One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [52]
The conversation was, as usual, impassioned. Although the tragedy of Mrs. Houghton’s unfortunate accident and her untimely death—“she had another five good years in her,” most agreed—was part of the discussion, it eventually turned to the upcoming elections and the impending recession. Seated next to his aunt was an aged man who held himself stiffly upright in his chair. A former senator and speechwriter for Jack Kennedy, he held forth on the differences between the Democratic candidates’ oracular styles. The second course came—veal in a lemon butter sauce—and without missing a beat in the conversation, Enid picked up her knife and fork and began to cut up the senator’s meat. Her act of kindness terrified Philip. As he looked around the table, the scene was all at once garish to him, a picaresque grotesquery of old age.
He put down his fork. This was where his own life was headed; indeed, he was only a short hop away. His perceived reality panicked him, and everything that had recently gone wrong with his life came to the fore. There was trouble with his current screenplay; there would be trouble with the next one, if there was a next one, and if there was another book, he’d have trouble with that as well. Someday he’d be here, an impotent and insignificant windbag, needing someone to cut up his meat. And he didn’t even have a woman to soothe him.
He stood up and made his excuses. He had a conference call from Los Angeles that couldn’t be avoided—he’d only just gotten the message on his BlackBerry. “You can’t stay for dessert?” Enid asked. Then she exclaimed, “Oh, damn. There go the numbers.” His absence meant there would be an uneven number of men and women.
“Can’t be avoided, Nini,” he said, kissing her on her upturned cheek. “You’ll manage.”
He made it only halfway down the block before he called Lola. Her casual hello made his heart race, and he covered it up by becoming more serious than he’d intended. “This is Philip Oakland.”
“What’s up?” she said, although she sounded pleased to hear from him.
“I want to offer you the job. As my researcher. Can you start this afternoon?”
“No,” she said. “I’m busy.”
“How about tomorrow morning?”
“Can’t,” she said. “My mother’s leaving, and I have to say goodbye.”
“What time is she leaving?” he said, wondering how he’d gotten into this desperate-sounding exchange.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten? Or eleven?”
“Why don’t you come by in the afternoon?”
“I guess I could,” Lola said, sounding uncertain. Sitting on the edge of the pool at Soho House, she dipped her toe into the warm, murky water. She wanted the job but didn’t want to appear too eager. After all, even though Philip would technically be her employer, he was still a man. And in dealing with men, it was always important to keep the upper hand. “How’s two o’clock?”
“Perfect,” Philip said, relieved, and hung up the phone.
Back at Soho House, the waiter approached Lola and warned her that cell phones were not allowed in the club, even on the roof. Lola gave him an icy stare before texting her mother to tell her the good news. Then she slathered herself with more sunscreen and lay down on a chaise. She closed her eyes, fantasizing about Philip Oakland and One Fifth. Maybe Philip would fall in love with her and marry her, and then she’d live there, too.
“It’s beautiful,” Annalisa said, stepping into the foyer of Mrs. Houghton’s