One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [115]
She replaced the frame and picked up the pad of paper. It was from the Four Seasons hotel in Bangkok. The top page was blank, but the next two were filled with mathematical equations written in pencil of which she could not make heads or tails. On the fourth page, she came across something written in English, in minuscule box letters. Holding it up to her face, she read: WE ARE THE NEW RICH.
And you’re an asshole, Mindy thought. She pocketed the pad of paper, thinking that when Paul Rice came home from vacation and found his pad missing, he’d know someone had been in his apartment, and that would be her little message to him.
Her own apartment felt cluttered and messy in comparison to the clean restraint of the Rice abode. The Rices’ apartment was like a hotel room, she decided as she sat down at her desk to blog. “Today I discovered another one of the joys of not having it all: not wanting it all,” she wrote with relish.
Don’t think, do, Philip reminded himself. This was the only possible philosophy when it came to women. If one thought about them too much, if one really considered a relationship and what it meant, one usually got into trouble. Someone (usually the woman) was disappointed, although (usually) through no fault of the man. A man couldn’t help it if he loved women and loved sex. And so this morning, he had finally capitulated and asked Lola to move in with him.
He immediately realized he might have made a mistake. But the words were out, and there was no taking them back. Lola jumped up and put her arms around him. “There, there,” he said, patting her back. “We’re not getting married. We’re only living together. It’s an experiment.”
“We’re going to be so happy,” she said. And then she went to her suitcase to dig out her bikini. Wrapped in a tiny sarong tied fetchingly around her hips, she’d practically skipped with him down to the beach.
And now she was frolicking in the waves like a puppy, looking back at him over her shoulder and gesturing for him to join her. “It’s too early,” he called from his lounge chair.
“It’s eleven o’clock, silly,” she said, splashing water at him.
“I don’t like to get wet until after lunch,” he replied.
“You shower in the morning, don’t you?” she said playfully.
“That’s not the point.” He smiled indulgently and went back to reading The Economist.
Lola was so literal, he thought. But did it really matter? Don’t think, he reminded himself. She was moving in with him, and if it worked, great, and if not, they’d move on. It wasn’t such a big deal. He flipped the pages of the magazine—Time Warner was breaking up, he saw—and then put it down in the sand. He closed his eyes. He needed a vacation. With Lola sorted out now, perhaps he could finally rest.
The prospect had appeared unlikely when he’d met Lola at the airport in Barbados two days ago. Amid the bustle of holiday travelers in gaudy resort wear, she was sitting forlornly on her suitcase—a Louis Vuitton rollerboard—her hair fallen across a pair of large white-framed sunglasses. As he came up beside her, she stood and removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were puffy. “I shouldn’t have come,” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to call you, but I didn’t want to ruin your Christmas. And I didn’t want to disappoint you. There was nothing I could do, anyway. It’s all so depressing.”
“Did someone die?” he asked.
“I wish,” she said. “My parents are bankrupt. And now I have to leave New York.”
Philip didn’t understand how her parents could have lost all their money. Didn’t people have savings? His impression of Fabrikant mère and père was that, while superficially silly, they were simple, practical people who would never allow themselves to be involved in any kind of scandal. Especially Beetelle. The woman was too voluble, too impressed with her narrow circle of life, but also far too judgmental to get into a position in which she might be unfavorably judged herself. But Lola insisted it was true. She would have to leave New York; she