He stepped out of the dressing room and ran into Philip Oakland.
James’s confidence dispersed like a mist. He did not belong in this store, he thought in panic. Even a store was about a tribe, and he was not part of this tribe; Philip Oakland was sure to sense this. James often saw Philip in the lobby or on the streets around One Fifth. Philip never acknowledged him, but perhaps he’d have to in this store, wearing this jacket, the kind of jacket Philip himself might own. Indeed, Philip Oakland looked up from a pile of sweaters and, as if they were casual friends, said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” James said.
That might have been the end of it if it weren’t for the girl, the beautiful girl who was with Philip and whom James had seen around the building, coming in and out at odd hours during the day. He’d always wondered who she was and what she was doing in One Fifth, but now it made sense: She was Philip’s girlfriend.
She spoke, startling James. “That looks good,” she said to him.
“Really?” James said, staring at the girl. She had the unassailable confidence that comes from having been pretty her whole life.
“I know everything about clothes,” she said boldly. “My friends are always saying I should have been a stylist.”
“Lola, please,” Philip said.
“It’s true,” Lola said, turning to Philip. “You look so much better since I started helping you with your clothes.”
Philip shrugged and rolled his eyes at James, as if to say, “Women.”
James took the opportunity to introduce himself. “I’ve seen you before,” Lola said. “Yes,” James said. “I live in One Fifth, too. I’m a writer.”
“Everyone’s a writer in One Fifth,” she said with a dismissive arrogance that made James laugh.
“We should be going,” Philip said.
“But we didn’t buy anything,” she protested.
“ ‘We,’ ” Philip said to James. “Notice that? Why is shopping with women always a group sport?”
“I don’t know,” James said. He glanced over at Lola, wondering how one managed to get a girl like that. She was saucy. He liked the way she stood up to the great Philip Oakland and wondered how Philip felt about it.
“Men never know what to buy on their own,” she replied. “My mother let my father go shopping once, and he came back with an acrylic striped sweater. She said, ‘Never again.’ What do you write?” she asked James, not missing a beat.
“Novels,” James said. “I have a book coming out in February.” He was pleased to be able to deliver this information in front of Philip. Take that, he thought.
“We have the same publisher,” Philip said, perhaps, James thought, finally figuring out who he was. “What’s your print run?”
“Don’t know,” James said. “But we’ve got two hundred thousand copies going out to iStores in the first week.”
Philip looked suitably bothered. “Interesting,” he said.
“It is,” James said. “I’m told it’s the future of publishing.”
Lola was suddenly bored. “If we’re not buying anything here, can we please go to Prada?”
“Sure,” Philip said. “See you around,” he said to James.
“Right,” James said.
As they walked away, Lola turned back to James. “You should buy that jacket. It looks great.”
“I will,” James said.
James paid for the jacket. As the salesman was putting it into a garment bag, James had an inspiration. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m going to wear it home.”
That afternoon, Norine Norton, the stylist, came to Annalisa’s apartment for their third appointment. Norine, with her hair extensions and her subtle facial work and seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the latest bag, shoe, designer, fortune-teller, trainer, and cosmetic procedure, made Annalisa uncomfortable. Her nickname, she informed Annalisa during their first meeting, was “the Energizer Bunny” — an energy that, Annalisa suspected, might be drug-induced. Norine never stopped talking; no matter how often Annalisa tried to remind herself that Norine was a woman, an actual human being, Norine always managed to convince her otherwise.
“I have something you’ll die for,” Norine said. She snapped her fingers and pointed to her assistant, Julee. “The gold lamé, please.”
“The golf outfit?” Julee asked. She was a frail girl with spindly blond hair and the fearful eyes of a rabbit.
“Yes,” Norine said with faux patience. With her assistant, Norine appeared to be on the edge of snapping at any moment. But when she turned back to Annalisa, it was with all the solicitude of a merchant presenting his wares to a grand lady.
Julee held up a clear plastic hanger from which hung a tiny gold top and matching miniskirt.
Annalisa regarded the garment with dismay. “I don’t think Paul will like that.”
“Listen, sweetie,” Norine said. She sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed with the pleated silk canopy that had recently arrived from France, and patted the place next to her. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” Annalisa asked. She didn’t want to sit next to Norine; nor did she want one of Norine’s lectures. So far, she had forced herself to tolerate them, but she wasn’t in the mood today.
Annalisa looked from Norine to Julee, who was still standing there, holding up the hanger like one of those girls on a game show. Her arm had to be tired. Annalisa felt bad for her. “Fine,” she said, and went into the bathroom to try it on.
“You’re so shy,” Norine called after her.
“Huh?” Annalisa said, poking her head out the door.
“You’re so shy. Changing in the bathroom. You should change in here so I can help you,” Norine said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Right,” Annalisa said and shut the door. She turned to look at herself in the mirror and grimaced. How the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? It had sounded like such a good idea at first, hiring a stylist. Billy said everybody did it these days, meaning everyone with money or status who had to go out and be photographed. It was the only way, Billy said, to get the best clothes. But this was out of control. Norine was always calling or sending e-mail attachments of the clothes, accessories, and jewelry she photographed while shopping or visiting designer showrooms. Annalisa had had no idea there were so many lines. Not just spring and fall but resort, cruise, summer, and Christmas. Each season required its own look, and getting the look required as much planning as a military coup. Clothing had to be chosen and ordered months in advance, otherwise it would be gone.
Annalisa held the gold lamé up to her chin. No, she thought. This has gone too far.
But perhaps everything had gone too far. Despite the progress she’d made on the apartment, Paul was unhappy. The lottery had been held for the parking space in the Mews, and Paul hadn’t won. Coupled with this disappointing news was a letter from Mindy Gooch, officially informing them that their request for through-the-wall air-conditioning units had been denied.
“We’ll make it work without them,” Annalisa had said, trying to soothe him.
“I can’t.”
“We have to.”
Paul glared at her. “It’s a conspiracy,” he insisted. “It’s because we have money and they don’t.”
“Mrs. Houghton had money,” Annalisa said, trying to reason with him.
“And she lived here without any trouble for years.”