One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [135]
“Did Philip tell you he danced ballet as a boy?” Enid asked. The thought of Philip in white tights startled Lola. Could this be true, she wondered, or was it merely a sign that Enid was becoming senile? Lola carefully took in Enid’s appearance. Her blond hair was coiffed, and she was wearing a black-and-white plaid suit with a matching emerald necklace and earrings, which Lola coveted and wondered if there was some way she could get Enid to leave to her when she died. Enid did not look particularly crazy—and Lola had to concede that for an eighty-two-year-old woman, Enid looked pretty good.
“No, he didn’t tell me,” Lola said stiffly.
“You two have only just gotten to know each other, so naturally, he hasn’t had time yet to tell you everything. But he was in The Nutcracker as a boy. He played the young prince. It was, and still is, a terribly chic thing to do. Ballet has always been a part of our lives. But you’ll learn that soon enough.”
“I can’t wait,” Lola said, forcing herself to smile.
The bells signaling the end of intermission began to chime, and Enid stood up. “Come along, dear,” she said. “We don’t want to miss the second act.” Holding out her arm, she motioned for Lola to take it, and when she did, Enid leaned heavily on her, shuffling slowly toward the door to the theater and keeping up a relentless prattle. “I’m so happy you love the classic arts,” she said. “The winter season of the ballet only lasts until the end of February, but then there’s the Metropolitan Opera. And of course, there are always wonderful little piano concertos and even poetry readings. So one never need be deprived of culture. And now that you’re living with Philip, it’s so easy. You’re right next door. You can accompany me to everything.”
Back at One Fifth, Philip was shaving for the second time that day. As he scraped the side of his cheek, he paused, holding up his razor. Something was missing. Noise, he thought. There was no noise. For the first time in months.
He went back to shaving. Splashing his face with water, he felt guilty about sneaking around behind Lola’s back. Then he was irritated. He had every right to do as he pleased—after all, he wasn’t married to the girl. He was only trying to help her by providing her with a roof over her head until she could figure out her situation.
Passing through the living room on his way out, he noticed that Lola had carelessly left her magazines strewn on the couch. He picked up Brides, then Modern Bride and Elegant Bride. This was too much. He would need to have a talk with her—one of these days—and make it clear where he stood in the relationship. He wasn’t going to be backed into making promises he couldn’t keep. And making his point, he took the magazines into the kitchen, where he pushed them down the incinerator chute, even though this was against the building’s rules.
Then he took the elevator down to the ninth floor.
“Well, there. Look at you,” Schiffer Diamond said, opening her door.
“Look at you,” Philip replied.
She was dressed casually in jeans and a blue-and-white-striped French sailor’s shirt, and she was barefoot. She still had that ability of making simple pieces of clothing look elegant, Philip noted, and unconsciously comparing her to Lola, found Lola lacking.
Schiffer put her hands on either side of his head and kissed him. “It’s been too long, Oakland,” she said.
“I know,” he said, stepping in and looking around. “Wow,” he remarked. “The apartment is exactly the same.”
“I haven’t done a thing to it. Haven’t had time.”
Philip went into the living room and sat down. He felt wonderfully