One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [25]
“How about the president of the United States?” Annalisa said, twisting her ponytail.
“Will he write you a letter?” Emme asked, not catching the sarcasm.
“Probably not,” Annalisa said. “Considering I called his administration an embarrassment.”
“Everybody says that,” Emme said.
“Yes, but I said it on TV. I used to be a regular on Washington Morning.”
“That’s not a good answer,” Emme said.
“How about Sandy Brewer?” Annalisa finally ventured.
“Who’s he?” Emme asked.
“My husband works with him.”
“But who is he?” Emme said.
“He runs a fund,” Annalisa said cautiously, as Paul had told her repeatedly that she wasn’t to talk about what he did or how he made his money. It was a secret community, he said, like Skull and Bones at Yale.
“So he’s a hedge-fund manager,” Emme guessed correctly. “Nobody knows who they are or wants to know them. Nobody wants them as a member of their club.” She looked Annalisa up and down. “And it isn’t just about your husband. It’s about you, too. You have to be approved by the board.”
“I’m a lawyer,” Annalisa said. “I can’t see anyone objecting to that.”
“What kind of lawyer?” Emme asked.
“Class-action lawsuits. Among other things.”
“I could see a lot of people objecting to you,” Emme said. “Isn’t that really a glorified kind of ambulance chasing?” She shook her head. “We’d better concentrate on brownstones. If you buy a brownstone, you won’t have to worry about getting approved by a board.”
The morning of the day Annalisa and Paul were going to the Hamptons, Emme had shown her three town houses. One was a mess, smelling of milk and dirty diapers, with toys strewn everywhere. In the second town house, a woman of about thirty followed them around, holding a slippery two-year-old boy in her arms. “It’s a fantastic house,” the woman had said.
“Why are you moving?” Annalisa had asked.
“We’re moving to the country. We’ve got a house there. We’re putting on a big addition. It’s better for kids in the country, don’t you think?”
The third town house was larger and less expensive. The hitch was that it was broken up into apartments, most of which were occupied. “You’d have to get the tenants to leave. It usually isn’t a problem. You pay them fifty thousand cash, and they’re happy to have the money,” Emme had explained.
“But where will they go?” Annalisa asked.
“They’ll find a nice, clean studio apartment somewhere,” Emme said. “Or they’ll move to Florida.”
“That doesn’t seem right,” Annalisa said. “Kicking people out of their apartments. It’s against my moral code.”
“You can’t stop progress,” Emme replied. “It’s unhealthy.”
And so another day passed during which she and Paul still didn’t have a place to live and were stuck in the suite at the Waldorf.
Annalisa called Paul. “I can’t find anything to buy. Maybe we should rent in the meantime.”
“And move twice? It’s ergonomically wasteful.”
“Paul,” she said, “I’m going to go out of my mind if we have to stay in this suite for one more day. Actually, I’ll go out of my mind if I have to spend more time with Emme. Her face scares me.”
“So let’s change to a bigger suite. The staff can move our things.”
“The cost,” Annalisa said.
“Doesn’t matter. Love you,” he said.
She went downstairs into the bustle of the lobby. She had always stayed at the Waldorf when the law firm sent her to New York on business, and back then she’d thought the hotel lobby glamorous, with its grand staircases and brass and expensive wares displayed behind sparkling glass windows. The