name and profession, she ought to be able to get at least three more entries out of him. And then thinking about the best way to spend the money, she paged through one of the tabloid magazines and found a bandage-wrap Hervé Léger dress that would look amazing on her.

A few days later, Enid Merle was cleaning out her kitchen cabinets. She did it every year, not wanting to become one of those old women who accumulated dust and junk. Enid had just taken down a metal box filled with old silver when her buzzer rang. She opened the door to find Mindy Gooch standing in the hallway in a huff. “Have you seen it?” Mindy asked.

“What?” Enid asked, slightly annoyed. Now that she and Mindy were friendly again, Mindy wouldn’t leave her alone.

“Snarker. You’re not going to like it,” Mindy said. She strode through Enid’s living room to her computer and brought up the website. “I’ve been complaining about these posts by this Thayer Core for months,” she scolded, as if the posts were somehow Enid’s fault. “And no one took them seriously. Perhaps someone will, now that there’s one about Philip.”

Enid adjusted her glasses and peered over Mindy’s shoulder. “The Rich and the Restless” was written in small red block letters, and underneath, in large black type, “Hell Hath No Fury” next to a photograph of Lola taken outside the church at Billy’s memorial service. Enid pushed Mindy aside and began reading.

“Lovely Lola Fabrikant, spurned lover of seedy screenwriter Philip Oakland, gets even with him this week by penning her own brilliant version of sex with a man who bears a satisfying resemblance to the aging bachelor.” The words “brilliant version” were highlighted in red, and clicking on them, Enid was taken to another website called The Peephole, featuring yet another photograph of Lola, followed by a graphic description of a young woman having intercourse with a middle-aged man.

The description of the man’s teeth, hands, and the little hairs on his earlobes was unmistakably of Philip, although Enid couldn’t bear to read the details about his penis.

“Well?” Mindy demanded. “Aren’t you going to do something?”

Enid looked up at Mindy wearily. “I told you to hire him — this Thayer Core — months ago. If you had, this would have ended.”

“Why should I be the one to hire him? Why can’t you?”

“Because if he works for me, he’ll only continue to do the same thing.

He’ll go to parties and make things up and write unpleasant things about people. If you hire him, he’ll be working for a corporation. He’ll be stuck in an office building, taking the subway like every other working stiff, and eating a sandwich at his desk. It’ll give him a new perspective on life.”

“What about Lola Fabrikant?”

“Don’t worry about her, my dear.” Enid smiled. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll give her exactly what she wants — publicity.”

Two days later, the “true” story of Lola Fabrikant appeared in Enid Merle’s syndicated column. It was all there: how Lola had tried to fake a pregnancy to get a man, how she was obsessed with clothes and status, how she never gave a thought to being responsible for her own actions, or even what she might do for anyone else — making her the ultimate example of all that was wrong and misguided about young women today. Portrayed in Enid’s best schoolmarmish tone, Lola came off as the poster child for bad values.

On the afternoon the piece came out, Lola sat on the bed in her tiny apartment, reading all about herself on the Internet. The newspaper lay beside her computer, folded open to Enid’s column. The first time Lola read it, she burst into tears. How could Enid be so cruel? But the column wasn’t the end of it, having ignited a firestorm of negative comments about Lola on the Internet. She was being called a slut and a whore, and her physical features had been dissected and found somewhat lacking — several people had hypothesized, correctly, that she’d had a nose job and breast implants — and hundreds of men had left messages on her Facebook page, describing what they’d like to do to her sexually.

Their suggestions weren’t pleasant. One man wrote that he would

“shove his balls down her throat until she choked and her eyes bulged out of her head.” Until that morning, Lola had always enjoyed the Internet’s unfettered viciousness, assuming that the people who were written about somehow deserved it, but now that the negativity was directed at her, it was a different story. It hurt. She felt like a wounded animal, trailing blood. After reading another post about herself in which someone wrote that the Lola Fabrikants of the world deserved to die alone in a flophouse, Lola once again burst into tears.

It wasn’t fair, she thought, holding herself while she rocked on the thin mattress. She had naturally assumed that when she did become famous, everyone would love her. Desperate, she texted Thayer Core again. “Where are you????????!!!!!!!!” She waited a few minutes, and when there was again no response, she sent another text. “I can’t leave my house. I’m hungry. I need food,” she wrote. She sent the text, followed immediately by another: “And bring alcohol.” Finally, an hour later, Thayer responded with one word: “Busy.”

