One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [84]
“In that case,” Paul said, taking a step closer, “it’s war.”
Mindy gasped involuntarily. She knew she should have sent the Rices the official letter denying the air conditioners weeks ago, when they’d first presented their plans for the renovation, but she’d liked having an excuse to talk about something with Paul when she ran into him in the lobby. But this was not how the game was supposed to play out. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Are you threatening me?”
“I never threaten anyone, Mrs. Gooch,” Paul said, emotionless. “I merely state the facts. If you don’t approve my air conditioners, it’s war. And I will win.”
10
“Look,” Enid Merle said the next afternoon. “Schiffer Diamond’s new TV series premiered with a two point oh share. And four million viewers.”
“Is that good?” Philip asked.
“It’s the highest cable opening in history.”
“Oh, Nini,” Philip said. “Why do you pay attention to these things?”
“Why don’t you?” Enid asked. “Anyway, it’s a hit.”
“I’ve read the reviews,” Philip said. SCHIFFER DIAMOND SHINES, declared one. DIAMOND IS FOREVER, gushed another.
“Schiffer is a star,” Enid said. “She always was, and she always will be.” She put down Variety. “I do wish…”
“No, Nini,” Philip said firmly, knowing what she was getting at. “It’s not going to happen.”
“But Schiffer is so…”
“Wonderful?” Philip said with an edge of sarcasm. Enid looked hurt. “I know you adore her,” Philip said. “But it’s impossible to be with an actress. You know that.”
“But you’ve both grown up,” Enid countered. “And I’d hate to see you—”
“End up with Lola?” Philip said. It could happen. Lola was crazy about him. “I wish you’d try to get to know her a little better. It would mean a lot to me.”
“We’ll see,” Enid said.
Philip went back to his apartment. Lola was curled up on the couch, watching TV. “Where were you?” she asked.
“Visiting my aunt.”
“But you just saw her yesterday.”
Philip felt snappish. “You call your mother every day.”
“But she’s my mother.”
Philip went into his office and closed the door. After a couple of minutes, he got up from his desk, opened the door, and stuck his head out. “Lola,” he said. “Can you please turn down that damn TV?”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to work,” he said.
“So?” She yawned.
“I’ve got a rewrite due in four days. If I don’t get it finished, we don’t start shooting on time.”
“What’s the problem?” she asked. “They’ll wait. You’re Philip Oakland. They have to wait.”
“No, they do not,” Philip said. “It’s called a contract, Lola. It’s called being an adult and honoring your commitments. It’s called people are counting on you to produce.”
“Then write,” she said. “What’s stopping you?”
“You are,” he said.
“All I’m doing is sitting here. Watching TV.”
“That’s the point. I can’t concentrate with the TV on.”
“Why should I have to stop doing what I want to do so you can do what you want to do?”
“What I have to do.”
“If you don’t want to do it, if it doesn’t make you happy, then don’t do it,” Lola said.
“I need you to turn off the TV. Or at least turn it down.”
“Why are you criticizing me?”
Philip gave up. He closed the door. Opened it again. “You need to do some work, too,” he said. “Why don’t you go to the library?”
“Because I just got a manicure. And a pedicure.” She held up a foot and wiggled her toes for his inspection. “Isn’t it pretty?” she asked in her baby-girl voice.
Philip went back to his desk. The noise from the TV continued unabated. He put his hands in his hair. How the fuck had this happened? She’d taken over his apartment, his life, his concentration. His bathroom was littered with makeup. She never put the cap back on the toothpaste. Or bought toilet paper. When the toilet paper ran out, she used paper towels. And stared at him accusingly, as if he had fallen down on the job of making her life easy. Every one of her days was a never-ending orgy of pampering. There were hairstyling appointments and massages and exercise classes in obscure Asian martial arts. It was, she explained, all in preparation for some great, future, unnamed,