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By Root 1338 0

Now, checking his watch, he saw that it was nearly three. Weaving through the crowd, he scanned the room for Mindy. A waiter passed by with a tray of caviar piled on top of tiny blintzes, and James popped two into his mouth. Another waiter freshened his glass of champagne with a bottle of Dom Perignon. Annalisa Rice had gone all out in Billy’s honor, inviting at least two hundred people back to her apartment to further mourn his loss. Billy’s sudden death had shocked James, and coming back on the plane from Houston, he had even read Mindy’s blog about it; for once, he had to agree that she was right. The death of a friend did make you realize that life was finite, and there was only so much time left in which to be young—or youngish, anyway.

But Billy’s death was only one in a bizarre series of events that had plagued One Fifth while he’d been away. There was the Internet Debacle, and the discovery of the Cross of Bloody Mary, which people postulated had been hidden in Mrs. Houghton’s apartment. Then Billy’s overdose. And Lola’s assertion that she was pregnant by Philip Oakland, who had dumped her for Schiffer Diamond. This was to be followed—according to Mindy—by an impending announcement that Philip Oakland and Schiffer Diamond were to be married after an appropriate period of mourning. It was all slightly outrageous, James thought—and what about poor Lola Fabrikant? Did anyone care what had happened to her? He wondered but he didn’t dare ask.

Now he would find out. Discovering Mindy in the dining room talking to Enid—they were friends again, it seemed, and appeared to be in a deep discussion about their favorite topic, One Fifth—he nodded at her, trying to catch her attention. “Yes?” she said curtly.

“I’m going to walk Skippy,” he said over the noise of the chattering crowd.

“Why?” she said.

“Because he needs to go out.”

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes and went back to her conversation. James tried to slip out the door but was waylaid by Redmon Richardly, who was talking to Diane Sawyer. Redmon grasped him by the shoulder. “Do you know James Gooch?” he said. “His book’s been number one on The New York Times best-seller list for five weeks now.” James nodded and moved away but was stopped by the editor in chief of Vanity Fair, who wanted to talk to him about writing a piece about Billy’s death. When James was finally able to get down to his apartment, it was three-ten. He grabbed Skippy and hurried around the corner to the Mews.

Walking slowly on the tiny cobblestoned street, he didn’t see her at first. Then he heard his name called, and she stepped out from the shadows of a doorway covered with vines. For a second, James was startled by her appearance. After the funeral, she must have gone home and changed, for she now had on dirty jeans and an old red ski parka. But she wore the same sweet, fawning expression that always made him feel admired and protective of her. Skippy jumped on her leg and she laughed, leaning over to pet the little dog. “I’ve been wondering what happened to you,” James said. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, James,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you. I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Everyone’s taken Philip’s side, and I’ve lost all my friends. I don’t even have a place to live.”

“You’re not sleeping on the street?” James asked, horrified, once again taking in her appearance.

“I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s couch,” she said. “But you know how it is. I can’t stay there forever. And I can’t go home to Atlanta. I don’t have a home to go back to even if I wanted to. My parents went bankrupt.”

“Good God,” James said. “How could Oakland do this to you?”

“He doesn’t care about me. He never did. He used me for sex, and when he’d had his fill, he went back to Schiffer Diamond. I’m really alone, James,” she said, grabbing on to his sleeve as if she were afraid he might try to get away. “I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”

“The first thing you need to do is to get an apartment. Or a job. Or both,” James stated with authority, as if such things were easily accomplished. He shook his head in disbelief.