Thayer eventually turned up, bearing a bag of cheese doodles. “This is all your fault,” Lola screamed.

“Mine?” he asked, surprised. “I thought this was what you always wanted.”

“I did. But not like this.”

“You shouldn’t have done it, then.” He shrugged. “You ever hear of

‘free will’?”

“You have to fix this,” Lola said.

“Can’t,” he said. He opened the bag of cheese doodles and stuffed four into his mouth. “Got a job today. Working for Mindy Gooch.”

“What?” Lola exclaimed in shock. “I thought you hated her.”

“I do. But I don’t have to hate her money. I’m getting paid a hundred thousand dollars a year. Working in the new-media department. In six months, I’ll probably be running it. Those people don’t know squat.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” Lola demanded.

Thayer looked at her, unmoved. “How should I know?” he said. “But if you can’t make something out of all this publicity I got you, you’re a bigger loser than I thought.”

June arrived, and with it, unseasonably warm weather. The temperature had been over eighty degrees for three days; already the Gooches’ apartment was too warm, and James was forced to turn on the sputtering air conditioner. Sitting beneath it one morning, perched over his computer and thinking about starting another book, he listened to the sounds of his wife and son packing in Sam’s bedroom next door. He checked the time. Sam’s bus left in forty minutes. Mindy and Sam would be leaving any minute — as soon as they did, he would read Lola’s sex column.

When he’d returned from the final leg of his book tour, exhausted and jet-lagged, he’d claimed he was too tired to even think about writing but had managed to get over to Lola’s apartment six times in ten days and, on each visit, had made fantastic love to her. One afternoon, she had stood above him while he spread open her labia and licked her firm little clit; on another occasion, she’d fucked him while he lay on his back, positioning her bottom in front of his face, and he had slid his middle finger in and out of her puckered asshole. In the evenings after these encounters, Mindy would come home and remark that he appeared to be in a good mood. He would reply that yes, he was, and after all his hard labor, didn’t he have a right to be? Then Mindy would bring up the country house. They couldn’t, she conceded, afford a house in the Hamptons, but they could find something in Litchfield County, which was just as beautiful, and maybe even better than the Hamptons because it was still filled with artists and not yet overrun with finance types. In her usual pushy way, Mindy had convinced him to drive up to Litchfield County for the weekend; they’d stayed at the Mayflower Inn to the tune of two thousand dollars for two nights while they looked at houses during the day. Mindy was, James knew, trying to be reasonable, limiting their choices to houses under one point three million dollars. James found something wrong with every one, but in an act of defiance, perhaps, Mindy had signed Sam up for a month of tennis camp in the tony little town of Washington, Connecticut, where Sam would be residing in the dorm of a private school.

Now, while Mindy was packing Sam’s things, James was wondering if he dared take a quick peek at Lola’s column. In her last installment, she had written about the time James had alternated between penetrating her with a vibrator and his own penis. Unlike Mindy, Lola had the good sense to change his name — calling him “The Terminator,” because he caused orgasms that were so strong, they could be terminal — and James was so chuffed, he couldn’t be angry. He had even bought her an enameled Hermés bracelet, which she’d been desperate for, saying all the women on the Upper East Side had one, cleverly paying cash so Mindy couldn’t trace the purchase. He looked longingly at his computer, anxious to know if Lola had written about him again, and if so, what she’d said. But with Mindy in the apartment, he decided it was too risky. What if she caught him? Valiantly resisting temptation, he got up and went into Sam’s room.

“Four weeks of tennis,” James said to his son. “Do you think you’ll get bored?”

Mindy was placing packages of white cotton athletic socks into Sam’s bag. “No, he will not,” she said.

“I hate this business of taking on the customs of the upper classes,”

James said. “What’s wrong with basketball? It was good enough for me.”

Mindy snorted. “Your son is not you, James. As a fairly intelligent adult male, you should have figured that out by now.”

“Hmph,” James said. Mindy had been a bit curt with him lately, and since he feared her shortness might be due to a suspicion about his affair with Lola, he didn’t push it.

“Besides,” Mindy said. “I want Sam to feel comfortable in the area. We’ll have a house there soon, and I want him to have lots of new friends.”

“We will?” James said.

Mindy gave him a terse smile. “Yes, James, we will.”

