One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [60]
Enid pushed past her. “Is Philip here?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Enid said, not unpleasantly.
“I’m Philip’s girlfriend,” the girl said proudly.
“Really?” Enid said, thinking that was quick. “I’m Philip’s aunt.”
“Oh,” the girl said. “I didn’t know Philip had an aunt.”
“And I didn’t know he had a girlfriend,” Enid said. “Is he here?”
The girl folded her arms as if realizing she was practically naked. “He went to get bagels.”
“Tell him his aunt stopped by, will you?”
“Sure,” Lola said. She followed Enid to the French door and watched her go through the gate to her own terrace.
Lola went inside and sat down on the couch. So Philip had a relative who lived right next door. She hadn’t expected that—somehow she’d assumed that people like Philip Oakland didn’t have relatives. Idly opening a magazine, she recalled the cold look on Enid’s face but told herself it didn’t matter. The aunt was ancient. How much trouble could an old lady be?
7
“James, what is wrong with you?” Mindy asked the next morning.
“I don’t think I’m suited for fame,” James said. “I can’t even figure out what to wear.”
Mindy rolled over in the bed and looked at the clock. It was just after six A. M. I am depressed, she thought. “Could you be a little quieter?” she said. “I’m tired.”
“It’s not my fault.”
“Do you have to rattle the hangers so loudly? Can’t you try on clothes silently?”
“Why don’t you get up and help me?”
“You’re a grown man, James. You ought to be able to figure out what to wear.”
“Fine. I’ll wear what I always wear. Jeans and a T-shirt.”
“You could try a suit,” Mindy said.
“Haven’t seen that suit in three months. The dry cleaners probably lost it,” James said in a slightly accusatory tone, as if this might be her fault.
“Please, James. Stop. It’s only a stupid picture.”
“It’s my publicity photograph.”
“Why are they doing it so early?”
“I told you. Some famous fashion photographer is taking the picture. He’s only available from nine to eleven.”
“Jesus. I could have taken your picture. With my cell phone. Oh, please,” Mindy said. “Can’t you be quiet? If I don’t sleep, I’m going to go insane.”
If you haven’t already, James thought, gathering up a pile of clothes and leaving the room in a huff. It was his big day. Why did Mindy have to make everything about her?
He took the pile into his office and dropped the clothes on a chair. Viewed from this angle, his clothing looked like something you’d find in the cart of a homeless person. The publicist in Redmon’s office, who possessed the improbable moniker of Cherry, had instructed him to bring three choices. Three shirts, three pairs of pants, a jacket or two, and a couple pairs of shoes. “But I mostly wear sneakers. Converse,” James had said. “Do your best,” Cherry had replied. “The photograph should be a reflection of you.”
Great, James thought. It’ll be a photograph of a balding, middle-aged man. He went into the bathroom and studied his appearance. Perhaps he should have shaved his head. But then he’d look like every other middle-aged guy who was balding and trying to cover it up. Besides, he didn’t believe he had the face for the no-hair look. His features were irregular; his nose appeared as if it might have been broken once and healed badly, but it was only the Gooch nose, passed down through generations of ordinary hardship. He wished he looked like someone specific, though; he would have been happy with the brooding, hooded look of an artist. He narrowed his eyes and turned down his mouth, but this only made him appear to be making a face. Resigned to his visage, James shoved as many clothes as he could into one of Mindy’s carefully folded shopping bags from Barneys and went out into the lobby.
It was raining. Hard. From the little windows in the back of his apartment, it was difficult to gauge the weather, so that one might arrive outside