The Apartment (12 page)

In October, when Morgan was going over research for a presentation, she asked for some files from accounting, and realized within a few minutes that they'd given her the wrong ones. She called them to have them send her the right ones, and something caught her eye on the balance sheets while she waited for them to pick them up. There had been a transfer of a hundred thousand dollars, and a withdrawal of twenty thousand that didn't look right to her. The money didn't belong in that account. She could see that a week later there had been an unexplained deposit of the twenty, and the hundred thousand had been moved back again, into the right account. It didn't make sense to her. She wondered if it had been an error in accounting that they had corrected. All the numbers looked right at the end, but there had been some moving and shifting that she couldn't explain. She thought about telling George about it, but since the money had all ended up in the right place, it didn't really matter. But it seemed odd to her. A lot of money came in and out of their office for clients, and she knew George had a remarkable head for numbers and a keen radar, and he kept a close eye on their books. It was important to do that in a firm like theirs, so maybe he knew about it, and had demanded the correction. It wasn't really worrisome since no funds were missing, but she couldn't explain it to herself. Just to be sure, if the subject came up later, she xeroxed the file before they came to pick it up, and she put the xeroxed pages in a locked drawer in her desk. And then she got to work on the research she had to do for the next day.

The error in accounting slipped her mind entirely after that. They had a number of new clients, and she had a lot of work to do.

She had noticed what good spirits George was in since he'd started seeing Claire, and he didn't say anything to Morgan, but he looked like a man in love. She had never seen him as happy or as relaxed, and Claire was like a field of flowers in spring. She had even stopped complaining about her boss.

And Sasha was happy too. She was busy, content, and at peace, and she and Alex were having fun. They laughed a lot whenever he came to the apartment, and they had dinner at Max's restaurant at least once a week. And Alex and Max were cooking dinner together now on Sunday nights at the loft. Max was still the master chef, and Alex was the sous chef, anxious to learn new tricks from him. Alex fit in perfectly to their self-made family, and the others hoped that he'd stick. It was too soon to tell.

The only one who clearly wasn't happy, and seemed downright miserable, was Abby. Ivan was torturing her, and there were even more excuses than before about why he wasn't around, or was out of range. He was sick, he had a migraine, he had put his back out moving scenery, he had to meet with backers or his accountant, he was reading new plays, he was exhausted from reading new plays, his cell battery had died, and he lost the phone itself once or twice a week, or there was no cell service wherever he'd been. He was like chasing quicksilver across the floor. Abby was constantly looking for him, and listening to his excuses when he turned up. And Daphne was around increasingly, while he claimed he was trying to teach her the business. And her father was supposedly eluding Ivan, and constantly traveling for business, so they hadn't met yet. And their bank account was nearly empty. Their financial situation was desperate.

And at the theater, while Abby continued to paint scenery and clean up, Daphne was constantly underfoot, but Ivan didn't want her to help. He told Abby she had asthma, and it would be bad for her health, and her father would be pissed. So Abby remained the slave, doing everything for him, and Daphne was the new fairy princess. Abby was trying to be patient about it, but her nerves were frayed. And he was either too sick, too tired, or too busy to come to the apartment to be with her, or he hadn't slept in days, and didn't want her spending the night at his place. It had become ridiculous, and even Abby knew it. But Ivan wouldn't 'fess up about what was going on. Abby was tired of his excuses. He was beginning to seem like the liar he was.

And when Abby asked Daphne about her father one afternoon, to be polite, and where he was traveling these days, Daphne looked at her blankly, and with a wistful expression said he had died two years before. The jig was up. Abby said nothing to her, but she was waiting for Ivan at the theater when he got there that night. He had a meeting in his office with Daphne that lasted for nearly an hour, and when she slipped out of his office looking flushed and sweaty, Abby quietly went in. She was not going to be put off anymore. It had gone on for too long, and he had played her for a fool.

He was adjusting his belt when she walked in, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what they'd been doing. She tried not to think of it when she confronted him. She could feel tears choking her throat.

“Where were you this afternoon?” And then she baited him. “Were you with Daphne's father, discussing the angel money with him?”

“Yes, I was.” Ivan looked serious and dignified as he faced her and stared her straight in the eye. “He wants to give it some more thought.”

“That must have been a difficult meeting for you,” she said sympathetically. Her hands were shaking, but he couldn't see them.

“And why is that? He's a very nice man, and grateful for what we're doing for his daughter.” She nodded and went on after Ivan spoke.

“Were you at a séance?” she asked in a solemn voice.

“Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“Because he's been dead for two years. You should have checked with Daphne before you lied about her father. You seem a little foolish after that. And actually, more than foolish, you look like a shit, because you are one. You're having an affair with her, and I know it.” He interrupted her, and he was pale.

“Did she tell you that too?” He was panicked.

“No, you just did. I figured it out the first time she walked into the theater, and you told her the same lies you told me three years ago about producing my play. And you're never going to produce hers either. Why bother to keep me around once you had her? Just to clean the floors and paint the scenery? Why lie to me about where you are, who you're with, your migraines, your back, your lost cell phone, and all of it? You know what? I don't care. I don't care who you're screwing or who you're lying to. I've closed my eyes and my ears and my mind for three years because I loved you and I believed you. I don't love you or believe you anymore, and one day she won't either, and you can find another young blonde to give you blow jobs in your office and screw you. You're pathetic. You really are what everyone says about you, you're a pathetic, arrogant dick. And I am through with you. Take Daphne, take her play, and all your lies and bullshit, and you know where you can put them. I hope she won't be as stupid as I was. And good luck getting the money out of her dead father because he's so grateful to you. Fuck you, Ivan Jones,” she said clearly, yanked open the door to his office, walked out, and slammed it behind her. She hadn't felt this good in months. And as she walked across the stage to leave the theater, she saw Daphne standing in the wings.

“ 'Bye, Daphne,” Abby said as she strode past her.

“Are you leaving?” Daphne looked surprised.

“Yes, I am.”

“Who's going to clean the theater before the performance tonight?” She seemed worried as Abby smiled at her.

“You are. This place isn't just fun and blow jobs, you know. You have to work too. Have a good time.”

Ivan had walked out of his office by then, and was staring at her, unable to believe what she had said. He actually thought he could keep both of them on the hook. Abby realized now that she must have been out of her mind to love him and believe what he said.

“You can't leave,” he said to her weakly, acting as though he'd been mortally wounded.

“Yes, I can.”

“You'll turn into a sellout like your parents, and write crap for the rest of your life,” he said ominously.

“Maybe I will,” she said with rage in her eyes, “but I won't be a starving bullshitter when I'm forty-six, having other people do all the work. Grow up, Ivan, get a job. You're out of money, and you just ran out of slaves.” Daphne was looking nervous at what she had just heard, and she was staring at Ivan with apprehension.

“I'm not going to clean the theater,” she told him, as Abby picked up her bag and left. “You told me you'd produce my play.” Daphne was nearly in tears, and Abby slammed the door to the theater as she left.

“You have to,” Ivan said to Daphne, sounding stern.

“Fuck you,” Daphne said, and followed the trail Abby had just blazed, and as Daphne left right behind her, she had just saved herself years of pain.

Abby was walking back to the apartment by then, at a rapid pace, with adrenaline pumping in her veins. There were tears running down her face, but she didn't know it and wouldn't have cared. When Daphne came on the scene, it made her realize she'd never had him, he had just used her, and he wasn't worth having anyway. She had been a total fool.

She flew up the stairs on Thirty-ninth Street to the loft, and the others were all at home when she walked in. She looked like a madwoman with her hair flying and tear-stained face.

“What happened?” Sasha asked her immediately, worried about her.

“I just told Ivan to go fuck himself.” There was a look of astonishment on her face as she told them. “I finally realized he was cheating on me with Daphne, and I finally couldn't stand the lies and excuses anymore. He lied about everything. I'm done.” A cheer went up in the room as she said it, and they all hugged her. She knew she'd be sad that night, when she thought about it, and remembered the good times, whatever they were, but she was twenty-nine years old and couldn't let guys like him use her anymore. She had to start over, she had to do it right next time, and she had to work with people who kept their word.

Abby had also been writing a lot lately, and had gone back to work on her novel. She had begun to realize that the experimental style she had adopted for him was stifling her own voice. She was not going to let Ivan kill her career by turning her into a puppet for his own use. All she wanted was to get back to work, follow her own path, and try to forget his. In every possible way, personally and professionally, she had wasted three years.

“How could I have been so stupid?” she said to her three best friends as she sat down on the couch and looked at them. “You tried to tell me, and I didn't believe you. I wanted what he said to be true.”

“He's a clever guy,” Morgan said sensibly. And the name Rasputin hadn't been so far off the mark. “He plays on the naïve and gullible, and women who fall in love with him. It's all smoke and mirrors, like the Wizard of Oz.”

“And I was the idiot in red shoes. What am I going to tell my parents? I threw three years of my life away.” It was all coming clear to her, and it was horrifying, but at least she finally saw the truth.