James was suddenly nervous and went into the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee. A few minutes later, Mindy and Sam kissed him goodbye and went off to the bus station; Mindy would go on from there to her office. The second the door closed, James rushed to his computer, typed in the requisite address, and read, “The Terminator strikes again.

Wrapping my hot, wet pussy around his cock, he did another one of his dastardly deeds and tickled my asshole while I pumped him for juice.”

“Lola,” James had said after reading the first installment about his sexual exploits. “How can you do this? Don’t you worry about your reputation? What if you want to get a real job someday and your employer reads this?”

Lola only looked at him like he was once again hopelessly out of touch.

“It’s no different from all those other celebrities with sex tapes. It hasn’t hurt them. Just the opposite — it’s made their careers.”

Now, continuing to read Lola’s blog, James felt himself getting a hard-on that pushed against his leg, demanding immediate attention. He went into the bathroom and jerked off, hiding the evidence in a tissue that he flushed down the toilet. He looked into the mirror and nodded. The next time he saw Lola, he decided, he would definitely try for anal sex.

Mindy watched Sam get on the bus for Southbury, Connecticut, waving at his window until the bus pulled out of the underground garage.

Hurrying through Port Authority, she was relieved to have gotten Sam safely away, where Paul Rice couldn’t hurt him. She flagged a taxi, slid onto the backseat, and fished the folded piece of notepaper out of her bag. “Sam did it” was written in pencil, in Paul Rice’s tiny block lettering. The paper bore the logo of the Four Seasons Hotel in Bangkok. Apparently, Paul Rice had quite a few of these pads.

She refolded the note and put it back in her purse. She’d found the tightly folded paper in her mailbox just the other day, and while James was convinced she wanted a country house for her own self-aggrandizement, she’d begun pursuing it as a way to get herself and Sam out of Paul’s way, without raising suspicion. A man who could take over an entire country’s stock market was probably capable of anything, including persecuting a little boy. While everyone else in One Fifth had been diverted by Billy’s death, Paul hadn’t attended either his memorial service or Annalisa’s party. For all Mindy knew, Paul might still be investigating who cut his Internet wires, and eventually, he might be able to prove it was Sam.

Like Paul Rice, Mindy knew Sam had done it. She would never tell anyone, of course, including James. But it wasn’t the only secret she was keeping. Striding into her office, she passed Thayer Core, sitting in his cubicle like a caged animal, scrolling through a long list of e-mails. Mindy stopped and stuck her head over the edge of the cubicle, looking down at Thayer as a reminder of her authority over him.

“Have you printed out the notes from yesterday’s meeting?” she asked.

Thayer pushed back his chair and, as if to thwart her authority, put his feet up on his desk and crossed his arms. “Which meeting?” he said.

“All of them.” She moved away, then stopped, as if remembering something. “And I also need a hard copy of Lola Fabrikant’s sex column.”

When Mindy was safely in her office, Thayer muttered, “Can’t you read it on your computer? Like everyone else?” He got up and strolled through the maze of cubicles to the printer, where he retrieved Lola’s column. He read it briefly and shook his head. Lola was fucking James Gooch again. Could Mindy really be so dense that she didn’t know Lola was writing about her own husband? Ugh. It meant he and James Gooch now had one degree of separation. But James gave Lola money, and since Thayer enjoyed the same privileges as James for free, he couldn’t really object.

“Here you go,” Thayer said with a flourish, placing the printout on Mindy’s desk.

“Thank you,” she said, continuing to stare at her computer.

Thayer stood for a moment, watching her. “Can I have a raise?” he asked.

This got her attention. Putting on her reading glasses, she picked up the printout and glanced at it, and then him. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

“A month.”

“I’m already paying you a hundred thousand dollars a year.”

“It’s not enough.”

“Check back with me in five months, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Fucking old bag, Thayer thought, returning to his cubicle. But surprisingly, Mindy wasn’t that bad, not as bad as he’d thought she’d be. She had even taken him out for a beer and asked him all kinds of uncomfortable questions about where he lived and how he was surviving. When he told her he lived on Avenue C, she grimaced. “That’s not good enough for you,” she said. “I see you in a better place — like a walk-up in the West Village.” She’d given him advice about getting ahead, suggesting he attempt to appear “more corporate” by wearing a tie.

