One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [144]
His phone rang. “You’ll be there tonight, won’t you, Billy boy?” Schiffer Diamond asked.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” Billy said, although given the circumstances, it had crossed his mind that he should cancel all his events for the next week and lie low.
“Good, because I can’t stand these things,” Schiffer said. “I’m going to have to talk to a bunch of strangers and be nice to all of them. I hate being trotted out like a show pony.”
“Then don’t go,” Billy said simply.
“Billy Bob, what’s wrong with you? I have to go. If I cancel, they’ll write about what a bitch I am. Maybe I should be a bitch from now on. The lonely diva. Ah, Billy,” she said, sounding slightly bitter, which wasn’t like her. “Where are all the men in this town?” She hung up.
Two hours later, Schiffer Diamond sat on a stool in her bathroom, having her hair and makeup done for the fourth or fifth time that day, while her publicist, Karen, sat out in the living room, reading magazines and talking on her cell phone while she waited for Schiffer to get ready. The hair and makeup people fluttered around the bathroom, wanting to make conversation, but Schiffer wasn’t in the mood. She was feeling foul. Coming into One Fifth that very afternoon, she’d run into none other than Lola Fabrikant, who was scuttling into the building like a criminal.
Perhaps “scuttling” wasn’t exactly the right word, as Lola hadn’t scuttled but had walked in pulling her Louis Vuitton rollerboard behind her like she owned the place. Schiffer was momentarily shocked. Hadn’t Philip broken up with her? Apparently, he hadn’t had the guts. Damn Oakland, she thought. Why was he so weak?
Lola came in while Schiffer was waiting for the elevator; as a consequence, Schiffer was forced to ride up with her. Lola gushed over Schiffer as if they were best friends, asking how the TV show was going and saying how much she liked Schiffer’s hair—although it was the same as always—and being careful to make no mention of Philip. So Schiffer brought him up. “Philip told me your parents are having some trouble,” she said.
Lola sighed dramatically. “It’s been awful,” she said. “If it weren’t for Philip, I don’t know what we’d do.”
“Philip’s a peach,” Schiffer remarked, and Lola agreed. Then, rubbing salt into the wound, Lola added, “I’m so lucky to have him.”
Now, thinking about the encounter, Schiffer glared at herself in the mirror. “You’re done,” the makeup artist said, flicking Schiffer’s nose with powder.
“Thank you,” Schiffer said. She went into the bedroom, put on the borrowed dress and the borrowed jewelry, and called to her publicist to help zip her up. She put her hands on her waist and exhaled. “I’m thinking about moving out of this building,” she said. “I need a bigger place.”
“Why don’t you get a bigger place here? It’s such a great building,” Karen said.
“I’m sick of it. All these new people. It’s not like it used to be.”
“Someone’s in a mood,” Karen said.
“Really? Who?” Schiffer asked.
Then Schiffer, the publicist, and the hair and makeup people went downstairs and got into the back of a waiting limousine. Karen opened her bag, took out several sheets of paper, and began consulting her notes. “Letterman’s confirmed for Tuesday, and Michael Kors is sending three dresses for you to try. Meryl Streep’s people are wondering if you’ll do a poetry reading on April twenty-second. I think it’s a good idea because it’s Meryl and it’s classy. On Wednesday, your call time is one P.M., so I scheduled the Marie Claire photo shoot for six in the morning, to get that out of the way—the reporter will come to the set on Thursday to interview you. On Friday evening, the president of Boucheron is in town, and he’s invited you to a private dinner for twenty. I think you should do that, too—it can’t hurt, and they might want to use you in an advertising campaign. And on Saturday afternoon, the network