One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [187]
“Look around,” Lola said. “I don’t even have a pillow.”
“I’ll bring you one from home. My wife won’t notice.”
“I don’t want some old pillow from your house,” Lola said, wondering how she’d managed to pick the cheapest man in Manhattan as her savior. “Do you think you could give me some money? Maybe the fifteen thousand dollars?”
“I can’t give it to you all at once,” James said. “My wife will get suspicious.” Having given the matter a great deal of thought, James had settled on a plan to pay Lola’s rent for six months while giving her two thousand dollars a month in spending money. “And when you get a job,” he said, “you’ll be fine. You’ll have much more money than I did at your age.”
From then on, James went by the apartment every afternoon, often taking Lola to lunch at the Irish pub downstairs—to make sure she had one decent meal a day, he said—and then hung around her apartment afterward. He liked the uncluttered space and the afternoon sunlight that poured through the windows, noting that Lola’s apartment got more light than his own. “James,” she said. “I need a TV.”
“You have your computer,” James said. “Can’t you watch TV shows on that? Isn’t that what everybody does these days?”
“Everybody has a computer. And a TV.”
“You could read a book,” James said. “Have you read Anna Karenina? Or Madame Bovary?”
“I have, and they’re boring. Besides, I don’t have room for books,” she complained, gesturing at the tiny space.
James bought her a TV—a sixteen-inch Panasonic—that they placed on the windowsill.
On the day before James was to go back out on book tour, he turned up at her apartment earlier than usual. It was eleven o’clock, but she was still sleeping, her head resting on the down pillow she’d bought from ABC Carpet, along with a down comforter that James suspected cost over a thousand dollars. When he questioned her about it, however, she said she’d bought it on sale for a hundred. He didn’t expect her to sleep without covers, did he? No, he did not, he agreed, and let it go.
“What time is it?” she asked now, rolling over in her bed.
“It’s almost noon,” he said. He found the fact that she was still in bed slightly annoying, and wondered what she’d been up to the night before that would cause her to sleep till midday. Or perhaps she was depressed. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning. First thing,” he explained. “I wanted to say goodbye. And to make sure you were okay.”
“When will I see you again?” She stretched, extending her arms up to the ceiling. She was wearing an orange tank top with nothing underneath.
“Not for a month.”
“Where are you going?” she asked in alarm.
“England, Scotland, Ireland, Paris, Germany, Australia, and New Zealand.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Terrible for us but good for the book,” James said.
She threw back the comforter and patted the mattress. “Snuggle me,” she said. “I’m going to miss you.”
“I don’t think…” James said cautiously, despite his beating heart.
“It’s only a hug, James,” she pointed out. “No one can object to that.”
He got into bed next to her, awkwardly arranging his long body so several inches of space remained between them. She turned to face him, curling up her knees into his groin. Her breath was pungent with the lingering smell of vodka and cigarettes, and he wondered once again where she’d been the night before. Had she had sex with someone?
“You’re funny,” she said.
“Am I?”
“Look at you.” She giggled. “You’re so stiff.”
“I’m not sure we should be doing this,” he said.
“We’re not doing anything,” she countered. “But you want to, don’t you?”
“I’m married,” he whispered.
“Your wife never has to know.” She trailed her hand down his chest and touched his penis. “You’re hard,” she said.
She started kissing him on the mouth, thrusting her fat tongue between his teeth. James was too startled to resist. This was so different from Mindy’s kisses, which were dry little pecks. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d kissed someone like this, marveling