One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [21]
The Fabrikants met the real estate agent, Brenda Lish, in front of a plain white brick building on West Tenth Street, one of many constructed all over the city in the sixties as middle-class housing. Brenda would not normally have dealt with such small potatoes as the Fabrikants, who were only seeking a rental, but Cem was an acquaintance of one of Brenda’s major clients, who had asked if she would help them out. Since the client was spending several million dollars on an apartment, Brenda was happy to be generous to these nice people with the beautiful daughter.
“I think this will be perfect for you,” Brenda said in her happy, flighty voice. “It’s a twenty-four-hour doorman building, and it’s filled with young people. And you can’t beat the West Village location.”
The apartment was a studio with a separate kitchen and dressing area. The exposure was southern, which meant good light. The cost was thirty-five hundred a month.
“It’s so small,” Lola said.
“We like to call it cozy,” Brenda said.
“My bed will be in the same room as my living room. What if I want to have people over? They’ll see my bed,” Lola protested.
“You could get a foldout couch,” Brenda said cheerfully.
“That’s awful,” Lola said. “I don’t want to sleep on a foldout couch.”
Brenda had recently returned from a spiritual journey to India. There were people in the world who slept on thin mats made of plant materials, there were people who slept on cement slabs, there were people who had no beds at all. She kept a smile on her face.
Beetelle looked at Lola, gauging her mood. “Is there anything else?” Beetelle asked Brenda. “Anything bigger?”
“Honestly, I’ve shown you everything available in your price range,” Brenda said. “If you want to look in another area, I’m sure you can find a one-bedroom for the same amount of money.”
“I want to live in the West Village,” Lola said.
“But why, honey?” Cem asked. “It’s all Manhattan. It’s all the same, isn’t it?”
“Some people might look at it that way,” Brenda said. She waited.
Lola crossed her arms and stood with her back to her parents, looking out at the street. “Carrie Bradshaw lived in the West Village,” she said.
“Ah,” Brenda said. “There is another apartment in this building. It’s probably exactly what you’re looking for. But it’s much more expensive.”
“How much more?” Cem asked.
“Six thousand a month.”
Cem Fabrikant did not sleep well that night. He hadn’t slept so badly for years, from around the time when he’d purchased the McMansion in Windsor Pines with an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage. Back then, Beetelle had convinced him that it had to be done for the future of the family in this highly competitive world where appearances were as important as reality. Where reality was appearance. The thought of owing so much money made Cem sweat, but he never expressed his fears to his wife or daughter.
Now, lying next to his soundly sleeping wife in the big bed with the starched hotel sheets, he reminded himself that the whole world, or rather, his whole world of decent, upwardly mobile and righteous people, ran on fear. Even his livelihood ran on it—the fear of a terrorist attack or a school shooting or a madman run amok. Cem was a tech man and for the past three years had been working on a system to alert people to these dangers via a text message, so they could at least avoid arriving needlessly into danger. But he sometimes wondered if these larger fears masked the smaller and less worthy fears that drove everyone in his world: the fear of not making it, of being left behind, of not utilizing one’s skills or potential or advantages to the fullest. What everyone wanted, after all, was a happy, carefree life full of pleasant and wonderful things, a life in which no one was hurt or died needlessly, but most of all, a life in which no one was denied his dream.
And so, he realized, he was going to have to refinance his mortgage again to pay for Lola’s dream of a big life in New York City. Cem did not understand