One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [122]
Perhaps it had, James thought, but it didn’t appear to have made Mindy any more sensitive. She just went on and on, running people over.
“And I’ve come to the conclusion,” she continued, “that it’s crucial to be married to another adult.” Before he could respond, Mindy rushed out of the room. “Aha!” he heard her exclaim, indicating that she’d had a burst of inspiration about her blog.
“One of the joys of not having it all is not doing it all,” Mindy wrote. “This morning I had a Network epiphany. ‘I’m not going to take it anymore!’ The constant doing: the laundry, the shopping, the folding, the lists. The endless lists. We all know what that’s like. You make a list for your husband, and then you have to spend as much time making sure he follows the list as it would have taken you to do the job yourself. Well, those days are over. Not in my household! No more.”
Satisfied, she went back into the bedroom for another round of hounding James. “One more thing,” she said. “I know your book comes out in six weeks, but you need to start writing another one. Right away. If the book is a success, they’re going to want a new one. And if it’s a failure, you need to be working on another project.”
James looked up from his underwear drawer. “I thought you didn’t want to play mama anymore.”
Mindy smiled. “Touché. In that case, I’ll leave your future up to you. But in the meantime, don’t forget about the mini-chunks.”
After she left, James dressed carefully, changing his jeans and shirt several times, finally settling on an old black turtleneck cashmere sweater that had just the right amount of dash and writerly seriousness. Looking in the mirror, he was pleased with the result. Mindy might not be interested in him, but it didn’t mean other women weren’t.
On his way to the gym that morning, Philip ran into Schiffer Diamond in the deli. She’d been on his mind ever since her phone call on New Year’s Eve. He told himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong, and yet still felt a need to apologize—to explain. “I’ve been meaning to call,” he began.
“You’re always meaning to call, aren’t you?” she replied. Now that Lola was moving in to his apartment, it should have been the absolute end of Schiffer’s feelings for Philip. Unfortunately, her feelings hadn’t gone away, causing an irrational irritation toward him. “Too bad you never do.”
“You could call me,” Philip said.
“Oakland.” She sighed. “Have you noticed we’re grown-ups now?”
“Yeah. Well,” he said, shifting through a display of PowerBars. This reminded him of the dozens of times he’d been in this deli with her in the past—buying ice cream and bread after sex, coffee and bacon and The New York Times on Sundays. There was a comfort and peace in those moments that he couldn’t recall having had again. He’d assumed then that they’d be together forever doing their Sunday-morning routine when they were eighty. But there were the other times, like after a fight, or when she’d left again for L.A. or a movie location after making no plans for their future, when he’d stood here bitterly, buying cigarettes, and promising himself he’d never see her again.
“Listen,” he said.
“Mmmmm?” she asked. She picked up a magazine with her face on the cover.
He smiled. “Do you still collect those things?” he asked.
“Not the way I used to,” she said. She bought the magazine and headed out of the store.
He followed. “The thing about Lola,” he began.
“Philip,” she said. “I told you. It’s none of my business.” But she only ever called him by his name when she was angry with him.
“I want to explain.”
“Don’t.”
“It wasn’t my choice. Her parents lost all their money. She didn’t have anyplace to live. What was I supposed to do—put her out on the street?”
“Her parents lost all their money? Come on, Philip,” she said. “Even you’re not that gullible.”
“They did,” he insisted, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. He unwrapped his PowerBar and said defensively, “You were with Brumminger. You can’t be mad at me about Lola.”
“Who said