For some reason, he had taken her advice. The woman was right, he’d thought, upon returning to his disgusting apartment. It wasn’t good enough for him. He was twenty-five years old. There were men his age who were billionaires, but he was making a hundred thousand a year, an enormous sum compared to that of his friends. After scouring Craigslist, he’d found an apartment on Christopher Street, a walk-up with a bedroom that was barely large enough to contain a queen-size bed. It was twenty-eight hundred a month, which ate up three quarters of his monthly salary, but it was worth it. He was moving up in the world.

Seated behind her desk with her reading glasses perched on her nose, Mindy carefully read the latest installment of Lola’s sex column. Lola had quite a way with the description of the sex act and, not content to limit it to plumbing, also provided a detailed account of her partner’s physical characteristics. The first four columns had featured Philip Oakland as her lover, but this column and the previous one were most definitely about James. Although Lola called the man the Terminator, which made Mindy laugh out loud, the description of his penis, with its “constellation of tiny moles on the shaft, forming, perhaps, Osiris,” was James. Nor was it only the comments about his penis that gave him away. “I want to know every part of you. Including the dirty place,” the Terminator had said. It was exactly the same argument James had used on Mindy in the early years of their marriage when he’d wanted to try anal sex.

Putting the column aside, Mindy went back to her computer and, typ-ing in the address of the Litchfield County real estate agency, scrolled down and found the photographs and description of a house. The past weekend, looking at real estate, the agent had explained that there was very little in their price range — there was hardly anything on the market for under a million three. She did have the perfect house for them, but it was a little more expensive. Did they want to look at it anyway?

Yes, they did, Mindy said.

The house was a bit of a wreck, having only been recently vacated by an aged farmer. But these kinds of houses almost never came up. It still had twelve original acres, and the house, built in the late seventeen hundreds, had three fireplaces. There was an old apple orchard and a red barn (falling down, but barns were very inexpensive to restore), and it was located on what was considered one of the best streets in one of Litchfield County’s most exclusive towns — Roxbury, Connecticut. Population twenty-three hundred. But what a population. Arthur Miller and Alexander Calder had lived nearby, as well as Walter Matthau. Philip Roth was only miles away. And the house was a steal — only one point nine million.

“It’s too much,” James protested in the rental car on the way back to the city.

“It’s perfect,” Mindy said. “And you heard what the real estate agent said. Houses like this one never come up.”

“It makes me nervous, spending all that money. On a house. And it needs lots of restoration. Do you know how much that costs? Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yes, we have the money today. But who knows what will happen in the future?”

Indeed, Mindy thought now, pressing the intercom button on her phone. Who knew? “Thayer,” she said, “could you come into my office, please?”

“What now?” Thayer asked.

Mindy smiled. She’d been pleasantly surprised by Mr. Thayer Core, having discovered that he was not only a crackerjack assistant but a fellow trafficker in evil, paranoia, and bad thoughts. He reminded her of her very own self at twenty-five, and found his candor refreshing.

“I need another hard copy,” she said. “In color.”

In a few minutes, Thayer returned with a printout of the brochure for the house. Mindy clipped the brochure to Lola’s two sex columns about James and placed a Post-it note on top on which she’d written, “FYI.”

She handed the stapled pages to Thayer. “Could you messenger this to my husband, please?”

Thayer flipped through the pages and, nodding in admiration, said,

“That ought to do it.”

“Thank you,” Mindy said, shooing him away.

Thayer called the messenger service to pick up the package. He slipped the papers into a manila envelope and, as he did so, emitted a little laugh. He’d ridiculed Mindy Gooch for months, and while he still found her slightly ridiculous, he had to give the woman credit. She had balls.

A couple of hours later, Mindy called James. “Did you get my package?” she asked.

James murmured a terrified assent. “Well, I’ve been thinking about it,”

she continued. “And I want to buy that house. Immediately. I don’t want to wait another day. I’m going to call the real estate agent now and make an offer.”

“Great,” James said, too scared to sound enthusiastic.

Mindy leaned back in her chair, curling the phone cord around her finger. “I can’t wait to get started on the renovations. I’ve got all kinds of ideas. How’s the new book coming, by the way? Are you making progress?”

In the penthouse apartment in One Fifth, Annalisa Rice studied the seating chart for the King David event, writing the numbers of various tables next to each name on the twenty-page guest list. It was, as usual, a tedious process, but someone had to do it, and now that she had replaced Connie Brewer as the chairman of the event, the duty fell to her. She suspected Connie hadn’t wanted to give up her position, but with Sandy’s trial coming up, the other members of the committee didn’t think Connie’s involvement was a good idea. Connie’s presence would remind people of the scandal involving the Cross of Bloody Mary, and instead of covering the event, reporters would write about the Brewers instead.

