One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [27]
“Wouldn’t you like to sit together?” Annalisa asked. She hated having to beg.
“These cabins are so small,” he said. “Why be crowded? We’re together the whole weekend anyway.”
“You’re right,” she said. It was pointless pushing Paul on the small issues. Annalisa looked out the window. A middle-aged man was hurrying breathlessly toward the seaplane. Annalisa’s first impression was of a man freckled and nearly hairless, like an exotic species of cat. The man was wearing spectator shoes and a white linen suit with a navy silk pocket square; in one hand was a woven hat. He gave his bag to the pilot and came up into the cabin, taking a seat in the row behind Annalisa. “Hello,” he said, extending his hand over the top of the seats. “I’m Billy Litchfield.”
“Annalisa Rice.”
“I assume you’re going to the Brewers’ for the weekend. Are you a friend of Connie’s?”
“My husband works for Sandy Brewer.”
“Ah,” Billy Litchfield said. “So you’re an unknown element.”
Annalisa smiled. “Yes.”
“And that gentleman is your husband?”
Paul was reading something on his iPhone. “Paul,” she said. He looked up briefly. “This is Billy Litchfield.”
Paul gave Billy a curt smile and went back to his iPhone. He was never interested in strangers, and as usual, Annalisa tried to cover it up by being excessively friendly.
“Are you a friend of Connie’s?” she asked.
“I’m a friend of both Brewers now. But yes, in answer to your question, Connie and I go way back.”
There was a pause. Annalisa suddenly didn’t know what to say, but Billy Litchfield smiled at her. “Have you been to the house before?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“You’re in for a treat. It’s magnificent, designed by Peter Cook. Peter can be over the top, but the Brewers’ house is one of the best examples of his work.”
“I see.”
“You know who Peter Cook is, don’t you?” he asked.
“Actually, I don’t. I’m a lawyer, and—”
“Ah,” Billy said, as if this explained everything. “Peter Cook is an architect. Some people say he ruined the East End with his McMansions, but eventually, they’ve all come round to him. Everyone uses him—he won’t do a house for under ten million these days.” The pilot started up the engines. “I love this moment of the week, don’t you?” Billy said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Taking off for greener pastures. Even if it is just for the weekend.” He looked her over. “Do you live in New York?”
“We just moved.”
“Upper East Side?” Billy asked.
“Nowhere, really.”
“My dear,” Billy said. “You and that magnificent husband of yours who is sporting a two-thousand-dollar Paul Smith shirt cannot be living in a cardboard box on the street.”
“We’re in the Waldorf. Until we find an apartment. Or a town house.”
“Why the Waldorf?” Billy asked.
“I always used to stay there on business.”
“Aha,” Billy said.
Annalisa felt self-conscious, pinned under Billy’s gaze. She was used to attention, having stood out all her life, with her auburn hair and her wide cheekbones and her light gray eyes. Men had a propensity to fall in love with her—foolishly—and she’d learned to ignore the undercurrents of male attraction. But with Billy, it was different. He seemed to be studying her as if she were a piece of fine china. Embarrassed, she turned away, leaving Billy to examine her profile. She’s not a classic beauty, Billy thought, but a unique one. Having once seen her face, you wouldn’t forget her. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Confident girl, he thought, to be so unadorned, save for the platinum-and-diamond Chopard watch on her wrist. That was a nice touch. He turned his attention to the husband, who was less interesting physically. Billy had