One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [173]
As she rode up in the elevator, she realized that since Paul knew about Billy’s death, Annalisa likely did as well. Nevertheless, Mindy wanted to see how she was taking the news—she hoped Annalisa felt horrible—and now, with Billy gone, maybe the Rices would leave New York and return to Washington, where they belonged. Or perhaps they would move farther away, to another country. If they left, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice with the apartment. This time, she and Enid and Philip would split it up, and with James making money at last, they might even be able to afford it.
Maria opened the door. Mindy glared at her. These rich people, Mindy thought, shaking her head. They couldn’t even be bothered to open their own doors. “Is Mrs. Rice here?” she asked.
Maria held her finger up to her lips. “She’s sleeping.”
“Wake her up. I have something important to tell her.”
“I don’t like to do that, ma’am.”
“Do it!” Mindy snapped. “I’m the head of the board.”
Maria backed away in fright, and while she scurried up the stairs, Mindy strolled into the apartment. It had changed drastically since she’d snooped around at Christmas, and no longer bore any resemblance to a hotel. Although Mindy knew nothing about decorating, being one of those people who became unaware of an environment after five minutes, even she could appreciate the beauty of what Annalisa had done. The floor in the second foyer was now lapis lazuli, and in the center was a round table inlaid with marble on which sat a huge spray of pink apple blossoms. For a moment, Mindy waited in the second foyer, but when she didn’t hear any noise from upstairs, she went into the living room. Here was a series of inviting couches and divans done in soft blue and yellow velvets, and an enormous silk rug with a swirly design in delicious oranges, pinks, creams, and blues.
Annalisa Rice was certainly taking her time getting up, Mindy thought in annoyance, and sat down on a plush couch. It was stuffed with down, and Mindy sank into the cushions. Striped silk curtains hanging from the French windows pooled elegantly on the floor, and scattered around the room were little tables and more flower arrangements. Mindy sighed. If only she’d known James’s book would be a success, she scolded herself. Then she might have had this room for herself.
Upstairs, Maria was knocking on Annalisa’s bedroom door. Annalisa rubbed her forehead, wishing Maria would go away, but the knocks were growing more insistent. Resigned, she got out of the four-poster bed. She’d been hoping to finally get some rest—since Sandy Brewer’s arrest, she’d hardly slept at all. Billy was sure to be arrested as well, but after her conversation with him, he hadn’t taken her calls. Annalisa had gone by his apartment at least five times, but he wouldn’t answer his buzzer. Even Connie wasn’t talking to her—or to anyone, for that matter. “I don’t know who my friends are anymore,” Connie had said. “Someone ratted us out. For all I know, it might have been you. Or Paul.”
“Connie, don’t be ridiculous. Neither Paul nor I have any interest in hurting you or Sandy. Of course you’re scared. But I’m not your enemy.” Her entreaties made no difference, and Connie hung up, telling her not to bother to call again, as their lawyer had forbidden them to talk to anyone. Paul was the only one who seemed mysteriously unaffected—or rather, Annalisa corrected, positively affected. He’d become less brooding and secretive and had finally agreed to allow the apartment to be photographed for the cover of Architectural Digest. The only snag was that she’d need to get permission from the building for the photography equipment to be brought up in the service elevator.
Putting on a pair of velvet slippers and a heavy silk robe, she opened her bedroom door. “There’s a lady downstairs,” Maria said, looking over her shoulder nervously.
“Who?” Annalisa said.
“That lady.