One Fifth Avenue - Candace Bushnell [98]
“You know,” Lola said. “Movies for regular people.”
“Vat is regular people?” the director asked, insulted. “I think my tastes are too sophisticated for a young lady such as yourself.”
The old man hadn’t meant to be insulting, but it had come out that way. And Lola took the bait.
“What’s that mean?” she’d said. “I thought art was for the people. If the people can’t understand it, what’s the point?”
“This is zee problem with America,” the director said. He’d lifted his glass of wine to his mouth, his hand shaking so violently he spilled half the glass. “Too much democracy,” he exclaimed. “It’s zee death of art.”
For the rest of the evening, everyone ignored Lola.
In the taxi on the way back to One Fifth, Lola was fuming, staring out the window and playing with her hair.
“What’s wrong now?” Philip had asked.
“No one paid any attention to me.”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“I was ignored, Philip. Why should I be there if I’m going to be ignored?”
“You wouldn’t have been ignored if you hadn’t made that stupid remark about his films.”
“He’s an insignificant old man. Who cares about him and his movies? Oh, excuse me,” she added with vehemence, “his films.”
“He’s a genius, Lola. He’s allowed his idiosyncracies. And he’s earned his respect. You need to learn to honor that.”
“Are you criticizing me?” she said warningly.
“I’m pointing out that you could stand to learn a thing or two about life.”
“Listen, Philip,” she’d said. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t put anybody above me. I don’t care what they’ve accomplished. I’m as good as anyone. Even if they have won two Academy Awards. Do you really think that makes a person better than other people?”
“Yes, Lola, I do,” he said.
They went into the building in stony silence. It was yet another spat that ended in sex. She seemed to have a sixth sense about when he might be angry with her, and she always managed to divert his attention with some new sexual trick. That evening, she came out of the bathroom in crotchless panties, showing off the Brazilian wax she’d had that afternoon, as a “special treat” for him. He was helpless in the face of such sexual temptation, and the next morning, they went on as before.
Now, as he shook his head about Lola while the stylist brushed the clipped hair from his shoulders, who should walk by the plate-glass window but James Gooch. Was Philip always going to run into James Gooch now, too? he wondered. How had this happened? They’d lived in the same building for years and had managed to coexist peacefully, without the acknowledgment of each other’s presence, and all of a sudden, ever since that afternoon at Paul Smith, he ran into James nearly every other day. He did not wish to increase his acquaintance with James, but it was probably inevitable, as James struck him as one of those men who, knowing he is not wanted, only becomes more insistent on pushing his way in. Sure enough, James spotted him through the selection of wigs in the shop window and, with a look of surprise, came into the salon.
“How are you?” he asked eagerly.
Philip nodded, trying not to speak. If he spoke, it was all over.
“I didn’t know they cut men’s hair here,” James said, taking in the purple velvet chairs and the fringed wall hangings.
“Been doing it forever,” Philip murmured.
“It’s so close to the building. Maybe I should start coming here. I still go to a guy on the Upper West Side.”
Philip politely inclined his head.
“We used to live up there,” James said. “I tell everyone my wife rescued me from my studio apartment and loft bed. If it weren’t for her, I’d probably still be there.”
“I hope not.” Philip stood up.
“What about you?” James asked. “Have you always lived downtown?”
“I’ve always lived in One Fifth,” Philip said. “I grew up there.”
“Nice,” James said, nodding. “What do you think about the Rices, by the way? Guy seems like an asshole to me. He hassles my wife, and then he’s putting in a two-thousand-gallon aquarium.”
“I’ve learned