One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [136]
“The place is a time capsule. God, we were kids,” she said, coming over to examine the photograph. “But we looked good together.”
Philip agreed, struck by how happy they seemed. He hadn’t felt that way in a long time. “Jesus,” he said, replacing the photograph. “What happened?”
“We got old, schoolboy,” she said, going into the kitchen. She was, as promised, making him dinner.
“Speak for yourself,” he called back. “I’m not old.”
She popped her head out the door. “Yes, you are. And it’s about time you realized it.”
“What about you?” he said. He joined her in the kitchen, where she was placing cut-up pieces of lemon and onion into the cavity of a chicken. He perched on the top of the stepstool where he’d sat many times before, drinking red wine and watching her prepare her famous roast chicken. She made other things as well, like chili and potato salad and, in the summer, steamed clams and lobsters, but her roast chicken was, to his mind, legendary. The very first Sunday they’d spent together, years and years ago, she’d insisted on cooking a chicken in the tiny oven in the kitchenette of her hotel room. When he teased her about it, pointing out that knowing how to cook wasn’t very women’s lib–ish, she’d replied, “Even a fool ought to know how to feed himself.”
Now, putting the chicken in the oven, she said, “I’ve never lied about my age. The difference between us is that I’m not afraid of getting older.”
“I’m not afraid, either,” he said.
“Of course you are.”
“Why? Because I’m with Lola?”
“It’s not just that,” she said. She went into the living room and put a log in the fireplace. She lit a long match and let it burn for a moment. “It’s everything, Philip. Your whole demeanor.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be like this if I had a hit TV show,” he replied teasingly.
“Then why don’t you do something about it? Why don’t you go back to writing books? You haven’t had a book out in six years.”
He sighed. “Writer’s block.”
“Bullshit,” she said, lighting the fire. “You’re scared, schoolboy. You used to be different. Now you’re reduced to writing these silly movies. Bridesmaids Revisited? What is that?”
“I’ve got the screenplay about Bloody Mary. It’s going well,” he said defensively.
“It’s a soap, Philip. Another escape for you. It doesn’t have anything to do with real life.”
“What’s wrong with escapism?”
She shook her head. “You’ve lived in the same apartment your entire life. You haven’t moved an inch. And yet somehow you’ve managed to keep running away.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, echoing her line to him from the other day.
“You’re here because you need a release from Lola. You need to pretend you have someplace else to go in case it doesn’t work out. Which it won’t. And then where will you be?”
“Is that what you really think?” he asked. “That I’m here to get away from Lola?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m not,” he said.
She walked past him and hit him playfully on the head. “Then why are you here?”
He grabbed her wrist, but she pulled away. “Don’t bore me with that speech about how you can be in love with someone but can’t be with them,” she said.
“Well, it’s true.”
“It’s utter crap,” she replied. “It’s for the weak and uninspired. What’s happened to your passion, Oakland?”
He rolled his eyes. She always had that way of stirring him up, of making him feel potent and inadequate at the same time. But wasn’t that what one wanted from a relationship? “It’s not going to work,” he said.
“Your penis?” she asked jokingly, going into the kitchen to check on the chicken.
“Us,” he said, standing in the door. “We’ll try it again, and it won’t work. Again.”
“So?” she said, opening the oven. She was as hesitant about it as he was, he thought.
“Do you really want to go there—again?” he asked.
“Christ, schoolboy,” she said, holding up an oven mitt. “I’ve had it with convincing you. Can’t you ever make an honest, decent decision on your