One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [184]
“He didn’t,” Lola said. She was lying; Philip had sent a check for ten thousand dollars to her parents’ condo, and Beetelle had FedExed it to her at Thayer’s address. But James didn’t need to know this. “Philip Oakland is not what people think he is,” she said.
“He’s exactly what I always thought he was,” James said.
Lola looked up at him and took a step closer, then glanced away, as if she were ashamed. “I know we hardly know each other,” she said in a small voice, “but I was hoping you might be able to help me. There’s no one else I can ask.”
“You poor thing,” James said, adding boldly, “tell me what I can do and I’ll do it.”
“Can I borrow twenty thousand dollars?”
James blanched at the sum. “That’s a lot of money,” he said carefully.
“I’m sorry.” She took a step backward. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I’ll figure something out. It was nice knowing you, James. You were the only person who was nice to me in One Fifth. Congratulations on all your success. I always knew you were a star.” And she began to walk away.
“Lola, stop,” James called.
She turned and, giving him a brave smile, shook her head. “I’ll be okay. I’ll survive somehow.”
He caught up with her. “I do want to help you,” he said. “I’ll figure something out.” They arranged to meet up under the arch in Washington Park the next afternoon.
James then returned to the party, where he immediately bumped into the devil himself—Philip Oakland. “Excuse me,” James said.
“Heard your book is number one on the list,” Philip said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” James said curtly. For once, he noted, Philip Oakland didn’t seem to be in a rush to move away. James decided to make Philip uncomfortable. Considering Lola’s situation it was the least he could do. “I just saw your girlfriend,” he said accusingly.
“Really?” Philip looked confused. “Who?”
“Lola Fabrikant.”
Now Philip looked embarrassed. “We’re not together anymore,” he said. He took a sip of champagne. “I’m sorry—did I hear you correctly? Did you say you’d just seen her?”
“That’s right. In the Mews,” James said. “She has no place to live.”
“She was supposed to be back in Atlanta. With her parents.”
“Well, she’s not,” James said. “She’s in New York.” He would have said more, but Schiffer Diamond came over and took Philip’s hand. “Hello, James,” she said, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek as if they were old friends. Death, James supposed, made everyone old friends. “Did you know Billy, too?” he asked. He suddenly remembered that she had found the body, and immediately felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” Schiffer said.
Philip jiggled her hand. “James said he just saw Lola Fabrikant. In the Mews.”
“She was at the funeral,” James said, trying to explain.
“I’m afraid we missed her.” Schiffer and Philip exchanged a glance. “Excuse me,” Schiffer said, and moved away.
“Nice to see you,” Philip said to James, and followed her.
James took a fresh glass of champagne from a tray and stepped into the crowd. Schiffer and Philip were standing a few feet away, holding hands, nodding as they spoke to another couple. Apparently, Philip Oakland didn’t even feel guilty about what he’d done to Lola, James thought with disgust. He moved into the living room and sat down on a plushy love seat and scanned the room. It was filled with bold-faced names—the art folk and media types and socialites and fashionistas who comprised the chattering classes and had defined his and Mindy’s world in New York City for the last twenty years. Now, having been away for a month, he had a different perspective. How silly they all seemed. Half the people in the room had had some kind of “work” done, including the men. Billy’s death was just another excuse for a party, where they could drink champagne and eat caviar and talk about their latest projects. Meanwhile, out on the street, homeless and probably hungry, was an innocent young woman—Lola Fabrikant—who’d been taken up by this crowd and summarily spit out when she didn