“They probably knew, and they were waiting for you to wake up. They'll be happy you did,” Claire said gently, and put her arms around Abby and gave her a hug.

“I think Daphne walked out too. I saw her leave the theater after I did. But there will always be another Abby or Daphne, willing to believe him and become his slave.”

“Sooner or later he'll run out of slaves. He already has. He's a lot less convincing and appealing at forty-six than he was even at forty-three, when you found him,” Morgan added.

The four of them had dinner together that night, and talked about it. It was like having three sisters who were there for her when it counted. She was going to call her parents and tell them too, but not yet. They all drank a lot of wine that night and went to bed early. Abby didn't know what she was going to do now. She was going home for Thanksgiving in a month, as she always did, and she was planning to do a lot of writing on her novel before that. She needed to get her own voice back, and get him out of her head.

She cried as she lay in bed that night, but she was tired and drunk and ashamed. Things could only get better after that.

Abby waited a few days before she called her mother and told her what had happened. Joan Williams wasn't angry at her—she was relieved.

“We knew he wasn't right, but you had to see it for yourself,” she said gently.

“I wish I hadn't taken so long. Three years. What a waste of time,” Abby lamented.

“I'm sure you got something out of it, and it will come out in your writing,” her mother said confidently. She had faith in her daughter, her talent and fine mind. Ivan couldn't take that from her. And much to her amazement, she found that her mother was right. With the pure rage that was spewing out of her for Ivan, her writing was stronger, clearer, and more honest than it had ever been. Her anger fueled her, and she was doing the best work she'd done in years, as she holed up in the apartment, writing day after day while the others went to work. But she wasn't shirking. She was writing. This was what she had been meant to do all along, and she put her fury on paper. It was her way of driving Ivan out of her head and life forever. At long last. And healing would come when she had.

Claire felt as though she were living a fairy tale, and her mother could hear it when she called her. She could tell that something had happened, and she asked if she'd gotten a promotion at her job. It never even occurred to her mother that a man had come into her life and Claire was in love. Her dating life had been so nonexistent for so long that her mother could only assume that the lilt in her daughter's voice was related to work. Claire never lied to her, although she said very little about George, even to her roommates. She didn't want to jinx it, and just wanted to enjoy what they were sharing privately for a while. But sounding hesitant, she told her mother about George.

“When did that happen?” Sarah was stunned, but happy for her. She could hear how elated Claire was.

“A few weeks ago, about a month.”

“How did you meet him?” She was equally cautious, not wanting to intrude on her daughter.

“He's Morgan's boss.”

“The one who's a whiz on Wall Street?” She seemed shocked.

“Yes.”

“He has a lot of money,” her mother said, dazed for a minute, and Claire laughed.

“Yes, he does. We've been flying all over the place on weekends in his plane. Florida, Vermont.” He was taking her to a party in Boston the following week. And there were all the other places they had talked about in Europe. They had a lot of dreams and plans.

“That must be a little overwhelming, isn't it, dear?” She was worried about her, but pleased too. She didn't want her to wind up with a broken heart, and Sarah vaguely remembered that he was something of a playboy, which wasn't surprising for a relatively young man who had made a fortune. He had the world at his feet, and now her daughter in his arms. She hoped he was sincere about her, and not just playing.

“Is this serious?” her mother asked, adjusting to it rapidly, and hopeful.

“It's very new, but it seems like it, for both of us. He says he's been waiting for me all his life.” Sarah smiled at her end of the phone. She was thrilled for her daughter. It was what every woman wanted to hear.

“That would certainly be life-changing for you,” Sarah said thoughtfully.

“Yes, it would,” Claire responded.

And then she thought of something. “Are you still coming home for Thanksgiving?”

“Of course.” She always went home for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. She didn't want to disappoint her parents, especially her mother. The holiday would have been awful for her without her only daughter, alone with a morbidly depressed husband who barely spoke to her.

“Do you want to bring George home with you?”

“I don't know. We haven't talked about it.” But she didn't want him to see how dreary her parents were. Their holidays had been grim for the last several years, with her father making constantly gloomy comments, about the state of the economy and the world. She didn't want to drag George into it, although she might have to someday, but not just yet. She was planning to warn him that she had to go home for a few days. She hated to leave him, but she had no other choice.

As it turned out, when she mentioned it to him, he was relieved too.

