One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [114]
She went into the bedroom. This room had a fireplace and built-in bookshelves. She admired the grand canopied bed, but the sheets made her shudder—gold! Mindy thought, How gauche, as she moved on to the bureau, on top of which were several bottles of perfume on a silver tray. Mindy picked up a small bottle of Joy. It was the actual perfume and not the eau de cologne, which James and Sam had given to her for Mother’s Day several years ago and which she never wore because she never remembered about girly things like perfume. But in here, in another woman’s bedroom, Mindy carefully pried open the stopper and put a dab behind each ear. She sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. What would it be like to be Annalisa Rice, to never have to worry about money? But those fantasies always came with a price, in this case the price being Paul Rice. How could a woman live with a man like that? At least Mindy could boss James around. James wasn’t perfect, but she could always be herself around James, and that had to be worth more in life than Pratesi sheets.
Mindy got up and, seeing the closet door was slightly ajar, pushed it open. Inside was a huge walk-in closet, at least three times the size of Sam’s bedroom. Along one wall were shelves stacked with shoe boxes; another shelf held handbags, scarves, and belts; and along the other wall was a rack of clothes, some still sporting their price tags. She fingered a leather jacket that cost eighty-eight hundred dollars and felt angry. This was but a tiny example of how the rich really lived. There was no longer any chance of keeping up with the Joneses, not when the Joneses could spend eight thousand dollars on a leather jacket they would never wear.
She was about to leave the closet when she spied a small cluster of worn, misshapen pantsuits on wire hangers. Aha, Mindy thought, these were Annalisa’s clothes from her former life. But why had she kept them? To remind herself from whence she’d come? Or was it the opposite: She had kept them thinking someday she might have to go back?
Mindy threw up her hands, reassuring herself that these rich people were nothing but dull. She and James were a hundred times more interesting, even with a hundred times less money. She left the bedroom and went upstairs to the ballroom. At the top of the steps was another marble foyer and two tall paneled-wood doors. The doors were locked, but Mindy guessed she had the key. She pushed open the doors and paused. Inside, the light was dim, as if the room were heavily curtained, yet Mindy saw no curtains. She stepped carefully into the room and looked around.
So this was what had happened to Mrs. Houghton’s legendary ballroom. She would be turning over in her grave. Probably all that remained of the original room were the fireplace and the ceiling. The famous paneled walls, painted with scenes from the Greek myths, were gone, covered over by plain white plasterboard. In the center of the room was the enormous aquarium, but it was empty. Above the fireplace was a black metal frame. Mindy moved in closer and stood on her toes to examine it. Inside the rim were pinhead-sized colored lights. It was a 3-D projection screen, Mindy decided, like something out of a futuristic spy movie. She wondered if it actually worked or was just for show. There was a closet on either side of the fireplace, but these were locked, and Mindy did not have the key. She put her ear up to the wood and heard a tiny, high-pitched humming sound. Dammit, she thought. There was nothing here at all. Sam was right, it was just an apartment.
In annoyance, she sat down at Paul’s desk. The swivel chair was upholstered in chocolate suede, very modern and sleek, like the desk, which was a long slab of polished wood. There was practically nothing on the desk, save for a small pad of paper from a hotel, a sterling-silver container holding six number-two pencils with the erasers neatly pointing into the air, and a silver framed photograph of an Irish wolfhound.