The gala was in four days and was expected to be even more spectacular than the year before. Rod Stewart was performing, and Schiffer Diamond had agreed to host the event. After Billy’s death, Annalisa and Schiffer had become close, at first finding solace in each other’s company and then seeing their mutual sorrow blossom into an actual friendship.

Being public figures, they found they had some things in common. Schiffer suggested Annalisa hire her publicist, Karen; meanwhile, Annalisa had introduced Schiffer to her crazy stylist, Norine. Lady Superior was on hia-tus, and Schiffer would often pop upstairs in the late morning for coffee, which they’d take on Annalisa’s terrace; sometimes Enid would join as well. Annalisa relished these moments. Enid was right — a co-op was like a family, and the antics of the other residents were always a source of gentle amusement. “Mindy Gooch finally took my advice and hired Thayer Core,” Enid reported one morning. “So we won’t have to worry about him anymore. James, meanwhile, is having an affair with Lola Fabrikant.”

“That poor girl,” Schiffer said.

“Mindy or Lola?” Annalisa asked.

“Both,” Schiffer said.

“Poor Lola, nothing,” Enid exclaimed. “That girl was a gold digger.

Worse than Flossie Davis. All she wanted was to live in One Fifth and spend Philip’s money.”

“Don’t you think you were a little cruel to her, Enid?” Schiffer asked.

“Absolutely not. One has to be firm with that kind of girl. She was sleeping with Thayer Core behind Philip’s back and in Philip’s bed. I suppose she’s like a virus — she keeps coming back,” Enid said.

“Why did she come back?” Annalisa asked.

“Sheer, misguided determination. But she won’t get far. You’ll see,”

Enid said.

Now, recalling this conversation, Annalisa found she couldn’t blame Lola for wanting to live in One Fifth. She, like Enid and Schiffer, loved the building. The only problem was Paul. Having heard about Schiffer and Philip’s engagement, he kept insisting she use her influence to get Philip and Enid to sell him their apartments, pointing out that Philip and Schiffer would need a bigger apartment, and wouldn’t Enid want to move as well? No, Annalisa replied. The plan was that Schiffer and Enid were going to trade apartments, then Philip and Schiffer would combine the two thirteenth-floor apartments into one. Then Paul suggested they move to a bigger apartment, to something in the price range of forty million dollars. To this, she’d also objected. “It’s too much, Paul,” she said, wondering where his rabid desire for the bigger and better would end.

They’d put the discussion aside when Paul briefly became obsessed with buying a plane — the new G6, which wouldn’t be delivered for two years.

Paul had put down a deposit of twenty million dollars but complained bitterly about the unfairness of life, because he was number fifteen on the list and not number one. His obsessions, Annalisa noted, were getting more and more out of control, and just the other day, he’d thrown a crystal vase at Maria because she’d failed to immediately inform him of the arrival of two fish. Each fish cost over a hundred thousand dollars, and had been specially shipped from Japan. But Maria hadn’t known and had left the fish sitting in their containers for five critical hours, during which time they might have died. Maria quit, and Annalisa paid her two hundred thousand dollars — a year’s salary — not to press charges against Paul. Annalisa hired two new housekeepers instead of one, which seemed to mollify Paul, who insisted the second housekeeper be on fish duty twenty-four hours a day. This was disturbing but paled in comparison to Paul’s attitude toward Sam.

“He did it,” Paul said one evening at dinner. “That little bastard. Sam Gooch.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Annalisa said.

“I know he did it,” Paul said.

“How?”

“He gave me a look. In the elevator.”

“A thirteen-year-old boy gave you a look. And you know he did it,”

Annalisa said, exasperated.

“I’m having him followed.”

Annalisa put down her fork. “Let it go,” she said firmly.

“He cost me twenty-six million dollars.”

“You ended up making a hundred million dollars that day anyway.

What’s twenty-six million compared to that?”

“Twenty-six percent,” Paul replied.

Annalisa assumed Paul was exaggerating when he said he was having Sam followed, but a few nights later, as she was preparing for bed, she discovered Paul reading a detailed document that didn’t appear to be the charts and graphs he normally perused before going to sleep. “What’s that?” she demanded.