“Don't give it another thought,” he reassured her. “I hate holidays with a passion. They always upset me. I hated them even as a kid.”
No wonder,
Claire thought,
with his parents dead and living alone with his grandmother,
but she didn't say that to him. “I usually go skiing in Aspen for Thanksgiving, and the Caribbean for Christmas and New Year. You spend it with your family and don't give it a second thought.” And he seemed delighted she hadn't invited him to join her. He wouldn't have gone anyway, but he didn't want to be asked and have to turn her down. It was working out perfectly for both of them. Thanksgiving was still a month away, but he was pleased to have the conversation behind them. Now they could go their separate ways for the holiday, and he promised they'd fly out to San Francisco for an ordinary weekend, so he could meet her parents.

But for all other things except the holidays, he wanted to be with her constantly, and they were seeing each other almost every night. She had spent several nights with him in his penthouse at Trump Tower, and he planned fun weekends for them. He loved going to parties with her, but he put his foot down on spending a night with her and her roommates at the loft.

“I'm too old to spend a night with all your roommates.” He liked his privacy and his comfort, and all the luxuries he was used to. And he liked sleeping in his own bed, preferably with her. He told her that she was welcome to stay at his apartment anytime, and assigned a drawer to her for her things, and the use of a guest closet. But she hadn't left anything there yet, it seemed too soon. She took a small bag with her when she spent the night and took it all home with her afterward. She didn't want to be presumptuous and look like she was moving in. She respected his space. He had been a bachelor for a long time, and he was set in his ways. He had a houseman and a maid at his apartment, and they took good care of him. She still felt a little awkward when they served her breakfast in the morning, but they were very nice to her. It was an easy way of life to get used to. And he talked as though he expected her to be there for a long time, hopefully forever. He had never mentioned marriage to her, and she didn't expect him to, or want him to, but it was constantly implied that she was the woman of his dreams, the one he had waited for all his life. He even asked her one day, when they were walking on the weekend, how many children she wanted to have, and she was honest with him.

“None.” He looked surprised. “I've never really wanted to have children. They seem like such a burden.” All she could remember was her father complaining about it when she was growing up, and feeling unwelcome in his life. “I'd rather have a career.”

“You can do both,” George said gently.

“I'm not sure I could, and be fair to my kids.”

“It's a lot easier to have children when you have money,” he reminded her. “We could hire a nanny. To be honest, I've never wanted children either, but I've been rethinking it since I met you. If I were ever going to do it, I can't think of a more perfect mother for my children than you.” She felt dizzy when he said it. It was the ultimate compliment. Everything was moving so fast, at his instigation. He acted as though they'd been dating for a year or two, instead of a month. And no one had ever said “I love you” to her as fast. It panicked her sometimes, and she would try to take a little distance from him, just so she could keep some perspective, but as soon as she did, he sensed it, and did everything he could to pull her closer again.

He knew she was worried about her career if she got too involved with him, but he assured her he wouldn't interfere. And in spite of her fears, and occasional panic, she loved what he said. Who wouldn't? And he texted and called her three or four times a day. It annoyed Walter whenever he became aware of it, and told her in a loud voice to tell her boyfriend to cool his jets. He was unspeakably rude, and increasingly so as he saw the mentions of their romance on Page Six. It was as though he resented what was happening to her, and he made slurs about her boyfriend and said she probably didn't care about her job anymore, which she assured him wasn't true. She was still supporting herself, with no help from anyone, and needed the money. But the atmosphere at work just seemed to get worse. George compensated for it lavishly on the weekends, and for two days she could forget Walter Adams and his ugly, boring shoes.

She had sent out several more e-mails with her CV, but no one had offered her a job yet. So she was still dependent on him. And George was the sweet spot in her life. They were in the honeymoon phase, where everything looked perfect and rosy to both of them. And so far, they had never had even the hint of a disagreement or a fight. She hoped they never would.

Sasha and Alex were doing well too. They spent as much time together as they could, and talked a lot about their work. They had both tried to negotiate their schedules, so they could work and be on call on the same days, and have the same days off, and some of the time it worked, and they did fun things. They went to concerts at Lincoln Center, and she met his friends, most of whom she liked when they had dinner with them. He rented a small sailboat one weekend, and they sailed on Long Island Sound. They went to Union Square's farmers' market to buy food, and to the flea market in Hell's Kitchen. They bought pumpkins for the hospital and carved them for Halloween. She put two at the nurses' station in labor and delivery, and they took the rest to the pediatric ward, where the kids loved them. And by then he reminded her that they were on about date twenty. They had lost count, but the right opportunity to spend a night together hadn't turned up. Like George, he felt awkward spending the night at the loft with her roommates, or at least for the first time. And he said that his studio was a mess, and too small even for him, let alone for both of them. Valentina had asked her if they'd had sex, and told her she was ridiculous when Sasha said no. She told Sasha that she and Jean-Pierre had sex constantly, in every possible location, even on his plane. And she said there was something wrong with them, and insisted Alex was probably gay or couldn't get it up, which Sasha told her was rude. But Alex and Sasha were in perfect harmony with each other, and they weren't upset about the delay. And just before Halloween weekend, he had an idea.

