One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [22]
3
“It is I, the prodigal nephew,” Philip said the next morning, knocking on Enid’s door.
“You’re just in time,” Enid said, jangling a set of keys. “Guess what I’ve got? Keys to Mrs. Houghton’s apartment.”
“How’d you get them?” Philip asked.
“As the board president emeritus, I still enjoy certain perks.”
“The children are definitely selling?” Philip said.
“They want out fast. They think real estate prices can only go down.” They went upstairs, and opening the door to Mrs. Houghton’s apartment, were immediately assaulted by a riot of flowered chintz. “Society lady circa 1983,” Enid remarked.
“You haven’t been in here since?” Philip asked.
“Only a couple of times. Louise didn’t want visitors toward the end.”
There was a scratching at the door, and Mindy Gooch and the real estate agent Brenda Lish came in. “Well,” Mindy said, staring at Philip and Enid. “It’s like Grand Central Station in here.”
“Hello, Mindy, dear,” Enid said.
“Hello,” Mindy said coldly. “So you do have the keys.”
“Didn’t Roberto tell you?” Enid asked innocently. “I picked them up yesterday afternoon.”
Philip glanced at Mindy but didn’t acknowledge her. He knew vaguely who Mindy was, knew vaguely that her husband was some kind of writer, but as he didn’t know them, he never said hello. And so, as sometimes happened in these buildings, Mindy and James had decided that Philip Oakland, who was successful, was also smug and arrogant, too arrogant to even greet them politely, making him their sworn enemy.
“You’re Philip Oakland,” Mindy said, wanting to put herself in his face but not wanting to sink to his level of disregard.
“Yes,” Philip said.
“I’m Mindy Gooch. You know who I am, Philip. I live here. With my husband, James Gooch. For God’s sake, the two of you have the same publisher. Redmon Richardly?”
“Ah, yes,” Philip said. “I didn’t know that.”
“You do now,” Mindy said. “So the next time we see you, perhaps you’ll say hello.”
“Don’t I say hello?” Philip said.
“No, you don’t,” Mindy said.
“The bones of this apartment are amazing,” Brenda Lish interjected, wanting to defuse a spat between warring residents. With an apartment like this, there would undoubtedly be many skirmishes ahead.
The group trooped up the stairs, eventually reaching the top floor, which contained the ballroom. The ceiling was a dome, sixteen feet high; at one end was an enormous marble fireplace. Mindy’s heart beat faster. She’d always dreamed of living in an apartment like this, with a room like this, an aerie with three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of all of Manhattan. The light was astounding. Every New Yorker wanted light, and few had it. If she lived here, in this apartment, instead of in the half-basement warren of rooms her family now occupied, maybe for once in her life, she could be happy.
“I was thinking,” Enid said, “we might want to split up the apartment. Sell off each floor.”
Yes, Mindy thought. And maybe she and James could buy the top floor. “We’d need to have a special quorum of the board,” she said.
“How long would that take?” Brenda asked.
Mindy looked at Enid. “It depends.”
“Well, it would be a shame,” Brenda said. “Apartments like this never come up in Manhattan. And especially not in this location. It’s one of a kind. It should probably be on the National Register of Historic Places.”
“The exterior of the building is on the register. The apartments are not. Residents are entitled to do anything they want with them,” Enid said.
“That’s too bad,” Brenda said. “If the apartment were part of the national register, you’d attract the right kind of buyer, someone you’d probably want in the building. Someone who appreciates beauty and history. They wouldn’t be able to destroy these deco moldings, for instance.”
“We’re not going to turn it into a museum,” Mindy said.