One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [86]
“Hardly.”
“Thayer’s juggling three or four girls right now. I can’t keep track of them, and neither can he.” Josh knocked at a flimsy wooden door in the middle of a makeshift plywood wall. “Thay?”
“What the fuck?” came a voice from inside.
“Thayer’s a serious writer,” Josh said. “He’s probably working.”
“I’m going to go,” Lola said.
Suddenly, the door opened and Thayer Core came out. He was taller than Lola remembered, at least six-two, and was wearing madras pants, flip-flops, and a ripped pink Lacoste shirt. Ironic preppy, Lola thought.
“Hey,” Thayer said.
“Hey,” Lola replied.
“I was telling Lola that you’re a writer. He’s a real writer,” Josh said, turning to Lola.
“Meaning?”
“I get paid to write shit,” Thayer said, and grinned.
“He’s published,” Josh said.
“You wrote a book?” Lola asked.
“Josh is an idiot.”
“He’s a writer for Snarker,” Josh said proudly.
“Give me your stuff, Josh,” Thayer said.
Josh looked annoyed. “There’s hardly anything left.”
“So? Give it to me. I’ll get more later.”
“That’s what you said last night.”
“Give me a break. I had that obscene cocktail party at Cartier, where they wouldn’t let us in. Then some art party at the Whitney, where they wouldn’t let us in, either. Then the Box. Which was groovy. Full of hipsters. But no pot. Only coke. Dammit, Josh, come on. I need your stash.”
Josh reluctantly reached into his pocket and handed over a small bag of marijuana.
“You carry it with you? You’re such a skive,” Thayer said.
“I never know when I might need it.”
“Like now,” Thayer said.
“I’m going,” Lola said.
“Why?” Thayer asked. “I thought you wanted to hang out. You have someplace better to go? This is the best spot in Manhattan. Center of the universe here. Going to destroy Manhattan from this tiny rat-infested three-thousand-dollar-a-month shithole.”
“That’s nice,” Lola said.
Thayer handed her the bong, and she took a hit. She hadn’t meant to smoke marijuana, but it was there and she was there and she thought, Why not? Plus, Thayer irritated her in an intriguing sort of way. He didn’t seem to understand she was superior to him.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Thayer said.
“I’m pissed at him.”
“You see, Josh?” Thayer said. “All roads lead to me.”
Lola’s phone rang. She looked at the number. It was Philip. She hit ignore.
“Who was that?” Thayer asked.
“None of your business.”
Thayer took a hit from the bong. “Bet it was the boyfriend,” he said to Josh. “Bet he’s some boring premed student from the South.”
“He isn’t,” Lola said proudly. “He’s famous.”
“Oooooh, Joshie boy. Did you hear that? He’s famous. Nothing but the best for our Southern princess. Would I know him?” Thayer asked Lola.
“Of course,” she said. “Philip Oakland? The novelist?”
“That guy?” Thayer said. “Baby, he’s old.”
“Got to be over forty, at least,” Josh agreed.
“He’s a man,” Lola said.
“You hear that, Josh? He’s a man. And we’re not.”
“You’re certainly not,” Lola said to Thayer.
“What am I?”
“An asshole?” Lola said.
Thayer laughed. “Didn’t used to be,” he said. “Until I came here. Until I got into this stinking, corrupt business called media.”
“You still have your book,” Josh said. “Thayer’s going to be a great writer.”
“I doubt it,” Lola said.
“I like that you’re sleeping your way to the top,” Thayer said. “I’d do it if I could. But I don’t relish the thought of a dick up my ass.”
“It’s the metaphorical dick that counts,” Josh said.
“What do you talk to Oakland about?” Thayer asked. “He’s an old man.”
“What does any girl talk to you about?” Josh said. “I thought talking wasn’t the point.”
“As if you’d know,” Thayer said, looking at Josh in disgust.
It went on like this for a while, and then some other people showed up. One was a girl with very pale skin and dyed black hair and a face that resembled a pug’s. “I hate beauty queens,” she screamed when she saw Lola.
“Shut up, Emily. Lola’s okay,” Thayer said.
More time passed. Thayer played seventies music, and they drank the vodka and danced in weird ways, and Josh filmed it on his cell phone. Then two guys and a girl came in. They were