Paul looked up. “It’s the report on Sam Gooch. From the private detective.”

Annalisa snatched it out of his hands and began reading aloud. “ ‘The suspect was at the basketball court on Sixth Avenue ... Suspect attended field trip to the Museum of Science and Technology ... Suspect went into 742 Park and remained inside for three hours, at which time suspect exited, taking the Lexington Avenue subway to Fourteenth Street ...’ Oh, Paul,” she said. Disgusted, she ripped the report into pieces and threw it away.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Paul said when she returned to bed.

“I wish you hadn’t, either,” she said, and turned off the light.

Now, every time she thought about Paul, a knot formed in her stomach. There appeared to be an inverse relationship between the amount of money he made and his mental stability. The more money he made, the more unstable he became, and with Sandy Brewer absorbed in the preparations for his trial, there was no one to keep Paul in check.

Putting aside the seating chart, Annalisa went upstairs to change. The depositions for Sandy’s upcoming trial had begun, and being among several people who had seen the cross, Annalisa and Paul were on the list.

Paul had done his deposition the day before and, following the advice of his lawyer, claimed to have no recollection of seeing the cross, or of any discussions about it, or of Billy Litchfield’s potential involvement.

Indeed, he claimed to have no recollection of Billy Litchfield at all, other than a belief that Billy might have been an acquaintance of his wife’s.

Sandy Brewer had been at the deposition and was relieved by Paul’s faulty memory. But Paul didn’t know as much as Annalisa did, and to make matters worse, the lawyer had informed her that Connie Brewer would be at her deposition that afternoon. It would be the first time she’d seen Connie in months.

Annalisa selected a white gabardine pantsuit of which Billy would have approved. When she thought of him now, it was always with a slight bitterness. His death had been both pointless and unnecessary.

The deposition was held in a conference room in the offices of the Brewers’ law firm. Sandy wasn’t there, but Connie was sitting between two members of the Brewers’ legal team. At the head of the table was the counsel for the state. Connie looked frightened and wan.

“Let’s begin, Mrs. Rice,” said the state counsel. He wore a misshapen suit and had boils on his skin. “Did you ever see the Cross of Bloody Mary?”

Annalisa looked over at Connie, who was staring down at her hands.

“I don’t know,” Annalisa replied.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Connie showed me a cross, yes. But I can’t say if it was the Cross of Bloody Mary or not.”

“How did she describe it?”

“She said it belonged to a queen. But it might have come from anywhere. I thought it was costume jewelry.”

“Did you ever have a discussion with Billy Litchfield about the cross?”

“No, I did not,” Annalisa said firmly, lying. Billy had died for the stupid cross. Wasn’t that enough?

The questioning continued for another hour, and then Annalisa was dismissed. Connie walked with her to the elevator. “Thank you for doing this,” Connie murmured.

“Oh, Connie,” Annalisa said, and hugged her. “It’s the least I can do.

How are you? Can’t we have lunch?”

“Maybe,” Connie said hesitantly. “When all this is over.”

“It’ll be over soon. And everything will be okay.”

“I don’t know about that,” Connie said. “The FCC has barred Sandy from trading because he’s under investigation, so we have no money coming in. I’ve put our apartment on the market. The lawyers’ fees are huge. Even if Sandy does get off, I’m not sure I want to live in New York anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Annalisa said.

Connie shrugged. “It’s just a place. I’m thinking we should move to a state where no one knows us. Like Montana.”

That evening when Paul got home, Annalisa tried to tell him about her day. Going into his office, she found him standing before his giant aquarium, staring at his fish. “Connie says they’re going to have to sell their apartment,” she said.

“Really?” Paul said. “What do they want for it?”

She looked at him in astonishment. “I didn’t ask. For some reason, it didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Maybe we could buy it,” Paul said. “It’s bigger than this place. And they’re desperate, so we could probably get it for a good price. Real estate is going down. They’ll have to sell quickly.”

Annalisa stared at Paul, the knot in her stomach tightening in fear.

“Paul,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want to move.”

“Maybe not,” Paul said, keeping his eyes on his fish. “But I’m the one with the money. Ultimately, it’s my decision.”

Annalisa stiffened. Moving slowly, as if Paul were unbalanced and could no longer be trusted to react like a normal person, she edged toward the door. She paused and said softly, “Whatever you say, Paul,” quietly closing the heavy double doors behind her.

