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.