building, every floor and every apartment were the same. There were four apartments per floor, and each apartment was a one-bedroom of approximately six hundred square feet. Billy liked to joke that it was O N E F I F T H AV E N U E
67
an early-retirement home for spinsters such as himself. His apartment was comfortably cluttered, furnished with the castoffs of wealthy ladies.
For the past ten years, he’d been telling himself that he would redecorate and find himself a lover, but he never seemed to be able to get around to either, and time passed and it mattered less and less. Billy had had no visitors for years.
He began opening his mail as a matter of course. There were several invitations and a couple of glossy magazines, a bill for his MasterCard, and a legal-size envelope that was hand-addressed, which Billy put aside.
He picked out the most promising invitation, and instantly recognizing the heavy cream stationery, turned it over. The address on the back was One Fifth Avenue. The stationery came from Mrs. Strong’s, and there was only one person he knew who still used it—Mrs. Louise Houghton. He opened the envelope and extracted a card on which was printed PRIVATE
MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR MRS. LOUISE HOUGHTON, ST. AMBROSE CHURCH, with the date, Wednesday, July 12, written in calligraphy below. It was so Louise, Billy thought, to have planned out her memorial service in advance, down to the guest list.
He put the card in a place of honor on the narrow mantelpiece above the small fireplace. Then he sat down to the rest of his mail. Picking up the legal-size envelope, he saw that the return address was that of his building’s management company. With growing dread, Billy opened it.
“We’re happy to inform you . . . a deal has been closed . . . building will go co-op as of July 1, 2009 . . . you may purchase your apartment for market value . . . those not purchasing their apartments will be expected to vacate by the closing date . . .” A dull throb started up in his jaw. Where would he go? The market value of his apartment was at least eight hundred thousand dollars. He’d need two or three hundred thousand as a down payment, and then he’d have a mortgage payment and a maintenance fee. It would add up to several thousand a month. He paid only eleven hundred dollars a month in rent. The thought of finding another apartment and packing up and moving overwhelmed him. He was fifty-four. Not old, he reminded himself, but old enough to no longer have the energy for such things.
He went into the bathroom and, opening his medicine cabinet, took three antidepressants instead of his usual dose of two. Then he got into 68
Candace Bushnell
the tub, letting the water fill up around him. I can’t move, he thought.
I’m too tired. I’ll have to figure out how to get the money to buy the apartment instead.
Later that evening, clean and in a better frame of mind, Billy called the Waldorf-Astoria, asking for the Rices’ room. Annalisa answered on the third ring. “Hello?” she said curiously.
“Annalisa? It’s Billy Litchfield. From this weekend.”
“Oh, Billy. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering,” Billy said. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘A lady should appear in the newspapers only three times in her life—her birth, her marriage, and her death’?”
“Is that true?”
“It was true a hundred years ago.”
“Wow,” Annalisa said.
“Well, I was wondering,” Billy said. “Would you like to go to a funeral with me on Wednesday?”
ı
On Monday afternoon, back in her office after having spent the weekend with her family at Redmon and Catherine Richardly’s house in the Hamptons, Mindy opened a new file on her computer. Like most jobs in the so-called creative glamour business, her work had become increasingly less creative and less glamorous and more organizational; a significant portion of her day was devoted to being kept in the loop or keeping
67
an early-retirement home for spinsters such as himself. His apartment was comfortably cluttered, furnished with the castoffs of wealthy ladies.
For the past ten years, he’d been telling himself that he would redecorate and find himself a lover, but he never seemed to be able to get around to either, and time passed and it mattered less and less. Billy had had no visitors for years.
He began opening his mail as a matter of course. There were several invitations and a couple of glossy magazines, a bill for his MasterCard, and a legal-size envelope that was hand-addressed, which Billy put aside.
He picked out the most promising invitation, and instantly recognizing the heavy cream stationery, turned it over. The address on the back was One Fifth Avenue. The stationery came from Mrs. Strong’s, and there was only one person he knew who still used it—Mrs. Louise Houghton. He opened the envelope and extracted a card on which was printed PRIVATE
MEMORIAL SERVICE FOR MRS. LOUISE HOUGHTON, ST. AMBROSE CHURCH, with the date, Wednesday, July 12, written in calligraphy below. It was so Louise, Billy thought, to have planned out her memorial service in advance, down to the guest list.
He put the card in a place of honor on the narrow mantelpiece above the small fireplace. Then he sat down to the rest of his mail. Picking up the legal-size envelope, he saw that the return address was that of his building’s management company. With growing dread, Billy opened it.
“We’re happy to inform you . . . a deal has been closed . . . building will go co-op as of July 1, 2009 . . . you may purchase your apartment for market value . . . those not purchasing their apartments will be expected to vacate by the closing date . . .” A dull throb started up in his jaw. Where would he go? The market value of his apartment was at least eight hundred thousand dollars. He’d need two or three hundred thousand as a down payment, and then he’d have a mortgage payment and a maintenance fee. It would add up to several thousand a month. He paid only eleven hundred dollars a month in rent. The thought of finding another apartment and packing up and moving overwhelmed him. He was fifty-four. Not old, he reminded himself, but old enough to no longer have the energy for such things.
He went into the bathroom and, opening his medicine cabinet, took three antidepressants instead of his usual dose of two. Then he got into 68
Candace Bushnell
the tub, letting the water fill up around him. I can’t move, he thought.
I’m too tired. I’ll have to figure out how to get the money to buy the apartment instead.
Later that evening, clean and in a better frame of mind, Billy called the Waldorf-Astoria, asking for the Rices’ room. Annalisa answered on the third ring. “Hello?” she said curiously.
“Annalisa? It’s Billy Litchfield. From this weekend.”
“Oh, Billy. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering,” Billy said. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘A lady should appear in the newspapers only three times in her life—her birth, her marriage, and her death’?”
“Is that true?”
“It was true a hundred years ago.”
“Wow,” Annalisa said.
“Well, I was wondering,” Billy said. “Would you like to go to a funeral with me on Wednesday?”
ı
On Monday afternoon, back in her office after having spent the weekend with her family at Redmon and Catherine Richardly’s house in the Hamptons, Mindy opened a new file on her computer. Like most jobs in the so-called creative glamour business, her work had become increasingly less creative and less glamorous and more organizational; a significant portion of her day was devoted to being kept in the loop or keeping
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