The next morning, Lola Fabrikant woke at noon, groggy and slightly hungover. She wrenched herself out of bed, took a painkiller, then went into the tiny bathroom to examine her face. Despite the amount of alcohol she’d consumed the night before at a birthday party for a famous rapper, her skin looked as fresh as if she’d just returned from a spa. In the last couple of months, she’d learned that no matter what she put in her body, or what she subjected it to, the effects never showed on her face.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of her apartment. The tiny bathroom was grimy, scattered with makeup and various creams and po-tions; a bra and panty set from La Perla was crumpled on the floor next to the toilet, where she’d tossed them as a reminder to hand-wash. But she never seemed to get around to domestic chores these days, and so her apartment was becoming, as James Gooch said, a pigsty. “Find me a cleaning woman, then,” she’d retorted, adding that the condition of her apartment didn’t seem to prevent him from wanting to be there.

She stepped into the plastic-molded shower, which was so small she banged her elbow reaching up to shampoo her hair, reminding her again of how much she hated the place. Even Thayer Core had managed to get a bigger apartment in a better location, which he never ceased to point out. Ever since he’d taken the job with Mindy Gooch, Thayer had become a bore and was obsessed with getting ahead, even though he was only, as Lola pointed out, a glorified assistant, despite the fact that he had a business card claiming he was an associate. She still saw him but only late at night. After a long evening of clubbing, she’d realize she was going home to an empty apartment and, feeling unbearably lonely, would call him, insisting that he let her spend the night. He usually did but made her leave with him at eight-thirty in the morning, claiming he no longer trusted her alone in his apartment, and now that he had a decent place, he wanted to keep it that way.

Running conditioner through her hair, she bolstered herself with the thought that soon she, too, would have a larger apartment. That afternoon, she had an audition for a reality show. The Sex and the City movie had been a huge success, and now some producers wanted to do a reality-show version. They’d read her sex column and, contacting her through her Facebook page, asked her to audition, saying she’d be a perfect real-life Samantha. Lola agreed and couldn’t imagine how she wouldn’t get the part. For the past week, she’d been envisioning herself on the cover of Star magazine, like one of those girls from The Hills.

She’d be more famous than Schiffer Diamond — and wouldn’t that show Philip and Enid Merle? The first thing she’d do with her money would be to buy an apartment in One Fifth. Even if it was a tiny one-bedroom, it wouldn’t matter. She’d haunt Philip and Enid and Schiffer Diamond for the rest of their lives.

The audition was at two, giving her plenty of time to buy a new outfit and get ready. Wrapping herself in a towel, she extracted a shoe box from under the bed and counted up her cash. It had taken her a couple of days to recover from Enid’s attack on her in the newspaper, but she had recovered, and when she did, she’d pointed out to Marquee that she was now genuinely famous and he needed to pay her more money.

She asked for five thousand dollars, which sent him into hysterics, but he agreed to up her payment to two thousand. So far, that had added up to eight thousand dollars; then there was the ten thousand Philip Oakland had given her and the two thousand dollars she got regularly from James Gooch. With James paying her rent and utilities, she’d been able to save twelve thousand dollars. Now she extracted three thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, which she planned to spend on something outrageous at Alexander McQueen.

Going into the boutique on Fourteenth Street, she immediately spotted a pair of suede over-the-thigh boots with buckles up the sides.

As she tried them on, the saleswoman cooed about how only she could wear them, which was all Lola needed to make up her mind. She purchased the boots, which were two thousand dollars, and carried them home in an enormous box. She zipped up the boots and pulled on the Hervé Léger bandage dress she had, in fact, bought a few weeks ago. The effect was startling. “Gorgeous,” Lola said aloud.

Full of brio, she cabbed it to the audition, although it was only seven blocks away in the offices of a well-known casting director. Going into the building, Lola found herself riding up in the elevator with a pack of eight other girls, who were obviously also going to audition. Lola assessed them and decided she was prettier and had nothing to worry about.

When the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor, there were even more young women, in every shape and size, lined up along the wall in the hallway.

This had to be a mistake. The line snaked through a doorway and into a small waiting room. A girl walked by with a clipboard. Lola stopped her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Lola Fabrikant. I have an appointment for an audition at two.”

“Sorry,” the young woman said. “It’s an open call. You have to wait in line.”

