The Apartment

Chapter 5

Alex Scott went looking for Sasha in labor and delivery shortly before noon on Tuesday. He asked for her at the nurses’ station, and they told him she was finishing a C-section, and they estimated she’d be out in half an hour—she had already closed and the patient was going to recovery in a few minutes. He came back half an hour later and saw her heading for the nurses’ desk with a satisfied expression. Everything had gone well. He met up with her just before she got to the desk.

“Busy morning?” he asked pleasantly. He was happy to see her, and his own caseload was light that day. They’d had no big emergencies so far, and several of their patients from the day before had been moved to the healthy baby nursery.

“It’s been pretty civilized,” Sasha said easily. She had no one in labor at that precise moment, only patients she had already delivered, and the ones from the day before. It was a momentary lull. She had two patients on bed rest for early labor, and they had sent several moms and babies home.

“Let’s make a run for it then, before it gets crazy,” Alex suggested, about their lunch date. “You still want to eat in the cafeteria? We could try one of the nearby delis if you want something edible.”

“It would probably shock my system. I live on cafeteria food. And the minute we go anywhere decent, we’ll both have an emergency as soon as we sit down. It always happens to me if I try to eat anywhere when I’m on duty.” Usually she had no time to eat at all, except a PowerBar she kept in her pocket, and she looked it. She had a slim figure, and was no bigger than her model sister, who worked out every day and dieted ferociously.

They took the elevator to the cafeteria a minute later, making small talk about the food. She helped herself to yogurt, a salad, and a fruit plate, and then added a large chocolate chip cookie, while Alex got a hot meal. They found a quiet table near the window, so they could see the outside world. She noticed him looking at her intently as she set her plates on the table with the Diet Coke she’d picked up on the way.

“Are you on a diet?” he asked with curiosity.

“No, my sister always was, growing up. She trained me not to eat anything she liked so she wouldn’t want it. It’s pathetic, but I still eat that way. She hates fruit and vegetables and would live on doughnuts and cookies if she could,” Sasha grinned at him, and he laughed. She had an easy way about her, and seemed comfortable in her own skin, at the hospital at least. “She’s a model,” Sasha added for good measure.

“You could be too,” he said admiringly. She seemed to have no sense of her looks and wasn’t stuck up the way most pretty women were. He’d been burned by his fondness for beauties over the years. Sasha was a whole different breed, a woman with a brain, who was brilliant at what she did.

“Not if I want to stay sane,” Sasha said about being a model. “Although I guess what we do isn’t so sane either, but at least we don’t have to do it in a bikini standing in the snow, or a fur coat in summer, in seven-inch heels. Modeling isn’t as easy as it looks and I get to wear flat shoes.” She smiled at him across the table.

“Where are you from?” He could hear the faintest hint of an accent, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

“Atlanta. I moved here to go to NYU, and stayed for medical school. I was lucky I got in. I like it here.”

“Me too. I’m from Chicago. It’s a nice city. I miss it.” He didn’t tell her he’d gone to Yale undergrad, and Harvard medical school. It always sounded like bragging to him. His father and brother had gone to Harvard too. “Chicago is a little gentler than New York.”

“My mother is originally from here. She’s a lawyer,” Sasha said simply, and he nodded.

“So is mine—antitrust law. She loves it, but it never sounded like much fun to me. She wants to be a judge one day. She’d be good at it.”

“Mine is a divorce lawyer,” Sasha said quietly, not wanting to admit how difficult she was. “What made you go to medical school?” she asked him. She was enjoying talking to him. She almost never stopped for lunch, or had time for a social moment with her colleagues.

“My father is a cardiologist, and my brother is an orthopedic surgeon. It just seemed obvious to me. What about you?”

“I always wanted to be a doctor, even when I was a kid. I just didn’t know what specialty. I think infertility and high-risk OB is it for me. Especially now, there’s so much high risk with older mothers, and infertility seems like a very rewarding field, when it works. I love what I do.”

“Me too. I think I’ll go into straight pediatrics, though. Neonatal ICU is fascinating, but I’d rather deal with less high-risk kids.” He asked her where she lived, and she told him about the loft in Hell’s Kitchen.

