One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [134]
He didn’t need to say more. David Porshie immediately understood the ramifications of bringing a potential donor into the fold. “Well done,” he said, pleased. “We can always count on you to have the inside track.”
Billy smiled, but as soon as David walked away, he rapidly made his way to the men’s room. Was it going to be like this from now on? Was he always going to be looking over his shoulder, wondering if people like David Porshie suspected him? Everyone in the art world knew him. He would never be able to avoid them, not as long as he lived in Manhattan.
He felt around in his pocket for an orange pill and slipped one in his mouth, swallowing it dry. It would only take a few minutes for the pill to take effect, but he decided it was too late. The evening was spoiled. There was nothing to do but go home. And passing through the promenade on his way out, he again spotted Enid Merle. She looked up at him briefly. He waved, but she didn’t wave back.
“Who was that?” Lola asked.
“Who, dear?” Enid said, ordering two glasses of champagne.
“That man who waved to you.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, dear,” Enid replied. She knew exactly to whom Lola was referring, but she still felt a residual annoyance at Billy Litchfield over Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. She’d always considered Billy a good friend—so he should have come to her first and at least have had the courtesy to inform her of what he was planning to do with the Rices.
But she didn’t want to think about Billy Litchfield or the Rices and their apartment. She was at the ballet now. Attending the ballet was one of the great pleasures in Enid’s life, and she had her rituals. She always sat in the first row in the first ring in seat 113, which she considered the best seat in the house, and she always treated herself to a glass of the most expensive champagne during the intermissions. The elegant first act, “Emeralds,” was over, and after paying for the champagne, she turned to Lola. “What did you think of it, dear?” she asked.
Lola stared at the piece of strawberry in her glass. The ballet, she knew, was supposed to be the height of culture. But the first movement had more than bored her, it had literally made her want to scream and tear her hair out. The slow classical music grated on her nerves; it was so excruciating that for a moment, she actually questioned her wisdom in being with Philip. But she reminded herself that this wasn’t Philip’s fault—he wasn’t even here. He wisely—she realized—was at home.
“I liked it,” Lola said cautiously.
They moved away from the stalls and sat at a small table on the side, sipping their champagne. “Did you?” Enid said. “There’s a great debate over which ballet is better, ‘Emeralds,’ ‘Rubies,’ or ‘Diamonds.’ I personally prefer ‘Diamonds,’ but many people love the fire in ‘Rubies.’ You’ll have to make your own decision.”
“There’s more?” Lola said.
“Hours and hours,” Enid declared happily. “I’ve done quite a bit of thinking on the matter, and I’ve decided ballet is the very opposite of the Internet. Or those things you watch on your phone. What are they—podcasts? Ballet is the antidote to surfing the Web. It forces you to go deep. To think.”
“Or fall asleep,” Lola said, attempting a joke.
Enid ignored this. “Ideally, the ballet should put you into a transportive state. I’ve often said it’s a version of meditation. You’ll feel wonderful afterward.”
Lola took another sip of champagne. It was slightly sour, and the tiny bubbles caught in her throat, but she was determined to keep her displeasure to herself. The evening was an opportunity to make Enid like her—or at the very least, to make Enid understand that she meant to marry Philip, and there was no use in Enid standing in the way. But still, Enid’s invitation to the ballet had taken Lola by surprise. When she and Philip had returned from Mustique, she’d expected Enid would be furious about her moving in. Instead, Enid pretended to be overjoyed and immediately asked her to the ballet. “A girls’ night,”