“I don’t wait in lines,” Lola said. “I write a sex column. The producers contacted me personally.”

“If you don’t wait in line, you won’t get to audition.”

Lola huffed and puffed but went to the end of the line.

She was stuck on the line for two hours. Finally, after she inched through the hallway and into the waiting room, it was her turn. She went into a rehearsal room, where four people sat behind a long table.

“Name?” one of them asked.

“Lola Fabrikant,” she said, tossing her head.

“Do you have a photo and résumé?”

“I don’t need one,” Lola scoffed, surprised that they didn’t seem to know who she was. “I have my own column online. My picture is on it every week.”

She was asked to sit in a small chair. A man aimed a video camera at her while the producers began asking questions.

“Why did you come to New York?”

“I ...” Lola opened her mouth and froze.

“Let’s start again. Why did you come to New York?”

“Because ...” Lola tried to continue but was stifled by all the possible explanations. Should she tell them about Windsor Pines and how she’d always thought she was destined for bigger things? Or was that too arrogant? Maybe she should start with Philip. Or how she had always seen herself as a character in Sex and the City. But that wasn’t exactly true. Those women were old and she was young.

“Er ... Lola?” someone asked.

“Yes?” she said.

“Can you answer the question?”

Lola reddened. “I came to New York,” she began again stiffly, and then her mind went blank.

“Thank you,” one of the producers said.

“What?” she asked, startled.

“You can go.”

“Am I done?”

“Yes.”

Lola stood up. “Is that it?”

“Yes, Lola. You’re not what we’re looking for, but thank you for coming in.”

“But ...”

“Thank you.”

Opening the door, she heard one of them call out, “Next.”

In a state of confusion, Lola stepped into the elevator. What had just happened? Had she blown it? Wandering down Ninth Avenue toward her apartment, she felt numb, then angry, then full of grief, as if someone had just died. Climbing the worn steps to her apartment, she wondered if the person who had just died was her.

She flopped onto the unmade bed, staring at a large brown-rimmed water stain on the ceiling. She’d pinned her whole future on that audition — on getting the part. And now, two hours later, it was over. What was she supposed to do with her life now? Rolling over, she checked her e-mails. There was one from her mother, wishing her luck on the audition, and a text from James. James, she thought. At least she still had James. “Call me,” he’d written.

She punched in his number. It was nearly five o’clock, meaning it was a little late to be calling, as his wife sometimes came home early, but Lola didn’t care. “Hello?” James asked in a stage whisper.

“It’s me. Lola.”

“Can I call you right back?”

“Sure,” Lola said. She hung up, rolled her eyes, and tossed the phone onto the bed. Then she began pacing, walking back and forth before the cheap full-length mirror she’d placed against one of the bare walls. She looked damn good — so what was wrong with those producers? Why hadn’t they seen what she saw? She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying not to cry. New York wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. She’d been in New York an entire year, and not one thing had worked out properly.

Not Philip, or her “career,” or even Thayer Core. Her phone rang — James.

“What?” she said in annoyance. And then, remembering that James was one of her last meal tickets left at the moment, she lightened her tone.

“Do you want to come over?” she asked.

James was outside in the Mews with Skippy, not daring to make this call in his own apartment. “I need to talk to you about that,” he said tensely.

“So come over,” Lola replied.

“I can’t,” he hissed, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “My wife found out. About us.”

“What?” Lola shrieked.

“Take it easy,” James said. “She found your sex column. And apparently, she read it.”

“What’s she going to do?” Lola asked with interest. If Mindy divorced James, it opened up new possibilities.

“I don’t know,” James whispered. “She hasn’t said anything yet. But she will.”

“What did she say?” Lola asked, growing irritated.

“She says we have to buy a house. In the country.”

“So?” Lola shrugged. “You’ll get divorced and she’ll live in the country and you’ll be in the city.” And I will move in with you, she thought.

James hesitated. “It’s not that simple. Mindy and I ... we’ve been married for fifteen years. We have a son. If we got divorced, I’d have to give her half. Of everything. And I don’t exactly want to do that. I’ve got another book to write, and I don’t want to leave my son.”

Lola cut him off. In a steely voice, she said, “What are you trying to say, James?”

“I don’t think we can see each other anymore,” James said in a rush.

Suddenly, Lola had had enough. “You and Philip Oakland,” she screamed. “You’re all the same. You’re all a bunch of wimps. You disgust me, James. You all do.”