One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [1]
“Can’t,” Philip said with a smile. “I’m desperate.”
“It may be based on a true story,” Enid continued. “There was a woman—Sandra Miles—who was a mother superior and became an editor in chief. Back in the seventies. I had her to dinner once or twice. A thoroughly miserable woman, but that may have been due to her husband’s cheating. Being a virgin for so long, it’s possible she never got the sex part right. In any case,” Enid added, “the series shoots in New York.”
“Uh-huh,” Philip said.
“I suppose we’ll be seeing her around the building again,” Enid said.
“Who?” Philip said, trying to appear uninterested. “Sandra Miles?”
“Schiffer Diamond,” Enid said. “Sandra Miles left New York years ago. She may even be dead.”
“Unless she stays in a hotel,” Philip said, referring to Schiffer Diamond.
“Why on earth would she do that?” Enid said.
When his aunt had gone back in, Philip remained on his terrace, staring out at Washington Square Park, of which he had a superior view. It was July, and the park was lush with greenery, the dry August heat yet to come. But Philip wasn’t thinking about foliage. He was miles away, standing on a dock on Catalina Island twenty-five years before.
“So you’re the schoolboy genius,” Schiffer Diamond said, coming up behind him.
“Huh?” he said, turning around.
“They tell me you’re the writer of this lousy movie.”
He bristled. “If you think it’s so lousy—”
“Yes, schoolboy?” she asked.
“Then why are you in it?”
“All movies are lousy by definition. They’re not art. But everyone needs money. Even geniuses.”
“I’m not doing it for the money,” he said.
“Why are you doing it?”
“To meet girls like you?” he asked.
She laughed. She was wearing white jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. She was braless and barefoot and tanned. “Good answer, schoolboy,” she said, starting to walk away.
“Hey,” he called after her. “Do you really think the movie is lousy?”
“What do you think?” she asked. “Besides, you can never really judge a man’s work until you’ve been to bed with him.”
“Are you planning to go to bed with me?” he said.
“I never plan anything. I like to see what happens. Life’s much more interesting that way, don’t you think?” And she went to do her scene.
A minute later, Enid’s voice startled Philip out of his reverie. “I just talked to Roberto,” she said, referring to the head doorman. “Schiffer Diamond is coming back today. A housekeeper was in her apartment this week, getting it ready. Roberto says she’s moving back. Maybe permanently. Isn’t that exciting?”
“I’m thrilled,” Philip said.
“I wonder how she’ll find New York,” Enid said. “Having been away for so long.”
“Exactly the same, Auntie,” Philip said. “You know New York never changes. The characters are different, but the play remains the same.”
Later that afternoon, Enid Merle was putting the finishing touches on her daily gossip column when a sudden gust of wind slammed shut the door to her terrace. Crossing the room to open it, Enid caught sight of the sky and stepped outside. A mountain of thunderclouds had built up on the other side of the Hudson River and was rapidly approaching the city. This was unusual, Enid thought, as the early July day hadn’t been particularly hot. Gazing upward, Enid spotted her neighbor Mrs. Louise Houghton on her own terrace, wearing an old straw hat and holding a pair of gardening shears in her gloved hand. In the last five years, Louise Houghton, who was nearing one hundred, had slowed down, spending most of her time attending to her prizewinning roses. “Hallo,” Enid called loudly to Mrs. Houghton, who was known to be slightly deaf. “Looks like we’re in for a big thunderstorm.”
“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Houghton said graciously, as if she were a queen addressing one of her loyal subjects. Enid would have been annoyed if not for the fact that this was Mrs. Houghton’s standard response to just about everyone now.
“You might want to go inside,” Enid said. Despite Mrs. Houghton’s quaint grandeur, which was off-putting to some, Enid