“I’ve lived there for five years. I have three roommates. They’ve kind of become my family, since I hardly ever get home, and my own family has been pretty disjointed since my parents’ divorce when I was twenty-five. You think you’re all grown up then, but it hit us pretty hard. My father is remarried and has two little girls, and my mom isn’t. She lives for her work.” He said he had a furnished studio apartment a block from the hospital that he used to sleep and nothing else. The apartment she had described in Hell’s Kitchen sounded great to him, especially if it provided a community of people she cared about, which appeared to be the case. Her eyes lit up warmly when she talked about her roommates and their siblings and significant others. It sounded like just what she said, a family of choice.

His own biological family sounded more run-of-the-mill than hers. His parents were still married. He had a brother who was four years older than he, and was thirty-six and still single. They still all got together for vacations and holidays since neither son was married, and they enjoyed spending time together. He didn’t get that sense from her, although she offered no details. But she looked tense when she spoke of her parents, particularly her mother, and she said she had no desire to go back to Atlanta for work, and wanted to stay in New York. She was happy here. Alex said he hadn’t made his mind up, if he wanted to go back to Chicago to join a practice there, or stay in New York. Chicago was an easier city to live in, except for the weather, and he liked the idea of being close to his family, but Chicago was a short hop by plane if he stayed in New York. He went home for weekends whenever he could.

“Families like yours are pretty rare these days,” she said after he told her about them. She was almost envious of him, listening to it, and watching the loving look on his face. “People live all over the country, far from their siblings and parents. My sister lives here now too, and we’re close, but very different. I’m happy that she’s here, though. She hangs around at the apartment too, when she’s not in Tokyo, Paris, or Milan. She leads a pretty glamorous life compared to mine,” Sasha said apologetically, but she wouldn’t have wanted Valentina’s life for anything in the world, or the choices she made in men. “Most people think that kind of life is exciting. I think it’s kind of sad. The people are very superficial, everyone is trying to use you, and when your big moment is over, what do you do? It seems scary to me, it’s all about flash and nothing real. I worry about her sometimes.” In fact, all the time. The men she was attracted to always appeared unsavory to Sasha. They were the exact opposite of someone like Alex, whom Valentina wouldn’t have given the time of day. Sasha loved how normal he sounded, as far as she could tell. He had a stable background, and a family he still liked to hang out with. And his stories about his older brother Ben reminded her a little of her early years with Valentina, before the divorce and it all fell apart. Valentina had already been a supermodel by then, but there had been a kind of desperation to her life choices ever since.

Valentina had played with drugs for a while, which were common in that world. At thirty-two, she was saner now, and still a top model, but one day her career would be over, and Sasha couldn’t imagine her sister leading a quiet life with a husband and kids. She needed the frenzy and glamour now, and the high life. She had become addicted to it, and unlike Sasha, she loved being in the limelight. Coming back down to earth one day would be rough. And getting older was a nightmare to Valentina, or losing her looks. Whenever they talked about it, there was panic in her eyes. She ran harder every year, trying to escape the future and the truth.

“So what do you do for fun?” he asked Sasha, and for a moment she looked blank.

“What was that again? Could you spell that for me?” They both laughed, since they got almost no time off, and hadn’t in years. “Work, I guess. I love what I do.” She had said it earlier, and he could see that she did, and gave herself to it to the fullest. It didn’t leave her time for much else. “What about you?”

“I love to sail,” he said immediately. “My brother has a small boat on the lake. We go out on it every chance we get. I used to play tennis, but I never get time to play here. I was a jock as a kid, but some of the moving parts aren’t what they used to be.” He and Sasha were the same age, but he said he’d had a lot of injuries playing sports in college. “I like being outdoors. I wanted to be a professional baseball player as a kid, a firefighter or a forest ranger, anything outside.”

“I wanted to be a doctor, a nurse, or a vet.” She smiled. “My mother had a fit every time I said I wanted to be a nurse. She’s an overachiever and a big-time feminist. She’d really have preferred it if I wanted to be president of the United States, but that sounds like a lousy job to me. Everybody hates you, criticizes what you do, and tries to make you look like shit. I think my mom would like to be president, but I don’t think she’d get a lot of votes. She’s pretty tough.” Alex liked the fact that Sasha wasn’t. He could tell that she was strong, but there was a gentleness to her, and he liked how open and straightforward she was.

