She took away her hands and stared at him intently, then, remembering the book, picked it up. “I want to read it. I really do. But I’m upset about Philip.”
“Oh,” James said. For a moment, he’d forgotten all about Philip.
“He’s just so mean.”
“He is?”
She nodded. “Ever since he asked me to move in with him. He keeps criticizing everything I do.” She readjusted herself on the couch. “Like the other day. I was doing a salt scrub in the bathroom, and some of the salt got on the floor. And then I had to do something right away — like go to the drugstore — and Philip came home and slipped on the salt. So when I came back, he started yelling at me about being messy.”
James moved closer to her on the couch. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said. “Men are like that. It’s an adjustment period.”
“Really?” she asked, looking at him curiously.
“Sure,” he said, bobbing his head. “It always takes men awhile to get used to things.”
“And that’s especially true of Philip,” she said. “My mother warned me.
When men get older, they get set in their ways, and you just have to work around them.”
“There you go,” James said, wondering how old she thought he was.
“But it’s hard for me,” she continued. “Because I’m the one taking all the risks. I had to give up my apartment. And if things don’t work out, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“I’m sure Philip loves you,” James said, wishing that Oakland did not and that he could take his place. But that wasn’t possible unless Mindy decided to get rid of him as well.
“Do you really think so?” she asked eagerly. “Did he tell you that?”
“No ...” James said. “But why wouldn’t he?” he added quickly. “You’re so” — he hesitated — “beautiful.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked, as if she were insecure about her looks.
She’s sweet, James thought. She really doesn’t know how gorgeous she is.
“I wish Philip would tell me that,” she said.
“He doesn’t?”
She shook her head sadly. “He never tells me I’m beautiful. And he never says ‘I love you.’ Unless I force him.”
“All men are like that,” James said wisely. “I never tell my wife I love her, either.”
“But you’re married,” Lola protested. “She knows you love her.”
“It’s complicated,” James said, sitting back on the couch and crossing one leg over the other. “It’s always complicated between men and women.”
“But the other night,” Lola began. “You and your wife — you seem so happy together.”
“We have our moments,” James said, although at that moment, he couldn’t remember any. He recrossed his legs, hoping she couldn’t see his hard-on.
“Well,” she said, jumping up, “I’ve got to meet Philip.”
James stood reluctantly. Was the visit over so soon? And just when he thought he was making progress.
“Thank you for bringing me your book,” she said. “I’ll start reading it this afternoon. And I’ll let you know what I think.”
“Great,” James said, thrilled that she wanted to see him again.
At the door, he attempted to kiss her on the cheek. It was an awkward moment, and she turned her head away, so his kiss landed somewhere in her hair. Overcome by the sensation of her hair on his face, he took a step backward, tripping on the corner of the rug.
“Are you okay?” she asked, grabbing his arm.
He adjusted his glasses. “I’m fine.” He smiled.
“See you soon.” She waved and closed the door, then turned back into the apartment. It was cute the way James Gooch was so obviously interested in her. Naturally, she didn’t return his feelings, but James was the kind of man who might do anything she wanted. And he was a best-selling author. He might come in very handy in the future.
Meanwhile, James stood waiting for the elevator, feeling his descending hard-on poke against his pants. Philip Oakland was a fool, he thought fiercely, thinking of Lola’s breasts. Poor kid, she probably had no idea what she was getting into.
On the floor above, Annalisa Rice placed a large red stamp on the corner of an envelope and passed it to her neighbor. Six women, including Connie Brewer, sat around her dining room table, stuffing envelopes for the King David charity ball. The King David Foundation was the Brewers’ personal charity, and had grown from a dinner party at a Wall Street restaurant into a multimedia extravaganza held in the Armory. All the new Wall Streeters wanted to know Sandy Brewer, wanted to rub shoulders with him and do business, and were willing to pay the price by supporting his cause. Connie had asked Annalisa to be a cochair. The requirements were simple: She had to buy two tables at fifty thousand dollars each — for which Paul had happily written a check — and be involved in the planning.
Annalisa had thrown herself into the work with the same passion she’d brought to being a lawyer. She’d studied the financials — last year, the event had raised thirty million dollars, an extraordinary amount, and this year they hoped to raise five million dollars more. She went to tastings and examined floral arrangements, went over lists of invitees, and sat through hours of committee meetings. The work wasn’t exciting, but it gave her a purpose beyond the apartment and kept her mind off Paul. Ever since the trip to China, where Paul and Sandy had done business during the day while Connie and Annalisa were driven around in a chauffeured Mercedes with a guide who took them on tours of temples and museums, Paul had become increasingly secretive and withdrawn. When he was home, he spent most of his time in his office on lengthy phone calls or making graphs on his computer. He refused to discuss his business, saying only that he and Sandy were on the verge of doing a groundbreaking deal with the Chinese that would change the international stock market and make them billions of dollars.
“What do you know about this China deal?” Annalisa asked Connie one afternoon when they were first back in New York.
“I stopped asking those questions a long time ago,” Connie said, flipping open her tiny laptop. “Sandy tried to explain it a few times, and I gave up.”
“Doesn’t it bother you, not knowing what your husband really does?”
Annalisa asked.
“No,” Connie replied, studying a list of names for the benefit.
“What if it’s illegal?” Annalisa said. She didn’t know why this thought crossed her mind.
“Sandy would never do anything illegal. And neither would Paul. He’s your husband, Annalisa. You love him, and he’s wonderful.”
Spending so much time with Connie had given Annalisa a new perspective on her character. Connie was naively romantic, a simple optimist who admired her husband and believed she could get everything she wanted with sugar as opposed to vinegar. She took Sandy’s money for granted, as if she’d never considered what life would be like if she had less. Her attitude was due, Annalisa discovered, not to arrogance but to a lack of complexity. From the age of six, Connie’s life had been dedicated to one thing — dance — and having become a professional dancer at eighteen, she’d never finished high school. Connie wasn’t dumb, but she knew everything by rote. When it came to analysis, she was lost, like a child who has memorized the names of the states but can’t picture where they are in relation to one another.
Having the stronger personality, Annalisa had quickly come to dominate Connie, who seemed to accept Annalisa’s alpha status as a given. She made sure Annalisa was invited to lunches and the nightly cocktail parties in boutiques; she gave her the names of the people who would come to her house to cut and style her hair and perform waxing, manicures, and pedicures — “so you don’t have to be seen in public with that tissue between your toes,” Connie said — and even highlighting. Connie was obsessed with her own image and assumed Annalisa was as well, printing out photographs of Annalisa from the society websites she checked every morning. “There was a great picture of you in Women’s Wear Daily today,” Connie would crow with childish excitement. Or “I saw the best pictures of us from the perfume launch last night.” Then she would dutifully ask if Annalisa wanted her to messenger the prints to her apartment. “It’s okay, Connie, I can look them up myself,” Annalisa would say. Nevertheless, two hours later, the doorman would buzz and an envelope would be delivered upstairs. Annalisa would look at the photos and put them in a drawer. “Do you really care about these things?” she’d asked Connie one day.