“Nothing, my dear,” Billy said quickly. “I have a lot on my mind.”
Coming out of Connie’s building on Seventy-eighth Street, he got into a taxi and instructed the driver to take Fifth Avenue downtown. The traffic was backed up at Sixty-sixth Street, but Billy didn’t mind. The taxi was one of the brand-new SUV types and smelled of fresh plastic; from the mouth of the driver came a musical patter as he conversed on his cell phone. If only, Billy thought, he could stay in this taxi forever, inching down Fifth Avenue past all the familiar landmarks: the castle in Central Park, the Sherry-Netherland, where he’d lunched at Cipriani nearly every day for fifteen years, the Plaza, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks, the New York Public Library. His nostalgia engulfed him in a haze of pleasure and sweet, aching bitterness. How could he ever leave his beloved Manhattan?
His phone rang. “You’ll be there tonight, won’t you, Billy boy?” Schiffer Diamond asked.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Billy said, although given the circumstances, it had crossed his mind that he should cancel all his events for the next week and lie low.
“Good, because I can’t sta
nd these things,” Schiffer said. “I’m going to have to talk to a bunch of strangers and be nice to all of them. I hate being trotted out like a show pony.”
“Then don’t go,” Billy said simply.
“Billy Bob, what’s wrong with you? I have to go. If I cancel, they’ll write about what a bitch I am. Maybe I should be a bitch from now on. The lonely diva. Ah, Billy,” she said, sounding slightly bitter, which wasn’t like her. “Where are all the men in this town?” She hung up.
Two hours later, Schiffer Diamond sat on a stool in her bathroom, having her hair and makeup done for the fourth or fifth time that day, while her publicist, Karen, sat out in the living room, reading magazines and talking on her cell phone while she waited for Schiffer to get ready. The hair and makeup people fluttered around the bathroom, wanting to make conversation, but Schiffer wasn’t in the mood. She was feeling foul. Coming into One Fifth that very afternoon, she’d run into none other than Lola Fabrikant, who was scuttling into the building like a criminal.
Perhaps “scuttling” wasn’t exactly the right word, as Lola hadn’t scuttled but had walked in pulling her Louis Vuitton rollerboard behind her like she owned the place. Schiffer was momentarily shocked. Hadn’t Philip broken up with her? Apparently, he hadn’t had the guts. Damn Oakland, she thought. Why was he so weak?
Lola came in while Schiffer was waiting for the elevator; as a consequence, Schiffer was forced to ride up with her. Lola gushed over Schiffer as if they were best friends, asking how the TV show was going and saying how much she liked Schiffer’s hair—although it was the same as always—and being careful to make no mention of Philip. So Schiffer brought him up. “Philip told me your parents are having some trouble,” she said.
Lola sighed dramatically. “It’s been awful,” she said. “If it weren’t for Philip, I don’t know what we’d do.”
“Philip’s a peach,” Schiffer remarked, and Lola agreed. Then, rubbing salt into the wound, Lola added, “I’m so lucky to have him.”
Now, thinking about the encounter, Schiffer glared at herself in the mirror. “You’re done,” the makeup artist said, flicking Schiffer’s nose with powder.
“Thank you,” Schiffer said. She went into the bedroom, put on the borrowed dress and the borrowed jewelry, and called to her publicist to help zip her up. She put her hands on her waist and exhaled. “I’m thinking about moving out of this building,” she said. “I need a bigger place.”
“Why don’t you get a bigger place here? It’s such a great building,” Karen said.
“I’m sick of it. All these new people. It’s not like it used to be.”
“Someone’s in a mood,” Karen said.
“Really? Who?” Schiffer asked.
Then Schiffer, the publicist, and the hair and makeup people went downstairs and got into the back of a waiting limousine. Karen opened her bag, took out several sheets of paper, and began consulting her notes. “Letterman’s confirmed for Tuesday, and Michael Kors is sending three dresses for you to try. Meryl Streep’s people are wondering if you’ll do a poetry reading on April twenty-second. I think it’s a good idea because it’s Meryl and it’s classy. On Wednesday, your call time is one P.M., so I scheduled the Marie Claire photo shoot for six in the morning, to get that out of the way—the reporter will come to the set on Thursday to interview you. On Friday evening, the president of Boucheron is in town, and he’s invited you to a private dinner for twenty. I think you should do that, too—it can’t hurt, and they might want to use you in an advertising campaign. And on Saturday afternoon, the network wants to shoot promos. I’m trying to push the call time to the afternoon so you can get some rest in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Schiffer said.
“What do you think about Meryl?”
“It’s so far away. I don’t even know if I’ll be alive on April twenty-second.”
“I’ll say yes,” Karen said.
The makeup artist held up a tube of lip gloss, and Schiffer leaned forward so the woman could touch up her lips. She turned her head, and the stylist fluffed her hair and sprayed it. “What’s the exact name of the organization again?” Schiffer said.
“The International Council of Shoe Designers. ICSD. The money is going to a retirement fund for shoe workers. You’re giving the award to Christian Louboutin, and you’ll be sitting at his table. Your remarks are on the teleprompter. Do you want to go over them beforehand?”
“No,” Schiffer said.
The car turned onto Forty-second Street. “Schiffer Diamond is arriving,” Karen said into her phone. “We’re a minute away.” She put down the phone and looked at the line of Town Cars and the photographers and the crowd of bystanders roped off from the entrance by police barricades. “Everyone loves shoes,” she said, shaking her head.
“Is Billy Litchfield here?” Schiffer asked.
“I’ll find out,” Karen said. She talked into her cell phone like it was a walkie-talkie. “Has Billy Litchfield arrived? Well, can you find out?” She nodded and snapped the phone shut. “He’s inside.”