“Could we have dinner sometime?” He finally got up the guts to ask her. She was so beautiful that he still felt intimidated by her. She didn’t flirt with him, or act coy, and she treated him like a pal more than a date. He wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe she wasn’t interested in him, or attracted to him. He hadn’t figured that out yet, and Sasha looked surprised for a minute when he asked about dinner, as though that hadn’t occurred to her. He couldn’t tell if she wanted to or not. She had said nothing about a boyfriend or her personal life during lunch, only about her family and her work.

“You mean like a date?” She almost choked on the words.

“Yes, kind of like that,” he said cautiously. “Any interest?” She hesitated before she answered.

“I don’t have much free time,” she said honestly, but he didn’t either, and it didn’t stop him from asking. He wanted to go out with her, however infrequent or disjointed it might be. His own dating life had been spotty and irregular all through medical school and his training. It was the nature of the life they both led.

“You have to eat,” he pointed out to her, “and from what I can see, you’d be cheap to feed. You don’t eat much.” She hadn’t finished the fruit plate or the salad—she was more interested in talking to him—although the big cookie had disappeared.

She laughed at what he said, and relaxed again. “Sure. Maybe. I guess. Why not?”

“I wouldn’t call that a vastly enthusiastic response, but it’ll do.” He smiled at her.

“I just hesitate to go out with anyone right now. You know what our life is like. Every time I make a plan, I have to cancel. They change my schedule every five minutes, or I’m on call and they yank me in, and I have to leave before the food comes. It pisses normal people off. And it gets old pretty fast. And I live in scrubs and Crocs. How sexy is that?” Not very, they both knew, but she was a beautiful, intelligent woman, and he was determined to go out with her. He liked everything about her, and he had a crazy feeling that they were meant for each other. He had never met a woman he liked as much.

“I get it. I’m a doctor too. Our lives will be sane one day,” he said hopefully.

“Maybe not,” she said truthfully, “if I stay in OB.”

“So you’re going to take a vow of chastity?” She grinned at what he said.

“No. But I hate disappointing people, and I always do. And dating is so much work.”

“Dinner is easy. We each get ten free passes to cancel for work. And you can come to dinner in scrubs and Crocs.” He looked as though he meant it, and she smiled. He was making it easy for her, and hard to refuse. And she liked him too. She couldn’t see into the future, but she liked the idea of having dinner with him, a lot more than her recent dinner with the actor/underwear model. At least they had medicine in common, and they both had crazy schedules.

“Okay,” she agreed. “Dinner in scrubs and Crocs. It’s a deal.”

“How about Friday or Saturday? Someone screwed up the schedule and gave me the weekend off.”

“Lucky you. I’m working Friday, and on call Saturday. We could give it a whirl, and hope I don’t get called in.”

“Perfect.” They exchanged cell phone numbers, just as she got a text from L and D. One of their mothers on bed rest had gone into labor, and her water had just broken. They wanted her to take a look. The attending was in surgery. She glanced at Alex regretfully and told him she had to go, but they had had a nice reprieve for lunch. They had been there for over an hour, and had established a good basis for a friendship, or anything else that happened. It had been a pleasant exchange, and she felt surprisingly comfortable with him, more so than with most men. She just didn’t like the games you had to play, and that most men seemed to expect on a “date.” She wasn’t flirtatious, and she always said what she meant, which frightened a lot of men. Alex didn’t seem to mind it—on the contrary, he liked it. And she wondered how he and Valentina would get along. He wasn’t her style, and she suspected her sister would find him boring, which Sasha didn’t find him at all. Their conversation had been lively and thoughtful, and she liked that there was no artifice about him, and he didn’t seem to have a big ego, which was something she didn’t like about male doctors. A lot of them thought they walked on water and were full of themselves. And she liked that he seemed able to laugh at himself, and was fairly modest and respectful of her.

