One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [61]
“I’m okay,” James said. He did need a taxi, but he never allowed the doormen to get him one. He knew how the doormen felt about Mindy’s tipping, and he felt guilty asking them to perform the normal duties they did for other, better-tipping residents. If he made money from his book, he thought, he’d be sure to give them extra this year.
The elevator door opened, and Schiffer Diamond came out. James suddenly felt excited and diminished. She had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing a shiny green trench coat and jeans and low-heeled black boots. She didn’t necessarily look like a movie star, James thought, but she somehow looked better than a regular person, so that no matter where she went, people would think, This woman is someone, and they would look at her curiously. James didn’t know how a person could stand that, always being looked at. But they must get used to it. Wasn’t that the reason, after all, that people became actors in the first place—to be gaped at?
“Bad weather, eh, Fritz?” Schiffer said.
“It’s only going to get worse.”
James stepped outside and stood under the awning. He looked up the street. Nothing. No taxis at all.
Schiffer Diamond came out behind him. “Where are you going?” she asked.
James jumped. “Chelsea?” he asked.
“Me, too. Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t be silly. The car’s free. And it’s pouring.” Fritz came out and opened the door. Schiffer Diamond slid across the backseat.
James looked at Fritz. What the hell, he thought, and got in.
“Two stops,” she said to the driver. “Where are you going?” She turned to James.
“I, uh, don’t know exactly.” He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the slip of paper on which he’d written the address. “Industria Super Studios?”
“I’m going to the same place,” she said. “One stop, then,” she informed the driver. She reached into her bag and pulled out an iPhone. James sat stiffly beside her; luckily, there was a console between them so it wasn’t as uncomfortable as it might have been. Outside, the rain was coming down in buckets, and there was a rumble of thunder. This is nice, James thought. Imagine never having to worry about getting a taxi. Or taking the subway.
“Horrible weather, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s so wet for August. I don’t remember it being this rainy in the summer. I remember ninety-degree heat. And snow at Christmas.”
“Really?” James said. “It doesn’t usually snow until January now.”
“I guess I have a romantic memory of New York.”
“We haven’t had snow in years,” James said. “Global warming.” I sound like a putz, he thought.
She smiled at him, and James wondered if she was one of those actresses who seduced every man. He remembered a story about a journalist friend, a real regular guy, who had been seduced by a famous movie star during an interview.
“You’re Mindy Gooch’s husband, right?” she asked.
“James,” he said. She clearly wasn’t going to introduce herself, knowing, obviously, there was no need.
She nodded. “Your wife is…”
“The head of the board. For the building.”
“She writes that blog,” Schiffer said.
“Do you read it?”
“It’s very touching,” Schiffer said.
“Really?” James rubbed his chin in annoyance. Even here, in an SUV with a movie star going to a photo shoot, it was still about his wife. “I try not to read it,” he said primly.
“Ah.” Schiffer nodded. James had no idea what the nod meant, and for a few blocks, they rode in stiff silence. Then Schiffer brought the topic back to his wife. “She wasn