One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [81]
“The golf outfit?” Julee asked. She was a frail girl with spindly blond hair and the fearful eyes of a rabbit.
“Yes,” Norine said with faux patience. With her assistant, Norine appeared to be on the edge of snapping at any moment. But when she turned back to Annalisa, it was with all the solicitude of a merchant presenting his wares to a grand lady.
Julee held up a clear plastic hanger from which hung a tiny gold top and matching miniskirt.
Annalisa regarded the garment with dismay. “I don’t think Paul will like that.”
“Listen, sweetie,” Norine said. She sat down on the edge of the four-poster bed with the pleated silk canopy that had recently arrived from France, and patted the place next to her. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” Annalisa asked. She didn’t want to sit next to Norine; nor did she want one of Norine’s lectures. So far, she had forced herself to tolerate them, but she wasn’t in the mood today.
Annalisa looked from Norine to Julee, who was still standing there, holding up the hanger like one of those girls on a game show. Her arm had to be tired. Annalisa felt bad for her. “Fine,” she said, and went into the bathroom to try it on.
“You’re so shy,” Norine called after her.
“Huh?” Annalisa said, poking her head out the door.
“You’re so shy. Changing in the bathroom. You should change in here so I can help you,” Norine said. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Right,” Annalisa said and shut the door. She turned to look at herself in the mirror and grimaced. How the hell had she gotten herself into this situation? It had sounded like such a good idea at first, hiring a stylist. Billy said everybody did it these days, meaning everyone with money or status who had to go out and be photographed. It was the only way, Billy said, to get the best clothes. But this was out of control. Norine was always calling or sending e-mail attachments of the clothes, accessories, and jewelry she photographed while shopping or visiting designer showrooms. Annalisa had had no idea there were so many lines. Not just spring and fall but resort, cruise, summer, and Christmas. Each season required its own look, and getting the look required as much planning as a military coup. Clothing had to be chosen and ordered months in advance, otherwise it would be gone.
Annalisa held the gold lamé up to her chin. No, she thought. This has gone too far.
But perhaps everything had gone too far. Despite the progress she’d made on the apartment, Paul was unhappy. The lottery had been held for the parking space in the Mews, and Paul hadn’t won. Coupled with this disappointing news was a letter from Mindy Gooch, officially informing them that their request for through-the-wall air-conditioning units had been denied.
“We’ll make it work without them,” Annalisa had said, trying to soothe him.
“I can’t.”
“We have to.”
Paul glared at her. “It’s a conspiracy,” he insisted. “It’s because we have money and they don’t.”
“Mrs. Houghton had money,” Annalisa said, trying to reason with him. “And she lived here without any trouble for years.”
“She was one of them,” Paul countered. “And we’re not.”
“Paul,” she said patiently. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m making real money now,” he said. “And I expect to be treated with a certain amount of respect.”
“I thought you were making real money six months ago,” she said, attempting to lighten the situation.
“Forty million isn’t real money. A hundred million is getting there.”
Annalisa felt queasy. She knew Paul was making a lot of money and planned to make more. But somehow it had never hit her that it was going to become a reality. “That’s insane, Paul,” she protested. But it also excited her, the way looking at dirty pictures excited you even though you didn’t want to feel turned on and felt guilty about the excitement. Perhaps too much money was like too much sex. It crossed the line and became pornographic.
“Come on, Annalisa. Open the door. Let me see you,” Norine said.