They left the cafeteria, and he walked her back to labor and delivery, where she thanked him for lunch, and he headed back to neonatal ICU on the same floor. They had just texted him too. They both had to get back to work.

“See you Saturday,” he said more casually than he felt. “Don’t forget to wear your scrubs,” he teased her, and half meant it. “That way I can wear mine and don’t have to find a clean shirt.” She laughed at him.

“I’ll try for jeans,” she promised, and as he walked down the hall, there was a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

“What are you so happy about?” Marjorie, the head nurse, asked him when he got to the NICU. “Are you on drugs?” She smiled at him. He was nice to work with, and the nurses liked him, and he was a good-looking guy.

“I have a date,” he confided, looking like a kid. It was hard to believe that was a big deal to him.

“Lucky girl,” the nurse said to him. She was married and ten years older than he was, so she wasn’t interested, but they all thought he was a catch. One of them said he was a “hunk,” unbeknownst to him. He was unaware of the things they said about him, which was just as well.

“Lucky me,” he corrected her. He could hardly wait for Saturday night. And as Sasha walked into the labor room to check on her patient, she was smiling too.

—

Claire and Morgan met at Max’s restaurant for dinner that night. Claire had stopped at the apartment to change her clothes, and Morgan came straight from work. Max was happy to see her and kissed her when she walked in.

“Who are you having dinner with?” He had seen her name on the reservation list and was curious.

“Claire. She wanted to talk to me privately. I think about work.” He nodded and walked her to the table. The restaurant was busy that night, and Claire walked in a few minutes later with a distracted look. She kissed Max on her way in, and saw Morgan waiting for her with a glass of wine.

“Thanks for having dinner with me,” Claire said as she sat down. Meeting away from the apartment made it seem more official, but she hadn’t wanted to be distracted by Abby crying over Ivan, or Sasha coming home from work. She wanted Morgan’s attention and her always-sound work advice. Claire had no one else to talk to, and never liked worrying her mother, who wanted to believe she had a stable job. Claire wasn’t so sure, or if she should stay. She was beginning to feel she was killing her future in shoe design with what Walter expected of her.

“So tell me, what’s up?” Morgan asked with a warm smile as Claire expressed her concerns.

“I hate the designs I have to do for him. We hardly change the shoes from season to season. They want to stick with what they do. He hates change,” she said grimly. “What if people think that’s all I can do? And it’s so frustrating, I don’t get to do anything creative. I never get to design the shoes I want. And he’s terrified of everything I suggest.”

“Would your customers buy more creative shoes, if he let you do them?”

Claire thought about it. “Probably not. But he won’t even let me do one. He hates everything I do. If I make the slightest modification to last year’s shoes, he’s on my back. I don’t even have to design a new season. I could just give him the same drawings three times a year. And he’s getting nasty about it. I don’t think he trusts me, and I know he doesn’t like my style. So what do I do? If I quit, I may not find another job. The market is tough these days, and I can’t afford to be out of work. If I stay, I feel as though part of me is dying, the creative part.”

“Do you have enough money put aside to coast for a while?” Morgan asked her directly.

“For a month or two. No longer than that,” Claire said honestly. She loved pretty clothes, and splurged occasionally, but working in fashion, she liked being fashionably dressed, and clothes were expensive, especially the brands she preferred. She had great taste. “I couldn’t make it for six months, if it took me that long to find a job. But he might fire me anyway. I don’t think he likes me—he never has. But now we argue all the time. I feel as though we’re married.”

“That sucks,” Morgan said with a smile. “Sometimes you have to take the leap. Only you know if you’ve reached the breaking point or not. Maybe you should start looking around, and inquiring discreetly about other jobs.”

“If he finds out, I’ll get canned,” Claire said, worried. It was a real dilemma, and Morgan felt sorry for her. Claire obviously felt stymied, and suffocated in her job. “And I have that little twit of an intern he stuck me with, the daughter of some friend of his in Paris. She tells him everything. She’s his personal spy.” It sounded like a miserable situation to Morgan, and Claire was obviously stressed. She needed to vent, which was why she had suggested dinner with her. “I wish I could have my own brand, but that’s never going to happen. It costs a fortune to start a line of shoes.”

