One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [53]
Billy clutched his heart. “It’s a mess. You should have seen it when Mrs. Houghton lived here.”
“I did see it,” Mindy said. “It was very old-lady.”
The apartment had been stripped of its antiques, paintings, rugs, and silk draperies; what was left were dust bunnies and faded wallpaper. At mid-afternoon, the apartment was flooded with light, revealing the chipped paint and scuffed parquet floors. The small foyer led to a bigger foyer with a sunburst inlaid in the marble floor; from there, a grand staircase ascended. Three sets of tall wooden doors opened to a living room, dining room, and library. Billy, lost in memories, stepped into the enormous living room. It ran the length of the front of the apartment, overlooking Fifth Avenue. Two pairs of French doors led to a ten-foot-wide terrace. “Oh, the parties she had here,” he said, gesturing around the room. “She had it set up like a European salon, with couches and settees and conversational clusters. You could fit a hundred people in this room and not even know it.” He led the way to the dining room. “She had everyone to dinner. I remember one dinner in particular. Princess Grace. She was so beautiful. No one had any idea that a month later, she’d be dead.”
“People rarely do,” Mindy said dryly.
Billy ignored this. “There was one long table for forty. I do think a long table is so much more elegant than those round tables for ten that everyone does these days. But I suppose there’s no choice. No one has a large dining room anymore, although Mrs. Houghton always said one never wanted more than forty people at a sit-down dinner. It was all about making the guests feel they were part of a select group.”
“Where’s the kitchen?” Mindy asked. Although she’d been in the apartment once before, it had been only a cursory tour, and now she felt envious and intimidated. She had no idea Mrs. Houghton had lived so grandly, but the grand living appeared to have taken place before Mindy and James moved into the building. Leading the way through swinging doors, Billy pointed out the butler’s pantry and, farther on, the kitchen itself, which was surprisingly crude, with a linoleum floor and Formica countertops. “She never came in here, of course,” Billy explained. “No one did except the staff. It was considered a form of respect.”
“What if she wanted a glass of water?” Annalisa asked.
“She would call on the phone. There were phones in every room, and each room had its own line. It was considered very modern in the early eighties.”
Annalisa looked at Mindy, caught her eye, and smiled. Until then Mindy hadn’t known what to make of Annalisa, who managed to appear self-contained and confident, without revealing a peep of information about herself. Perhaps Annalisa Rice had a sense of humor after all.
They went up to the second floor, examined Mrs. Houghton’s master bedroom, large bathroom, and sitting room, where, Billy noted, he and Louise had spent many pleasant hours. They peeked into the three bedrooms down the hall and then went up to the third floor. “And here,” Billy said, throwing open two paneled doors, “is the pièce de résistance. The ballroom.”
Annalisa walked across the black-and-white-checkerboard marble floor and stood in the middle of the room, taking in the domed ceiling and the fireplace and the French windows. The room was overwhelmingly beautiful—she had never imagined that such a room, in such an apartment, could exist in a building in New York City. Manhattan was full of wonderful secrets and surprises. Gazing around, Annalisa thought that she had never desired anything in her life as much as this apartment.
Billy came up behind her. “I always say if one can’t be happy in this apartment, one can’t be happy anywhere.” Even Mindy was unable to come up with a retort. The atmosphere was full of longing, Billy thought, what he called “the ache.” It was part of the pain of living in Manhattan, this overwhelming ache for prime real estate. It could cause people to do all kinds of things—lie, stay in marriages that were over, prostitute themselves, even commit