One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [80]
He stepped out of the dressing room and ran into Philip Oakland. James’s confidence dispersed like a mist. He did not belong in this store, he thought in panic. Even a store was about a tribe, and he was not part of this tribe; Philip Oakland was sure to sense this. James often saw Philip in the lobby or on the streets around One Fifth. Philip never acknowledged him, but perhaps he’d have to in this store, wearing this jacket, the kind of jacket Philip himself might own. Indeed, Philip Oakland looked up from a pile of sweaters and, as if they were casual friends, said, “Hey.”
“Hey,” James said.
That might have been the end of it if it weren’t for the girl, the beautiful girl who was with Philip and whom James had seen around the building, coming in and out at odd hours during the day. He’d always wondered who she was and what she was doing in One Fifth, but now it made sense: She was Philip’s girlfriend.
She spoke, startling James. “That looks good,” she said to him.
“Really?” James said, staring at the girl. She had the unassailable confidence that comes from having been pretty her whole life.
“I know everything about clothes,” she said boldly. “My friends are always saying I should have been a stylist.”
“Lola, please,” Philip said.
“It’s true,” Lola said, turning to Philip. “You look so much better since I started helping you with your clothes.”
Philip shrugged and rolled his eyes at James, as if to say, “Women.”
James took the opportunity to introduce himself. “I’ve seen you before,” Lola said. “Yes,” James said. “I live in One Fifth, too. I’m a writer.”
“Everyone’s a writer in One Fifth,” she said with a dismissive arrogance that made James laugh.
“We should be going,” Philip said.
“But we didn’t buy anything,” she protested.
“‘We,’” Philip said to James. “Notice that? Why is shopping with women always a group sport?”
“I don’t know,” James said. He glanced over at Lola, wondering how one managed to get a girl like that. She was saucy. He liked the way she stood up to the great Philip Oakland and wondered how Philip felt about it.
“Men never know what to buy on their own,” she replied. “My mother let my father go shopping once, and he came back with an acrylic striped sweater. She said, ‘Never again.’ What do you write?” she asked James, not missing a beat.
“Novels,” James said. “I have a book coming out in February.” He was pleased to be able to deliver this information in front of Philip. Take that, he thought.
“We have the same publisher,” Philip said, perhaps, James thought, finally figuring out who he was. “What’s your print run?”
“Don’t know,” James said. “But we’ve got two hundred thousand copies going out to iStores in the first week.”
Philip looked suitably bothered. “Interesting,” he said.
“It is,” James said. “I’m told it’s the future of publishing.”
Lola was suddenly bored. “If we’re not buying anything here, can we please go to Prada?”
“Sure,” Philip said. “See you around,” he said to James.
“Right,” James said.
As they walked away, Lola turned back to James. “You should buy that jacket. It looks great.”
“I will,” James said.
James paid for the jacket. As the salesman was putting it into a garment bag, James had an inspiration. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’m going to wear it home.”
That afternoon, Norine Norton, the stylist, came to Annalisa’s apartment for their third appointment. Norine, with her hair extensions and her subtle facial work and seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of the latest bag, shoe, designer, fortune-teller, trainer, and cosmetic procedure, made Annalisa uncomfortable. Her nickname, she informed Annalisa during their first meeting, was “the Energizer Bunny”—an energy that, Annalisa suspected, might be drug-induced. Norine never stopped talking; no matter how often Annalisa tried to remind herself that Norine was a woman, an actual human being, Norine always managed to convince her otherwise.
“I have something