“Maybe you could find a backer,” Morgan said hopefully, to encourage her. Claire seemed desperate.

“I don’t have enough experience yet, or a name. And designing shoes for Arthur Adams, I’m never going to make a name for myself that anyone will care about.”

“Maybe that’s your answer,” Morgan said thoughtfully. “If he’s not paying you a fortune, and you’re not building a reputation, you might be wasting your time there.”

“I would take a pay cut to work for a better company, where I get to show my stuff.”

“Maybe that’s what you should do—dig around at the companies you’d like to work for, and let them know you want to make a change. There’s a risk there, if he finds out. But it sounds like you’re stuck, if you don’t.”

“I am. I feel like I’m drowning there, and killing my chances at a better job.”

“So stick your neck out a little, and see what turns up.” Claire nodded as she thought about it. Morgan was giving her the courage she needed to look around. She knew she could count on her for sound advice. They were still talking about it when Morgan glanced up with surprise. A very handsome man was standing at their table, smiling down at her. He had jet-black hair and gray at his temples, and electric blue eyes. He was wearing an exquisitely cut suit, and an expensive gold watch. He looked like the cover of Fortune or GQ. He smiled first at Morgan, and then stared at Claire. He was riveted by her. It was obvious that Morgan knew him, but Claire had no idea who he was. She had never seen him at the apartment, or anywhere else, although he had a vaguely familiar face, as though she had seen him in the press. Morgan introduced them. It was George Lewis, her boss. He was incredibly distinguished standing there, smiling at them.

“I decided to see what the fuss is all about, with your friend’s restaurant,” he said to Morgan. “I just had dinner here with a friend. The buzz is well deserved. The food is great.” Morgan smiled. Max would be thrilled when he heard. And George set the bar high. She knew he went to all the best restaurants in town. He turned his attention to Claire again then, with a warm smile that was surprisingly intimate. He was mesmerized by her, and she was in jeans and a simple white sweater, with just enough cleavage showing. The sweater was Céline, and she had spent a fortune on it, and it showed. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and her long blond hair hung loose down her back. She appeared even younger than she was, at twenty-eight, and was beautiful. Morgan could see that he was taken with her, which didn’t surprise her. He had a weakness for pretty women, particularly young ones. He was one of the most sought-after bachelors in town. And at a glance, she could see that there was a good-looking older man waiting for him at the door. But he seemed to be in no rush to join him.

“It was wonderful to meet you,” he said to Claire, lingering for an instant, before he left them reluctantly.

“He’s not at all what I expected,” Claire commented after he was gone. She had seen easily how taken he was with her, or pretended to be, and it had unnerved her slightly. “I thought he was older. He looks like a playboy.”

“He’s turning forty in December. And he’s actually very serious about his work. But he likes beautiful women, kind of as an accessory, I suspect. I’ve never known him to get serious about anyone. He doesn’t talk about his private life at work, but he’s on Page Six a lot, and he dates some very well-known women, mostly actresses and models. I think Valentina went out with him once a while ago.”

“I vaguely remember that she hated him. I don’t know why.”

“He’s not bad enough or old enough for her.” Morgan laughed. Valentina went through men like Kleenex. She used them once and threw them away. “I don’t think he’s flashy enough for her. He’s around town with famous women, but he’s pretty discreet. He never talks. And he looked fascinated by you.” Morgan thought that Claire was attractive, but not as showy as he usually liked. She was a real person, and it showed. He was probably just playing with her, and being flirtatious, although he had never done that with Morgan at work, which she respected about him. He never fooled around in the office.

They went on talking about Claire’s job problems then, and Morgan’s final advice was for Claire to start hunting around discreetly, put out feelers, and let some of the higher-end shoe companies know that she was open to a change. The plan wasn’t without risk, but there would be no improvement without it, and Claire said she felt ready to take the chance. She couldn’t go on the way things were. She felt like she was killing her career just for a paycheck, and not a huge one at that. She had wanted Morgan’s support and encouragement, and she had gotten that. Morgan never disappointed her, and she had great respect for her advice. And when the check came, Claire treated her, to thank her for her help. They had both forgotten about George by then—it seemed like an unimportant encounter, although Morgan was touched that he had tried Max’s restaurant and liked it. And Max kissed both women when they left. And he said he’d stop by later to spend the night with Morgan.

