“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.
The next afternoon, James met Lola under the arch in Washington Park. Determined to be a hero, James had spent the morning trying to find Lola an apartment. Mindy would have been shocked at his industriousness, he thought wryly, but Mindy never needed his help, and Lola did. After making several calls, Redmon Richardly’s assistant told him about an apartment that might be available in her building on Eighteenth Street and Tenth Avenue. The rent was fourteen hundred dollars a month for a studio, and after tracking down the owner, who had not only heard of his book but had read it and loved it, James made an arrangement to see the apartment at three. Then he’d gone to the bank and, feeling like a criminal, withdrew five thousand dollars in cash. Strolling toward the park, he found Lola already waiting. She had mascara under her eyes as if she’d been crying and hadn’t bothered to wash it away. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“What do you think?” she said bitterly. “I feel like a homeless person. Everything I own is in storage—and it’s costing me a hundred and fifty a month. I have no place to sleep. And the bathroom in that place I’m staying is disgusting. I’m afraid to take a shower. Were you able to…figure something out?”
“I brought you some money,” James said. “And something else—something that should really make you happy.” He paused for effect, then said proudly, “I think I may have found you an apartment.”
“Oh, James,” she exclaimed.
“It’s only fourteen hundred a month. If you like it, we can use the cash to pay your first month’s rent and a deposit.”
“Where is it?” she asked cautiously. When he told her, she looked disappointed. “It’s so far west,” she said. “It’s practically on the river.”
“It’s within walking distance of One Fifth,” James assured her. “So we can visit each other all the time.”
Nevertheless, Lola insisted on taking a taxi. The cab pulled up to a small redbrick building that James suspected, given the location, had probably once been a flophouse. On the street level was an Irish bar. He and Lola walked up a narrow staircase to a short hallway with a linoleum floor. The apartment was 3C, and after trying the handle, James found the door open and he and Lola went in. It was a tiny space, no bigger than three hundred square feet—a room, really, in a normal person’s house—with a tiny closet, a tiny bathroom with a shower, and two cupboard doors that opened to reveal a minuscule kitchen. But it was clean and bright and located on a corner, so it had two windows.
“Not bad,” James said.
Lola’s heart sank. Had she really fallen so low in the short nine months she’d been in New York?
The landlady was a salt-of-the-earth type with a pile of bleached hair and a New York accent. Her family had owned the building for a hundred years; her biggest requirement, after an ability to pay, was “nice” people. Was Lola perhaps James’s daughter? No, James explained, she was a friend who’d had a rough time with an ex-boyfriend who’d dumped her. The perfidy of men was one of the landlady’s favorite topics; she was always happy to help out a fellow female sufferer. James proclaimed the arrangement a done deal. The apartment, he declared, reminded him of his first apartment in Manhattan and how thrilled he’d been to have his own space and to be making his way in New York. “The good old days,” he said to the landlady, peeling off three thousand dollars in hundreds. The extra two hundred would be used to cover Lola’s utilities.
“Now all you need is a bed,” James said when the deal was completed. “Why don’t we get you a foldout couch? There’s a Door Store on Sixth Avenue.” Walking east, James noticed her glum expression. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “You don’t look happy. Aren’t you relieved to have your own apartment?”
Lola was in a panic. She hadn’t planned on getting an apartment at all, and especially such a shabby, depressing little place. She’d meant to take the money from Philip and James—thirty thousand in total—and install herself in Soho House, from where she would relaunch herself into New York society in style. How had her plan gone awry so quickly? And now three thousand dollars were gone. “I didn’t expect it to happen this suddenly,” she said.