“Why don't we go to some cute inn in Connecticut or Massachusetts for the weekend? We're both off. It would be nice to get away, and out of the city for two days.” She loved the suggestion, and he made a reservation at a bed and breakfast one of the other residents had told him about in Old Saybrook, Connecticut. He and his wife had spent their wedding night there.

They left the hospital together on Friday night at midnight, and at nine
A.M.
on Saturday, they were on the highway to Connecticut in his car. When they checked in to the tiny inn, which was on the water, they could smell the salt air and hear the seagulls from their room. And there were several quaint restaurants nearby. Sasha had brought a small suitcase with her, and Alex set it down in their room. An old couple ran the place, and their niece cleaned the rooms after school. It was just what they'd wanted, and they talked about going for a walk on the beach, but Alex stopped her before they left the room and kissed her hard on the mouth. They had been kissing for over a month, but now they were away together for a weekend. Their intentions were clear. He had wondered if she would be shy with him, but she smiled as she unbuttoned his shirt, and unzipped his pants, and he did the same for her. It had been a long, respectful wait, and now they were like old friends. There were no secrets or mysteries or hidden agendas, they knew everything about each other except their bodies, and Sasha wanted to discover the rest now. Suddenly she couldn't wait another minute, and neither could he. They climbed into bed rapidly and laughed when it creaked, and they instantly forgot about it in a rush of desire that surprised them both. After a month of waiting while they got to know each other, now this was all they wanted, and they were both breathless afterward as they lay in bed and he admired her body. She was exquisite, and she thought he was beautiful too. They lay smiling at each other, and then they kissed again.

“I love you,” he said softly. He had waited until now to say it, but they had said it in countless ways and thoughtful gestures in the last month.

“I love you too,” she said happily. She felt as though she belonged to him now. The final bridge had been crossed. “My sister thinks we were crazy to have waited, but I'm glad we did.” They lay in bed for a long time, and then showered together, put their clothes on, and went outside to explore the small town. They took a long walk on the beach hand in hand, and then they went back to the inn and made love again before going to dinner in one of the nearby restaurants, which was romantic and sweet and entirely candlelit. It was a perfect honeymoon. They spent two days of total bliss.

They were quiet on the ride back, listening to music, and thinking about what had happened that weekend. She leaned over and kissed him, and he smiled at her. He had never felt more elated or at peace in his life.

They took their time driving back to the city, after a last walk on the beach at the end of the day. “Do you want to sleep at the apartment?” she asked him as they drove toward New York. He hesitated, but he didn't want to spend the night without her now after what they'd shared that weekend.

“Yes, I do.” And he had another idea, but he wanted to ask his parents first.

They found a parking space right outside her building, and they walked upstairs. All three girls were home, and Max had cooked dinner for them, and Oliver and Greg were there too. It was nice finding all of them there. It was like coming home to a loving family after their honeymoon. They hadn't had dinner, and Max had enough left for them, and poured them both a glass of wine. Morgan and Claire were still sitting at the table, and Abby was deep in conversation with Greg on the couch about her book. George had come for dinner but had already gone home. He had an early meeting the next morning, and Claire had decided to stay at the apartment, so they could get some sleep. They'd had a busy weekend. They had gone to Bermuda on his plane, and stayed on a yacht he had chartered.

“Where were you two all weekend?” Max asked as they ate the pot roast he had prepared, which everyone loved. It was his grandmother's recipe from the old country, and he'd made it with mashed potatoes and creamed spinach, and chocolate soufflé for dessert, with crème anglaise.

“We went to Connecticut,” Alex said cryptically as he smiled at Sasha, and everyone understood and looked pleased for them. There were no secrets in the group.

As they always did, they sat talking for a long time. The candles burned low on the table, and everyone was full and relaxed when the others went home. And after Sasha helped with the dishes, she and Alex went to her room and got into bed, as though they'd been doing it for years. They cuddled under her comforter, and they made love again, and just before they fell asleep, he told her he loved her, and she snuggled up to him and kissed his cheek.