They walked slowly back to the apartment, and Claire felt better than she had in months. She had a plan, and knew it was the right one. She made a list that night of the companies she wanted to approach. The future was looking brighter.

And Max showed up to spend the night as he had said. He and Morgan made love in the morning, because they’d both been too tired the night before, and Morgan was a few minutes late for work, but she had no meetings that morning. All she had was research and desk work until the afternoon. She was poring over several files on her computer, when George walked into her office, and she smiled up at him.

“Thanks for trying Max’s restaurant last night. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I love it. I’ll be back. It’s great for a casual meal.” He had a legendarily beautiful penthouse in the Trump Tower uptown, but she knew he ate downtown often, and had friends in Tribeca and Soho, and he loved trying new restaurants. He loved to impress the women he went out with, with new finds. And his reputation as a generous date and man-about-town was well deserved. “I liked your friend,” he said simply. And for a moment, she thought he meant Max, but the look in his eye said something different. “She’s a very pretty girl.” That instantly corrected Morgan’s first impression. “Do you know her well?” He was curious about her. She looked like a model.

“Claire?” Morgan asked, still startled by the question. “We’ve been roommates for five years.”

“What does she do for a living?” He had never asked Morgan about any woman before, and she was surprised.

“She’s a shoe designer. We were talking about it last night. She’s very talented, but stuck in a boring job.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun. Is she single?” Morgan knew that the question encompassed if she had a boyfriend.

“Yes. She works very hard, though, and doesn’t go out much. She’s very intense about her career.”

“So am I,” he said with a broad grin. “I still make time for dinner. Who does she work for?” He was being very direct.

“Arthur Adams,” Morgan said in a small voice. She didn’t know if Claire was up to dating a man like George, or if she’d even want to. She felt uncomfortable answering his questions, but Claire could take care of herself, and a moment later he left her office.

Three dozen white roses arrived on Claire’s desk that afternoon, in a tall vase, with a card that said, “It was wonderful to meet you. George.” She was floored. No man had ever sent her flowers like that before. They were exquisite, and very lavish, from the best florist in town.

“Who died?” Walter said tersely when he walked into Claire’s office later that afternoon to discuss some price points. She had suggested an increase in their prices, and he didn’t agree, as usual.

“They’re from a friend,” she answered vaguely, looking embarrassed by the enormous bouquet.

“He must be crazy about you,” Walter said through pursed lips. “You should get things like that at home.” She nodded, and didn’t know what to say, but once he left her office, she stared at them, wondering why George had sent them. She knew the names of the women he went out with. She was nowhere in their league, and it felt strange to be the object of his attentions. She almost called Morgan to tell her about it, but decided not to. It didn’t mean anything. He was just a rich, successful guy playing a game, and she had no intention of playing it with him. But the flowers were beautiful. She sent him a short, polite e-mail to thank him, and went home at the end of the day. She had convinced herself by then that she would never hear from him again. And she didn’t really want to. George Lewis’s world was light-years away from hers. And she intended to keep it that way. She never said a word about the roses to Morgan.

—

The day after he sent the roses, George sent Claire a beautiful coffee table book about the history of shoes. It was a thoughtful gift, and she was touched, but uneasy too. He was obviously trying to woo her, although he hadn’t called and asked her out, but she was afraid he would. She had no idea how to deal with someone like him. He was so totally out of her league. She was hoping he’d lose interest in her before he called her or sent any more gifts. And she still hadn’t said anything to Morgan about him, nor had she mentioned him to the others. He was rapidly becoming a dark secret.

Claire had sent out several e-mails that week, with her résumé, to her favorite shoe companies. Two of them had written back to tell her they had no positions open, and three more hadn’t responded. She hoped they would, but at least she was trying. Walter was annoying her more than ever, and being constantly critical, and in her face.

George was the bright spot in her life at the moment, although his attention made her nervous. He was just a player flirting with her, she was sure, and she reminded herself to keep her eye on the ball, which was her job. But the roses and the book kept distracting her. He was a hard man to ignore.